Chapter One

The Favorite Son

On the day of Jesus’ baptism in the River Jordan by Cousin John I was angry and confused. John, who wore animal skins, had long hair, a scraggly beard, and looked around at his audience with wide, blazing, unblinking coals for eyes, appeared to be addled. Perhaps it was those many months of living in the desert that had driven him mad, but the truth was John had always been strange. As a youth he said the most preposterous things. Even Jesus found him peculiar. No one took him seriously, not even his mother. Now look at him! How could such a man impress anyone, let alone my brother? And yet he had many followers. Many of them, however, were probably idlers, drawn to his fiery sermons and gestures. Andrew and Philip, two of his first followers, whom he suddenly handed over to Jesus, his successor, were caught off guard that day. Despite the incredible things my oldest brother said and did in the past, I doubted his sanity too. What did such a baptism mean? Seeing him immersed in water by that man made no sense. Wasn’t the purpose of baptism ritual purification? What did Jesus need of purification? I couldn’t think of one sin he ever committed. He was a selfless man. He couldn’t cheat or lie. Great things awaited my gifted brother. Why couldn’t Cousin John have left Jesus alone?

While John’s other disciples re-grouped a distance from the river to discuss this turn of events, Andrew and Philip just stood there beside him shaking their heads. Amos, John’s courier and my guide, admitted, during our journey from Nazareth, that he had misgivings about John from the first. He didn’t know what to make of him either. Like me, he was upset and had many questions. John had turned his disciples over to Jesus. Did this imply he was retiring from preaching? Why had Jesus insisted on being baptized by that man? And was he really taking John’s place? What could it possibly mean?

To make matters worse that day, was Jesus’ decision to hike into the desert and pray. This was, in fact, the most insane thing he had ever done. I couldn’t discourage him from going to the river to meet John, even though Mama asked me to do just that. Now this. When it was apparent he was heading into the Judean wilderness with only a few skins of water, I ran over and tried to stop him, but it was no use. He grew irritable with me, and after scolding me for interfering, ordered me to return home. He would be gone for forty days and nights, he explained gravely, during which God would speak to him, telling him what to do. It sounded so crazy, I laughed hysterically, and then, regaining my wits, gripped his tunic in frustration and despair. Jerking away, he surged forward. Jesus’ blue eyes caught the afternoon sun, flashing with both anger and purpose. My muscles slackened, as if a spell had fallen over me, and I let him walk away. Dimly, I began to realize that Jesus had just embarked upon a great adventure or mission.

For Amos, who didn’t know my brother, there could be no justification for this action. “Scratching his unkempt beard, he muttered, “John just placed his mantle on your brother. Now Jesus is going into the desert for forty days. That doesn’t make sense. No one, even John, goes into the wilderness on purpose. Your brother’s even madder than John. Unless he’s hunting for food, John avoids it. He lives here by the river, only going beyond in the morning to hunt for grasshoppers, honey, and roots. It’s a furnace in the day, but freezing cold at night. Your brother will die in the wilderness. I’m certain of that!”

But I couldn’t believe this. Even at that early point in Jesus’ ministry, I knew he was no ordinary man. As mad as it seemed, he would return…. He just had to, I thought, as Amos and I embarked on my journey home.

******

On the trip back to Nazareth, Amos’ moods drifted back and forth from anger to amusement at the folly of it all. He had, after a wanderer’s life, found a purpose as John’s courier. Now, if John’s gesture meant anything, was he supposed to be a follower of my brother—a madman who, in the middle of the day, walked into the wilderness—a no man’s land, a place of desolation and bleached bones? That night, at a point midway between Nazareth and the River Jordan, we hastily made camp. Though weary, both physically and emotionally, I tried to analyze Jesus’ actions.

“… My brother isn’t like us,” I searched for words. “… Somehow there has to be meaning in this…. Jesus hasn’t always acted rationally, but everything he’s done made sense in the end.” “This will too,” I added, tossing a twig into the fire. “…. I just don’t know what that is.”

“Humph!” Amos grumbled. “I thought maybe your brother bedeviled John. That foolishness at the river seemed to prove it, until Jesus walked into the desert…. Now, it’s very plain to me. John has always been slightly mad. Your poor brother has lost his wits. He’s crazier than John!”

“Hah!” I uttered a sour laugh. “There’s no question about it. As soon as Jesus heard about John’s preaching everything changed. I can thank you for that, Amos. You reported it to us, and off we went! Now he’s in the Judean wilderness, the most god-forsaken place on earth! The question is, ‘What am I going to tell my mother?’ I promised her I’d bring him back. It was a stupid promise, but I thought Jesus would get his business done at the river and return. It turns out that his business has just begun!”

“What does he think he’ll find out there?” Amos asked drowsily, stroking his beard. “Even Jackals avoid the wilderness. There’s many places to go when a man wants to talk to God. Why didn’t he pick the temple or synagogue? Why that dreadful place?”

I looked over at him and smiled. “Jesus has his reasons,” I murmured sleepily. “To answer your question you’d have to be in his mind. I’m reminded now just how inscrutable his mind is…. You don’t need the temple or synagogue, Amos. God speaks everywhere. Perhaps Jesus wishes to test himself in that place. Why that would be, I haven’t a clue. I will pray that he returns safely.”

Amos nodded reluctantly. As dismayed as I was with Jesus actions, I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt; unfortunately, my thoughts belied my words. It appeared to me that Jesus was on a fool’s errand. As we drifted off to sleep, I thought about what I said to Amos—words, hollow words! I didn’t know then that Jesus would return from his mission and yet not come home. I was hoping he would finish his mad folly and things would somehow get back to normal…. But things would never be normal again. I had, as the record now shows, underestimated and misunderstood him. That day by the River Jordan was merely the start of his ministry in Judea. During his journey into the wilderness, as Matthew, Mark, and Luke would report, he proved himself to God. It was only the beginning!

******

When Amos and I reached Nazareth, it was late afternoon. We had traveled from our last encampment at dawn. We should have entered town at first light, but the fear of highwaymen played heavily upon our decision to wait. Now, to my embarrassment, I rode into town alongside of the scraggly, unwashed courier in broad daylight, familiar faces peering at us as we road past. There, ahead of us, as our horses trotted by, strolled Malachi, the town weaver, carrying some of his wares. Also looking on from that direction, was Noah, standing there in his garden, a quizzical look on his grizzled face. I could, in fact, feel several unseen eyes staring at us. Voices murmured on each side of us as more people saw us riding in, until finally, on our left, I heard someone mutter, “Is that Jude, Mary’s son?” Afterwards, on our right, cane in hand, appeared Ethan, one of the village’s patriarchs, glaring fiercely our way and not far behind ambled Jubal, another elder, calling out to him in a gravelly voice, “Hah! It’s Nazareth’s lost sheep. Whose that other scallywag?”

“The old fool!” Amos grumbled. “He’s talking about me.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled apologetically. “That’s Jubal. The one in front is Ethan. I told you we should’ve entered at first light!”

“Jude,” the nearsighted Ethan shouted, “is that really you? I don’t see Jesus? Where’ve you been? “

“Oh, hello Ethan” I replied awkwardly. “Jesus will come later…. It’s a long story.”

Amos and I gave our horses a kick and galloped forward. While the two elders retraced their steps in order to further harass me, I felt as if all of Nazareth was closing in. When we reached my home, Amos and I quickly hitched our mounts and ducked into the house. I was certain that my mother, my brothers, and sisters waited inside. Sure enough, as we entered, she stood there in entry way with her other children standing behind her, an expectant look on her face, crying out in a wounded voice, “Where’s Jesus? Why isn’t he with you. Where’s my son?” Whispering amongst themselves, my brothers and sisters, frowned severely, as if a tax collector or brigand had just entered the house.

I had expected such a reception, and yet I froze in terror.

“I should leave,” mumbled Amos.

“What happened?” Mama wailed. “You promised to bring him back?”

“… No one controls Jesus,” I found my tongue.

“Jude,” She blared in my face, “I trusted you. Where’s Jesus? John bewitched him, didn’t he? You promised to bring him back!”

James, a student of Nicodemus in Jerusalem, whom I was surprised to see present, stepped forth in my defense. “He’s right, Mama. Jesus does as he pleases.” “The question is.” He looked over at Amos, “who is our guest? Are you one of John’s disciples?”

“I’m Amos,” my friend said with a bow, “no one’s disciple. I’m a messenger between John and the outside world.”

Amos scraggly and unwashed appearance, though not that different than my own travel worn appearance, offended my brothers and sisters. James, like Joseph, had been away when I first introduced Amos to my mother, Simon, Abigail, and Martha, so he and Joseph were especially shocked. Mama also looked at him as an interloper, a link with Cousin John, who was responsible for Jesus’ absence.

“This is James and that is Joseph.” I motioned for his benefit. “You’ve already met other members of my family. Please excuse their rudeness. This isn’t normally our way. “Please, Mama,” I grew impatient. “We’re hungry and weary. Can we at least have some water and a crust of bread?”

For a moment longer, Mama and my siblings stood there, as if to bar our entrance.

“I think I should leave,” insisted Amos, backing towards the door.

“No, stay!” I said crisply. “You’re my guest. One more time, Mama. In the past, you took in all manner of strays. Please, Amos is my friend!”

As if awakening from her lapse in manners, she shrugged her shoulders and muttered a tired apology, adding with forced friendliness, “You’re welcome in the house of Joseph.”

Because Papa had been dead all these years, the welcome had a hollow ring. Her tone was flat and emotionless. Since Papa’s death, her personality had changed. She had lost much of her energy. I had noticed, and I’m certain my brothers and sisters had noticed when she scolded me, her reference to ‘my son’. Forsaking her other children in many ways was the emphasis she place in Jesus’ life. In spite of Jesus special status, Papa had always tried to be impartial. All of her children, including me, resented her one-sidedness. There were, considering the hostile glares of my brothers and sisters, two strong emotions aimed at me: resentment for bringing a stranger into our midst and resentment for not bringing Jesus home, both of which struck me as both irrational and unfair. I sensed, at that point, a third emotion: resentment at her preference for the oldest son.

As it turned out, Mama had just baked loafs of bread for the noonday meal. Unceremoniously, she handed Amos and I loaves, handfuls of goat cheese, and mugs of well water, then stood there as we wolfed down our meals, with folded arms, a frown playing on her face. James, Joseph, Simon, Abigail, and Martha exited the house, not wishing to suffer Amos’ presence, leaving us alone with Mama. To prove my assumption were words spoken by Joseph to James under his breath as they departed, “Are we not her children too?”

“…So,” she said, tapping her foot, “what happened out there? What was he thinking? Has joined that desert madman? Does he plan to return?”

“Tell her the truth,” whispered Amos.

“Uh…” I responded nervously, “I-I don’t know.”

“Tell her!” I felt Amos elbow.

“I asked you four questions?” she shot back. “Which one do you not know?”

“…All of them,” I answered hesitantly, “…except what happened. John called him the lamb of God—”

“What?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “That’s nonsense. John’s mad”

“Let me finish.” I held up a hand. “None of this makes sense. I don’t know when he’ll return. I do know he’s joined John’s band, but your nephew turned two of his disciples over to him. It appears, at least in the future, that Jesus will become a prophet or great teacher. As far as his immediate plans, before he hiked into the wilderness he explained that God would tell him what to do…. Don’t worry, Mama. Regardless of what John has in mind, Jesus will be guided by God,” “whatever that is,” I added with a shrug.

“How long will he be gone?” her voice constricted. “…Is he coming home?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Jesus’ trek into the wilderness will last forty days and nights. Whether or not he returns home afterwards, he didn’t say. I tried to change his mind, but he grew angry. I couldn’t stop him. Even John thought he was mad going into that place.”

Mama plopped down heavily on the nearest chair. I had no intention of telling her Jesus left without food and only two skins of water. John’s exclamation, “Behold the Lamb of God,” which John, the disciple, would one day write down in his scroll, was too abstract for Mama or me to comprehend. The overriding fact was Jesus, a carpenter, who had apparently resigned himself to a quiet life in Nazareth, had joined a mad preacher in the desert and was, at this very hour, hiking in the Judean wilderness, alone and bereft of his senses. After the rituals John performed at the river and the pompous way he turned two important disciples over to Jesus, my cousin had been dumbfounded himself, a conclusion I based upon the Baptist’s shocked expression as Jesus traipsed off. Despite what seemed like madness to everyone, I sensed inexplicably that Jesus was much more than a prophet, and yet, as I looked down at my stricken mother, I was confused and filled with doubt. She had given birth to Jesus and knew him better than anyone. Who knew him more than his mother? After all of the signs and wonders in Jesus’ life, was she doubting him? She thought he had been bewitched. Was my oldest brother mad? Even our crazed, locust-eating cousin, thought Jesus had lost his senses. Why had Jesus gone into that god-forsaken place?

“What else aren’t you telling me?” She looked up expectantly.

“What else?” I muttered, scratching the bristles on my face. “…Oh yes.” I grinned, snapping my fingers. “John was baptizing people in the River Jordan. He baptized Jesus too. He mumbled something to Jesus before dunking him into the river. Uh, let’s see…He said: ‘It’s you who should be baptizing me.’ Strange huh?”

“More nonsense,” she grumbled. “That’s done for ritual purification. Jesus is without sin.”

“ I dunno.” I sighed. “You’ve said that many times. We never saw him sin. The point is, Mama, the baptism made no sense, at least not how John is doing it. Before Jesus approached him, he was hollering out ‘repent, the day of the Lord is at hand.’ He promises those baptized eternal life!”

Suddenly Mama’s expression changed from gloom to alarm. She gasped and clutched her throat again. It was as if a distant memory had returned to her.

“Is this how it begins?” she mumbled to herself. “…Long ago, an angel appeared to me. I didn’t understand what he meant. He told me Jesus would be called the Son of the Most High. I didn’t understand what he meant. Then Simeon told Joseph and I in the temple that Jesus was sent as a sign from God, but many would oppose him…. He told me that a sword would pierce my soul. It has haunted me ever since.”

“What?” I caught my breath. “You never told us that? Where you dreaming? What could that mean, Mama? Why would a sword pierce your heart?”

Dreamily, Mama looked into space, murmuring, “I was awake or at least I thought I was. Now this…. Joseph and I have lived with this mystery. It didn’t make sense. It still doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s insane!” I exclaimed.

Mama’s eyes lit up that moment. “Jude!” She cried, springing to her feet. “We’ll bring Jesus home! He’s meant for great things—a teacher or rabbi of renown, not following a madman into the desert. John bedeviled him. After he abandoned poor Elizabeth and began acting strangely, I never trusted him. He’ll lead Jesus to ruin.”

“No. John tried to stop Jesus from going into the wilderness,” I reminded her. “Jesus said God would tell him what to do. I’ve never seen him like that. No one could have stopped him!”

Nodding faintly, she stood motionless a moment. A look of despair was frozen on her face. Walking over to the window she looked out at Nazareth, whispering, “…This isn’t how I pictured Jesus’ future.”

James and Joseph entered the room that moment. Apparently, they had been eavesdropping. Casting Amos a withering look, James turned to me and shook his head. “Forty days and nights is a long time, but he knew what he was doing. I fear for Jesus’ health. We can’t take Mama to a place like that. We’d have to wait for him at the river until he returns.”

“If he returns!” grumbled Joseph.

“Don’t worry,” Amos finally spoke. “I’m going back to the river. When he returns, I’ll find out where he’s going and let you know. If I don’t come back myself, I’m certain Jesus will send word. Who knows? He might return home for awhile. Then again, he might not. There’s nothing we can do until then.”

By his irresolute tone, Amos didn’t have a clue. After his reception in my home, I doubted he would return, himself. I also doubted that Jesus was coming directly back to Nazareth. Whatever he had planned, it had started at the river. I had no idea where this would lead him, and yet a dark abstract, intangible premonition reeled in my mind, one similar, I sensed, to Mama’s premonition of Jesus’ fate.

“Thank you, Amos” she smiled wearily. “…You’re most kind. You must talk sense into him…This is all a great mistake… Somehow, we must bring him home!”

******

I could tell by his browbeaten expression that Amos regretted his words. He had by implying Jesus would send word and might return given Mama hope. That day when he and I accompanied Jesus to the River Jordan had, for better or worse, marked another milestone in my life. I sensed, without knowing why, I was a witness to an important event. John had singled Jesus out for greatness, whatever that was. Then Jesus walked into the wilderness, making John’s action seem foolish, a hollow gesture after such a beginning. Had I not known better, what happened when we returned without Jesus would have made it all the more meaningless and anticlimactic But it didn’t. Though denying it to anyone else, I knew Jesus meant business; he knew exactly what he was doing. It was both a moving and frightful feeling. Even the reception Amos I received when we returned couldn’t change that.

I had, as a child, witnessed many things, such as the miracles I saw in Jesus’ youth, the stories he shared of his travels with Joseph of Arimathea, and recently, at the River Jordan, Jesus’ baptism and anointing by the prophet John. There were countless times in which I was astonished by his words and deeds, but nothing had prepared me for his transformation at the river. On my own I had survived my own perilous trek from the Galilean Fort, been captured by bandits, sold into slavery, and rescued by Elisha, a rich Pharisee. Added to these adventures was Jesus fateful meeting with John, which culminated in Jesus’ trek into the wilderness. I had seen, heard, and done much in my short life, all of it but a prelude to what lie ahead.

During the days following my return, however, my mind was in turmoil. It didn’t matter what I had experienced during my own travels nor what I had gone through at Jesus’ whim. In her irrational state of mind, I had failed her because I didn’t bring Jesus back. My personal travails, effort, and, in fact, my entire life as her son, didn’t balance out with her grief or compare with the importance of her oldest son. During that hour Simon, Abigail, and Martha had entered the room to join James and Joseph. Standing as a group—my brothers and sisters—we shared this awareness. I had heard Joseph grumble about this earlier, but now I saw it on all my siblings’ faces. Jesus was the chosen one. We had to accept that. How that realization would one day expand to include the world was the furthest thing from our minds.

After we left Mama alone in the house, we congregated in the backyard. To oblige my brothers and sisters, Amos found a pale of water to wash off the grime of the road. Though this gesture couldn’t hide his overall scraggly appearance, they seemed impressed with his effort. As we walked down the path leading into the grove, we discussed what happened at the river. We all agreed that Jesus has been wrongly influenced by Cousin John and must be brought to his senses. Simon suggested half-heartedly that we go fetch him as Mama demanded. James, Joseph, Amos, and I had already seen the folly in trying to control Jesus. After traveling to the River Jordan, I explained to them, we would have to wait for his reappearance in the desert, which wouldn’t occur for over month. If we waited for the forty days Jesus planned to wander the Wilderness, there was no telling were he might travel next. He was, I reminded everyone, guided by God. No matter where we went in search of him, there was the danger of bandits and wild animals on the road. More importantly, I pointed out, Mama, whose physical condition had declined after her husband’s death, could not be that far away from civilization. Such a long, hot, dusty trip would damage our mother’s health. Since everyone was in agreement on these points, this was an easy argument to win. Added to the cold logic of the situation was the resentment of my siblings, who blamed their ‘unhinged’ brother for this state of affairs. After hearing of the difficulties in such an enterprise, we agreed not to search for Jesus. Though I thought my siblings views were simplistic, we had reached an accord. Sooner or later, Abigail and Martha agreed, Jesus would come to his senses. When he got this nonsense out of his system, suggested James, he would come home where he belonged.

That matter settled, our discussion turned to other matters.

“Once and for all,” protested Joseph, “we know our mother’s mind. Jesus is first and foremost in her life. Papa never made us feel that way. We were, on any account, after thoughts—all of us, orphans taken under their wings.”

“I’ve always known that,” grumbled James. “After Jesus returned with Joseph of Arimathea, all puffed up and boastful, nothing was ever the same.”

“Hah,” I joined in moodily, “it started long before that. Don’t forget the dead sparrow.”

“The sparrow?” Amos frowned. “A dead bird?”

“Yes,” I snarled, “…he healed the sparrow—raised it from the dead. And that’s not all. He’s done so many strange things I’ve lost count.”

“Lots and lots!” Martha sighed.

“In his letters, he told us fantastic things,” Simon said thoughtfully. “Mama can’t read. I’ve read his letters to her so many times I’ve almost memorized them, but I still find them hard to believe.”

“Like what?” Amos pressed forward. “Give me an example.”

“He calmed a storm,” offered Abigail.

“He raised the Pharisees son,” Martha beamed.

“From the dead?” Amos looked at her in disbelief.

“Uh huh.” She nodded. “It’s all in the letters. Mama treats them like sacred things.”

Amos rolled his eye, shaking his head in wonder. Unimpressed with these wonders, ourselves, my siblings and I stood silently thinking about this state of affairs. Despite our agreement not to bring Jesus home, we all knew what this meant. Jesus had once again effected our lives, this time permanently it seemed. James and Joseph paced nervously in the grove, feeling snared by this turn of events. Martha and Abigail were probably thinking of Isaac and Jeremiah, their onetime suitors, also feeling trapped. Simon, however, began dozing against the trunk of a tree. The subject of Jesus wonders, which was distressing to his brothers and sisters, was suddenly changed.

“I’m returning to Jerusalem!” announced James.

“And I’m going to Sepphoris.” Joseph glared back at the house. “I’m not sticking around for his return.”

“Really?” Amos cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not waiting for word from Jesus? He might just show up. You said so yourself, Jude. No one knows his mind.”

“Hah!” I replied bitterly. “If I had somewhere to go, I’d leave too.”

“I can’t leave.” Simon said wistfully. “Whose gonna take care of Mama? Who’ll watch the shop?”

“Go ahead, all of you, leave! Martha and I can take care of Mama,” spat Abigail.

Martha opened her mouth as if to protest. I almost laughed. Abigail’s reaction struck me as unbelievable and insincere. Perhaps she felt guilty for how she really felt. According to what Simon told me before I left with Amos and Jesus, the twins, Abigail and Martha, were fearful that they would become old maids. Before he passed away, Papa gave Isaac and Jeremiah, James and Joseph’s friends, permission to court his daughters. Mama reluctantly agreed. When Papa died, however, the arrangement turned sour. From the beginning, she distrusted the young men. According to Joseph, Isaac and Jeremiah womanized with women in Sepphoris. It didn’t matter that the maidens came from a respectable family or that James and Joseph had womanized themselves. No one was good enough for the daughters of Joseph the carpenter. After his passing, Abigail and Martha were trapped. Added to her possessiveness, was Mama’s state of mind. Her needful state would become one more reason for her daughters had to stay.

As a scribe studying with Nicodemus in Jerusalem, James future seemed set, as did Joseph who had found work with a wealthy merchant in Sepphoris. How long they would stay on in anticipation of Jesus return I didn’t know. Papa would have been saddened by the mood in our household. Considering my own itch to move on and my sisters attitude, only Simon, now a master carpenter, himself, might stay on, and yet even he wanted to make his way in the world.

For several moments, we discussed our dilemma. Everyone knew how ambitious James had become. Like Jesus, I had been certain he would become a great teacher or rabbi. Joseph appeared to have a solid position lined up in Sepphoris, and, like Abigail, Martha, and if truth be told Simon, I had planned on making my own way too. For the foreseeable future, though, all that had changed. Until we knew Jesus was safe and sound and word had been sent, we felt compelled to remain.

******

Our lives now seemed turned upside down. That night we ate a frugal meal and, after another walk, this time down the path leading to the edge of Nazareth, we all retired to her our pallets filled with gloom and disquiet. We said little to each other. What was left to say? In the morning, at the break of dawn, Amos was up and ready to leave. Mama gave him bread and cheese again. Water had been drawn for his skins and his horses were allowed to graze once again in our backyard. Then, clasping his forearm in the Roman manner, I bid him farewell. As he mounted his horse, he looked down at me and smiled.

“Jude,” he exclaimed, “I’m but a courier, but I’ve learned many things. I’ve learned to read the stars and people. I’ve given this much thought. I can tell that you are meant for great things. Don’t worry about Jesus. He’s meant for great things too. John was touched by the Most High, but I fear his time’s short. Sooner or later, what he’s preaching will get him into trouble. That he singled out your brother, means Jesus is also touched by the Most High. He’s a brave and foolish man to hike into the wilderness, yet he’ll come out alive. He has to. He has a purpose even John doesn’t see. I have this feeling Jesus is bringing a new religion to the world. I fear for him. Like John he will, as soon as he begins preaching, find trouble. I know what the priests, Pharisees, and rabbis think about John’s message. They’re afraid of him. They’ll be afraid of Jesus too.”

“Are you a prophet, too?” I asked drolly.

“No, just a man.” He shook his head. “I keep my eyes and ears open. John’s the prophet, but he listens with his heart and looks into men’s souls. The wind blows were it wishes. Only the Most High can tame a storm…. To tempt Him is purest folly, and yet that is what the Baptist and your brother are doing. They’re that kind of men.”

“Ah but Jesus quieted a storm,” I replied half-seriously. “He raised a bird and the Pharisees son from the dead. Long ago, the story goes, as a mere child he discussed points of law with the temple priests. My parents believe he was born with all knowledge in his head.”

“Jude,” he spoke as kindly as possible, “you don’t believe that. Remember what I said. I can read people. I studied your mother closely. Are you certain she believes that too. She wants Jesus to come home and be an ordinary man…. But he isn’t an ordinary man, is he?…What he is only time will tell.”

“Be careful, my friend,” I called out, as he galloped away.

“You be careful too,” he called back blithely. “For many centuries our people have resisted change. John and his followers are kicking against the goad. Calling Jesus, the Lamb of God won’t make him popular with the temple priests. It doesn’t take a Pharisee or rabbi to understand what that means.”

With those words, which I shrugged off at first, Amos disappeared from my life, not resurfacing for many days. Gradually, the words, which I heard John shout as he saw Jesus approach, triggered my memory of Hebrew religion: a conclusion so obvious I caught my breath. The temple sacrificed animals such as lambs—unblemished and the first born, and Jesus, being the first born son, had been called the Lamb of God. The connection seemed so outrageous I never would have made it myself had Amos not tossed it my way.

“That is ridiculous!” I grumbled as I entered the house.

“What’s ridiculous?” asked Mama. “What did that strange little man say?”

“Uh nothing,” I answered, quickly mustering up a reply. “Amos said something stupid.”

“About Jesus?” She searched my face. “Tell me, Jude…. I don’t trust that fellow.”

“He believes John is a great prophet—the same John who wears animal skins and eats bugs.” “Ho-ho! Can you believe that?” I managed to laugh.

“John’s mad,” came her refrain. “…. Jesus will come to his senses. He just has to. Simon hasn’t managed Papa’s business well. Everyone wants to leave me.” “Do you want to leave me, Jude?” She gripped my arm.

“No,” I lied again, “I’m staying. We’ll hear from Jesus soon.”

In barely a moment, I had lied to Mama three times. One day the number three would mean something, but with far greater meaning. For now, I felt both guilt and stress. Like Amos, I had given her false hope and placed myself once again in a dubious situation. I had no idea whatsoever when Jesus would return or what he was going to do. Earlier, as I embarked upon our fateful trip, I had promised to bring Jesus home. Just now I implied his return was imminent. As the remainder of the house awakened and Mama busied herself preparing the morning meal, I realized my words had entrapped me. I could almost see Jesus’ eyes boring into me as they often did. After watching him traipse off into the wilderness and seeing that look in his eyes, I knew he expected much of me. However insane it all seemed, I felt compelled. I couldn’t let him down.

I wolfed down my bread and cheese and, to clear my head, took a long walk. No one said a word as I slipped out. Because of my involvement in Jesus’ absence, I had fallen out of graces with my family. Several questions reeled in my mind. Why did John have to call him the Lamb of God? It had such an ominous ring to it. Was John really mad, as even Amos suspected. Or had he, in the clear light of reason, singled Jesus out for great things? If so, what were these great things? Who was Jesus supposed to be?

Chapter Two

Journey to Capernaum

For several weeks after Amos left, Mama was moody and out of sorts. Every time she heard voices or commotion on the street, she would run out of the house to see whether or not it was Jesus. The sound of horses was especially exciting for her. Strangers, who were rare in Nazareth, were potential messengers, bringing word of her oldest son. She grew irritable and restless. Naomi, Ezra’s wife, and several other friends had tried to comfort her after the death of her husband, but now they visited her less frequently, wearied by her mood. She felt as if Jesus had abandoned her. It didn’t matter that all of her children had congregated in her house to console and support their mother; with this latest woe, she was inconsolable. We realized anew just how insignificant we were compared to the favorite son.

When not in the shop or busying ourselves in chores around the house and yard, my brothers and sisters and I also perked our ears up at the sound of hoof beats. During Mama’s distraction, Abigail and Martha would sneak away to see their suitors, while my brothers and I often slipped away from the shop to sulk in the yard or slip away to see our friends. Just when James and Joseph were about to escape Mama’s clutches, and she had ran out of chores and errands in order to keep them home, a rider did, in fact appear in the horizon. It happened just as we all sat down for an afternoon meal.

Running madly out of the house ahead of us, Mama shielded her eyes from the sun, praying feverishly under her breath. Close behind her, almost tripping over each other’s feet, we looked expectantly at the road, and lo and behold, there he was again: Amos, John’s courier.

I hadn’t expected him to return. It was a long journey from the River Jordan to Nazareth. It had been obvious by his expression that Amos didn’t want to return, and yet there he was: the same dusty, scraggly, unkempt soul, frowning and smiling at the same time at our greeting party. The reception was drastically different than the last time he visited our house.

“Peace to the house of Jude and his family!” he greeted us.

Since I was the youngest son and this was Joseph bar Jacob’s house, his salutation was either a sign of respect or a light-hearted insult to my family, who were rude to him the last time he was here. We were, in fact, speechless as we escorted him into the house, waiting only momentarily for him for the news.

“Well!?” Mama snapped rudely. “Is he all right? Where’s my son?”

“Yes, where’s Jesus?” James asked with bated breath.

“Well,” he sighed wearily, looking around for a chair, “he made it out of the wilderness. He was bone weary. He must’ve lost a lot of weight, but he’s none the worse.” “That’s some man you raised,” he looked up at Mama. “I don’t know how he survived his ordeal. Almost immediately, he tramped away from John and his followers to Capernaum.”

“Capernaum?” Mama frowned. “What on earth for?”

“Well, it’s a beginning,” replied Amos. “Andrew and Philip, the men John gave to Jesus, live there. John wanted him to rest and recuperate, but off they went!”

“Is it very far?” Martha frowned.

“No,” James frowned, “not far. It’s by the Sea of Galilee. Lot’s of fisherman there—not much else.”

“Oh, it’s a lovely place,” Amos said thoughtfully. “Andrew has a brother there. He’s anxious to see his mother. I think he and Philip wanted some home cooking and rest. Jesus thought it was a great idea.”

“We’ve heard about our cousin’s antics.” Joseph snarled. “Sooner or later, he’ll get into trouble. Jesus will too.”

“Yes,” Mama slammed down her fist, “trouble! From what I’ve heard so far, it’s a new religion. Those priests leaders won’t tolerant that man. What does Jesus have in mind?”

“Humph,” Amos pursed his lips, “I have no idea. John doesn’t either. After Jesus, Andrew, and Philip left, he continued preaching, ‘Repent; the day of the Lord is here.’

It was back to normal. John has all kinds of visions. That thing he called Jesus, Lamb of God, just popped into his head.”

“So what is he?” Simon scratched his beard. “A prophet, a preacher, what?”

“I don’t know.” Amos shook his head. “John, himself, isn’t sure. He said something very strange when Andrew and Philip departed: ‘he must increase and I must decree.’”

That doesn’t make sense,” muttered Mama. “None of this does!”

“It’s nonsense,” grumbled James, “pure and simple!”

“Well,” I said, looking at the bright side. “We know he’s is all right. What can happen to Jesus in Capernaum? I’ve always thought he would make a great preacher. It doesn’t mean he’ll be like Cousin John.”

My family was once again treating our guest rudely. “I’m sorry, Amos,” I apologized on behalf of them. “You must be tired and hungry.”

“Abigail, Martha,” Mama clapped her hands, “please give Jude’s friend bread and cheese. James, find us Papa’s jug of wine.”

Mama wasn’t satisfied with the news. She wanted Jesus to come riding up, give up this folly, and make things get back to normal. Deeply depressed, she could barely function sometimes. We had tried to comfort her with platitudes only to be rebuffed for making light of Jesus absence. The truth was, it was high time Jesus finally left on his own. All of us were secretly glad he had found his niche. He had done his work well as a carpenter but he had never been content. His eyes would look around, then stare into space, as if he was searching for something. Sometimes, he would set down his tool, and meander down the trail leading to the grove, lost in thought. He was, I understand now, looking into the unfathomable unknown of his godhood. At the time, however, I was in denial like everyone else. It had seemed apparent to us that the main concern for Mama, that was Jesus all right, had been addressed. James and Joseph should be able to return to their occupations in Jerusalem and Sepphoris, Abigail and Martha could get married, and Simon and I, who had no plans yet, could at least have peace of mind…. But alas, this wasn’t to be. There would be no marriages, occupations, or peace of mind for us—not with Jesus away from home.

Filled with sudden inspiration, Mama leaped to her feet. “That settles it!” She clasped her hands excitedly. “If he won’t come home, we’ll go get him!”

“What?” Martha clasped her forehead.

“You’re not serious?” Simon patted her arm.

“Oh, she’s serious.” I sighed. “Mama.” I drew a breath and exhaled. “Trust me; you’re not up to such a trip. Let’s wait until Jesus sends word.”

She grinned with wild-eyes at me. “I’m up to it. Jude, you of all people, know how serious this is. You were with him at the river. He’s abandoned his own family to follow that man!”

“No mistress,” Amos said politely, “you haven’t been listening. John merely called him. He’s not a sorcerer. Jesus has gone off on is own.”

“Hah!” She shot back. “That’s even worse. It’s unlike Jesus to go off like that. John must’ve bewitched him. None of this makes any sense.” “We’re going!” She looked around challengingly. “I need your support!”

“Mama.” Martha tugged her sleeve. “This isn’t a good idea. It’s a long, hard trip, especially if you’re unwell.”

“It’s insane!” Abigail glared up at her.

“No, my daughters.” She placed her hands on her hips. “It’s not insane. It makes perfect sense. Jesus needs his family, not those filthy vagabonds. We leave tomorrow for Capernaum!”

“I’m not going!” James cried, clinching his fists. “Jesus is thirty summers old. Why drag us into it? He’s made his decision!”

“I’m not going either!” Simon folded his arms.

“No way! No way!” Joseph chanted, shaking his head.

******

As Amos chewed on a loaf of bread and slurped his wine, he seemed to find our dilemma interesting but kept silent as we tried to change Mama’s mind. We had exaggerated her physical state in order to make our case. Traveling to Capernaum was nothing compared to my trip into Judea, she argued. To prove her hardiness on the road, she reminded us of her journey to Bethlehem, which was also further away than Capernaum. Pregnant with Jesus, as a mere teenager who had never been away from home, she and Papa had traveled in the winter, and she hadn’t complained. When they arrived in Bethlehem, there was no room in the inn, so they had been forced to find refuge in a makeshift manger in a cave, surrounded by cattle, donkeys, and goats. Adding details to this story, including ordeal pain of Jesus’ birth, Mama made her case. She was much older now, she reasoned, but in better shape than a pregnant girl who gave birth in a cave.

We were reminded once again of Jesus specialness and uniqueness, which seemed to make us shrink before her eyes. Now that the argument that she was unfit to travel hadn’t worked, I tried using cold logic on her. Jesus, I pointed out, didn’t want to be rescued. He had been angry with me that day at the river when I tried to change his mind. He would not appreciate being interrupted during his mission (whatever that was). Added to this logic, was the fact that the shop would be left unattended. We had never been away from our home and business all at once. Like my brothers and sisters, I had no wish to go on such an errand. The best argument, therefore, was made against the trip altogether. None of us, not merely Mama, should go. We should wait for Jesus to return on his own and trust his judgment. These arguments, however, may as well fell on deaf ears. It was just a matter of time before Mama bent our will, only hours, in fact. Without bothering with a rebuttal this time, she began packing immediately, declaring petulantly, “if you won’t go with me, I’ll go alone.”

At first, we let her act out this pantomime, not for one minute believing she would go it alone. Then, one-by-one, we rose up, muttering our concern. In her frame of mind it was impossible to reason with her. Amos was amused by her stubbornness. Suppressing laughter, his eyes twinkled with mirth, and yet he sat there quietly, sipping his wine. One-by-one, frowning and gnashing our teeth, we volunteered to accompany her to Capernaum. Because I felt a measure of guilt for what Jesus had done, I was the first to step forth. Not wanting to be upstaged by the youngest brother, perhaps, James followed my example, cursing me under his breath for my cowardice. In a fit of silent rage, his nostrils flaring, Joseph was next, followed by Simon, who gave me a wounded, ‘how could you do this to me look.’ Lastly, following together as usual, Abigail and Martha shrugged with resignation and joined in the packing for our trip.

Amos would stay until tomorrow at daybreak when we departed and return to join the Baptist at the River Jordan. I didn’t blame him. His first concern should be John. He had been treated poorly by my family. That night James, Joseph, Simon, and I drank more of Papa’s stash of wine. Amos was already tipsy before we drank our share, and I was half certain Abigail and Martha had more than grape juice in their mugs. We would, at least, sleep soundly that night. Mama, however, for the first time in many months, had fallen right to sleep upon reaching her pallet, reassured of our compliance, her only concern to fetch her favorite son.

******

We dreaded making the trip. Mama wouldn’t admit it but she dreaded it too. We could see it on her face and the way she flittered about the house. I had never seen her so stubborn. Because we first had to rent mules for the trip, our venture would be delayed one day, which gave us time to change her mind. James, Joseph, and I were used to riding the beasts, but Mama and the twins dreaded the experience. Simon tried to put a good face on it, but he hadn’t been on mule either. It would be, I warned the four of them, a long bumpy ride. More important in my mind were the dangers of such a journey, another fact I relayed to them. Jesus, Amos, and I, I reminded my family, had met a band of robbers on our way to the river. Jesus, of course, had used his powers to discourage them, but we wouldn’t have Jesus to protect us this time. When the Romans patrolled out town, we could request an escort to Capernaum. Papa had been friends with Cornelius, Commander of the Galilean Garrison. Now, the Romans had withdrawn their legionnaires from Nazareth. Without Roman legionnaires or Jesus’ protection, we would have to defend ourselves. All of this logic, in an effort to dissuade her, I said repeatedly to Mama. For their part, James and Joseph again stressed the rigors of the journey that might effect her health. Before Amos departed for the River Jordan, he joined in our effort, politely reminding her that Jesus’ mind was set. Our trip would be an exercise in futility, a complete waste of time.

Nothing could change her mind, however: not arguments against the dangers, discomfort, health risks, or sheer foolishness of the enterprise; not even the plain fact that Jesus had made up his mind. When Malachi and his son arrived with our mules and we stood by the road with our baggage, the die was cast. Only moments before we embarked, Amos had given us his salutations and galloped away. Mama remained hopeful. My brothers and sisters resented the sheer effort of the attempt. I alone, was absolutely certain of the folly. I had seen the resolution on Jesus’ face and heard it in his voice. His days as a carpenter were over. His path was set. He answered to God now; no one else. Due to my greater knowledge as a traveler, James and Joseph begrudgingly deferred to me. With my sword, which I had since my journey from Antioch, I would lead my family to Capernaum. Papa’s ancestral sword had been too heavy and unwieldy, so my brothers brought carpenters hammers and knives in their saddle bags and Mama brought the paddle she had used to make us behave.

Feeling overwhelming mental pressure and doubt, I prayed for some kind of deliverance: a sudden, fierce storm to delay our journey further or, even better, Mama changing her mind. Jesus had once told his brothers and sisters how to pray correctly. He told us to clear our minds of all selfish and divisive emotions, relax our bodies, and picture a vacant blue sky. While the others climbed up on their mules, Mama needing Malachi’s help, I stood motionless, eyes shut, praying feverishly, “Deliver me, deliver me, deliver me.” With my eyes shut in this state, I heard grumbles from Simon, Abigail, and Martha, and felt the toe of James sandal, after he prodded his mule my way. But then I heard something else: horses hooves again and voices in the near distance.

“Is the house of Joseph bar Jacob?” the rider asked.

“My husband’s dead,” replied Mama, “but this is his house.”

I wasn’t sure what this meant but it seemed auspicious. “Peace be upon the house of Joseph!” intoned the stranger.

Opening my eyes, I cried out, “Praise the Lord!”

“Which one of you is Jude?” inquired a second rider.

“I am he!” I beamed.

“My name’s Cleopas.” The second rider bowed in the saddle. “Matthias and I were sent by Jesus. You are to accompany us to Capernaum.”

“Why Jude?” James seemed to bristle.

As it was a settled matter, he replied, “Jesus said this to us, ‘tell Jude it’s time.’ He’ll know what to do.”

My eyes popped wide. “I will?”

I had almost total recall, and yet I had managed to block out this memory. Jesus told me he would call me when I was needed. Before he walked into the wilderness, he made this perfectly clear. “…Stand fast,” he shouted. “You too will serve the Lord!” There was no mistaking what he meant: he wanted me to join him in Capernaum…. My idle, carefree days were over. My life was no longer my own.

“What’s Jesus up to now?” asked Joseph. “Why should he disrupt our lives?”

“You’re brother is a great teacher,” declared Cleopas.”

“He’s a great rabbi—even a prophet,” Matthias exclaimed.

“But my family?” I looked around light-headedly. “Can’t they come along?”

“He said nothing about them,” snorted Cleopas.

“You were with him at the river,” Matthias explained. “You know his mind.”

“No,” I mumbled, shaking my head, “no one knows his mind.”

“Well,” Mama jerked her reigns, “we’re all going.”

“Very well,” exhaled Cleopas. “Jesus warned us. He said you’d come along.”

Seeing his chance to stall this misadventure a little longer, Joseph wrung his finger. “For shame Mama. We treated Amos, who brought Jude home, badly. Now, you’d deprive Jesus’ friends of food and rest!” It appeared as if there would be another delay for Mama as the riders recuperated. Before we all followed Joseph’s example and dismounted, however, Cleopas held up his hand and barked, “We made camp near town so as not to presume on your hospitality. Come along, all of you, if that’s what you wish.”

“We’re ready if you are,” Matthias added, leading the way.

“By all the angels in heaven!” swore James.

Climbing glumly back in his saddle, Joseph was almost in tears. The others—Simon, Abigail, and Martha, sat on their mules, frowning severely at these interlopers, while I, robbed of leadership, retreated with mixed feelings to the end of the procession through town. On the one hand, I didn’t have the responsibility to guard my family. Judging by the sheathed swords at their hips and their stern countenance, Cleopas and Matthias were not ones to be trifled with. On the other hand, we were still going. What made it all right in my case, was the fact I had been invited—nay, commanded to come, while the others were merely tagging along. Nevertheless, when Mama made a scene in Capernaum it would be guilt by association. I would be incriminated in her plot to bring him home. Overriding everything else in my mind was the simple message Cleopas had given me from Jesus: “It’s time.” For me, unless we could miraculously change Jesus’ mind, our journey to Capernaum would be a one-way trip.

******

During the first leg of our trip, Cleopas and Matthias questioned Mama’s motives for tagging along. Mama grew irate at their tone. “He’s my son. His place is with his family!” she replied simply. It sounded so inane no one argued with her on this point. Cleopas merely explained how busy Jesus was and how important his mission was to the world. This information caused James and Joseph to laugh sourly and the twins to titter. Was this not Jesus, their brother, the carpenter, longtime bachelor of Nazareth, who rarely ventured beyond town? Suddenly, I thought, it’s not just Galilee, it’s the world! What exactly did that mean? Because of Jesus command that I join him, this included me! For several leagues, my brothers grumbled about the high and mighty attitude of our guides, until Joseph’s question, “What’s Jesus been up to?” was answered finally during a meal of goat cheese and bread. We wanted details, not generalizations. The first thing we wanted to hear about was Jesus’ trek into the Wilderness. I knew Jesus was testing himself, but that was all.

The following report memorized by our guides, which Matthew, Mark, and Luke included in their works, would be the first account of Jesus’ ministry. Cleopas, the more talkative of the two, told us about Jesus baptism and John’s strange words—matters we already knew about, before coming to the most important part:

“…. Full of the Holy Spirit, Jesus left the Jordan River and was led into the Wilderness. He slept little as he hiked into this wasteland. For forty days he was tempted by Satan. Though it was very difficult for us to believe, he ate nothing during those days those days. At one point, when he was starving, the devil came to him in a vision. ‘If you’re the Son of God,’ he whispered icily, ‘tell this stone to become bread.’ Jesus was tempted but he answered, ‘It’s written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone.’ Then Satan led him up to a high place and, through sorcery, showed him all the kingdoms of the world, saying, ‘This I will give to you; all the authority and splendor will be yours. If you worship me, you shall be master of the earth!’ But Jesus replied, ‘It’s written: ‘Worship the Lord your God and serve him only.’ Then the greatest temptation came when he stood on the edge of a cliff, looking down into its depths. ‘If you’re the son of God,’ cried Satan, ‘throw yourself down from her. For it’s written: ‘He will command angels to guard you. Surely, you have no fear.’” “…. And Jesus answered,” Matthias concluded, “‘Get thee behind me Satan. You shall not tempt the Lord!’”

Upon completion of this report, all of us, Mama and myself included, were in denial. Without the knowledge that came later when Jesus disciples’ wrote their accounts of his life, we simply couldn’t accept these outlandish words.

“Wait a minute,” James took issue. “You’re claiming Jesus is the Son of God?”

“Those are his words.” Cleopas shrugged. “Aren’t we all sons of the Father?”

“I suppose so,” James scratched his beard, “but you implied he’s divine.”

“He is divine!” Matthias said resolutely. “No one could have done what he did.”

“Hah!” huffed Joseph. “I don’t believe he went hungry that long!”

“Well he was—that’s fact!” Matthias set his jaw. “He isn’t like you or me. Jesus has great powers!”

“Stop!” Mama threw up her hands. “This all too much. Joseph is right. Jesus is a man, a person like us. You stretch the truth.”

“No, mistress.” Cleopas waved dismissively. “It’s the truth. Jesus isn’t just a man. He’s sent by the Most High.”

That statement caused the greatest agitation. Abigail and Martha giggled foolishly. Simon’s mouth dropped in disbelief. James looked across the fire at Cleopas challengingly and asked, “What do you mean sir? What’s our brother supposed to be?”

“Yes, Cleopas.” Joseph bolted to his feet. “What’re you trying to say?”

Cleopas looked across the fire. His graying beard and piercing eyes gave him a hallowed countenance. Looking back now, I realize that he and his companion were the first of Jesus followers to spread the good news. “Who is Jesus?” I heard Cleopas muse. “…That’s a good question.” At this stage, even these men, who heard him speak, didn’t know. I felt light-headed again, this time dizzy—my thoughts scattered, as if I had just drunk a large cup of wine. “He hasn’t said who he is,” Cleopas answered slowly. “…Jesus is a mysterious man. I’ve never met anyone like him. If I didn’t have a family and business, I’d follow him like the others. My wife and children think I’m foolish.”

“Me too.” Matthias stared methodically into the fire. “I have the same problem explaining it to my family…Only time will tell.”

“Alas, my friends, we lack Peter, John, and James’ courage. Our trip to bring Jude to Capernaum was our contribution,” Cleopas explained gravely. “You have altered our mission,” he added, looking at Mama then each of us, “Your son…and your brother won’t be pleased with we brought this crowd.”

“How dare you!” Mama rose up angrily. “I know my son. He loves and respects his Mother!

“Of course.” Matthias frowned. “But Jesus has a mission. His family is also the world!”

“The world? What rubbish!” spat Joseph. “What is this stuff John and Jesus are peddling: a new religion?”

Cleopas eyes widened as he tossed a handful of twigs into the fire. “Yes,” he said solemnly, “I think it is.”

With that statement, as if to emphasize his words, the flames flared up. My mother, brothers, and sisters gave him dumfounded looks. They were speechless. It was, at this point, partly exhaustion that stilled their tongues, but the look in their eyes could have been something else. There was a time when my brothers would have made the sign to ward off the evil eye. Now that they were educated as scribes, they kept this primal response to themselves, but I could see it in all of their eyes, even Mama’s—that old fear left over from Abraham’s time: the fear of sorcery and witchcraft. Was the import of Cleopas’ words lost because of the flare-up? I hoped not. I saw the blaze differently. As I sat there alone for awhile staring into the fire, I was conflicted by reason and faith. My mind warred with my heart…. I remembered John’s words “Behold the Lamb of God,” and I realized the sudden flare-up was a sign. Jesus was, at the very least, a great prophet… and perhaps—perish the thought—something much more!

******

As our guides stood up, as if to bed down for the night, James, Joseph, and Simon grumbled amongst themselves. Mama and the twins retreated to their bed rolls. I slept fitfully that night, my stubborn mind playing back memories from childhood: the Jesus I knew as a boy and then a youth—the stream of miraculous and astounding things he had done, which seemed to justify what John the Baptist saw. But then I remembered the human side of my oldest brother. He bled like us, he wept like us, and he was sick like us. I’ve seen him angry and moody—human emotions, and yet I’ve seen his eyes blaze as if from inner light. From the day he raised a dead bird from the dead until the moment John cried out “Repent, the day of the Lord is hear,” I had been given signs of who Jesus was. I was shaken with emotion. Now that Jesus was in Capernaum gathering followers, I was also fearful for his safety. Amos had told me what the priests and rabbis thought of John’s message. What would they say about my brother now that John had turned over leadership to him?

When I awakened, it was first light. As I strolled over to stoke the fire, I saw that everyone was still asleep. It was that special time that Jesus and I shared on our walks. Over a distant Galilean hill, as in Nazareth, the sun rose slowly to ignite the day. There was a stirring in my chest. In my mind, battling with reason, were John’s words against the background of our holy scripture: Lamb and sacrifice—the new and the old, the implications too terrible for me to digest. It seemed clear to me that this would be a new religion, as Cleopas believed; that my family couldn’t argue with. But I would not tell them what was in my mind that morning. Far more than her children, Mama was in denial. She didn’t need to know my thoughts. She wanted her beloved son safe and sound and at home as before. For the time being, I must do everything in my power to convince Jesus of his folly even though I knew it might do no good. For me, it was more than love or loneliness for the favorite son. It was fear for Jesus. I must somehow reason with him. Galilee and Judea had enough prophets, I told myself, as I stoked the fire. From what I read about my people, they often killed such holy men. Let John place his head on the block!

******

After a hasty breakfast of cheese and unleavened bread and sips of water, we gathered our gear, packed our mules, then climbed up on our beasts. Mama required assistance from James and Joseph, but she was cheerful and raring to go. My brothers and sisters envied Cleopas and Matthias who rode horses, because they were more comfortable, but after my own travels I had grown found of mules. The mule I rode back from Antioch was now a pet, so precious to me I retired it to a life of ease in our backyard. Some of the feeling I had for him rubbed off on my present mount, who I would grow attached to just as I before.

“Onward to Capernaum!” Cleopas pointed his staff.

I was filled with many questions. There was, I sensed, much more we didn’t know. “Tell us more about Jesus,” I called through cupped hands. “What else did he do?”

“Not now, Jude,” hissed Joseph.

“Yes,” Matthias tried to reply discreetly. “Let’s wait till we stop. Your siblings are in a bad mood.”

“Well, I’m not.” Mama looked happily. “Don’t worry, children, I feel just fine. The sooner we get to Capernaum, the better!”

Riding directly behind Cleopas, as Matthias rode up and down the procession to make sure we kept up, Mama charged ahead anxiously as if she, not Cleopas, was our guide. I was glad to see her spirit so high, yet concerned about her health. None of this would be worth it, I realized, if Mama’s health was affected by this trip. I was certain Jesus would never forgive us, but then I had been thinking about him in mortal terms. My other concern, as we traveled to Capernaum, was his safety. Neither issue—Mama’s health or Jesus safety—could I control. I was from that day forward, upon reflection, like a rudderless ship. Where this trip to Capernaum would lead me I didn’t know. Despite my apprehension, I couldn’t help being excited about what we would find. For many hours, clopping along the road to Capernaum, as I tried blocking out the grumbling of my brothers and chatter of the twins, I wanted to hear Mama’s questions to Cleopas, but James and Joseph’s complaints dominated everything. James had been much more tolerant of Jesus strange ways in the past, but on our journey he was almost as bad as Joseph. Simon, normally easy-going and carefree, directed his complaints to the ride, itself, rather than Jesus, as did Abigail and Martha, who were miserable, at times weeping in despair. I was proud of Mama for being so stout hearted. I just wished she had an open mind. I didn’t blame Simon and the twins for their discomfort; they weren’t used to the rigors of travel. What I didn’t understand was how much James and, especially, Joseph resented the oldest brother. It wasn’t Jesus fault we began this quest. Had it not been for Mama, we could have waited until he paid us a visit in his own good time. If anything, I wanted to say to them, it was Mama’s fault. She was the author of our foolishness. Of course, that frame of thought seems quite academic now. Even then, as we plodded along, I knew the effort to ‘rescue’ Jesus was important. I just didn’t realize how it would fit into the scheme of things.

Everything we did on that day and all the days forward led to Golgotha. Blissfully we couldn’t see the whole picture. What I knew about, in fact, was, as Paul would one day write, ‘through glass darkly.’

******

Finally, at a likely patch of woodland, near a babbling stream, while it was still daylight, we halted. Midway between Nazareth and our destination, our guides, Cleopas and Matthias decided to make camp for the night. Mama, they understood, in spite of her spiritual energy, was worn out. No one needed to tell them. It was visibly apparent in her pallor, breathing, and frail body. Because of the frequent stops for her benefit, our journey took longer than usual. Matthias confided to me that he and Cleopas would be at our destination by now. Offering only a token protest at this interruption, Mama allowed herself to be carried to a large oak, whose branches would shield our party from the sun. After only a few morsels of food and drink of water, she napped there in the late afternoon shade. We thought she might sleep through the night, but after the sun set, when we had finished our simple meal and found ourselves in discussion again, she sprang up eagerly and joined us around the fire. During this time we heard more about Jesus. Cleopas and Matthias, in fact, told us everything they knew about him until they left to bring Jude to Capernaum.

After hearing the words of the new prophet, he gave us a summary Jesus ministry so far. Picking up from where they left off, Cleopas and Matthias told to us what Jesus said after his emergence from the wilderness. Once again I felt giddy. The wine I drank was partially to blame, and perhaps exhaustion played a part, but I also felt deeply moved. Here were two men who believed what I already suspected. What did John mean when he called out, “Repent, the day of the Lord is here?” Who was Jesus supposed to be? Though they believed Jesus had an important mission, neither Cleopas or Matthias knew.

“From the River Jordan,” Matthias picked up the thread, “the men traveled by foot to Capernaum. On the way, according to Andrew, Jesus talked little, wrapped in thought. Andrew and Philip made sure Jesus rested on the road, sharing with him their store of dried fish, bread, and cheese. When they arrived in Galilee, Jesus was led to Capernaum, near Lake Gennesaret. That’s where Cleopas and I met him. In Capernaum, after a short rest and meal, he told us we could go home and join him later. He knew that we had families and businesses. Before going home, though, we stayed awhile, tempted to forsake everything to follow this man. Among a growing crowd of villagers, we watched from afar, as Jesus chatted with Peter, James, and John. I couldn’t hear him at that point. Suddenly, Jesus voice raised a notch, and he called out to the three fishermen, ‘Come and I will make you fishers of men.’ Unlike the time Andrew and Philip became disciples, we witnessed this event. Andrew and Philip, who stood back a ways, were still not sure who this man was. Torn by the desire to return home and our work and becoming disciples ourselves, Cleopas and I followed Jesus and the five men—”

“Yes, we were sorely tempted,” Cleopas interrupted. “People, mostly curious souls, were drawn to Jesus, who reached through the tares for ripe wheat. The five he had selected so far were ready for the harvest. Alas, Matthias and I were not among the selection. At this point, however, Jesus was led by Philip to a very old man, I thought was an unlikely choice. He was, which was common for old men, asleep under a tree. Philip walked up and playfully kicked him to awaken him. ‘Bartholomew,’ he cried, ‘we found the one Moses wrote about in the Law, and about whom the prophets wrote: Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph.’ To his discredit, Bartholomew scoffed at the news, saying, ‘Nazareth, can anything good come from there?’ Undismayed, Philip nudged him again, ‘Come and see,’ he beckoned, ‘you must meet this man.’ Bartholomew stood up shakily, grumbling at Philip. That moment, as Jesus saw Bartholomew coming toward him, he called out his name. Startled by his knowledge, Bartholomew asked him, “How do you know me?” Jesus answered Bartholomew, ‘Before Philip awakened you, when you were under the fig tree, I saw you.’ ‘Right here,” he pointed to his head.”

After this quotation from Cleopas, there was a moment of silence, as if Cleopas wasn’t sure how to proceed.

“… Jesus seemed amused by Bartholomew,” he continued after the pause. “‘Why are you so surprised?’ Jesus teased the old man, ‘Because I said to you, ‘I saw you under the fig tree,’ you believe? You will see greater things than these!’”

“What greater things will Jesus do?” Mama said with a flicker of suspicion. “What’s special about guessing a name?”

“It hardly qualifies as a miracle.” James scoffed. “Jesus does that all the time.”

“Yeah,” Simon piped, “Jesus can read our minds!”

“Ho-ho,” Cleopas laughed softly, “you’ve had too much wine.”

“Jesus is special,” Martha said dreamily. “He knows things—lots of things. Even when he was a child he knew things beyond his years.”

“He made us all feel like dummies.” I smiled at the thought. “In the temple, when he was twelve years old, he argued with the priests and doctors of law. They were astonished at his knowledge. One of them, Joseph of Arimathea, a rich Pharisee, befriended Jesus and took him on a voyage across the Great Sea.”

“Jesus has always been special.” Joseph muttered drowsily. “…Too special at times.”

“Yes,” Matthias nodded thoughtfully, “We’ve heard him speak.” “…. He has an inner power,” he searched for the words, “a way of talking. We know how special Jesus is, but that doesn’t mean he can read minds.”

“It’s true,” insisted Simon. “We’ve felt it—all of us. He gets right inside our heads. He doesn’t even need to be in the same room.”

“He-he…,” Matthias said, scratching his chin. “Gets into your head, does he?… That’s some trick!”

“It’s not a trick!” Simon shook his head. “Jesus isn’t a sorcerer. He has God-given powers!”

“Oh, that’s nothing.” Abigail waved her hand dismissively. “Jesus also has the gift of healing. Once, in our front yard, we saw his cure a dead bird.”

“What?” Matthias’ mouth dropped. “…. You’re not serious.”

“It’s a fact,” I reassured him, “we all saw it. When he was at sea with Joseph of Arimathea, he quieted a storm!”

Matthias looked around at us in disbelief. “…. This is all too much,” he muttered, shaking his head. “…. You make him sound like a god.”

“It happened,” Martha said resolutely, “all of it. We’ve seen Jesus do some pretty strange things.”

“Why don’t you believe us?” I became defensive. “Jesus doesn’t lie. You met him; should know that. After he prayed, the sea grew calm. We saw him raise the bird from the dead with our own eyes.’

“Really?” Cleopas stroked his beard. “…. He quieted a storm?…Cured a dead bird?…And he reads minds?” “Do you believe this?” he looked at Mama for confirmation. “A storm is one thing; that could be a coencidence, but did you see him cure that bird?”

“Yes,” she replied reluctantly, “but Jesus was still a child. The bird might’ve been unconscious.”

“The storm wasn’t a coincidence!” I exclaimed. “The bird was dead!”

“No question about it!” Simon folded his arms.

“Remarkable.” Cleopas muttered to himself. “It must be true what we heard…. We knew he was extraordinary. Jesus family wouldn’t lie.”

Matthias thought for a moment. “If you all believe this,” he said, glancing around at the group, “what’s the problem? Why try to change Jesus’ mind? This would make him divine, wouldn’t it? Who could stop such a man?”

“… We just want him to come home and be normal again.” Mama replied wearily.

“If I am to believe any of this,” Cleopas confessed in amazement, “I’m confused, totally bewildered. If any of this is true, which I should take on faith, you people are in denial!”

“…We are,” I whispered, staring into the fire.

As Cleopas paused to consider the conflict in our thinking, Matthias sipped his wine reflectively. Before they continued their report, which we had almost forgotten, a thought filled my head.

“Bartholomew?” I mumbled aloud. “It just came to me. That name sounds familiar. Bartholomew wasn’t young when I last saw him. He would be an old man now.”

“Shush!” whispered Mama. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s a common name.”

Cleopas studied us a moment but said nothing. As Matthias resumed the report about Jesus, I tried to concentrate on his words, but a memory surfaced in my mind: a period long ago when Mama nursed a man named Reuben back to health. Everyone in Nazareth hated this dreadful man. He and his band of outlaws were finally hunted down by the Romans, but only he, with several wounds, survived the chase. His comrades were in fact crucified. James, Joseph, Simon, the twins, and I had been tempted to turn him in; so was our father, who saw him as a great threat to his family. Jesus, who couldn’t lie, was conflicted by our secrecy and had to be hidden when visitors arrived. James and Joseph tried to reason with my parents about hiding this man, but Reuben was close to death. Without Mama’s care he would die—a possibility that seemed appropriate for Reuben’s crimes. After all, our home had been a refuge for orphans, such as ourselves, and Mama was the town nurse. What’s more, as Papa admitted, was the ancient law of hospitality. Reuben had been found half dead on our property. What clearly seemed illegal to my brothers was my parents protection of this man. We could all lose our heads for harboring this fugitive, and yet we suffered his smelly presence for many months as he recuperated. When he was well enough, Mama dyed his red hair dark brown and shaved his beard to disguise him. More importantly before he snuck away in the dead of night was the decision to change his name… So Mama picked a popular name in Galilee: Bartholomew.

That I thought the Bartholomew in Cleopas’ story significant I can’t explain, but I found myself interrupting him again as he resumed his account:

“Bartholomew seemed to old to be a disciple,” related Cleopas. “Yet, when Jesus saw his crotchety figure approaching, he embraced him like a long lost friend. ‘Behold,’ he said, slapping his back, ‘here’s an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!’”

Mama, whose eyes had widened in recognition, shook her head. I stifled a laugh.

“What did he look like?” I raised my hand.

Cleopas sighed and shook his head. “I met him when he first came to Capernaum,” he explained indulgently. “I was a mere youth when my family lived there. He had red hair, a big fellow, who smelled like garlic. Now, he’s a graybeard, still smelling like garlic, barely able to walk as he joined Jesus’ band.”

“He made Bartholomew a disciple?” I muttered in disbelief.

“Jude,” Mama shrilled in my ear, “I said, shut up!”

There was no longer any mystery about Bartholomew. All of us—James, Joseph, Simon, Abigail, Martha, Mama, and myself—knew exactly who he was. As was his habit of not thinking before he spoke, Simon almost gave our secret away. “I remember that fellow,” he blurted out loud. “Moses beard! He’s talking about Reuben, the man Mama brought back from the dead.”

“What’s he talking about?” Matthias stared at Mama. “Who’s Reuben…. Are they the same man?”

“It’s Nothing! Nothing!” Mama replied, glaring at Simon. “He’s drunk on wine. That’s not Reuben at all!”

Inexplicably, Matthias shrugged his shoulders, letting the subject drop.

“All right,” Cleopas signaled for silence. “Shall we continue… As I was saying Jesus now had six disciples: Peter, John, James, Philip, Andrew, and Bartholomew. What he said to the fisherman, as he approached the lake, ‘I shall make you fishermen of men,’ will, I’m certain, be the slogan for his mission to the world. As humble as all this seems, I know Jesus will do great things.”

Mama gave him a startled look. “The world?… Great things?” What great things?”

If it wasn’t a spiritual feeling, I sensed intuitively that Cleopas was holding back. Avoiding Mama’s eyes, I asked in a muted voice, “What else did Jesus say to Bartholomew?”

“Go ahead,” Matthias motioned hesitantly, “…. Tell them… They deserve to know.”

“Very well.” Cleopas drew a breath and exhaled. “After Bartholomew acted so surprised that Jesus knew his name and Jesus promised him he would see greater things, he said something very strange: ‘Verily, I say unto you, you’ll see heaven open, and the angels of God ascending and descending on the Son of Man!’”

One of John’s scrolls, which I read many years later, has Bartholomew saying to Jesus, ‘Rabbi, you’re the Son of God and the king of Israel,’ but Cleopas said nothing about this. I don’t doubt John’s work, but it’s very hard to believe this came from Bartholomew’s mouth. It was just as well such a provocative statement was not uttered. It was difficult enough for my family, especially our mother, to grasp what Cleopas did say without hearing such a claim. Almost immediately, the controversial subject of Bartholomew’s identity was switched back to the previous topic: Jesus’ identity.

Pandemonium erupted around the fire.

“Angels of God?” James sputtered. “Son of Man? What nonsense!”

“Just exactly what does that mean?” shouted Mama, jumping to her feet. “It’s pure rubbish! I gave birth to that man; he’s my son! That Baptist bewitched him. He’s not in his right mind!”

Joseph, Simon, Abigail, and Martha made similar outbursts. From my experience among different peoples, it was, as Cleopas accurately saw, a classic example of denial. Fortunately, we were between towns where no one might hear. Cleopas and Matthias were right to question the conflict in my family. We knew Jesus had performed miracles, had profound knowledge, and spoke like no other mortal man, and yet we chose to doubt him. The reason for this denial was based upon our fear for his welfare, but Mama’s reasons included her maternal desire to have him all to herself. As stubborn as I was, I understood Jesus’ past: the story of his birth in Bethlehem, the three wise men who visited my parents, and their flight to Egypt to escape Herod’s wrath. Once my parents took Jesus to the temple where, as a twelve-year-old boy, he discussed the Torah with priests and scribes. This, in itself, was a miracle, as was his healing of the dead sparrow and the miracles he recorded in his letters while traveling with Joseph of Arimathea. I could understand my brothers and sisters questioning the words ‘Son of Man.’ That didn’t make sense. Mama knew more about Jesus’ special qualities than anyone, and yet she called Cleopas’ claims rubbish. I felt great pity for Mama then. She was in much greater denial than her children.

“It’s not rubbish,” I said discreetly, “…not all of it.”

My words, faint as they were, fell on deaf ears. At that point, the misadventures of the oldest brother, ended with Mama, James, and Joseph storming away from the fire. The twins followed in a bewildered state. Simon, who had drank too much wine, had already nodded off, lying in a heap in back of his log, while I remained, staring into the fire.

“I’m sorry Cleopas and Matthias.” I looked across the flames. “My family knows Jesus as a brother and a son. It’s hard to think of him as divine…. It’s hard for me too!”

“Hold on.” Cleopas made a face. “He never said that. Jesus speaks strangely at times. I’ve heard people call him rabbi. If this is so, he the greatest rabbi Israel has ever seen. But Jesus never said he was divine. He’s not a god.” “…He’s a man all right,” he struggled with a definition, “but more than just a teacher or preacher… Andrew told us that John referred to him as the Lamb of God in his preaching—”

“I heard John say that,” I interrupted. “I don’t like the sound of that….What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Cleopas said, tossing branch into the flames. “Jesus said many strange things. He has a plan—that’s plain enough…What it is, I can’t say. None of this sounds like the old religion.” “It is,” he paused to stare into the fire, “a new religion. Jesus appears to be making it up as he goes along.”

Chapter Three

The Wedding at Cana

Much has been made of our attempt to bring Jesus home. In hindsight, it was a silly enterprise, but it wasn’t the shameful display at Peter’s house I read in Mark’s scroll. Luke, who has collected all of the writings of the Apostles, agreed with me. I was, by not protesting more vigorously, only humoring Mama, knowing very well that Jesus would spurn our efforts outright. According to Mark, who ran like a mouse when Jesus was taken in Gethsemane, we unanimously claimed Jesus was out of his mind and tried to take charge of him. This was an exaggeration, especially on my part. More than anything else, I feared for his safety. It was the other members of my family who thought Jesus was bewitched or addled in the head. Since it was me who acted as spokesman, however, I state categorically that I made no such accusation in Jesus presence nor did I seriously attempt to change his mind.

As soon as we reached Capernaum, after only a short rest and a meager meal, we did, in fact, find Peter’s house where Jesus decided to make his headquarters. Embarrassed and perturbed by our purpose, though, Cleopas and Matthias slipped away soon after we arrived. In their place, a small crowd of villagers followed our procession, as we passed down Capernaum’s main street. Mama had a possessed look on her face. Her blue eyes blazed with purpose. When the moment finally arrived, however, my brothers and sisters took stock of their actions before Mama charged into Peter’s house.

“No, Mama,” I was firm. “We talked about this on the road. I will go in as our spokesman. All of you can see him later when he comes out,” “if he does at all,” I added under my breath. “What’s that old fisherman adage: ‘I have to test the waters.’”

“Don’t make us wait long!” Mama shook her fist.

“This won’t take long!” I said truthfully.

Almost as soon as I knocked, in fact, the door opened and, lo and behold, there stood Jesus, a smile on his face.

“Jesus—” I began.

“Stop!” He held up his hand. “I know why you’re here.”

“They sent me ahead,” I sputtered. “I know how important this is to you. This wasn’t my idea.”

“I know, Jude.” He replied, ushering me into the room.

“Of course.” I laughed hysterically. “You’re Jesus: you know everything!”

“My friends,” he looked at the congregation in his room, “this is my beloved brother, Jude, whom his Roman friends called Thaddeus.” “Jude.” He pointed to each person in the room, “That is Peter, James, and John. Over there are Andrew, Philip, and Bartholomew.”

“Hello Bartholomew.” I singled him out.

Bartholomew appeared to blush.

“He told me all about it.” Jesus said from the corner of his mouth. “Sitting there by the window is Peter’s daughter Bernice, his wife Esther, and mother-in-law Dinah.”

The folks in Peter’s house nodded and smiled. Jesus took me aside and told me to wait inside while he talked to Mama.

“Jesus,” I said, gripping his sleeve, “be patient with your family. They’re worried.”

“This is my family too.” He motioned to his disciples and others in the room. “I will have many brothers and sisters now.”

As I stood in the crowded and fetid room that smelled of fish, I wondered anew why Jesus chose this path. With his vast mind, he could be anyone he wanted too. Who were these bumpkins? Surely, he could have done better than this. What made it all the more insane was the fact that Nazareth’s onetime enemy, Reuben, was one of Jesus disciples. What was more strange than that?

I don’t know what Jesus said to Mama and her children. I was afraid that, in his current frame of mind, he might rebuke them. For an excruciating period of time, I was forced to do small talk with Peter, James, and John. Only Andrew and Philip, who recognized me from the River Jordan had much to say. Holding me in some awe for being called Jesus beloved brother, they were deferential. Andrew brought me a mug of Peter’s resinous wine and Philip offered me a piece of cake, Esther had made, but the other disciples and Peter’s family appeared to resent my intrusion. Maybe they sensed my purpose or perhaps it was my travel-worn appearance, but I felt our of place in Peter’s house. When Jesus returned with the remainder of his family in tow, the small room was unbearably crowded. Despite this fact, he wanted to introduce his family to his disciples and Peter’s family. Mama wrinkled her nose, as did my brothers and sisters, but I was happy to see a calm expression on her face.

During the introductions, I whispered to her, “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.” She smiled faintly. “We tried to make him see reason, but he was stubborn. I’ve never seen Jesus’ mind so set. I thought he might be angry, but he invited us to stay.”

Why had Mama taken this so calmly? I wondered. Had Jesus used his powers on her mind? When he finished introducing his family and announced his disciples and Peter’s family’s names, he ushered us out into the fresh air, and walked with us awhile, quietly at first, until we reached the water’s edge. Then, his face radiant in the morning sun, he turned to his mother.

“Woman,” he spoke formally to her, “you’ll always be first in my heart, but the Lord has plans for me. Each day, when His voice comes into my head, begins a wondrous adventure. Tomorrow, we are going to a wedding in Cana.” “How would you like to go?” His eyes twinkled.

“…Cana,” she reflected, “we have relatives there…Yes, of course, we’d love to attend.”

“We would?” James recoiled. “I have to get to Jerusalem!”

“And I have a new job!” Joseph exclaimed.

“Your job can wait,” chided Mama. “Nicodemus can wait. I haven’t seen my cousins in years.”

“Cousins in Cana?” Abigail frowned. “What cousins?

Despite my good memory, I didn’t remember having relatives there either. It appeared as though our excursion would continue. I found her attitude toward James and Josephs positions insensitive. Everything was on hold as Mama followed her favorite son. More important in my mind, though, was how Jesus addressed his mother—not Mama, but woman. Looking back, I still don’t understand his meaning. Perhaps, too be closer to his heavenly father, he felt he had to separate himself from his earthly mother. Nevertheless, it struck me as peculiar. From this point on, Jesus would say and do strange things we would find difficult to comprehend.

******

That night, my family and I stayed at Andrew’s and Philip’s houses. As bachelors, their abodes were small yet allowed us enough space to bed down. Our meals (dinner that night and breakfast in the morning) remained meager, but Jesus promised us a fine feast when we arrived in Cana. This, the upside to our sojourn, sounded good. We were sick of smoked fish. Andrew admitted to me that fish was, aside from cheese and bread, what they mostly ate in Capernaum. Added to our disappointment at the detour we must take, was a new nuisance imposed upon us. With our mules rested, fed, and watered, we climbed on our mounts, expecting to see Jesus and his disciples join our procession, until they appeared on foot. For a brief moment, we waited for an explanation.

“Where’s you mules?” Joseph looked down in dismay.

“We shall walk.” He motioned amiably to his companions. “It’s much better for the soul!”

“But that’ll take forever!” groaned James.

“Yes, Jesus.” Abigail looked down in disbelief. “We’ve put our lives on hold.”

“We’ve been patient,” Martha grumbled. “Lord knows we’ve kept our tongues. Now this!”

“Andrew and Philip have mules, too. They’ll lead the way. You can wait for us in Cana,” Jesus explained as though it was but a trifling affair.

“Jesus!” Mama lost her patience. “Are you serious? Aren’t there any mules in town? Why aren’t you men on mules?”

I looked over glumly at Simon, who also kept his peace. Simon nudged his beast, came up alongside of me and whispered, “I have carpentry orders to complete.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied discreetly. “…All this started because of our Cousin John. I just hope our home isn’t robbed.”

As we groaned and grumbled amongst ourselves, Jesus set the pace for his disciples (slowly and dreamily), unconcerned, as he forged ahead. Andrew reassured Mama that he knew the way. Turning on my mount, I spotted Bartholomew leaning on his cane, trying to keep up. Philip, reigned in his mount, offering to let the old man ride in his place, and Jesus replied testily, “No, Philip. I told you, we’ll walk!”

“Are you sure?” sneered James. “He looks as though he’s going to collapse.”

“We suggested it to him.” Jesus waved dismissively. “He said it would hurt his back.”

“Please everyone,” Bartholomew said querulously. “I’m all right. Since I met Jesus, I’m feeling much better.”

“Ah,” Joseph said mockingly, “a cure—another miracle!”

“This wedding better be good!” growled James.

As Andrew set the pace for our mules, Jesus and his first disciples fell back further and further, disappearing as specks in the horizon. Because of Bartholomew’s crotchety condition, our mules would have practically been standing still to allow them to keep up. Andrew commented to Philip, that if Jesus planned on walking everywhere on his mission, it wasn’t their concern. For now, they were doing the most sensible thing. In truth, I had found after riding my own mule, that they get fidgety unless they’re moving at a trot. I thought of poor Bartholomew then. Though it was true that our beasts weren’t as comfortable as horses, surely it would have been better for him on a mule. Considering the bumpiness and unseen pitfalls in the road, however, my brothers and sisters still found much to complain about. Unlike the previous highway to Capernaum, this was not a Roman built road. In a few places we had to pass through shallow streams and detour around fallen trees in the road. Then I heard Philip tell James not to worry. It was only a day’s walk to Cana. This meant that, on our beasts, we would arrive much sooner. This was encouraging for us. Mama had that pale, haggard look again. She would get a period of fine food, rest, and relaxation.

As I thought of the wedding, I began looking forward to our arrival in Cana. I had been to weddings before. Many of them had exceptional fare and an endless flow of wine. I might have had misgivings about this venture, but, unlike James and Joseph, I had nothing better to do. What I didn’t suspect was how important the wedding would be…. Something incredible was going to happen.

******

Except for a few rest stops to water our mules and let them forage, we made good time to Cana. Aside from its appalling condition, the road was clear ahead. There were no highwaymen lurking on our path. As we brimmed a hillock, Andrew called out blithely, “Behold the city where your kinsmen live and Bartholomew was born!”

“Really?” I heard Joseph say to James. “Didn’t he spend most of his life in Nazareth.”

“Shush,” Mama had the presence of mind to say, “that was when he was Reuben!”

Her voice was hoarse and trembled with fatigue. I reigned in my mule to allow her to catch up. Reaching over to steady her, I cooed, “Not long Mama. We’re almost there.”

“That cursed Baptist,” she swore, “this is all his fault!”

“Just think Mama,” Simon sounded enthusiastic now, “we have a splendid banquet waiting for us.”

“Hah!” She uttered a sour laugh. “Boaz and Ida are poor. We’ll be lucky if they serve fish or foul!”

“Ugh, fish!” Simon groaned.

Like a wet blanket were Mama’s words. Andrew, however, his voice filled with confidence, exclaimed merrily, “Don’t worry folks. Like all Galileans, they’ll put on a splash. Everyone in town chips in to make it grand!”

“How much longer?” whined Martha.

“Just a ways,” Philip called from the rear. “Jesus told us it was in the center of town.”

I liked Andrew. Of all of Jesus disciples, he was my favorite. But, of course, I hadn’t met Matthew, Simon, or Thomas. They would come later. For now, five rustic fishermen and a feeble old man were Jesus’ disciples. Viewed retrospectively, it wasn’t an auspicious beginning. At this stage in my spiritual odyssey, I didn’t know what Jesus had in mind. I still wanted to believe this was all temporary: a flight of fancy that would lead him to a safer career. Falling into the rhythm of things, I was, now that I knew Jesus wasn’t upset with me, beginning to enjoy the adventure. Had it not been for the nagging thought Cleopas planted in my head that Jesus was founding a new religion, I would have enjoyed this thoroughly. I had never been to Cana before. A feeling of expectation filled me as I gazed upon this town. Across a shallow valley, scattered on a hillside sat the white-washed village with flat, grass and thatch covered roofs, reminding me of my own humble town. Cana and Nazareth were about the same size and shared many similarities. One main road, which we traversed, intersected the town. A communal well, in its center, near the main road, supplemented what water was not taken from springs nearby. Cana, as Nazareth, was situated in Lower Galilee, and probably shared the contempt that big-city Judeans, Greeks, and Romans had for this province. Both towns, I judged from a distance, sat on the slope of a valley, looking out on the Plain of Esdraelon, whose long history Jesus taught me in his youth. All of the great battlefields identified with Israel’s struggles with Canaanites and Amorites, the stories of our ancestors—David and Solomon, as well as the ruins of Beth-shan, Tabor, Gilboa, and Megiddo that spread out on the plain, couldn’t compare with the thought of food, rest, and wine.

When we reached the center of town and Boaz and Ada’s house, there was a collective gasp. Their tiny house appeared to be the smallest in sight. Like all Galilean abodes it was timeworn and ugly. There were chickens running in and out of an open door. An old woman sat on a bench, staring dully into space. A dog ran up to us that moment, yapping crazily, causing Mama’s mule to spook, as he nipped at its hooves.

“Away, you foul beast!” Andrew shouted.

Simon and I hopped off immediately and helped Mama off her mule. Andrew and Philip also dismounted to lend us a hand. Mama was in bad shape. Stunned by their disappointment after Andrew’s find words, the remainder of my family remained on their beasts, dismounting reluctantly in front of the small house.

“Is this it?” Mama rasped. “Papa said they had a fine house.”

“Where are we, Andrew?” roared James. “Surely there must be a mistake?”

“You’ve never been here before, have you?” Joseph looked at her accusingly.

“No,” she shrugged. “can’t say that I have.”

“We haven’t either.” Andrew motioned to Philip. “Jesus gave us the directions…This can’t be right.”

“This house is much too small for a wedding,” agreed Philip. “You’re right, Andrew; this has to be mistake.”

“I’ll go talk to the owner,” James offered glumly. “Maybe Jesus got it wrong.”

“Jesus doesn’t make mistakes,” Joseph reminded him mockingly. He is without sin!”

It was the purest sarcasm. How very true it was weighed heavily upon me as I kept my silence. I should have been defending Jesus’ good name. It had been me who accompanied him to the River Jordan and heard John identify as the Lamb of God. I would not admit it to myself, but I knew who he was, at least part of his identify. At that point in my path, I wasn’t yet a follower, let alone a disciple. The word Lamb of God, which John the Baptist called him, was unclear to me. Perhaps, considering what I know now, I wanted it to remain unclear. What I did understand was that he came as a teacher, preacher, or prophet, perhaps all three wrapped into one. Andrew and Philip were greatly taken with my oldest brother. Jesus had impressed them and the other four men enough that they chose to follow him.

Joseph, Simon, and I accompanied James up to the house. As we approached the door, I looked over at the old lady sitting nearby. Her sightless pupils told me she was blind. I pitied the old woman, wondering if she was a relative too. Her warty, unkempt appearance caused us to pause in front of the door.

“Do you live here?” James asked with a snarl.

There was no response. The woman didn’t even blink. Shuddering at her sightless eyes, gaping mouth, and emaciated frame, James knocked on the door a few times. In less than a moment a graybeard appeared in simple homespun tunic and knee length pants, nothing like the host our family imagined.
“Peace be upon your house,” James said with a bow.

“Who are you?” the old man growled. “What are those people doing in front of my house?”

“Grandfather,” a lilting voice echoed in the house, “I told you not to answer the door.”

Startled by the first reaction, my brothers and I were intrigued with that musical voice. Soon, a young woman, about Abigail and Martha’s age, appeared at the door. Unlike Mama and the twins, whose head was covered, her long chestnut colored hair hung wildly around her oval face. Two emerald green eyes appraised the young men standing on her porch.

Discarding the traditional greeting this time, James came straight to the point. “We have come from Capernaum to attend the wedding of Boaz and Ada.”

“He-he,” she tittered, “I’m Ada. Papa will back shortly. Boaz and I will be married in Rabbi Jethro’s house. Jethro is Boaz’s father.” “Come,” she beaconed with her small hand, “I shall lead you.”

“We have mules,” James sighed wearily. “Where shall we take them?”

“Jethro lives at the end of town,” she explained airily. “He has a stable for horses and cows and a big estate. Come-come. I will introduce you to the rabbi and his son.”

“I’m not getting back on that beast!” Mama groaned.

“Don’t worry, Mama,” I said taking her arm. “We’ll lead our mules through town.”

“A good idea,” Andrew said cheerily. “I was worried about this. They’re tired and hungry, just like us. We can water and feed them when we reach Jethro’s house. They’ll be as good as new when we return!”

******

After our initial disappointment, that Jethro’s estate was a definite improvement. It must have been the largest house in town. Andrew, always cheerful and easy-going, took over completely now. After announcing our presence to a servant, he scurried back with the servant, who shouted out directions for corralling our horses and mules. In a few moments, the servant promised, as we followed him back to the house, our animals would be fed and watered. We were just in time for the evening meal.

“What about Jesus?” Mama’s voice trailed out thinly. “Will he know where to find us?”

“Mama.” I gave her a gently squeeze, “Jesus knows everything!”

Joseph laughed derisively, but I was half-serious. James suggested to us that Jesus directions had not been infallible, which wasn’t true, since it was our custom for the bride’s parents to sponsor the wedding. We argued quietly about this as we waited for our hosts to appear in the atrium. It seemed rude that they kept us waiting. Stranger still, was Ada’s sudden flight back to her home. Mama was laid down on a couch in the garden that moment. A servant girl brought her water and a wet rag for her head, but no refreshments yet. Suddenly, from a hallway, Jethro, a portly man, dressed more like a rich Pharisee than a rabbi, appeared, casting a jaundiced eye upon us. Not far behind him, strutted his handsome son, clad in a toga in the Greek and Roman manner, his tanned face sporting a fashionably trimmed beard—all of which contrasted our Galilean garb.

“Peace upon your house,” Andrew mumbled.

Suspending with tradition as had the old man, Jethro blared to his chamberlain, “Introductions are in order. Who are these fine folks?”

Each of us stepping forward, as school children, except poor Mama, gave him our names. Andrew and Philip found the rabbi’s manners amusing, chortling amongst themselves. Mama was sound asleep on the garden bench. As a traveler, myself, I was used to eccentric people. Many of our neighbors in Nazareth were just as bad. Joseph, however, glared at the overbearing man. When it was his turn to offer his name, he added, under his breath, “These Canaanites are rude!” Obviously, he gave humble Cana more historical credit than it deserved, but I agreed with his sentiment. Rabbi Jethro was one of those kinds of rabbis that Jesus loathed. His Pharisaical dress and pompous manner sharply contrasted Eli, Nazareth’s congenial down-to-earth rabbi. He didn’t even bother introducing his son or himself, ushering us into his main hall where the festivities would be held, before offering us the amenities of travelers or at least letting us rest a spell. Mama, the one exception, slept on as we entered the hall. On the walls were tables, awaiting the items of the feast. In the center was a flower-lined trail leading to an arbor—a contraption I had seen in Roman and Greek weddings. In spite of his haughty mannerism, Jethro’s attendants had done an impressive job so far.

Finally, we were led by the chamberlain to another room, where a table was being set with fruit, cheese, bread, water, and wine. Basins and towels were brought out for us to wash ourselves, but, unlike Gentile households I had visited in my travels, there were no slaves or servants to assist us. We were obviously not honored guests. Mama was escorted into the room by Abigail and Martha in a drowsy state, muttering her discontent at being left on the bench. It seemed apparent by his grinning face and glassy eyes, that Boaz, who giggled at seeing Mama’s expression, was already tipsy.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Jesus and his men?” She yawned, a frown twitching on her face.

James and Joseph shook their heads vehemently.

“Humph!” Jethro pursed his lips. “Where is that fellow?”

“Back on the road,” Andrew confessed. “Bartholomew’s moving like a snail. The way Jesus is dawdling on the road, he’ll take forever. We might as will eat!”

Peering sleepy-eyed at us, she asked tactlessly, “What happened to that young girl—what was her name?”

“Ada,” Simon reached out and patted her wrist, “the bride.”

Having referred to Ada, the bride, she had obviously not paid attention earlier. The reaction surprised us greatly. Boaz, the prospective groom, was busily slurping down another mug of wine. Jethro looking up, while drumming his fingers on the table, muttered irritably, “Who knows? The little twit!”

“What?” Mama’s mouth dropped.

“That’s a dreadful thing to say about his daughter-in-law!” Martha whispered in my ear.

“Ada is with child,” blurted Boaz. “It’s either this or stoning.”

“This is outrageous!” muttered Abigail.

“Yes, indeed.” Boaz belched.

“So this is why this wedding is important to Jesus.” James looked around the table. “Like Mama, he’s always trying to save some stray!”

“Enough!” Andrew shouted. “Boaz is in his cups, but let’s remember our manners. Looking down at the rabbi, he quickly apologized (I assumed for James’ outburst), “We understand that custom in Galilee. The state of poor Ada is none of business.” “Who are we to judge?”

“My mistake.” Boaz stood up shakily. “It’s I who should apologize. I spoke out of turn. It’s true, James. Joram, a disciple of the Baptist, told us what happened at the River Jordan. When we heard Jesus name, we knew he was a kinsmen. Ada’s sickly father knew about the family of Joseph the Carpenter and his son.”

“Not son—sons!” spat James.

“Daughters too!” Martha announced indignantly.

“Oh yes, he-he.” He nodded, raising up his mug up. “You have quite a family. Ada’s father was a friend of Joseph’s. Before his illness, he had done business with him.”

“Those people are impoverished,” Mama frowned. “That must be the smallest house in town.”

“Abner has fallen on hard times,” Boaz looked abstractedly into his mug. “…He lost his leather shop. His only son was crucified in the rebellion, and Ada’s a mere child.”

“Why don’t you help him?” James asked bluntly. “In Nazareth, we chip in when someone is down and out—”

“James,” Andrew wrung his finger. “What did I say about manners.”

James was not completely correct. Many residents of Nazareth were tight-fisted, too. A thought came to me as I listened to Jethro argue this point. According to the rabbi, Ada’s father was a drunk, not really ill. When the marriage was official, he would make sure Ada’s grandfather and father continued to have food and shelter. As I listened to Jethro, I thought came to me. Abner was a common enough name, and yet it seemed somehow significant. With the memory the Lord had blessed me with, I recalled a man with that surname: Abner bar Simeon.

“Pardon me, Jethro,” I interrupted politely. “…Who was Abner’s father?”

“I don’t remember.” Jethro frowned. “That old man’s crazy. He babbles nonsense. Simon, I think that’s it.”

“No,… Simeon,” Boaz said, plopping down in his seat. “He’s nuts. That’s why Boaz’s a drunk!”

Recalling an incident Mama told us about a long time ago, I gasped. James, Joseph, Simon, Abigail, and Martha, who had ordinary memories, didn’t make the connection or had locked it away in their minds. Once, when our parents took the infant Jesus to the temple, a man named Simeon blessed the child. Though Luke, a disciple of Paul, would one day word it differently, I remember Mama quoting from memory those strange words.

“My eyes have seen your salvation, prepared for all people, a light to the Gentiles and glory to your people in Israel.”

The remainder of Simeon’s words, which even I didn’t know then, would have made the quotation even more confusing. (“This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.”) It was enough just to grapple with who the current Jesus was, let alone the one Peter would reveal one day. Mama didn’t appear to register recognition that moment. I would learn later that Simeon was supposed to, by his own words, die upon recognizing the Messiah. At that point, I wondered if it must be a different Simeon, who sired Abner, for Ada’s grandfather was quite alive. Looking over a Mama, I caught her attention. Her eyes, though droopy, locked on mine. Raising a finger to her mouth, during the discussion, she said silently to me, “Not now Jude. This is not the time!”

******

We had waited long enough for Jesus and his disciples to arrive. A brief prayer by our host, followed by the Shema, signaled it was time to eat. Our host, if that’s what he was, had turned up his lip upon seeing us and looked on with disapproval as we gobbled down, with gusto, our meal. After our feast, in which I followed Boaz example and I drank too much wine, we followed Jethro and his son out into the garden. The wine loosed my tongue, as it had Boaz, so I chatted with Simon, as we trailed the others. On top of my recollection of the story of the temple blessing, another story Mama told us popped into my head. Papa was especially alarmed by this indiscretion.

“Simon,” I sputtered in his ear. “Remember what Mama told us about her pregnancy?”

“I try not to,” Simon murmured. “Your comparing Ada to her?”

“Yes,” I nodded setting down my mug. “There was a big difference, of course, but they wanted to stone her too.”

“I don’t want to hear this.” Simon looked at me in horror.

“Don’t you see the connection.” I elbowed him. “That fellow Simeon, the man who blessed Jesus and Mama’s pregnancy. What a coincidence—”

“La-la-la-la-la-la!” Simon droned, plugging his fingers in his ears.

Fortunately for us, Jethro was showing everyone the fountain he purchased recently in Jerusalem: a gaudy, overly, ornate menagerie of fish, foul, and beasts encircling a spigot shaped like hands.

“It symbolizes creation,” he was explaining, “the first days of our world.”

“It looks blasphemous,” Joseph grumbled. “It’s much too busy!”

“Ah but there’s no men or women.” Jethro pointed out amiably. “It’s merely a fountain. What is the harm?”

“That looks like a pagan idol,” Joseph was more specific. “Pagan gods are often animals, even birds. The Egyptian worship bugs.”

James studied it a moment. “Joseph is right. Flowers and trees, perhaps” “Not this.” He made a face. “Doesn’t this offend your guests?”

“My guests love it,” snapped Jethro. “One of our town elders has an elephant spewing water from its trunk. There are no naked water nymphs or sprites in my garden. You have no eye for art!”

“Well, it’s obscene,” Mama replied testily “…Ada, Abner, and Simeon should be here.

Jesus won’t approve of this at all.”

“Good!” Boaz nodded, grinning with mirth. “Thanks to Joram, whom you’ll meet tonight, the people of Cana know Jesus’ name. Joram, carries much weight in our town. He believes, like the Baptist, that Jesus is a great prophet and the kingdom of God is near. No one dare trifle with Ada with Jesus in town.”

“Bah!” Jethro made a face. “That isn’t in the Torah. Has John bewitched this town?”

Boaz was not as tipsy as he had seemed. He left out John calling Jesus the Lamb of God, which he probably didn’t understand, but had gotten part of John’s message right. Jethro resented the predicament his son placed him with Ada, but his actions belied his words. As we strolled in Jethro’s garden, Boaz told us his father was fearful for Ada and his son. Having learned Jesus was in Capernaum, Jethro had sent word to Jesus, inviting him to the wedding.

Mama thought a moment. “…So the townsmen know about Ada’s pregnancy?”

“I’m not sure.” Boaz looked around the room for more wine. “No one’s said anything yet…It’s the looks they give us.”

“I don’t understand why you need Jesus.” She shook her head.

“I don’t either,” Andrew stepped forward. “What do you think he is?”

“We heard a story,” explained Jethro reluctantly. “It flies in the face of everything I believe. Simeon, Ada’s grandfather, told me that he had seen Israel’s Deliverer. Of course, I didn’t believe it. Unfortunately for Simeon, Israel wasn’t delivered from the Romans. Nothing came of his vision. Nevertheless, he told me that when he met Jesus one day, he would find peace. I tried talking him out of this nonsense, but he grew restless during his wait. He began drinking. Instead of him dying, his son and his wife, and his own beloved Mora died, leaving him to raise Ada alone. Ada is a wild flighty thing. I have no idea how old that man is or how he held onto life after drinking so much wine, but he’s still waiting, mad as a bat. Boaz took a fancy to her,” “and here we are!” He spread his palms.

Mama had a troubled look on her face.

“Sir,” I interrupted his thoughts…That still doesn’t our question. Why do you need Jesus? You obviously don’t believe that story. Your son told us it was you who invited Jesus to the wedding. Do you think Jesus will place a spell over the town and make them to protect Ada and make them forget what they know. Is that what you believe?”

“That’s not all Simeon told us,” Boaz cut in. “My father, for all his skepticism, once looked up to Simeon. Simeon was never rich, but he was an important elder, a man people respected, until he began to doubt matters. One day his son Ephraim visited Nazareth to pick up several pieces of furniture from Joseph bar Jacob,” “your father and your husband,” he added, looking at each of us.”

“Ephraim was my childhood friend,” Jethro sighed. “His death was a great blow to me. Before he died, however, he told something even more extraordinary than what his father said…. He heard from a neighbor of Joseph’s, while loading up his cart, about miracles Jesus had performed as a child: curing a dead bird, quieting a storm at sea, and raising a Pharisee’s son—that sort of thing. It sounded so preposterous to my son and I we laughed aloud. Ephraim agreed that it was hard to believe. When Simeon heard of this, however, he was jubilant. ‘Surely,’ he told us, ‘this must be the Anointed One sent by God.’ ‘…. Nothing came of it,” Ephraim admitted sadly. Despite his father’s faith, he, like myself, believed the age of miracles died with Elijah. Simeon, who outlived his son, heard nothing more of the child he once blessed. His drinking worsened as he waited for the Promised One to show himself. It almost seemed as if the Lord was keeping him alive for that day.”

“Miracles, who can say?” Boaz stared into space. “And yet there have been other reports we’ve heard about this man. Was this all idle gossip? Why would intelligent men make us such tales? The story Ephraim related to us about Jesus visit to the temple as a child was the hardest for my father to believe, but the one that gave him pause.”

“Yes.” Jethro’s eyes widened. “At the very least, this Jesus is persuasive; if not as a child, as a man.” “He has,” he searched for words, “…. power. What happened at the River Jordan a while back is proof of this. According to Joram, our kinsmen, a disciple of John the Baptist, John called this man the Lamb of God. I shudder to think what that means. I think men like John are dangerous for our religion, and yet I know he has influence. Joram told us that John, who believes Jesus is the Promised One, turned his leadership over to him. Now Jesus has followers, men like Andrew and Philip, who’ve become his disciples… For a man like John to pass his staff to Jesus is important.” “…. So you must understand,” he added, looking at Mama, “when we heard about your son from our trusted kinsmen, we sent word immediately. Our wedding in Cana must not be marred by hecklers. Worse, Ada, Ephraim’s daughter, won’t be stoned before it even occurs.”

Mama folded her arms. “You expect too much from my son. If you don’t believe in miracles, Jethro, what sort of power do you think he has.”

“I don’t know,” admitted Jethro. “I base my hopes on what I’ve heard. Boaz has convinced me to give it a try.”

“Give it a try?” Joseph sneered. “And what if a gang of Canaanites charge into the ceremony.”

“We’re not called Canaanites,” Jethro snapped indignantly. “Canaanites were pagans—idol worshippers. We’re Galileans, like yourselves. I’m at my wits end trying to make the best of this. I don’t blame silly Ada, as you might suspect. My son has disgraced his family by deflowering the daughter of my best friend. There was a day in our history when they’d both be stoned, but Boaz is the rabbi’s son. Simeon is now considered by the townsmen to be a crazy recluse and his granddaughter’s an addled-brained twit. What is stopping townsfolk from pulling her out of the room and stoning her to death?”

“You think Jesus can stop that?” James scowled.

Andrew exhaled wearily. “Now Jethro, you’re making this sound more dangerous than it really is. Ada’s not showing that much. How does anyone know?”

“Look more closely,” spat Boaz. “The women can tell.”

“Please, everyone,” Jethro wrung his hands. “Don’t worry. I have everything planned: the enclosed wedding, the getaway to through the back of town, and a new life in an unnamed town—”

“Jesus should be listening to this,” observed Philip. “He never said anything about Ada’s pregnancy—just that there’s a wedding. You should’ve warned him. He might never have come.

Oh, Jesus knows, I told myself, glancing at Mama and my siblings…. You all do. He wouldn’t be coming at all unless it was important. After his grand entrance, he’ll be expected to make everything right. Though tempted to utter these words, they never left my mouth. What good what it do? Jesus would be here soon enough. What struck me as so ironic now was the mindset of the rabbi and his son. Unlike my family, who knew better, neither of them could accept Simeon or Ephraim’s stories. It was if they thought Jesus had some sort of magical power. I was still not convinced this would turn out will when he finally appeared at Rabbi Jethro’s door.

******

Evening fell and Jesus and his disciples had not yet appeared. Mama was getting worried. The remainder of us were irritated at this delay. Then, as if he had just had a nice long walk, Jesus and his companions finally arrived at Jethro’s door, dusty and travel-worn. With the exception of poor Bartholomew, they were none the worse. Jesus, in fact, was laughing at something someone had just said.

“That was a good one, Peter,” he slapped the fisherman’s back. “Why are fish so smart? Ho-ho, they swim in schools!”

“Well, I’m glad you’re are having fun!” Mama muttered, hugging her son. “Where’ve you been, Jesus? Why did you bring that man? Don’t you remember who he is?”

“Shush,” I heard him murmur, “that’s in the past. He’s Bartholomew now!”

“Introductions are in order,” Jethro called, as his chamberlain ushered them in.

Jesus and his disciples were even grimier than us when we arrived. Bartholomew, who was in worse shape than Mama had been, was practically carried into the house. After Jesus introduced each of his disciples, Jethro identified himself and his son, something he hadn’t done for our group. After our discussion about Jesus’ powers, the rabbi and his son’s attitude had changed dramatically. With much greater respect than was shown to us, my brother and his disciples were ushered into the house and directed to the ‘cleaning room,’ so that they might be presentable. Jethro had his servants bring a fresh table of fruit, cheese, bread, and wine, as they cleaned themselves up. Because the dining table wasn’t large enough for all these guests, Andrew led the remainder of us out of the room. As we loitered in the garden, surfeited and feeling brushed aside, we could hear Jesus’ friendly banter with the host and other guests. Jesus, if not the Galilean bumpkins surrounding him, was an honored guest. From the moment he entered the house, Jethro and Boaz were in awe of him in spite of themselves.

Of course, we knew their attitude was self-serving. James, Joseph, Simon, Abigail, Martha, and I couldn’t help being resentful of the oldest brother. Instead of going with us in one mounted procession, he and his disciples had traveled on foot to Cana. His insistence on walking instead of riding struck us as stubborn, even eccentric, especially since he brought our old enemy Reuben (now called Bartholomew) along. Moreover, Jesus hadn’t warned us about the controversy surrounding the wedding and the fact that it might prove to be dangerous. Here we were in the home of this pompous, self-righteous rabbi, waiting for the wedding of his pampered son to his pregnant wife-to-be. Even Mama was having second thoughts now. We were irritated with her for insisting on this enterprise in the first place. This was all her idea, grumbled James and Joseph. We wouldn’t be here if weren’t for her.

At this point, her over-protective instincts for her son and apparent preference for him above her adopted children, seemed unconscionable, and yet knowing the circumstances of Jesus birth and childhood, we understood her frame of mind. In spite of the apparent implications of Jesus relationship to her and his purpose in the world, her maternal instincts overrode everything else. Her denial of the implications was a delusion we suffered ourselves. In the final analysis, therefore, we later agreed, Jesus had caused Mama’s actions. If it wasn’t for his transformation at the River Jordan, he would be home in the carpenter’s shop filling orders, not chasing a mad prophet’s dream.

******

The second dinner took much longer than the first. With Jesus present, the discussion was much louder and merrier. We could hear Jesus and his disciples laughing. Jethro and Boaz had probably told Jesus of the circumstances requiring the wedding. Why there would be laughter in there, we couldn’t imagine. There was nothing amusing about a forced wedding. How our parents had weathered such a crisis was not uttered; the situation, we never talked about (the virgin birth) wasn’t the same. Ida and her grandfather were not respectable citizens as Joseph and Mary had been in Nazareth. Jethro was afraid that many townsmen already knew. As we grumbled amongst ourselves about our dilemma, Mama once more napped on a garden bench. Andrew and Philip good-naturedly put a good face on our predicament by reminding us of the festivities ahead, but my brothers, sisters, and I remained uneasy. If the town elders learned of Ida’s pregnancy, what would happen? Stoning was the penalty of adultery. How could Jesus protect Boaz’ bride?

When the second party emerged from the dining hall, Jethro was, in James words, grinning like a jackal. Peter, John, and his brother James remained aloof from us, treating my family and I as outsiders. Bartholomew, we were told, was recuperating in a guest chamber, and Boaz, we learned later, was so thoroughly drunk, he was carried to his room. With only the rabbi in our midst, a more serious discussion ensued out of earshot of his son.

“As you can see, Jesus,” he said, his arm draped over his shoulder, “my son is a foolish young man. I beat him as a child and when that didn’t work locked him in his room without water or food. I tried reason, punishment, and reward, but nothing’s worked. Boaz can’t resist matters of the flesh. That sprite Ida bewitched him. Her grandfather’s a drunk. She’s had no supervision since her parents died.”

“She’s a child.” Jesus held up his hand for silence. “Boaz is more at fault. You, by your mischief, have set a poor example for your son.”

“What?” Jethro’s mouth dropped. “…Who told you that?”

Pointing toward the ceiling, Jesus replied quickly, “Him—the Most High…You’re supposed to be a man of God, and yet you know him not.”

“How dare you!” Jethro bristled. “I obey the commandments. I pray and observe the law. Since my wife died, I’ve had to raise that rascal on my own. What more can I do?”

Jesus raised his arms, exclaiming, “Sell this palace, move into an ordinary house, and give the money to the poor!”

Jesus’ disciples, Andrew and Philip included, were taken back. Awakened by his words, Mama sprang to her feet. My brothers, sisters, and I, who were seeing a different side of Jesus, were likewise startled by Jesus change of mood.

“Did you hear that?” John murmured to James. “He told him!”

“Ho-ho,” Peter laughed nervously, “he sure did.

“Jesus.” Mama reached out worriedly, “I never heard you like this. Calm down, child. This man is our host.”

“Mother,” Jesus spoke formally this time, “you should not have come here. Now that you and my family are here, you are witness to this day.” “Jethro.” He turned to the rabbi, who had been stricken speechless. “Where is the bride? Why isn’t she in your protection now. Do you want her to be stoned?”

“I-I was afraid to fetch her,” stammered Jethro. “I was waiting for you to arrive and save the day.”

“Ah hah!” Jesus challenged him. “Is this faith or desperation? You, Jethro, for all your sins, aren’t far from the kingdom.”

“What is he saying now?” Joseph frowned at James.

“Jesus,…you are talking strangely,” Mama wrung her hands.

Mama seemed clueless, but so were we. Looking back, I can scarcely believe how much in denial we were. Here he was practically admitting who he was, and we recoiled from the thought. Now that I think about it, it almost seems as if the rabbi was, as Jesus saw, closer to the truth than we. At least, he was acting on what he was told. Jethro was driven by desperation, though, not a leap of faith: the same force that often drives men to belief. That day, as I listened, I felt a familiar prickling at the back of my neck…. My own journey to the Kingdom had begun.

Jesus’ blue eyes had flared up, as they often did when he was angry or excited, but then he smiled amiably at our host, saying in a calm voice, “I will go a fetch Ida and her grandfather. Your home is her sanctuary, Jethro. Simeon is an old man, who needs rest. You must welcome them in your house…. For this, your household is blessed. You will be witness to this.”

“What does he mean witness?” Abigail muttered. “Why is Jesus talking like that?”

“He’s mad!” Joseph said irreverently. “We should pack up and go home!”

“It’s too late,” James shook his head. “We can’t leave now.”

“Who will go with me?” Jesus looked around the group.

“I’ll go with you!” Peter stepped forth.

“And I,” his brother Andrew cried.

“Me too,” I found myself saying.

“Oh dear me,” Mama groaned.

As it turned out, everyone except the ailing Bartholomew accompanied Jesus to Simeon’s house. The procession from the rabbi’s estate at the end of town to the center of Cana was uneventful until we arrived at Simeon’s door. At that point, a group of hecklers suddenly appeared. They were young men which Jethro identified as sons of Pharisees and elders.

“They must be friends of Ida,” he said with a snarl.

“Is that bad?” Andrew gave him a worried look.

“Indeed.” Jethro stroked his beard. “Religious law and public morals are not the only cause of stoning. Jealousy is a reason too.”

Mama was appalled. “Are you saying that Ida has had relations with those men?”

“Quite possibly,” replied the rabbi, shrugging his shoulders. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“You don’t know that,” scolded Jesus. “Rumors are like weeds, Jethro. Fertilized by hate, they grow into slander, so that innocent people are persecuted and killed.”

Knocking on the door, inclining his head to hear commotion inside, Jesus called out, “Simeon, it’s me, Jesus, son of Joseph and Mary. Open the door!”

Abigail gave Martha a blank look. “Aren’t we here for Ida?”

“Hush!” Martha whispered.

“Simeon! Simeon!” Jesus shouted.

“Jesus,” Jethro objected, “that man is insane.”

“Not so,” Jesus replied, rapping more vigorously on the door. “Like muddy water, his mind is muddled, needing but a stir.”

“Such colorful speech,” marveled Mama. “What does that mean?”

Cupping her ear, I whispered, “When he sees Jesus, his mind will clear. This is Simeon, the Seer at the temple—”

“Oh my goodness!” Mama gasped.

Suddenly, the door opened. Ida poked her head out, blinking at the sunlight. In the background her grandfather was grumbling to himself. Having been silent in the background, the young men surged forward, one of them calling out, “Send her out so that we may stone her!”

“What do you want?” she asked fearfully.

“Woman, let us in,” Jesus directed sternly.

“Yes, you silly girl,” Jethro screamed, “before its too late!”

As we filed in, I wondered if Jethro might be exaggerating the threat. Then, as we crowded into the small outer room, several voices rang out, some deeper and more mature, calling for Simeon to send his adulterous daughter out. Glancing out the small window, I could see that older men, probably town elders, had been attracted by the commotion. In their midst there was, judging by his headdress and phylacteries, a Pharisee too. I immediately told the others of my discovery. As Jesus disappeared into a second room to find Simeon, everyone else took turns verifying this for themselves.

“What’s wrong with these people?” Andrew turned to Peter. “It takes witnesses to bring a charge of adultery. Has she already been judged?”

Emerging that moment with Simeon in tow, Jesus exclaimed, “Judge and ye shall be judged!”

Knowing this was aimed at him too, Jethro nodded contritely, wringing his hands. “Those are fine words,” his voice shook, “but that’s a gang out there. There are important men in that bunch. When they see their rabbi in your company, they’ll have questions. ‘Why would he harbor a harlot?’ They’ll ask themselves. ‘Where are they taking Ida? Will they spirit her out of town?’ I know how these men think? They might just stone us!”

“In the first place,” argued Jesus, “Ida’s not a harlot. She has a weak well, but she doesn’t sell herself. As for them stoning us, you have little faith if you believe that!”

“Jesus.” Jethro fluttered his hands. “There’s something you must understand…. It’s not merely Ida they’d like to stone. It’s also Simeon. For many of the Pharisees and elders, it’s a matter of law and decency, but for some of them both Simeon and his granddaughter’s behavior smacks of sorcery.”

“Now he tells us,” groaned James.

“Explain!” Peter growled.

“Yes,” Philip gripped his arm, “is that a mere rumor? Who told you such a thing?

Jethro thought a moment. “Things have happened… People have reported strange noises from their house and a smell of brimstone. A black cat kept by Simeon passed in front of the town baker, causing him to drop dead. One day boys threw dung their house, and one of them later choked on a pear—”

“Enough!” Jesus cried. “That’s superstition, holdovers from Canaanite witchcraft. You can’t possibly believe that, Jethro. Aren’t you a man of God?”

“Maybe I don’t believe it.” The rabbi mopped his brow. “But many folks do. “And now this.” He pointed accusingly at Ida. “I’ll be accused of sheltering the town whore. This will be my downfall. At the very least, I’ll be tainted by that association. My son will become a fugitive because of this marriage.”

Wringing his finger vigorously, Jesus rebuked him again. “Remove the timber from your own eye before you remove the mote in someone else’s eye!”

My family and I shook our heads in bewilderment. Jesus disciples shook their heads in dismay. Jethro and his son just stood there looking at him in disbelief. One day I would hear those words from Jesus’ mouth against Pharisees and scribes, but for now they sounded inappropriate. I didn’t believe that Simeon was a sorcerer or that Ida was a witch, but it seemed obvious to me that Simeon’s daughter was at the very least a whore. To make matters worse, as we slinked out of the house, Simeon stared slack-jawed out at the crowd, as if bereft of his senses, and Ida was led along like a wild thing.

“There she is,” a woman’s voice rang out, “and there’s Simeon—her crazy grandfather.”

“Stone them! Stone them!” the crowd chanted.

“Uh oh,” Joseph muttered fearfully, “we’re in for it now!”

“Have you learned nothing?” Jesus looked back at his brother. “Where’s your faith?”

Looking out at the crowd, as we hovered fearfully behind, Jesus shouted in a loud, clarion voice, “Tell me, you self-righteous men and women, are there any among you that are sinless and haven’t made mistakes? Without trial or evidence, why do you judge Simeon and his granddaughter? Only God can judge. Step forward, perfect souls, and my Father will bless you or curse you for lying.” “Which is it,” he asked glancing up to the heavens. “Who dares test God?”

For a moment, after such stirring words, the crowd looked up expectantly, murmuring amongst themselves, as if a bolt of lightning might strike them dead. Jesus’ disciples, my family, and I, and Boaz and his son were also speechless, except Mama who mumbled foolishly, “Such strange words…What does this mean?”

The crowd began dispersing into the shadows of buildings, reminding me of jackals frightened away by a roaring lion. I had never seen this side of my brother. Watching him lead us back through town, I felt a revitalized respect for him and a guarded pride, that depended on just how all this might turn out. I still wasn’t completely sure the crowd wouldn’t ambush us at one point along the way or that the wedding itself wouldn’t be interrupted by the mob.

******

Looking askance at hostile eyes peering from windows and doorways, our procession wound through the town, Jesus chatting with us as if we on evening stroll. Jethro was listening, to him compare the law with the spirit of the word, concepts he had explained to his family before, which Jethro accepted with little comment. This evening, he had seen for himself Jesus’ power. The sun was setting over Cana as we entered Jethro’s estate. Humbled or fearful by the events of today, the rabbi was now an excellent host. Though he must have found Simeon and Ida’s presence polluting to his house, he went out of his way to show them common hospitality, which included providing them with new garments to replace their soiled clothing. Why Boaz, a spoiled rich man’s son, would associate with such a ragamuffin had befuddled us, until, at dinner, when we all congregated on cushions and fine rugs—Roman fashion because of the lack of space at the table, Ida appeared in a silken dress and veil. We could scarcely believe our eyes. Ida, we noted, had Greek features: golden hair and green eyes. The servants had reddened her full lips and painted her nails red (truly like a harlot James quipped), probably, we agreed, the most beautiful women in this town. And Simeon, though silent and stone-faced, had been dressed in one of Jethro’s evening garbs, his knotted hair and scraggly beard combed out and perfumed like a Syrian merchant. For Mama, Ida and Simeon’s appearance made them look like Gentiles, but it was a vast improvement on what we saw before.

At one rare point, when Jesus was not surrounded by chattering disciples or family members worried about what came next, I said to him discreetly, “Did Simeon recognize you, Jesus? He still seems addled in the head.”

“Simon and I will have a long talk after dinner. It has been a long journey for him. Tonight he will find peace.”

“Does that mean Simon’s going to die?” I blurted artlessly. “When our parents brought you to the temple, he said he would live to see the Promised One of Israel….Is that who you are?”

Evading answering my last question, Jesus whispered in my ear, “Simeon didn’t say he would die that moment. He said, ‘God may dismiss him in peace.’ Unfortunately, Jude, Simeon didn’t find peace—not in his old age. He waited the remainder of his life expecting the Deliverer to come. His patience waned. His fortunes likewise diminished. He lost his son and Ida’s mother, and, when his wife died, too, he was left to take care of Ida by himself. When doubts and frustration set in, eating at his soul, he turned to drink, practically leaving Ida to raise herself.” “Don’t speak of this again,” he chided gently. “Mama’s buried these memories and is in denial. As to who I am, you’ve been in denial too. Promise me you’ll keep these thoughts to yourself. You needn’t worry about Simeon, Jude. He will find peace…. All of you will find peace. Peace doesn’t mean death.”

I had interpreted the words spoken by Simeon incorrectly. It had made sense to me, considering his physical state, that Simeon was close to death. Hence comes the word peace, which often means death in the Torah. Yet I was wrong; Jesus interpreted that portion of Simeon’ prophecy in a different light. The entire prophecy was spoken to our mother. If Simeon’s fate was misinterpreted, what about her portion of the prophecy, which ends on such a dire note? Flashing into my mind again, Simeon’s words, as told to me by our parents, filled me with dread:

“My eyes have seen your salvation, prepared in the sight of all nations: a light for the Gentiles and glory of Israel. Your child is destined to cause the rise and fall of many in Israel. He will be opposed and spoken against. So that many hearts will be revealed, a sword shall pierce your soul!”

What exactly did that mean, I wondered now. I could understand why Mama was in denial. This portion of Simeon’s prophecy I dare not consider. Simeon hadn’t called Jesus the Deliverer; the Baptist used that word. Simeon called him a light to Israel and the Gentiles. And yet the Deliverer can be symbolized by light. If the temple blessing, the Baptist’s declaration, and Jesus own words meant anything, Simeon’s prophecy about the Promised One seemed in force—today this very hour. It was perfectly obvious that Jesus was that man. A half wit fool could see that. My mind reeled with the implications. Jesus had made me promise to keep this to myself. Even then, as mind boggling as it was to me, I didn’t have the full picture in my mind. Was the Promised One a great prophet or teacher? Just who this man? It was, as Paul would write later, ‘through glass darkly’—just enough of the puzzle to sense an awesome future for Jesus, my brother.

******

Up until the day of the wedding, only two days hence, we felt like prisoners in Jethro’s estate. Jesus’ words had frightened away the mob in front of Simeon’s house. Now, having assured Jethro of Jesus’ power, with the exception of occasional hecklers and the splatter of sheep dung on the rabbi’s door, it appeared to us that Jesus’ presence did, in fact, keep us safe. Simeon’s decrepit and emaciated condition could not have changed in such a short span of time, and yet there was light in his once vacant eyes and a spring in his once shuffling step. Jesus quietly talked to him several times. After each session, the old man’s attitude continued to improve, until, on the morning of the wedding day, he was, Ida declared, his old self again.

I’m certain that Jesus swore him to secrecy, as he had me. I sensed, after watching Jesus chat discreetly with him, that Simeon knew more than me. Simeon was filled with illumination, a lamp whose light grew progressively with Jesus’ friendship, but he made no announcements as he had at the temple nor did he refer to that day. It appeared as if Jesus was going to be a great prophet in Israel. That was a big enough secret for me.

Because Jethro was a corpulent man, it was Boaz’s wardrobe that was used by the men in our company, whereas Mama and the girls would wear the gowns of Jethro’s deceased wife. All of these outfits, Jesus warned us, were on loan and must be returned after the wedding night. Like my brothers, I felt like a Syrian whore. The ancient Jewish wedding was conducted in Jethro’s expansive garden. I recalled a wedding in my youth and found many discrepancies (not that it really mattered). The wedding I recalled was a festive affair, with a happy groom and bride, whereas Boaz and Ida’s wedding was conducted under duress before a skeptical audience in spite of Jesus’ charm. Below an arbor of white washed myrtle, the couple stood before the grim-faced rabbi, Boaz looking glumly at his sandals, Ida giggling foolishly as she glanced around the room. Only Jesus was smiling during the ceremony. At the wedding in Nazareth, the groom had led a merry group of friends to the arbor, shouting ‘Behold, the bridegroom comes.’ Someone blew the shofar, the ancient ram’s horn of the shepherd, and the wedding guests procession would travel to the bride’s house. Here we were in the groom’s house. There had been no shofar sounding or procession, as there had been in Nazareth. The wedding at Cana was a hastily conducted ceremony, shocking everyone present, especially Mama, though my parents’ wedding must also have been hastily performed. After the procession to Jethro’s house, the ceremony barely resembled the traditional Jewish wedding. A few words from Rabbi Jethro, mumbled too faint to even hear, were supposed to be followed by the couple saying a blessing over a cup of wine, making their wedding vows, and the groom crushing the cup under his heal. What happened, however, was Boaz repeating in rote the words provided by his father and Ida mumbling incoherently to herself. Unlike the wedding at Nazareth, this wedding had begun, as Andrew told Peter, on the wrong foot. One of the most important parts of the occasion, from the viewpoint of the guests, had been the wedding dinner, but here in Jethro’s house, it was a mediocre, poorly done affair. The banter and high spirits I recalled from Nazareth were replaced by gloom and reluctant resignation, radiating directly from the rabbi and married couple’s table. Everyone else, except Jesus and Mama, concentrated on eating and getting tipsy, as the night grew old.

During the dinner, however, something dreadful happened. As if Jethro hadn’t been humiliated enough by a forced marriage, anger of townsfolk, and specter of having Ida as his daughter-in-law, his feast turned out to be a failure. There was no entertainment as there had been in Nazareth, not even good conversation. It was actually a solemn and dreary affair. We were given the normal side dishes of lentils, cheeses, breads, and stews, but the lamb was undercooked, as were the fish. Instead of mounds of sweetmeats to gorge ourselves on, there were simply bowls of chopped fruit, mostly grapes. Fearful of disclosure, Jethro and been reluctant to dealing with the baker in town, and, after quitting his job, the cook left unqualified servants the task of preparing the feast. Both of these factors helped make the occasion turn out badly, as did the urgency in the planning, while the circumstances surrounding the event explained the abbreviated marriage rite and mood of the host. This we could tolerate, as long as there was plenty of side dishes and drink, but then, horrors of horrors, for poor Jethro ran out of wine. Evidently he had been fearful of dealing with the wine merchant too. He looked apoplectic, as if he might fall dead of a stroke. No one announced the loss. It became obvious when the pitchers went dry. This seemed like the final insult for the quests. Already the disciples were all in their cups, but not enough to suit Peter, James, and John. In the words of Uncle Joab: ‘The only thing worse than being sober man was being half drunk.’ Because of the knowledge Jesus said I must to keep to myself, I was in a strange mood, so I also drank heavily that night. Of course, as looked around the room at Jesus’ followers, I knew I was in good company. Jesus beamed tolerantly at the guests. It was, they didn’t fully comprehend yet, the last hour of innocence. I understood this more than the others, which made me want to drink that much more.

Though I hadn’t seen Mama drinking wine, herself, she was, with Jesus by her side, in a merry mood. When news of the discrepancy reached our corner of the room, she turned to her oldest son and said in a most cavalier fashion, “you know what to do.”

“What?” Jesus frowned.

I looked at her in disbelief, knowing full well what she meant. “Uh oh,” I gasped.

Pointing to a water pitcher for abstainers, she exclaimed, “Turn that water into wine!”

“Woman.” His eyes narrowed in rage. “It’s not my time!”

By making me promise to keep his secret, he had been telling me much the same thing. Now Mama was forcing his hand. His hour had come.

“Jethro!” she called across the room.

“Mama, no!” my voice creaked.

“Over here.” She waved at Boaz and his bride. “Where’s the host?”

Jesus stood up flabbergasted and panicked, gazing angrily down at her. “You’re going to make me do this, aren’t you?” he said, shaking his head.

“Uh huh.” She nodded.

Boaz, who had already been slightly tipsy before the ceremony, had a head start on the rest of us, managed a polite grin.

“Mistress Mary.” He bowed comically. “…How may I be of service?”

“Mother,” Jesus growled, “stop this at once!”

“Where is poor Jethro?” she persisted. “I can imagine how he must feel.”

“My father’s reputation is ruined,” Boaz spoke matter-of-factly, “all because of me.”

“Bring him here, so that Jesus will tell him what to do.”

My brother was in a quandary. He didn’t want his hand shown yet, and yet here he was challenged by his mother. Already the word had gone out. Everyone in the garden knew what was afoot. Though I laughed hysterically at his predicament, I felt sorry for him. Yet all I could do was giggle like a fool.

“What’s wrong, Jesus?” Peter called from his couch.

“He looks worried,” Joseph muttered aloud. “Let’s see his miraculous powers!”

“What’s wrong with Joseph?” I turned to Jesus. “Why does he doubt your power? “I believe you can do it,” I found myself saying. “You brought back to life a dead bird, healed the Pharisees son, and tamed a storm. This must be child’s play for you.”

“You too, Jude.” He sighed brokenly. “What’s the hurry? I’ve just begun.”

Something wondrous was about to happen. By the time Jethro arrived, his face purple, and breath ragged, he was in need of a miracle himself. The first thing that Jesus did was console him and calm him down.

“Jethro, listen to me.” He shook him sternly. “Tonight is going to change your life. Do you trust me? Will you do what I ask”

“Yes.” The rabbi bobbed his head.

“Then have your servants fill the empty jugs in the kitchen with water.”

Jethro made a face. “Why?”

“Do you have faith in me?” Jesus gripped his shoulder.

“…Yes,” the rabbi answered after a pause. “I’ll do as you say?”

After he waddled away, all eyes turned to Jesus. I had underestimated this event when I compared it to the sparrow, Pharisee’s son, or storm. This was happening in front of an audience of his disciples as well as his family. This event, recorded later by the Apostle John, leaves out some of the details I write down, but includes the basic facts of this event. Despite the discrepancies I saw in the wedding itself, I knew, even before the benefit of historical hindsight shaped my opinion, that this was a momentous occasion. It was the first recorded miracle performed by Jesus, with many people—guests and servants alike—as witnesses. Yet, for the first time I could remember, Jesus was thoroughly agitated. Everyone sat in the garden with bated breath. The air was thick with anticipation….And then, one of the servants ran into the room out of breath from his exertions, crying “He did! Jesus did it! The water became wine.”

A second servant arrived with the first pitcher. Boaz staggered over with his cup, ordered him to pour him a mug, and took a long slurp.

“Well,” Jethro said hoarsely, rubbing his hands, “how’s it taste?”

“Whoa!” Boaz let out a whoop. “Falernian—Rome’s finest.”

Ida batted her green eyes. “He saved the best wine until last!”

“No, silly” Boaz tapped her forehead. “You weren’t paying attention again. We ran out of wine!”

“It was water from the well,” explained the first servant.

“We have more than we’ll ever need!” The second servant beamed.

Gathering around Jesus, the miracle-worker, we were like children at a great spectacle, filled with awe and expectation. More pitchers filled with wine were brought into the dining area as the evening progressed, until the disciples were, in the words of Peter, properly drunk. The remainder of that evening, in fact, became a blur for me, until I was led by a servant to my pallet and passed out. My brothers and sisters, who had drunk less than the disciples or myself, would remind me of my foolishness in the coming days. But that night in Rabbi Jethro’s house would be remembered most as Jesus coming out—the day his first recorded miracle was performed and, in many ways, when his ministry began.

Chapter Four

Jesus’ Ministry Begins

I had been there at the very beginning, when Jesus was called by John the Baptist. I heard John introduce him to his disciples, witnessed him baptize Jesus and turn over his chief disciples to him. Then I watched Jesus walk into the wilderness of Judea in which he was tempted by Satan and tested by God. That day in Cana, when Jesus took me into his confidence, implying that he would become much more than a teacher or roving preacher, I became convinced finally of what I must do. Peter, Andrew, Philip, John, James, and Bartholomew were chosen to follow Jesus. Like it or not, regardless of my misgivings, I would follow him too.

I would, in fact, be the only one of Jesus’ brothers to join him on our trip. Despite the implications of that night, James was not quite ready to join. His studies with Nicodemus in Jerusalem, he explained sheepishly, were incomplete. Not only did he have an obligation to his benefactor Nicodemus, but he had found employment in the temple as a scribe. I, on the other hand, had no employment except assisting Simon in the shop. After our experience in Cana and Jesus miracle, being a disciple sounded like it might fun. Why not join up? I told myself. I nothing better to do. Though the Apostles would list me last among the disciples, I was, like it or not, one of them now. There was no turning back. In a short while, James would answer Jesus’ call, too.

When my family departed on the mules from Cana, Andrew and Philip stayed behind with us. Fortunately for James, who wanted to return to Jerusalem quickly, Ichabod, a merchant friend of Jethro, had business in the holy city and offered to lend him a horse. Though Nazareth was but a short distance from Cana, Mama, Joseph, Simon, and the twins were invited to ride along too. Only Jesus youngest brother had joined up. Disappointed that James, Joseph, and Simon wanted no part of it, he stood there with his disciples watching the procession ride out of town. I couldn’t blame our brothers for avoiding our trip, especially James, who had studied hard to become a scribe. I had been tempted for just a moment to join them, myself. Where we were heading only Jesus knew. I would have preferred riding on a horse or mule, but a sense of adventure filled me as we strolled down the road. Bartholomew’s slow gait and condition would decide our pace. For a long while I avoided talking to the old man. He had fled Nazareth to avoid being caught and crucified by the Romans; I had no intention of calling him out. He was Bartholomew the disciple now, not Reuben the bandit, so I would address him as such.

Falling back to the rear of the procession, I gave him a cheerful look. “So Bartholomew,” I drawled slyly, “you’re one of Jesus’ chosen now. Are you really up to this? My brother has big plans. There’s no telling where he might go.”

He looked at me wearily. “I know you recognize me, Jude,” he murmured. “It’s been a long time.”

“Who am I to judge you?” I bowed respectfully. “Jesus believes in you, Bartholomew. You’re a new man now—one of his disciples.”

“Yes, I suppose.” He paused to gather his breath. Leaning on his crooked cane, he mopped his brow with his sleeve, and bringing the water skin hanging from his shoulder up to his mouth, took a long swig. “Ah,” he said, wiping his mouth. “The question is, Jude, what are you?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted in an offhand manner. “I suppose I’m a disciple, too. After all, I’m our leader’s brother. After what Jesus did in Cana, I decided to tag along.” “Here I am!” I grinned cheerily.

“Bartholomew,” Jesus called through cupped hands, “are you all right?”

The old man replied in a croaking voice, “I’m fine. Just taking a breather.”

“He’s slowing us down,” John grumbled.

“Yes,” his brother James huffed. “He can’t possibly keep up.”

“Jesus,” Philip joined the conversation. “Bartholomew’s too old for this. “He’s sick and worn out. It’s going to kill him.”

“You underestimate our brother,” scolded Jesus. “The flesh is weak, but the spirit is willing.”

On a dark day, we would hear those words again. That moment, during that bright, sunny day, it was just one more strange thing Jesus said. At just that point, we stopped suddenly to refresh ourselves. I won’t say it was another miracle, but in a dry, treeless expanse of road, the water appeared to flow out of bare, jagged rock. Jesus, who seemed to have unlimited energy, gathered together his small flock and, standing on a small boulder, gave his first important speech, followed by a prayer, which my friend Luke recorded in his scroll.

“Children,” Jesus cried, raising his arms, “today you witnessed God’s wonders, but we have just begun. It won’t be an easy journey. Our circle will grow, and there’ll be more followers to spread the word. Unfortunately, you won’t see your loved ones for weeks at a time. It may too much to bear to leave them behind. From this day forward, the Spirit guides me I know not where, so if any of you have unfinished business at home, now’s the time to make a decision. Where my Father leads me is a crooked path filled with thorns and briars. You must, if you decide, forsake the past and look to the future. The soul of Israel sleeps and needs awakening. We must wake them up and bring a new religion upon the land…. Let us pray!”

This stunning announcement, spoken so calmly, left us speechless. Decrepit worn out Bartholomew, of all people, raised his hand. “Jesus,” he uttered in a gravelly voice, “teach us how to pray.”

A collective groan went up. We were tired and hungry. The thought of going to faraway Jerusalem so Jesus could preach filled us with dread. Many years ago, Jesus taught his brothers the way to pray, but he had not given us the words in the prayer.

Shutting his eyes, he lowered his head and clasped his hands together in prayer. “Follow my example, he directed. Here are the words: ‘Our Father, which art in heaven; hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.’”

“Did God tell you this?” Andrew blinked innocently.

“Yes.” Jesus smiled. “I’m guided by the Spirit.”

“The Spirit?” Andrew wrinkled his brow.

“You said God told you.” Peter also frowned. “What then is the Spirit?”

“Remember this,” Jesus held up three fingers, ticking them off one-by-one. “God sends the Spirit who fills us with the Word. Whereas the Law of Moses rules our bodies, the living Word, which you will bring men and women, shall live in their souls.”

This wasn’t enough for them. The disciples gave Jesus blank looks. “What is the Word?” Philip frowned. “How can it be alive? Speak plainly Jesus. We’re simple men.”

So these are your disciples! I thought, watching Jesus shake his head. I had heard him talk about these concepts, so they weren’t new to me. Even so, Jesus’ explanation sounded like common sense. Though John the Apostle, would one day devote an epistle to defining the Word, he, like the other disciples found Jesus discussion difficult to grasp. No one could have known that the Word was, in fact, the Son of God. At this stage in my spiritual development, this fact was even beyond me, but these fishermen seemed especially dense. What I found most galling that hour therefore was the depth of their ignorance. I would learn later that only John, among the fishermen, could read our sacred scrolls and write down his thoughts, and yet one day most of these men would record, through their own disciples, Jesus’ life and ministry on earth. At this stage in their spiritual development, such concepts as the Word were foreign to them. I shouldn’t have blamed them. Unlike James and Joseph, who knew better and were merely stubborn and close-minded, these men were uneducated. It wasn’t just the concept of the ‘Word,’ a difficult notion even for me. Peter and Andrew didn’t understand the ‘Spirit.’ Bartholomew didn’t even know how to pray. Though, I couldn’t fault their ignorance, Jesus’ selection of the fishermen mystified me. How could these fellows be of service to him? To spread his message why would he pick uneducated rustics? There were many educated men in Galilee and Judea, some of whom lived in his hometown. Why had he gone to Capernaum in the backwaters of Galilee to select these men? Despite the power I saw in Jesus, himself, this seemed like an inauspicious start.

It occurred to me, as we munched on the snacks Jethro provided for us, that Jesus hadn’t really asked me to come along. Perhaps, I reasoned as we continued on our way, I would simply be a follower like Cleopas and Matthias. These fellows weren’t rustic fisherman; they were educated men, like James and Joseph, worldly merchants and ‘part time disciples,’ who could come and go as they wished. That would be fine with me. Jesus inner circle, which he appeared to be building, seemed to be too restrictive. I liked my freedom. Though they hadn’t a clue as to why they were here, they followed him like sheep. In fact, later in Jesus’ mission, they would see him as a shepherd and hang on his every word. I had grown up with Jesus. He was my brother and friend. To have him lord it over me would be an intolerable state of affairs. And yet, if I tagged along, that is what he would do. He wanted full time disciples, men who would forsake their families and work to follow him.

There were moments when I regretted my decision to tag along. Had I been impulsive and foolish? I felt out of place in this unwashed group. They smelled of sweat garlic and wine. Though I was Jesus’ brother, most of them treated me as outsider. It even appeared that Andrew and Philip’s friendliness evaporated when we left Cana. No one else in my family had joined this trek. Why was I here? I, alone, represented Jesus’ family. I wouldn’t have expected Simon to leave the carpenter’s shop, but James and Joseph, had they not shied away, would have added sophistication to this band. They were like Cleopas, Matthias, and myself, at least educated. I would have someone to carry a decent conversation with, rather than the grunts and snarls I received from Jesus’ inner circle. Alas, James and Joseph, selfish and pigheaded as they were, had never been comfortable with Jesus’ thoughts.

To make me feel even more isolated, Jesus walked at the forefront of our procession chatting away with Andrew and Peter about his vision. I could scarcely here him at the back of the line. Because of Bartholomew’s infirmities, I was forced to trail behind the others, feeling obliged to assist him when he stumbled and paused for breath. Bartholomew was, in fact, the only member of our band, other than Jesus, himself, to pay attention to me. He was a completely different man than the Reuben, who once threatened my family. Time and circumstances had molded him. After discussing his reason for being here, I marveled at his naiveté. The fact that Jesus called his name as he slept under a tree struck him as a miracle. No one told Jesus, he claimed, and yet it was Philip, the old man’s friend, who led him to this old man. Couldn’t Philip have whispered his name to Jesus? I wouldn’t argue this point with him and question Jesus, but no one but Bartholomew saw this as a miracle that day. A miracle was bringing a dead bird back to life or quieting a storm. A miracle was turning water into wine. At any rate, it wasn’t a sound reason for Bartholomew join up. He was too old and infirmed to be a disciple. My doubts increased, as we fell back further and further. After listening to his account of this event, it was apparent that he had doubts too.

“Why would Jesus pick someone like me?” he asked, after reminiscing on the subject.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged my shoulders. “…. I’m just tagging along.”

Huffing and puffing, he held onto my arm, all the while tapping his cane on the gravel below. “Oh well,” he muttered, “I haven’t done anything important in my life. Jesus is a great teacher, perhaps a prophet—”

“Really” I looked over at him. “John the Baptist said he was the Lamb of God. He implied Jesus would take his place.”

“Jesus isn’t like John,” Bartholomew cackled. “He’s special. I heard about that John. Andrew and Philip were bewitched by him, not me. What kind’ve prophet would traipse around the desert eating grasshoppers and snails, huh? That man’s mad. I heard he’s been attacking Herod Antipas and his wife. How stupid is that? Andrew says John changed his message when Jesus came along. Jesus is the Promised One, he said, so he turned over his operation to him. Now John’s attacking Herod, the Tetrarch. That man’s a damn fool; that’s what he is…”

Bartholomew prattled on a moment, as old men do, about Herod divorcing his own wife to marry his brother’s spouse (the reason why John went on the attack), until losing his breath. Looking faint and red-faced then, he leaned heavily on me as if he would pass out.

“Hey,” I called to Jesus through cupped hands. “Bartholomew’s not well. What’s the hurry? Slow down!”

“That’s what I thought,” John said to Jesus. “Bartholomew’s not up to this. Let’s drop him off at the next town? We can pick up later when he’s rested up.”

“He’ll never be rested up,” his brother James grumbled. “He’s too old to travel.”

“What mission is this exactly?” I grew irritable. “The Baptist didn’t retire. He’s on a different subject now: the antics of Herod Antipas. What is this all about?”

Peter looked back with a frown. “Weren’t you paying attention, Jude? We follow Jesus now. We’re supposed to spread the word.”

“Oh yes, of course,” I said sarcastically. “Are we talking about words or the Word?”

That moment, Jesus took me to task. “Jude!” He beckoned, crooking his finger. “We need to talk.”

“Uh oh,” snickered Peter as I walked up to Jesus. “He’s in trouble now.”

Bartholomew sat down on a rock gasping, as Jesus led me a ways from the group.

“Jude,” Jesus scolded, “you’re hearts not into this. You have no respect for these men.”

“Me? I don’t have respect?” I looked at him in disbelief. “Your men treat me as if I have the plague. I am an outsider to them. How is it that you call them your brothers and slap their backs when you ignore me as if I’m not here.”

“Listen,” his voice softened, “I tried to explain this to Mama: I have a greater family now—the people I met in Capernaum—all of those who choose the Way.”

“The way?” I wrinkled my forehead. “What way, Jesus. I thought this was a mission. And what mission is this? You and John are great teachers, and yet John wears animal skins and preaches to rabble and you have these fishermen who haven’t a clue to who you are. I know, more than anybody except Mama, about your powers. I am your brother and friend, and yet I am excluded. You didn’t even invite me; I just decided to tag along.”

Looking over at Bartholomew, Jesus heaved a sigh. “Bartholomew insisted on coming with us, but John’s right. He’s too old and worn out for the trip to Jerusalem. At the next town, we’ll find him a mule cart to ride in. You can, if you wish, go home any time you wish.”

In the dusty heat of the Galilean desert it felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown in my face. Jesus wasn’t dismissing me; he was giving me the opportunity to back away. Immediately awakened from my surly mood, I stammered, “No…not at all. I’m sorry I doubted your mission or way… A mule cart is a good idea for Bartholomew. The poor man’s ready to drop.”

He studied my face. I’m certain he saw doubts lingering in my mind. “Jude,” he placed a hand on my shoulder, “you are a traveler. Already you’ve seen much in your short life. You don’t have to join my band, but if you do, you’ll see wonders beyond your greatest dreams.”

“What do you mean?” I caught my breath. “…. More miracles?”

“No,” he grew testy, “ not everything’s based upon miracles. I wish Mama hadn’t force my hand. The Word is far greater than slight of hand.” “For now.” He smiled wearily. “You have a good heart, Jude. You’re a good friend to our old enemy. You will watch over Bartholomew for me during our journey. I will need your help in getting James on board too. I was saddened that he decided not to join.”

Jesus had, I realized, officially acknowledged me as a disciple. “What about Joseph, Simon, Mama, and our sisters?” I asked light-headedly. “Are they joining up too?”

“No.” He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Just you two. Mama is one of us in spirit, but she’s not up to the journey. The others are not ready to give up their lives…. If you follow me on my travels, Jude, that is exactly what you must do.” “Do you understand that?” He gave my arm a squeeze.”

“Yes,” I mumbled with a nod, “…I do.”

******

Jesus knew my mind better than me. He knew I wasn’t sure, and yet he was giving me a chance. I had traveled throughout Rome’s eastern empire—its length (Galilee to Tyre) and breadth (Antioch to the border of Parthia). During this odyssey I had experienced many things, including capture and slavery by bandits but also travels with Elisha, a rich merchant, who introduced me to Saul, a young man, I would meet again one day as Paul of Tarsus. I had met and befriended Roman, Greek, Egyptian, and Syrian adventurers, and learned to shoot a bow and fight with a sword. Looking back now, I can appreciate some of my odyssey. It helped mold and make me who I am. When I began my journey with Jesus, however, these previous exploits, with the exception of Elisha, my benefactor, and my Roman, Greek, Egyptian, and Syrian friends, were spiced with dark, unsettling memories. The desert bandits had treated me cruelly. Had I not been considered a valuable commodity by the bandits, I would have been killed with some of my friends. In spite of my hardships and travail, however, my exploits and misadventures had conditioned me. Thanks to my Gentile friends, my benefactor Elisha, and my travels in the East, my mind was opened to different customs and thoughts, preparing me for the journey ahead.

I sensed, with mounting expectations, after the water-to-wine miracle in Cana, that this might be a great adventure, too. I just hoped it wouldn’t be dangerous. I had enough of that. My family and I were worried about Jesus safety as he traveled about. He had a way of speaking his mind. Would he begin challenging authority as John was doing against Herod? Would there be highwaymen lurking on the side of the road, as there had been on the way to the River Jordan? If we met such rogues would Jesus be able to beguile them again?… Just what did my brother have in mind?

Chapter Five

Jerusalem: The First Visit

On the way to the holy city, we stopped at a town for more supplies and find Bartholomew a mule cart to carry his weary bones. Part of his cart would be used for a portion of our food. The remainder was carried on the packs slung over our shoulders. Everyone also carried a skin of water, which we refilled whenever we were able. It took several days to reach our goal, during which Jesus expounded his views. He said nothing about the message he would give Galilee, Judea, and Perea, however; that would come later after he had trained his men. At this stage of our spiritual development, it was plain talk. Jesus wouldn’t begin serious preaching until we reached Jerusalem. Perhaps, this was because his disciples weren’t ready for such colorful speech. Or it might be that they were, at this stage, too dense to comprehend. For whatever reason, he treated us like children on a long, slow excursion, advising us on dealing with people, and pointing out the wonders of the creation whenever the mood came to him.

In the most casual, off-handed manner as we trekked south, Jesus told us what our destination would be. Though upset by the news, in fact speechless, none of us were surprised.

“My brothers and friends,” he counseled us, “you’ll meet all kinds of folks in Jerusalem, unlike your neighbors in Capernaum. Be humble and not puffed up with pride now that you’re God’s emissaries. Treat everyone as if he or she was a family member, even your friend. Judge no one by your own standards. If you’re not feeling well, be silent, at least smile. It takes so little effort to say a kind word or smile. Above all, my companions, treat each other as though he were your brother. Love him and respect him. Listen to him, as he should listen to you. You are the first souls to be hear the good news. You are my first congregation. Some things are difficult to understand; that doesn’t mean you won’t comprehend, if you but try. When I preach to you, unstop your ears, lighten your heart, and open your minds. You shall carry the seeds, which I shall plant, but for now listen and ask questions. If you don’t understand something, think about what you want to say. Don’t complain and whine about selfish matters. I know you’re tired and often hungry, but this journey will toughen you up. Look at our brother John in Judea, who wears animal skins and lives off the land. Don’t concern yourselves. I’ll take care of you. In this life, you’ll have everything you need…. It’s the next life that counts!”

John was the first disciple to address Jesus formally. Why he did so, remains a mystery. Perhaps, as Peter suggested, it was God Himself who whispered in his ear, but he set a precedent, which the others felt obliged to follow. For me, however, until he raised Lazarus from the dead, he would remain Jesus.

“Master,” John said reverently, “you speak the words of God; we know that. But what’s the message you’ll give? Is it what the Baptist preached to his disciples? Jerusalem is filled with priests, scribes, and rabble. What is our little band of men to that crowd?”

Jesus placed an arm on his shoulder, saying, “John, you call me master, and that’s correct. It’s like a master carpenter teaching an apprentice his craft. But I’ll teach you to mold men with words, not a knife or chisel. Don’t worry about our small number either. Our numbers will grow. For now, we are safe in God’s shadow. There’s much that we must do.”

“Jesus,” I piped. “John’s right to be worried. Our cousin shouts insults about Herod Antipas now. Already he has attacked Pharisees and called them names. Will you challenge the priests and scribes, Jesus. Is that your plan?”

“Fear not Jude!” Jesus slapped my back affectionately. “I come to set matters straight; nothing less, nothing more. Ho-ho, if any of my men are afraid of controversy, they shouldn’t come!”

Though his tone was jovial, we knew Jesus was quite serious. This wasn’t going to be like John’s mission, where a bunch of hangers-on stand around to see what the Baptist does next. Nor would Jesus be stationary as our cousin, who remained in Judea, preaching and baptizing in the River Jordan. The questions in my mind and for the other men were, ‘Would Jesus stir things up like our cousin? Would he attack the established order as the Baptist was doing now, or would he stick to religious matters, now that John had introduced him to the world?’”

We were confused and worried by Jesus’ optimism and confidence. I heard the other men grumble amongst themselves, as Jesus paused talked to Bartholomew awhile. Now that he had his cart and mule, the old man was in good spirits. While the fishermen worried about the future, he and Jesus, out of earshot, had a nice, friendly chat. After only a few moments, I saw the old man beam. I hadn’t seen him smile very often. What were they talking about? I wondered. By the way he nodded and grinned as Jesus talked to him then heaved his shoulders in a sigh, it was as if he was mentally relieved. Distracted from my concern about our destination, I perked up my ears. I wanted to eavesdrop and find out what Jesus was saying. While I pondered what this meant, in an attempt to pick up snatches of their conversation, the discussion between the disciples sharply contrasted Jesus’ and Bartholomew’s mood. After hearing rumors of John the Baptist attacks against Herod, I couldn’t help sharing their concern, and yet I tried being positive. I owed Jesus that.

“Don’t worry men,” I interrupted cheerily, “I know my brother. He’s not a troublemaker. He’s a man of peace—a teacher or prophet. He isn’t like our cousin John.”

“Let’s hope so,” Andrew muttered anxiously. “Your cousin’s a fool. If Jesus carries on like that, he’ll get us all stoned!”

“Why’s he going to Jerusalem?” Philip shook his head in dismay. “Even John didn’t go there!”

“He’s going straight to the source,” explained Peter. “Jerusalem’s our sacred city. It’s where the temple is. And you’re wrong Jude. We heard Jesus criticize the temple and the priests. So far, he just hasn’t shown his hand. He keeps saying he’s listening to God. We know that our people need a spiritual awakening, but not there!”

“We’re not ready yet!” cried John. “As fishermen, we know how to test the waters. Jesus said he would make us fishers of men, but this isn’t how we fish. We throw out the net, wait a spell, then pull it in. We don’t dive in and flounder about.”

“Oh, he knows what he’s doing,” I defended him again. “My brother’s stubborn, but he’s not stupid. He has a message. It’s probably what John the Baptist preached before: ‘repent and be saved!’ Even as a youth in Nazareth, he had power over people. You heard him speak in Capernaum and Cana. He makes people feel good, not angry. He’s not like John!”

“That was in Capernaum, Cana, and Nazareth,” Peter was adamant. “It’s not quite the same in Jerusalem. That’s where the high priest and Sanhedrin live and where Pharisees and scribes thrive. There’s a big difference between stirring things up in a small town and preaching in the temple. I’ve being listening to Jesus, Jude. Don’t think for one moment that’s not what he has in mind.”

Despite my effort at being optimistic, I sensed that the fishermen were correct. Jesus had changed since our childhood and youth. Though a man of peace, as he fashioned himself, he would, when we arrived in Jerusalem, probably stir things up. Why else had he said, ‘If any of my men are afraid of controversy, they shouldn’t come?’”

As Jesus led his mule, the old man sat contentedly in his cart, listening to his counsel. In a hushed tone, Jesus continued chatting with Bartholomew, unaware or unconcerned of the mutiny brewing, ignoring the frowns and groans of his men. I was conflicted with doubt like the others; I just didn’t show it. Feeling self-conscious and sheepish, the fishermen competed with each other in sounding collected and pleasant.

“Bartholomew looks well,” Peter tried to be genial. “Did you cure him, like you did the bird or Pharisee’s son?”

“Yes, Jesus,” Andrew forced a laugh. “He’s smiling like a jackal. What did you do?”

Jesus raised an eyebrow and looked at them suspiciously. “…. It’s the cart and mule,” he replied finally. “We just had a nice talk.”

Andrew, Philip, and John’s brother James laughed nervously. John bowed like a sycophant, calling him master again, after adding his query about Bartholomew’s health. Jesus, however, ignored their attempts and took this opportunity to scold them for their lack of faith. It was quick and to the point: “What part of your discipleship, do you not understand? I asked you to trust me; that’s all you have to do right now. At the slightest point of discomfort or distress, you behave like children and want to call it quits!”

“No, no, master,” John wrung his hands, “that’s not true!”

“Yes, Jesus.” His brother James motioned to others. “We’re just men. You’re a great teacher, maybe a prophet.”

“Really?” He frowned. “Is that what you think I am?”

“Sure-sure.” Peter patted his shoulder. “You have great power, Jesus. Give us a chance. We’ll grow in spirit. It just takes time.”

“We don’t have that much time.” He looked around the group. “I will ask much of you—this you must understand. It’s too early for me to be defined. You will grow in spirit, but not immediately. One day soon, you’ll be sturdy saplings, able to withstand the wind and the storm. Each of you will one day grow like the myrtle in the desert, needing little, asking little of nature, trusting only in God.”

“So.” Peter stroked his beard. “God will protect us. You’ll protect us. That’s good enough for me.”

“Me too!” Andrew and Philip chimed.

******

With our water skins filled from the spring found by Jesus (another auspicious event, that seemed like a miracle), we followed after him. I returned to my place at the rear of the procession with Bartholomew and his cart. At first, as the mule paused to munch grass here and there and we fell back further from the group, I waited to question Bartholomew in order to make sure we weren’t overheard. Though he would still complain at times about the bumpiness of the road and have his aches and pains, I noted the change in Bartholomew’s attitude after Jesus’ chat. He had, until now, looked uncomfortable or unsuited in his new role as disciple. Perhaps due to his checkered past, he had been self-conscious as we moved about. Occasionally, I had caught him looking around at strangers as if he might somehow be recognized. He appeared devoted to Jesus, probably relieved, for in Jesus’ band he had found a refuge from his past. And yet, considering these possibilities, Bartholomew’s bandit days had happened long ago. Who could possibly have associated the old man with that rogue in his past?

Beginning that hour, on our way to Jerusalem, Bartholomew was in a jubilant mood as he chatted about his new mule and cart. I was growing impatient. The old man was being evasive, as if afraid to tell me what was said. Then suddenly, in answer to my unspoken question, the old man told me what they discussed. The first thing Jesus said to him seemed rather commonplace to me. He had said this so many times before. “Don’t be afraid and have faith,” Bartholomew related his first words. There was, in deed, a look of peace in his watery eyes. A smile played on his wrinkled face, as I questioned him, but I knew that wasn’t all. When I asked him what else Jesus had said to him, however, the old man looked at me slyly but said nothing more. For the longest time, in fact, he wasn’t forthcoming, extolling the qualities of his mule and his cart. For awhile, after I restated my question, Bartholomew, hummed and whistled to himself, as if he had lost his wits. Philip, Bartholomew’s friend, said he had always acted like this, so I wasn’t worried. Finally, at our next stop, he politely asked me to reach into his pack and fetch him some dried figs.

After I declined his offer to share his figs, I insisted with a flicker of irritation that he come clean. “Bartholomew!” I snapped my fingers. “Out with it. There’s more. What else did Jesus say?”

“It was simple,” he answered, looking up at the sky. “Jesus told me not to be afraid and have faith. his father has forgiven me for my past, and I should forgive myself!”

I gave him a doubtful look. “His father forgave you?… That’s a lot to forgive!”

“Yes,” Bartholomew exclaimed happily, “but I believe him! Jesus prayed for me. It was like a weight lifted from my soul!”

“Well,’ I replied with resignation. “If Jesus said it, it must be true! Jesus doesn’t lie.”

******

Bartholomew dosed much of the way after that, his chin bobbing on his chest. I tried keeping the old man alert, but it was a losing battle. The bumpy motion of the cart should have kept him awake, but he was worn out from the journey, so I kept hold of his reins. I attempted, when I could, to engage the other disciples in conversation with little success. Peter, James, and John resented me as if I was an intruder. They weren’t actually rude nor did they ignore me, at least not around Jesus. Instead they gave me curt replies, nods or grunts when I asked them questions or tried to make a point. Some of this could have been due to Jesus’ affection toward me. Because I was his brother, they expected him to show preferential treatment toward me. The positive attitude I tried showing Jesus in return might have made me look like a toady in their eyes. Of course, neither of these situations were true, but the concern among the fishermen about our trip to Jerusalem appeared to be exacerbated by my attempts at optimism, which made them look bad. Only John the Baptist’s onetime disciples, Andrew and Philip had been cordial, but now their attitude toward me also cooled. Andrew and Philip had heard the Baptist tell them, “I must decrease and he must increase.” They had seen the fulfillment of John’s mission. Not only had he turned them over to Jesus, he had, as I understood it, handed his ministry over to him, as well. And yet, they were also concerned with Jesus long range plans, and displayed annoyance at my positive attitude. Their views, I was certain, were influenced by what Peter said about me behind my back. James and John, I suspected, spoke despairingly about me too.

The temptation to leave this unwashed, uncouth bunch was strong as we approached our destination. I couldn’t understand why my brother picked these men. With the exception of Bartholomew and maybe Andrew, they were a sorry lot. I was, of course, not thinking clearly then, but this wasn’t what I had in mind when I followed Jesus. I pictured us wandering around the land, listening to Jesus say wondrous things, not going, as the other men saw it, ‘into the lions den.’ I didn’t want to disappoint Jesus or fail Mama, who wanted me to keep an eye on him, but I felt isolated and cast adrift. I was the only link from Jesus to his family. How could I reassure our mother unless I occasionally returned home? This seemed like sound logic. Perhaps, I reasoned, at certain points in our journey, Jesus would let me visit Nazareth to report our progress for his benefit as well as hers. But alas, I realized, as Jerusalem loomed in the horizon, it was too late…. If I had really wanted to sneak away, I should have done so in the last town. It was in Jerusalem that Jesus ministry really began. It would be, I would one day learn, where his ministry would also end.

******

I had forgotten how incredible our holy city was. Now, during the Passover, it was filled with pilgrims from the four corners of the empire. Balanced against my trepidation was this vision: the white gleaming edifice built by Herod the Great. A constant stream of the faithful were entering the city this moment through the main gate. A patchwork of drab rooftops above the walls and the smoke from ovens cooking the Passover feast contrasted the perfection of the temple. Alongside of the road were hundreds of tents pitched by pilgrims, unable or unwilling to find lodging inside. It was, Jesus admitted, actually a crowded and dirty city. No one was any safer from mischief or mayhem here than any other town. In its midst was the Antonia fort, where the procurator resided, an island in the middle of resentful and hostile forces. Jerusalem was, he informed us sadly, a city that murdered its prophets. It was no longer the city that David and Solomon built. Built by an evil king to bolster his legacy and make up for a reign of blood, it nevertheless symbolized our faith, a fact Jesus admitted begrudgingly—harsh words it seemed for a man of God.

We were not even through the main gate and Jesus had given his disciples a brief history of the city, from David’s conquest of the Jebusites until the current day. I believe he was, by his historical sketch and comments, trying to dispel our fears. I was surprised at what he said, but not disappointed. His despairing remarks about the temple and city shocked even the fishermen’s’ rustic minds. Because I had never been fond of the Sadducees and scribes, however, I felt a wicked delight at his disrespect. I was certain that the other disciples, who grinned with glee in spite of their astonishment, felt the same. Big city folk didn’t appeal to country bumpkins, no matter who they were. Of course, Jesus wasn’t really being blasphemous. He was, we all agreed, just being honest. After all, I reminded them out of earshot of Jesus, my brother couldn’t lie. He reported what he saw and thought, regardless of whether or not it offended tradition. Tradition, he once told me, was only good if it kept up with morals and right thinking. Jesus seemed plunged in thought as we made our way toward the temple. Partly to distract myself from what lie ahead, I found myself bragging about the miracles he had performed. I’m not sure they believed everything I said, but they seemed impressed.

At this point in his ministry, no one paid us much mind as we walked through the gate and into the city. We were, from a distance, seven more pilgrims visiting our holy city during Passover, which was fine with me. Upon closer inspection, however, our leader’s blazing blue eyes and jaunty stride contrasted the slow, plodding rabble around him. Jesus had, as always boundless energy, whereas we, his travel worn disciples, blended in with the crowd. None of us had any idea where this episode would lead us or how it would end. Our immediate concern was what Jesus had in mind when we arrived at our destination. I had heard from our brother James, who worked as a scribe in Jerusalem, how bad things were in the temple. The fishermen must have heard rumors themselves, but until Jesus’ disclosure, I’m not sure whether any of them understood how corrupt the priesthood had become. According to what James told me earlier and what Jesus said today, the temple was filled with greedy money changers and sellers of doves and lambs. The poor pilgrim was forced to exchange his own currency for a price in order to use Hebrew coins in order to purchase overpriced doves and, more rarely, cattle or sheep. Frankly, I felt sorry for the poor birds and beasts and found the whole business deplorable. That the whole concept of temple sacrifice had become an abomination in Jesus’ mind I couldn’t have imagined.

Our destination, of course, would be the Court of Israel. Before this point, as soon as we entered the Court of the Gentiles, the outermost portion of the temple, we had to wade through a mob of unwashed pilgrims: one group of pilgrims lined up before the money changers table and another group lined up before the seller of doves, sheep, and cattle. All other visitors who happened to be in Jerusalem during this holiest of times were restricted to this area. A sign on the great door, in fact, read ‘No foreigner shall go beyond the balustrade. Whoever is caught doing so will have himself to blame for his death.’ No one except the high priest could enter the Holy of Holies in the center of the temple. I wondered, when we entered the Court of Israel, what mischief Jesus had in mind. Would he, considering his status in John the Baptist’s eyes, dare enter the Holy of Holies to proclaim his mission. I didn’t know what the other men were thinking. They looked terrified as we made our way through the crowd. But just when I thought Jesus might head straight for the Court of Israel for Jews, he stopped in the center of the hall, looked around at the commotion, wrinkled his nose, and, after finding an animal sellers rope on the floor, set about fashioning a whip.

“Dear God!” I yelped

“W-What’s he doing?” sputtered James. “Is he mad?”

“Jesus, Oh Jesus,” Peter tapped his shoulder. “Let’s thinks this over.”

Andrew, John, Philip, and Bartholomew were speechless at Jesus’ antics. When the whip was ready, which was another of his remarkable feats, he turned to the money changers and animal sellers. Brandishing the whip in one hand, he pointed fiercely at these officials, crying out in an angry voice, “This is my Father’s house, not a market place. Get this filth out of the temple!” During Jesus’ second visit to the temple, he would say much more. This time, he was satisfied to chase them out, scattering the money changers’ tables, as he charged forward, and chasing the animal sellers with their frightened animals back out the gate. There were coins all over the floor, which many of the visitors and even some pilgrims grabbed up at once. It was a wonder that no one was trampled as the sheep and cattle ran down the crowded street.

Due to shock or Jesus’ personal power, not one voice was raised against him. In hysterical glee, which seemed reckless to me, the other disciples laughed at the fleeing men, reaching down to scoop of handfuls of coins and toss them into the air. To their credit none of Jesus disciples pocketed any money for themselves, but Jesus scolded them for making it into a game.

“Don’t laugh!” He looked around at us. “It’s isn’t funny—not one bit. The pilgrims are watching us. You are better than this. What I do, is not vandalism; it’s a cleansing. The temple has been polluted, and the priesthood corrupted. Is it any wonder God needs our help?”

Everyone except me, appeared to bow their heads in shame, more likely hiding their mirth. Understanding this emotion as hysteria which I had experienced myself, I couldn’t blame them. Jesus had begun his ministry with a bang. Out of the shadows of the Hall of Gentiles, the priests, who had been chased away with the money changers and sellers, appeared. The background of darkness from whence they came added emphasis to Jesus’ condemnation of them.

“Who do you think you are?” the boldest of them asked in a tremulous voice.

“A better question,” Jesus shot back, “is ‘who do you think you are?’ You represent the people of Israel, and you’ve turned the temple into a slaughter house!”

“Your words are blasphemous!” a second priest cried in a strangle voice.

“Nonsense!” snarled Jesus. “I know the definition of that word. This isn’t blasphemy; it’s righteous anger. If anyone has blasphemed it’s you Sadducees. Money changers charging pilgrims to exchange their coins? Animal sellers selling sheep and cattle at ruinous rates? For shame—all of you! Most of those pilgrims can’t afford the money changers’ and sellers’ rates. Many of them spent their earnings just to come to Jerusalem. Now that they’re here, you fleece them like sheep. You are servants, not merchants or thieves. It’s your duty to intercede on behalf of the faithful, not use the temple for business to fill your private coffers.”

“You speak with authority.” A third priest stepped forth. “You called this temple your father’s house. Do you believe you’re God’s emissary? No one in all the years I’ve served the temple has reviled us with such words. Who are you to speak for God?”

“He’s the Anointed One!” the words flew out of my mouth. “John the Baptist said so. He called him the lamb of God!”

The third priest stroked his beard. “I’ve never heard those words before. That last one sounds quite absurd. What exactly does that mean?”

Bartholomew groaned in dismay. Peter elbowed me in the ribs, and James hissed, “Idiot!” in my ear. Worse yet, Jesus gave me such a withering look it made me wish I could be invisible that moment or awaken from a bad dream.

“All men can call God father,” Jesus answered carefully. “…. Moses and Elijah were anointed. A pure spirit offered up as sacrifice is a Lamb of God.”

It was a brilliant reply, cloaked in fact, yet not revealing what his disciples would learn later was the absolute truth.

“Just who are you, sir?” A fourth priest appeared, nervously rubbing his hands. “You are a clever fellow, but in whose authority do you do these things?”

“My name’s Jesus,” he replied quickly. “Like you, I act on behalf of the Most High.”
“I am Caiphas, the high priest,” announced his inquisitor. “You must be deranged to attack the temple. Men have been stoned for less.”

“I didn’t attack the temple,” Jesus demurred. “I attacked it’s servants. And what is this edifice, but bricks and stone. Our forefathers had a purer worship in desert tents. Destroy this sanctuary and in three days I will rebuild it.”

“No, Jesus!” I gasped.

“He’s indeed mad!” Caiphas turned to his colleagues. “This sanctuary was under construction for forty-six years, and he’s going to rebuild it in three days? Hah! We have here, my brethren, another false prophet like John, that fellow in the desert. Pay him no mind!”

With a flurry of his hands, the man who would one day condemn Jesus in front of the Sanhedrin disappeared temporarily from our lives. We didn’t know then that when Jesus spoke of rebuilding the temple after three days he was speaking about his own body. After the Resurrection, we would remember what he had said, but for now we were stunned and dismayed.

As we left the temple, I helped Bartholomew into his cart. The old man, like the rest of us, was thunderstruck by Jesus words. Peter, Andrew, Philip, John, and his brother James muttered in disbelief amongst themselves. Jesus turned to me calmly, however, changing the subject entirely. Taken back again by his gall, I asked him to repeat it again.

“…What Jesus?” I blinked in the sunlight. “…What did you say?”

“Where do we find James?” He frowned.

“Let’s see,” I scratched my cheek. “…He told me where he was staying.”

“All right.” He motioned impatiently. “Lead us there, little brother. Is it very far?”

“Not too far.” I said, shielding my eyes from the sun. “He might not want to come.”

“Don’t worry.” Jesus laughed softly. “He’ll come. He just needs a nudge.”

“Jesus.” I gave him a worried look. “Have you forgotten? James is a scribe. He does work for the temple. He might not agree with what you’ve done.”

“You are opinionated and impulsive like our mother,” he changed the subject. “She forced my hand. Now, in front of Israel’s priesthood, you called me out.”

“…I’m sorry.” I whispered.

“Don’t be,” he murmured from the corner of his mouth. “You spoke the truth. Cousin John called me those names, but, that moment in the temple, my Father inspired you Jude. The next time run it past me first. Our cousin John is impulsive too. His words against Herod, I fear, are going to get him into trouble. I made my stand against our priesthood, but have much yet to do.”

“What?” I asked, looking back at the others. “What exactly are you going to do?”

“Wake them up!” He exclaimed loudly. “I began in the temple. Now I go to the people! “But first,” he lurched ahead eagerly, “let’s find our brother James!”

******

Though my head was crowded with many questions, my memory never failed. James had given me directions, which I stored away in my thoughts. After winding through streets to the outskirts of Jerusalem, I led us finally to a large house built in the Roman fashion: a walled enclosure with its rooms circling a garden. We were all surprised and delighted that it wasn’t one of the thousands of dilapidated apartments in Jerusalem where resident lived in squalor.

“Whoa!” Bartholomew cried, reining in his mule. “This is a palace!”

“Are you sure you this is the right address?” Peter was the first to ask.

“Yes, this must be it.” I replied.

“It must belong to a great Pharisee,” declared John. “Are you certain James lives here?”

“He lives here all right.” Jesus nodded. “It’s the home of Nicodemus, James’ benefactor. Our brother’s done well.”

In high spirits now, I shouted through cupped hands, “James, open the door!”

“Hello!” Philip bellowed. “Anyone home?”

John and his brother joined in the effort, calling out playfully to James. Afterwards, Peter knocked on the great wooden door and, not to be left out, Andrew pounded it with his fist. Momentarily embarrassed, Jesus laughed indulgently at us, and clasping his forehead and shaking his head, Bartholomew looked on in disbelief. Then we heard a faint clank. A peephole we hadn’t notice appeared above the ring, and a nasal voice called back, “Who goes there? Please state your name and your business.”

“Jesus,” he replied quickly. “I’m told a James bar Joseph lives here. I’m his brother from Nazareth.”

“Nazareth,” the man grumbled, “James has a brother in Nazareth? I’ll go fetch him. First I’ll inform Nicodemus, my master. James is one of his students. Nicodemus is a busy, busy man!”

We waited in the sun for several moments. By now Bartholomew was sound asleep in his cart. Needing water and fodder, the mule was growing cranky, as were Peter, Andrew, Philip, James, and John. Then suddenly the great door creaked open and a bald, diminutive middle aged man, stood glaring at us, muttering, “In, in, in, don’t stand there all day!” “I’m Ethan, Nicodemus’ chamberlain,” he announced hastily, as we filed in. “Follow me to the atrium. Nicodemus is here but James is with Rabbi Gamaliel in town.”

“That’s just great,” I groaned.

“Not to worry,” Jesus ruffled my hair. “He’ll be along soon.”

“This way—into the garden.” Ethan motioned impatiently.

“Whoa, look at this!” exclaimed Peter. “This man’s rich!”

“Yeah,” Andrew gawked. “There’s marble columns, tiled floors, and trees growing inside his house!”

The disciples were greatly impressed as he herded us in. I ran back to waken Bartholomew and made sure his mule and cart were taken to the stable. The old man hobbled in shakily as I held his arm, his free hand clutching his cane. As we entered the atrium and were led to a spacious patch of flowers, bushes, and fruit trees, grander than Jethro’s garden in Cana, the other disciples continued oohing and ahhing. I plopped Bartholomew down on the nearest bench, where he sat grumbling to himself. I wasn’t that impressed, myself, with the garden. Though impressive, I had, in my travels, seen houses far grander than even this. The chamberlain had displayed irritation, looking at us with contempt. I was irritated that the Pharisee had not come out to us in person, which was the custom for our people. I had seen this attitude before, though, were rich man, who waited on an ivory chair to receive supplicants, but this was Jerusalem and Jesus had explained to Ethan that we were here to see our brother James.

Ambling toward us, tapping a cane before him and wearing the phylacteries and headdress of a typical Pharisee, Nicodemus eyed us indifferently at first, until he was within a few cubits from Jesus. Recognition came slowly in his near-sighted, watery eyes.

“Forgive my tardiness,” his voice crackled, “I’ve been feeling poorly. The truth is, I’ve taught James all that I know. I sent him to my friend Gamaliel—the greatest rabbi in Jerusalem. James will make a good rabbi or Pharisee, himself…. But I fear there are greater things in store for him.” “Come closer young man,” he beckoned Jesus. “My eyes are failing me…There, I can see you clearly. I remember the story of your mother and father. I thought it was a legend or myth. Then Amos, John’s courier, told me about you. He was quite impressed.” “So,” Nicodemus appraised him carefully, “you are the Anointed One, eh? The lamb of God?”

“You have said it,” Jesus replied solemnly. “I make no such claim. I am Jesus of Nazareth, a carpenter.” “These good men are my followers.” He turned, pointing to each of us: “This is Peter, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, and my brother Jude.”

“Peace be upon you!” Nicodemus said belatedly. “Please stay at my house, refresh yourselves, and share the Passover meal with my students and me.”

This singular honor was met with polite recognition from Jesus, and yet Jesus, unlike his disciples, wasn’t impressed. Nicodemus had given us a tepid greeting that was condescending. It was well known in Nazareth and now in Capernaum that Jesus had little respect for Pharisees, let alone priests and scribes. And yet here in the house of Nicodemus, dwelled a rich Pharisee who conducted a school for scribes, where James, our brother also dwelled. Our host, in fact, introduced us to the four other apprentice scribes, who would share our meal. Nicodemus disappeared for awhile with his students to allow us to clean up, as Jethro had, in a large hall in which basins of water and towels were brought in by servants. There was a modicum of disdain on the apprentice scribes young faces, but nothing like Jethro’s initial reaction in Cana.

When James finally returned, we were idling in the garden, enjoying the splashing sounds of the fountain and smell of flowers. Jesus was chatting with us about our experience in the temple. My mind had been settled about the issue. Jesus knew what he was doing even if we didn’t. But the other disciples were still worried about the ramifications following Jesus actions in the temple. Spelling the money changer and sellers tables, insulting the priests, and saying he could rebuild the temple in three days sat heavily on their minds, and yet Jesus began this day to teach in riddles.

“If you hear a door hinge creak, what do you do?” He looked squarely at Peter.

“Oil it,” Peter snorted.

“And what do you to make a fire?” His eyes turned to Philip.

“Find wood and kindling.” Philip pursed his lips. “Then set it aflame.”

“Yes!” Jesus raised his hands and looked up at the sky. “And so it is with the Word. Our people need such oil. The fire of Israel has gone out and needs igniting. This is our task and our weapon is the Word.”

“Moses beard!” cried James as he approached. “You’re still in Jerusalem. I heard about what you did in the temple, Jesus. You have defied the priests. Caiphas will send spies to follow you wherever you go. You’re a marked man!”

“Greetings brother,” Jesus embraced him. “You remember Peter, James, John, Andrew, Bartholomew, and your brother Jude.”

“Jesus,” James persisted, “I fear for you—all of you. You have let loose a hornet’s nest.”

At that point, Nicodemus reappeared, shaking his head. “Is this true Jesus? Have you attacked the priests?”

“Oh he did more than that,” fretted James. “During my visit to Gamaliel, a messenger came with the news. I rushed here as soon as I could. I can understand you arguing with those men, Jesus—it’s true what you said, ‘they’ve defiled God’s house,’ but turning tables over, scattering coins, and whipping them out of the temple—that’s insane!”

I was trying not to show my true feelings. “Calm yourself, brother,” I chided disingenuously. “Jesus isn’t afraid!”

“He might not be,” James echoed my thoughts, “but I am!”

The Pharisee was taken back by what he heard. “This is outrageous,” he cried. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Listen Nicodemus,” Jesus turned to our host, “Those men won’t bother me, no yet. Trust in the Father. I know this to be true.”

“Humph! Trust the Father, eh? You mean God, don’t you? How do you know those men won’t bother you, Jesus?” Nicodemus’ eyebrows twitched. “Did God tell you? Did he instruct you to attack the money changers and animal sellers and insult the priests?”

“You have said it!” Jesus replied with great conviction.

“He-he-he.” Nicodemus cackled nervously. “You’re quite confident with yourself, aren’t you, Jesus? Such showmanship. I heard about that incident in Cana, too. A whole houseful of people can’t be wrong. But you don’t know Caiphas, our high priest. He doesn’t believe in miracles. His kind believe in power. You might as well have attacked that scoundrel Pilate or King Herod, himself.”

“You must leave now!” James wrung his hands.

“No, no,” Nicodemus rotated his head, “eat the Passover meal with us. It will be dark soon—not a safe time during Passover. There’s all kind of riffraff coming in that gate, some of them cutthroats and thieves. Tomorrow morning is soon enough.” “…I guess,” he muttered under his breath.

The Jewish custom of hospitality to strangers warred with Nicodemus’ fears. We could see this in his dark, darting eyes. Jesus could see it too.

“That settles it,” Jesus folded his arms resolutely. “I have upset your household, Nicodemus. It’s still light. This evening we shall travel to Bethany where Lazarus, my kinsmen, lives.”

“No, no!” Nicodemus stomped his foot querulously. “You must stay the night. Please, Jesus. Come, come. The cook is preparing a Passover meal. There’s plenty to eat. During dinner you can tell me more about yourself.”

*****

We, Jesus first disciples, were filled with mixed feelings. On the one hand, we were hungry and tired. On the other hand we agreed with James that we should get out of town. If no one knew who he was when we entered Jerusalem, they would, when word got out, know soon enough. Already Gamaliel’s household had been notified. As the food was brought out to us, Nicodemus was fidgety and distracted, glancing in the direction of the entrance as if he expected temple guards to begin pounding on the door. At first, his students Josiah, Abiah, Nahum, and Jeroboam, after politely introducing themselves, treated Nicodemus’ guests as if they were invisible, staring moodily at their plates. After the Shema, which Nicodemus gave quickly, he asked James, his favorite pupil, what was important about this day. It was something we were supposed to do on Passover. James explained that their meal was in honor of the first born of Israel spared from the Angel of Death’s sting, which was the fate of the first born of the Pharaoh and his people. No sooner than James had finished the part about bitter herbs reminding us of our bondage in Egypt, Nicodemus waved at him impatiently and, with a nod, turned his attention to Jesus.

Though not as sumptuous as Jethro’s feast, Nicodemus’ table was filled with all manner of kosher meats and delicacies, including the sweetmeats I loved so well. I was hoping we could all fill our bellies, get tipsy, and sleep peacefully until dawn. Already, I felt that warm, friendly dreaminess of the vine. Initially, the conversation that followed drifted in and out of my consciousness. Peter, Andrew, Philip, John, and his brother James were also nodding off, and Bartholomew, who sat next to me, was already asleep. Nicodemus was deeply disturbed, partially from fear for Jesus’ sake, but also by what his guest had done. During this exchange, his student perked up, listening intently to how Jesus answered his questions. I sensed that moment that Jesus was going to say something controversial again. I didn’t know it was a defining moment. That night in Nicodemus house, we knew what Jesus had in mind. This meeting between Jesus and Nicodemus, which John the Apostle would one day abbreviate, could not be captured in mere words.

The Pharisee was prattling on about the divisions in Israel between Sadducees and Pharisees, as if he was in the classroom with his students again. “It never ceases to amaze me that our priesthood and the Sadducees don’t believe in the afterlife. As you know we, the Pharisees, believe in heaven. What purpose is there in life without reward. Is wealth the only gain?” “…Rabbi,” he said to Jesus, after a long pause, “Though Judea and Galilee may not know you yet, your reputation precedes you. We, my students and I, know that you came from God, as a teacher. We’ve talked about this. No one could have done what you’ve done unless God is within him.”

I recalled John calling him master, another name for teacher or leader. Having been called rabbi for the first time, Jesus frowned. He didn’t like labels. Then an enigmatic smile appeared on his face. The light of the table lamp gave his face an otherworldly glow.

“Nicodemus.” He looked squarely at the old man. “You aren’t far from the kingdom. But miracles and grand gestures aren’t why I’m here—”

“Why are you here?” The Pharisee leaned forward.

The disciples and students sat there with bated breath.

Jesus thought a moment, took a sip of wine, and replied, “…I bring the Word.”

“Ah,” Nicodemus thought to correct him, “you mean the Law, right?”

“No,” Jesus shook his head. “They’re not the same. The Law governs men. The Word governs the soul.”

“All right, Jesus.” Nicodemus squirmed impatiently. “But we’re a nation of laws. That separates us from the Gentiles. The Torah is made up of words—thousands of them. What do you mean when you say ‘Word?’”

Searching his mind momentarily, Jesus replied, “The Word is God manifested through his Son. Those who open their hearts will believe. Those, like the priests and Sadducees, who think they have the answers, have not heard the Word.”

“What?” Nicodemus cackled with mirth. “You’re saying our priests are in error? Now that is heresy.”

“We’re all sons of God.” Josiah wrinkled his brow. “The priests are God’s voice.”

At this point it appeared as if Nicodemus students were divided. Nahum nodded in agreement with Josiah, but Jeroboam made a face. “Jesus is right,” he spat. “Our priests are in error. Men are descended from Adam, who was created by God. How can we be God’s sons? The priests are made by men.”

“Very good, Jeroboam,” Jesus laughed softly.

“But you said something like this before.” I reminded him. “Is there only one Son of God?”

“Listen.” Jesus cocked an eyebrow. “This is, as the fishermen would say, deep water. It’s hard enough for you to understand, Jude, and you’re my brother. Revelation comes in stages. Throughout my life, I could scarcely understand the mystery of God.” “Now I say to you Nicodemus and all of you. I have God’s ear.”

“So you’re the Word, eh?” Nicodemus eyes widened with understanding. “…You’re bringing another pathway to God.”

“You have said it!” Jesus said firmly again.

“Said what?” Nahum looked at him blankly. “You will replace the temple?”

“No.” Jesus’ eyebrows knit. “The temple represents the law of our people. I’m not here to replace the law, Nahum. I never said that.”

“Then tell us, Jesus,” the student pressed. “What is your mission? Why are you here?”

“Salvation,” Jesus turned to face Nicodemus, “something Pharisees and most Jews believe.”

“Ah yes, I remember.” The old man nodded with understanding. “You’re talking about the Messiah. It was prophesized in Isaiah, Micah, and Zechariah, but those passages have been interpreted different ways. Are you saying that you’re the Messiah?”

So far he had not claimed to be the Messiah, just the Anointed One, as John claimed. It was one thing for him to imply he was bringing us a new religion and being its messenger; it was quite another to make such claim. Such an announcement would, I understand now, have shocked Nicodemus and his students greatly.

Once again, therefore, Jesus dodged answering a question directly: “God, my Father, guides me toward a reawakening and new covenant. I come to build, not destroy. He defines me. Because the priests have led the people away from righteousness, the law will be tempered by the Spirit. Through me—the Word will be made manifest.”

“Where in the Torah is this written?” challenged Josiah.

Jesus pursed his lips. “Nowhere…. It comes from the Spirit.”

“So,” cried Jeroboam, “you are writing Holy Scripture. It sound as though you’re replacing our faith.”

“Not replacing it,” Jesus shook his head, “restoring it, through a rebirth.”

“Rebirth?” Nahum wrinkled his forehead. “That will only happen when the Messiah comes!”

Jesus uttered once again, “You have said it!,” which for the students was the final straw. Scandalized by Jesus words, Nicodemus’ students jumped up and stormed from the room. I was shaken by Jesus words, myself. Something was surfacing in this room. I could feel it in the air. Yet my brother James and the Pharisee—student and teacher of the law—remained seated, with troubled expressions on their faces. I knew that James, who had a stubborn nature, was deeply effected now as was his mentor, Nicodemus, who hung on Jesus every word. The other disciples, though visibly moved, were growing restless and anxious with this topic, but were, judging by their dumbfounded expressions, still unclear on what Jesus meant.

“I don’t understand.” Peter admitted bluntly. “How does this work? Is it like cleaning out the temple, as you did? You said you’d rebuild it three days. Is that what you mean by rebirth?”

“Yes, master,” John implored. “Explain this to us…. How can we be saved?”

The disciples were on the threshold—I could see it in their eyes, not so much for the details of Jesus’ concepts but rather the meaning of who he was: a great prophet bringing, as Nicodemus said, a new religious path. And then he said it—words that would change our lives forever and, I know now, also change the world”

Looking squarely at Nicodemus this time, he raised two fingers, his third finger touching his thumb. “It’s simple,” he murmured, “but you must open your heart. Rebirth is most important, Nicodemus. Truly, I say unto you, unless a person is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.”

Nicodemus was taken back. “Rabbi,” he exclaimed in disbelief, “that’s absurd. How can someone be born when he is old like me. Does he go back into his mother’s womb a second time to be born again?”

Jesus answered serenely, “These are the words of God: ‘Unless a person is born of water and the Spirit he won’t enter the kingdom of God. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. All of you must be born from above, which is of Spirit of God. The wind blows where it wants to. You hear its sound, but you don’t know where it comes from or where it’s going. So it is for everyone born of the Spirit.”

The world of Nicodemus, the Pharisee, shook at the foundation. “H-how can that be?” he stammered.

Jesus voice rose gently. “Nicodemus! You’re the teacher of Israel, and you can’t understand this? Do you not believe in an invisible God? I told you who is the Author of this: God, my Father. A leap of faith is necessary in order to believe. You Pharisees, who believe in an afterlife, which is ill defined, try to find proofs in the law. There are no proofs in the law, only rules of conduct. The law, alone, can’t lead you to heaven. The soul is God’s. You have heard of me. News about my past and the incident in Cana appear to have impressed you, but they’re earthly proofs—what people see. Greater still are proofs of the Spirit, not seen, but taken on faith. You believe what your eyes and ears tell you, which are earthly things. Will you not believe me if I tell you about heavenly things?”

Nicodemus thought a moment, as Jesus waited for a reply. “Heavenly things?” He scratched his beard. “…You mean God’s grace? Is that what you mean?”

“I’m not talking about God’s grace.” Jesus waved dismissively. “That never changes. I’m talking about something new, Nicodemus: rebirth, which works with God’s grace. I said that you’re close to the Kingdom. One day you’ll understand. You’re like an unborn child. This is true for my disciples, family, and all who believe in repentance and rebirth and want out of the womb.” Looking around the table at each of us, he added solemnly: “Remember these words, Nicodemus, Peter, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, and my brothers James and Jude. The Son of Man alone descended from heaven with the God-given knowledge to teach about salvation in His name. He alone has seen the Father and He alone is qualified to make God’s promise known. Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up after the sting of death, so that everyone can be saved. For God so loved the world He gave his only begotten Son so that whosoever believes him, will not perish but will be reborn and have eternal life. God sent the Son into the world, not to condemn it, but to save it’s people through faith in Him. That is what is meant by rebirth. Whoever believes in God’s Son shall be saved. Whoever doesn’t believe in the Son shall be condemned. Hear these words of God, the basis of judgment: A light will come into the world, but people love the darkness more than the light because their actions are evil. Everyone who practices wickedness hates the light and shuns it, because his actions may be exposed. Those who seek, with a contrite heart, shall find the light; they will embrace it and shall be reborn as God’s own.”

Nicodemus looked down at his mug. “…You ask too much.”

“No,” said Jesus, pointing heavenward, “ it’s God who asks. The law can’t save you, Nicodemus. Your knowledge is a wall to you. Break it down. It is and will always will depend upon an open mind and contrite heart. Sinners, men of learning, and those who worship false gods, will shun the light no matter what earthly proofs are given them, but you’re halfway there. It begins with simple, unquestioning faith.”

******

I could imagine the turmoil in the old Pharisee’s mind. After all, I, more than anyone else except his mother, knew Jesus’ mind, and I had trouble with his words. What struck me as amazing that moment was the expression on the other men’s faces. After seeing their befuddled expressions during our journey with my brother and here at Nicodemus’ table, I expected them to be even more confused after some of the things Jesus said. Though it seems like an unsuitable impression, I saw, instead of frowns and blank looks, illumination on their faces. Fishermen illuminated; how strange is that? John and Bartholomew seemed, in fact, to be on the verge of tears. My brother James, like a statue, stared silently into space. Like children, ignorant of the subtleties of the law and the Torah, the fishermen understood what Jesus meant by an unquestioning leap of faith. Jesus had, as I interpret it now, rebuked Nicodemus’ education, because it was a stumbling block to faith. Having reached out to Jesus intellectually, the Pharisee now recoiled spiritually at such a demand.

“Who can do such a thing?” he muttered, rising shakily and ambling from the room.

“We can.” I heard Peter and Andrew murmur.

The other men nodded in agreement. James followed his teacher reluctantly, looking back wistfully at these simple men. Jesus had made his point. Later he would say to us, “Unless you have the faith of a little child, you won’t enter the Kingdom of God.” Already, during that fateful hour, we understood this. Looking ahead at the long journey I would take with Jesus and his followers, I realized, at last, how simple it all was. Though not as stubborn as our brothers and sisters in accepting Jesus’ powers, I had tried to use reason and education to decipher his actions and the mysteries of God, when, in fact, it was there in front of me all the time. It was all based upon faith.

The fishermen had set the example for me. The great weight of reason fell from my back. As Jesus led us to our quarters, I felt light-headed as if I had drank too much wine. Like a shepherd leading us on, he motioned to our pallets situated around the room.

“Your faces are windows to what’s in your hearts. One day Nicodemus will recall my words. Now rest,” he directed wearily. “Tomorrow we leave Jerusalem. John, my cousin, baptized at the River Jordan. Now we shall do the same.”

The very thought was like cold water splashed on my mood. I could hear the others groan, especially poor Bartholomew, who could barely walk and dreaded the bumpy cart. It was a long trek, and the river was a desolate place. I could still hear John shouting, “Repent! The day of the Lord is here!” Turning to Andrew and Philip, as we listened, Jesus said sadly, “John has angered Herod. I fear for him now. Do you remember him saying, ‘I must diminish and he must increase?’”

Andrew and Philip nodded. I stood there, as the others settled onto their pallets, wondering what Jesus had in mind. Would he take up where John left off? Is that where this would lead: the River Jordan? Were we going to be baptizers like that crazy John?

Leaving my questions unanswered that moment, Jesus explained to us the importance of this rite, which, up until now, had merely been an act of ritual purification in our religion. Now it was going to have a different meaning, Jesus would teach us, as part of the penitent’s rebirth. I knew that symbolic actions, such as circumcision, eating kosher food, and temple sacrifice, were important to our faith. There was, however, no ritual of baptism like John’s immersion of sinners. Water was for ritual purification only, as required by Moses’ law. What we heard was, like all the other concepts given so far, a brand new thing—a rite of the spirit, not of Jewish law. Unfortunately, Jesus left unsaid what would follow this episode. I couldn’t believe this was his final goal. We hadn’t even yet visited Judea or Galilee’s major cities or our hometown of Nazareth.

As he stepped out for awhile, perhaps to pray as he often did at night, we discussed this issue amongst ourselves.

“This is going to be easy,” Peter said, looking around for agreement. “We tell’em to repent and then dunk’em. That’s simple enough!”

“Sounds like fun.” Philip giggled.

“Yeah,” James said with a yawn. “I’ll specialize in fair maidens.” “You can have the old ones!” He playfully nudged John.

“How long do we leave them in?” Andrew tried to sound serious.

“That depends on how sinful they are.” I joined in the mirth.

“Ho-ho” cackled Bartholomew. “What if we drown one of them?”

“Jesus could bring them back to life like the sparrow and Pharisee’s son,” piped John.

“What if we’re not good at it?” Peter grew serious. “I’m not good at talking. I don’t have the voice.”

“Remember what Jesus said,” John reminded us. “‘It’s simply a matter of faith!’”

“John’s right.” Philip’s eyelids grew heavy. “Andrew and I were with the Baptist for quite awhile. He called Jesus the Anointed One and the Lamb of God. That Baptist said the same things over and over. Forget all those labels. Jesus doesn’t like titles. All we have to do is point to Jesus and say, ‘Repent! The day of Lord’s at hand.’ How hard is that?”

To camouflage their own fears, I suspected, the fishermen were making fun of the task ahead. John had even mocked one of Jesus gestures. By now, however, I was beginning to understand them. These men had good hearts. Until today I had felt like an outsider. Now, as I listened to them joke about the prospect of being baptizers, my initial repulsion for their smells and uncouthness lingered, but I no longer wondered why Jesus picked this bunch. Here in the house of a rich Pharisee after Jesus had said such extraordinary things, they were making light of their teacher, as if it was but a trifling matter. Like children in an adventure which they knew little about, they chattered for several more moments, one by one falling into a deep, well-deserved sleep.

“I dare say,” I murmured drowsily. “…There’s more to it than this!”

By then the room echoed with a variety of snores. As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear Bartholomew, rumbling and snorting next to me. Peter, who slept on his back with his mouth open, was the worst, emitting a gurgling, frothy noise unlike anything I had ever heard. Not one of my companions slept quietly. They were as noisy in slumber as they were awake. Recalling Peter, Andrew, Philip, James, John, and Bartholomew’s irreverent banter, which I found humorous that day, I marvel at what these men became.

Chapter Six

The River Jordan

Our visit to the house of Nicodemus was a milestone in Jesus’ ministry. The message that he explained to the Pharisee, his students, and his disciples, ‘You must be born again with his vision of our faith in order to have eternal life,’ was simple for us to understand and yet so very hard for a rational traditionalist like Nicodemus to accept. Beyond the message, however, , were those more abstract details of the new faith, which the disciples had not yet grasped and which I barely understood. Concepts, such as the Word, Lamb of God, Anointed One, the three natures of God (Father, Son, and Spirit [which would one day be called the Holy Ghost]), and the undefined nature of Jesus (teacher, prophet or divinity) remained mysteries for us. Even I, after a life as Jesus’ brother and my travels, found these concepts hard to digest, let alone understand. Far more important to us, of course, was the question of Jesus itinerary. Beginning with our trip to Jerusalem, which he sprang on us suddenly, he appeared to be deliberately holding back on explaining the details of his mission and its destination. Also absent, at this stage of our journey, was something we could not have imagined: the result or ultimate goal of his mission. For now, as I look back, the beginning and middle of this odyssey, seems overshadowed by the impact of its end, and yet, without the intervening story of Jesus’ mission, as written by his Apostles and myself, the Resurrection would have little meaning.

As we bid our host goodbye, though, my heart was still heavy. James was absent from the dining room, as were the other students. Nicodemus, though polite, was no longer talkative. We ate our morning meal, slung on our packs, and began walking toward the main gate. I ran ahead to find Bartholomew’s mule and helped him into this cart. After waving at the Pharisee, who stood scowling in the morning sunlight, I walked beside Bartholomew, leading his mule. I could see Jesus walking ahead of the others. He was praying softly. The other disciples were chattering away, without a backward glance, but I turned to wave at Nicodemus one more time. At that point, to my great joy, James appeared beside his mentor, with a pack slung over his shoulder.

“Jesus,” I cried, “Look, our brother’s coming. James is one of us!”

“We’re all brothers now,” claimed Jesus. “I knew James would come!”

Turning from the Pharisee into his new life, James became the eighth disciple of Jesus. From this point on, more controversial characters would join our band—men who were educated like James and myself. Notwithstanding Bartholomew, whose occupation, other than one-time bandit, I never ascertained, I would always think of Peter, Andrew, Philip, James, and John as the ‘fisherman.’ They were uncomplicated men, who had accepted Jesus message completely. As for James and myself, we understood just enough of the details to worry about what that message might bring.

******

Even though Bartholomew rode in a mule cart now, the bumps and jars of the road wore on him. We were, as the day grew old, forced to stop repeatedly to give him a rest. Earlier in our journey, Jesus had taken him aside and healed his spirit. Now, despite the advantages of the cart, he was back to wheezing, muttering querulously, and cursing at the mule. Though I dare not say it aloud, I wondered why Jesus didn’t heal him outright. Being forgiven for past sins wasn’t enough. It would be so easy for Jesus to give Bartholomew more strength and makes his legs strong again and sell the mule and cart at the next town. He had quieted a storm, healed a sparrow and even a man, and then changed water into wine, and yet he let Bartholomew suffer his infirmities now without so much as a word.

Finally, late in the day, the River Jordan appeared ahead of us, curving like a giant serpent on the desert. As the outline of the river grew larger, we could see specks moving about by the river. They were, Jesus told us wryly, folks from surrounding towns, waiting for the Word. I understood what he meant. At that point, however, the disciples were in no mood for abstractions. Bartholomew rose up from his cart excitedly pointing with his cane.

“Looky there!” he cried hoarsely. “I’m jumping in. Yesiree!”

“Jesus?” Peter grinned deliriously. “Is that the river? This better not be a mirage!”

“That’s the Jordan all right.” Andrew replied excitedly. “I can see specks moving about—people: the Baptist’s followers. There’s hundreds of them.”

“It’s real, Peter.” Jesus said, shielding his eyes from the sun. “We have much work to do. They’re waiting for us: my sheep!”

“And you’re the shepherd!” exclaimed Philip.

“That’s correct.” Jesus chortled.

I was seriously exhausted from the trek and watching over Bartholomew. Jesus boundless energy rankled me, yet I tried sounding cheerful. “Ho-ho, shepherd, sheep. I get the symbolism. Can we rest first?”

“Of course.” Jesus nodded. “We’ll camp by the riverbank,” he directed. “I’ll minister to them. You men will start baptizing in the morning.”

This caused everyone to groan. Abstractedly, I patted Bartholomew’s mule. Soon, the poor beast would have his fill of water and plants by the river. Like Bartholomew I planned on jumping in and ‘baptizing myself.’ I could hear my brother James, who had been stone silent most of the way, grumble, “This is getting strange. Jesus was serious. Are we really going to baptize people? Why can’t we draw straws?”

“No,” I reassured him, “we all have to do it… This is how it starts.”

That moment as we plodded toward our goal, we heard a shout. Behind us a distant rider appeared on the road, growing larger, rippling as a heat chimera as he approached. When he was close enough, I could see Amos, John’s courier, galloping toward us

“Greetings from John the Baptist!” were his first words.

“Look, Jesus” I cried, “it’s our friend Amos.”

Before Amos could deliver the message given to him, Jesus introduced his disciples to him. Each of them, beginning with Peter, gave him a curt nod and perfunctory smile. Despite his Jewish name, Amos looked, with his rustic dress, Roman boots, and gladius, suspiciously like a Gentile, and was even dirtier and smellier than us. Dismounting his horse, he swaggered up to us, with the reins clutched in one hand, a grim look on his face. After tying the reins onto a nearby sapling, he took a long draught from his water skin, wiped his beard and pulled a scroll from his pouch.

“I have bad news rabbi.” He looked squarely at Jesus. “John, your cousin, was arrested.”

“We were afraid of this,” Jesus heaved a sigh. “It was just a matter of time.”

“He should’ve stuck to preaching,” I shook my head. “John never had any sense.”

“He was always head strong.” Jesus smiled wistfully. “God’s fool, he once called himself. He’s the forerunner, who blazed the trail—”

“Yes, yes” Amos waved impatiently, “he preached up a storm. I’m sorry rabbi; John was a fool, period! It was all right when he preached the ‘good news,’ as he called it—that was innocent enough, but John changed the subject. He told me that preaching the good news was your mission now. Lately, as you’ve heard, he’s attacked Herod for divorcing his wife and marrying his brother’s wife. That was suicide.” “But that’s not why John sent me…” he added, staring into space.

“How did you find us?” Peter asked, as he gathered his thoughts.

“Yes, Amos,” Andrews frowned. “There’s a hundred roads in Judea and Galilee. How did you find just this one?”

“John told me where you were going.” Amos shrugged. “There’s only one route to where he preached: the Jordan road. And lo and behold, here you are!”

“Well, let’s hear it!’ grumbled my brother James. “What’s John have to say?”

Striking a herald’s pose, Amos looked straight ahead and piped: “John asks this question for his cousin Jesus: ‘Are you the one who is to come or should we expect a another?”

In retrospect, I find this message astounding. After all of John’s fine words about Jesus, calling him the Lamb of God, Anointed One, and such, he still had doubts. At the time, however, that part of the question, ‘Are you the one…,’ was too abstract for the fishermen’s’ minds and could mean almost anything. They knew he had powers and was special, but the titles the Baptist gave him were puzzling for them. Even for my brother James and me the connection between what Jesus disclosed so far and who he was supposed to be remained unclear. What we all heard was that John was having second thoughts about his original claims, which made him seem foolish, especially to his onetime disciples Andrew and Philip.

“Wait a minute!” Andrew’s mouth dropped. “What was all that shouting at the river about? He called Jesus the Lamb of God and Anointed One. He said he would take away the sins of the world. Now he’s not sure?”

“I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it!” Philip shook his head. “That John the Baptist, would ask such a thing! Has he lost his mind? This doesn’t make sense—none at all!”

“John’s in big trouble,” Amos concluded grimly. “He should’ve stuck to preaching salvation. You don’t call the tetrarch those kind of names. He’ll probably lose his head.”

For the first time I could remember, Jesus stood there speechless as Andrew and Philip reacted to the message. Peter, James, John, and Bartholomew didn’t know the Baptist like Andrew and Philip or my brother James and I did. Such a vague question therefore brought little reaction from them. In the first place, like John, the fishermen weren’t sure what to make of Jesus. If they had thought of it, his question was something they might have asked Jesus themselves. Annoyed greatly by John’s reservations, Andrew suggested to us that John had so many titles for Jesus because he wasn’t sure. He had, we learned then, also referred to his successor as the Chosen One and the Seed of David, even implying that he was the Messiah. For a long time, I thought John might be deranged, but I didn’t think that now. In spite of his doubts, John had introduced Jesus to the world. Even at this early stage of spiritual development, I understood this. He was the forerunner. Andrew heard him once say at the river, “I’m a voice crying in the wilderness. Make straight the way of the Lord!” Considering his frame of mind in Herod’s dungeon, I felt sorry for him. What dreadful torment John must be in not to be sure! With the exception of Jesus, my family didn’t like him very much after he became a prophet. John’s high-minded airs alarmed and annoyed them. He had broken Aunt Elizabeth’s heart after traipsing into the desert, abandoning his family and friends to join a band of fanatics who had turned against the temple and our established religion. He was, as Jesus would soon be, a heretic, with his own interpretation of our faith. I knew John better than the others, however. He had always been an adventurer. Until he called Jesus to the river, I saw him as an amusing eccentric, slightly mad but an adventurer nonetheless. I didn’t know back then what he had in mind. Then when I saw him in his animal skins shaking his staff and shouting, “Repent, the day of the Lord is here!” I shuddered at the thought. When he dunked Jesus in the river and turned him over to Andrew and Philip, I knew things would never be the same. I was certain Jesus fate was in the hands of a madman. The fears Mama had about John seemed to be proven. Only Jesus truly understood and loved our cousin. I know now how wrong I was about John the Baptist, but during this period of Jesus ministry, I was, like James, still a bystander. Thanks to John’s question what we heard Jesus finally say this hour filled us with great expectation.

“…Amos,” he began, releasing a pent-up breath, “my cousin’s spirits are low. I understand this. Go back and report to him that the blind will see, the will lame walk, the deaf shall hear, those with leprosy will be cured, the dead shall be raised, and the good news will be preached to the poor.” After these incredible words, Jesus inexplicably added, “Blessed is the man who does not take offense of me!” perhaps with the Pharisees and priests in mind.

Amos flinched while hearing Jesus’ promises. Afterwards, a cynical smile cracked his parched lips. It might be that the courier had seen too many of John’s antics to be impressed, but for the fishermen, after the episode in Cana and hearing about Jesus miracles as a youth, these were heady words. Peter, James, John, Andrew, Philip, and Bartholomew gasped, slapped their foreheads, and whistled under their breaths. Jesus had just been warming up in Cana and Jerusalem. In their minds a great pageant was about to begin in Judea and Galilee in which they would be eyewitnesses and participants. Despite how special these moments were, my brother James and I were filled with mixed emotions. Jesus’ bold promises of healing were one thing. After all, what could be wrong with curing the sick and making blind me see? But his actions as a preacher boded ill for the future. Now that our cousin had been arrested for his inflammatory speech, would our brother suffer the same fate? Already Jesus had insulted the priests and, in their minds, defiled the temple. What would they make of a miracle-worker, whose aim was to change the established order? Nicodemus had warned us about the priesthood’s frame of mind. Even John, by sending his cryptic message, signaled to us his doubt.

After seeing and hearing the enthusiastic response of the fishermen, I wondered if Jesus would receive the same reception in other villages of Judea and Galilee. As James, I shared their enthusiasm up to a point. What tempered it for us was the conflict Jesus had setup between himself and our religion. Because of his studies with Nicodemus, which stressed the law and our tradition, James had much greater problems with this aspect than me. I expected Jesus to shake things up. For me, it wasn’t any sense of loyalty to the old order that was bothersome, for I was, in my own way, a maverick like him. I had no use for religious leaders of any kind whatsoever. I had seen hypocrisy and self-righteousness in priests, Pharisees, and rabbis too. My concern was based upon something much less noble than religion: fear. I had been with Jesus when the Baptist made those claims. I had seen his fervor when he retreated to the wilderness in what appeared like an insane enterprise at the time. My travels, often harrowing, introduced me to many kinds of people: both good and bad. I’ve been confronted with crooks, cutthroats, and thieves—evil and desperate men. Thankfully, neither Jesus or James have had to deal with such people. No one in my family have been exposed to this element and neither have the disciples, who appear, by their carefree behavior, to have lived in a sheltered world. But criminals aren’t the only dangers out there. Religious leaders, among both Sadducee and Pharisee, will incite the rabble to stone heretics and blasphemers. The Romans will go to great lengths, including crucifixion, to keep the peace. I found that people who made a lot of noise were at greater risk, especially if they defied authority. The rule, ‘a silent man, who keeps his counsel,’ lives longest,” is something I learned the hard way. Of course, I didn’t expect Jesus to follow this rule. I just wished he wouldn’t defy authority. I was certain that, sooner or later, after witnessing his actions in the temple, Jesus would collide head-on with the Sanhedrin and civil authority. The history of our prophets should warn would-be messiahs how precarious this profession might be. Of all of the disciples, I understand this most clearly. Because of my life with Jesus and the events at the River Jordan, I felt I knew him best.

I understood that we would be baptizing people in the river. The question now was, ‘what would Jesus do next?’ There was much he hadn’t told us. I sensed a far greater meaning in all this. Jesus was the messenger of the Lord; that I was certain, but all those other titles clashed with his down-to-earth approach. My brother had chosen simple men and the mission of an itinerant preacher. He didn’t arrive on the scene as a great prince or religious leader espousing his cause. So far, excluding his disciples, his influence was limited to a handful of people in Capernaum, Cana, and Jerusalem. The latter city was tinged with great controversy—hardly a auspicious start. With the exception of James and I, he was leading a small band of rustics, much more excited by his power. At this point, the deeper layers of Jesus and his mission were beyond our grasp. Unlike the others, who left matters as they were, James and I understood just enough to make us anxious. We had grown up with Jesus. Despite our parents efforts to make Jesus seem normal, we knew he was special from the beginning. All of this so far, in Capernaum, Cana, and Jerusalem, was leading Jesus toward something overwhelming and incomprehensible.

I felt alone with my thoughts. James, who was more concerned with Jesus heresy, didn’t share my insight. Yet, knowing Jesus’ mind, I dare not utter it aloud. Today, after the promises he made to John, through his courier, he gave us a glimpse of what lie ahead. It overawed the fishermen. At that early stage in their spiritual odyssey, they couldn’t possibly know Jesus as did James and I. In an affectionate manner, they even made fun of him, impressed with his power but amused by his eccentric ways. How Peter, James, and John were able to write such inspirational Gospels later is a mystery to me. It only proves that their writings, if they in fact wrote them themselves, were divinely inspired. Jesus could have picked scholars, like James, and worldly-wise explorers such as myself, but he picked a happy-go-lucky band of fisherman, who acted like children at times. Though occasionally fearful of Jesus’ actions, the other disciples looked upon this enterprise as a great adventure in their lives. Life would no longer be boring and routine for them. They wouldn’t have to work anymore or worry about family matters. Their family, as it was pointed out in Capernaum, were the followers collected by Jesus. Their welfare and futures were left in his able hands. They had, in fact, begun calling him the Shepherd, and perhaps unfairly, James and I thought of them as sheep. Unlike James who was convinced of their ignorance, however, I considered them opportunists, which made me no better than them. Unlike the fishermen, though, I had no illusions. Like the Baptist, Jesus was at odds with the priests and Pharisees. Nicodemus’ warning to him now haunted me. He knew the priests and Pharisees minds and predicted how they would judge him after his actions in the temple. While James was also conflicted by Jesus unorthodox views, I was only worried about his welfare. I didn’t want him to be arrested like John. I didn’t care a wit about what he said as long as it didn’t get him thrown into jail.

******

While the disciples chattered excitedly, Jesus took Amos aside to discuss John’s dilemma. It was very grave; Amos was certain John would lose his head, but John had brought this on himself. Even Amos said this. For a moment, as I gazed down at the River Jordan dreading the ordeal ahead, Jesus’ voice brought me down the earth.

“Jude,” he hollered through cupped hands, “are you ready to baptize?”

“Huh?” I blinked, as he beckoned. “…. This so weird, Jesus. Do I have to?”

“Yes,” he said, wagging a finger, “everyone!” “You too,” he called to James.

The disciples were fickle. Though they thought it might be fun when it was first suggested, none of them were keen on the idea. James was in a panic. “I can’t do this!” he replied, shaking his head. “This is unclean!” All of the disciples, in fact, including myself, found the idea distasteful. John and his brother James, who had tried keeping pace with Jesus’ long stride, fell further and further back in the procession now that the assignment loomed. Even Peter, whom Jesus would call his ‘rock’ dawdled behind, and old Bartholomew, though frail and crotchety, gripped the cart fiercely, vowing not to budge.

Whereas James felt that this act would also be sacrilegious and heretical, the old man, like the rest of us, considered it more unnatural and uncomfortable than anything else. Nevertheless, as I led the old man’s mule, I put a good face on it for James. “You haven’t been listening,” I counseled politely. “Jesus isn’t a Sadducee or a Pharisee like Nicodemus. This has nothing to with them. The priests don’t care about salvation. They don’t believe in heaven. They’re Sadducees. The Pharisees, though they believe in an afterlife, judge everything by the law. What Jesus has in mind has nothing to do with the law. John preached repentance, through baptism, and the promise of salvation—a matter of God’s grace, not the law. Jesus wants us to be part of this. What he has in mind is not found in the Torah.” “What he says,” I struggled for the words, “… are orders coming directly from God!”

James had listened without interruption, apparently taken back by my words, which, of course, belied my mood. As he and the others, I dreaded dunking penitents. The notion of handling wet strangers made me squeamish and, because of my libertine views, feel hypocritical as well. Who was I too play the Baptist? Despite my confidence in Jesus’ powers, I scarcely knew what I believed. Andrew and Philip were the only ones, other than me, who had witnessed this ritual, and even they hadn’t baptized anyone themselves. Jesus, John’s successor, was supposed to do this, they protested. John had always done this task himself, because it was a sacred ritual only holy men could perform. Now Jesus was changing everything. It was no longer a sacred thing.

Andrew and Philip, however, like the others, were being stubborn and cowardly. For all my fine words, I was too. Jesus knew best. Illumination would come to me as the days wore on. I should have known by now that Jesus didn’t make mistakes. He had, even as a youth, led a perfect life. Everything he did had a purposeful outcome. Always he saw the big picture which our small minds couldn’t grasp.

Making a wide arc with his arm that moment, he shouted in a clarion voice, “Onward men. Don’t be faint hearted. We’re going to net a different kind of fish. Remember, you’re fishers of men!”

******

Amos sat on his horse, as we followed Jesus, watching from afar as the spectacle began. What happened when we finally reached the river was barely recorded in the Gospels. I remember reading a few lines from John’s Epistle that Luke had copied for himself: ‘After these things Jesus and His disciples came into the land of Judea, and there He remained with them and baptized.’ That was it. Considering how important this event was, it seemed to slight Jesus first great effort as a preacher. Because of what Luke shared with me of John’s other passages, I wonder if John, like a few of the other disciples, was not embarrassed by that day.

After trial and error, our mass baptisms didn’t end so badly that day. Those first moment, as we looked out at the crowd, however, the prospect of baptizing that multitude was overwhelming. The crowd rushed toward Jesus, whom many remembered as John’s anointed. It was unnerving for us. My brother James prayed for deliverance. The fishermen made faces, as they were pawed, and Bartholomew was so frightened he scrambled out of his cart and hobbled back up the road. I was the only disciple to follow Jesus to the water’s edge, not out of loyalty but resolution. I knew he would have his way. At this stage, however, Jesus said nothing about being the Lamb of God or Anointed One. He appeared to have been deliberately vague. Though the disciples found this strange at the time, I understood Jesus’ reasons. The people gathered by the river were a simple folk. Jesus was more interested in presenting the message than the messenger. I suggested this later to James and Bartholomew, who agreed with my insight. The truth was, of course, we weren’t sure of his title either. In his first major sermon were many points he would cover in the days ahead. His main concern was, in the tradition of John the Baptist, to preach repentance and salvation.

“Children,” he began on solemn note. “Gather close. John, as you’ve heard, has been arrested. Herod’s guards have taken him away. I will pray for him. You must pray for him, too, but also for yourselves. Many of you have traveled a long way, but aren’t ready to seek forgiveness for your sins. John cried out, ‘Repent, for the day of judgment is here.’ I come to share with you the glories of the Kingdom. It is a wondrous place where you’ll have eternal joy. Like the Garden of Eden, our scripture tells us, it will welcome the saved. There, you will never know pain or sorrow. You’ll be reunited with loved ones and friends—many long since passed. You shall walk with angels and sing His praises, forever and ever more.”

As Jesus extolled the wonders of heaven, it seemed to us that he had already been there. Though we didn’t know it then, this, of course, was true. Heaven had always been more of an abstraction as Pharisees and rabbis explained it, one of the unexplained mysteries of God. What struck Jesus audience with awe was when the sunlight broke from the clouds, a shaft falling on his white robe, causing his blue eyes to blaze, as if with inner heat. We, his disciples, had seen the sun play on him before, so it was not so strange for us. Yet it reminded us of just who Jesus might be. This wasn’t any ordinary man. He had power and majesty. Until the time came for us to enter the water, we would follow the Shepherd’s instructions like children. There was no turning back. Throughout his sermon, we waited nervously for the moment when he gave us the signal to begin baptizing his sheep.

I felt light-headed as I listened. I’m sure the other men felt the same. The crowd seemed even larger than when I visited the river the first time. When I looked back to where Amos sat on his horse, I couldn’t make out his expression. He had never joined John, the Baptist’s followers. Would Jesus’ performance today change his mind? I wondered. For a spell, my heart beat so loudly I could scarcely hear Jesus’ words. I wanted to jump into Bartholomew’s mule cart and gallop away. Perhaps, I would ride with Amos awhile, until I decided what to do. But that thinking was a momentary fancy. I sensed even then, despite my doubts, that I was, like the others, on a one way trip. Would my discomfort at this singular ritual detour me from the greatest adventure of my life?

Suddenly, I awakened from this state, feeling ashamed for wanting to run but not as intimidated by the crowd. I remembered a fact from my first visit with Jesus: unlike the people lined up at the River Jordan, most of the audience appeared to be observers, not participants, which meant we would have a much smaller task. Despite this hopeful sign, though, it occurred to me that this was Jesus, not John. I was well aware of Jesus’ ability to sway crowds. In Cana, his words had prevented an angry mob from stoning a woman. Throughout his life so far, he was never at a loss of words or bashful when facing a crowd. It seemed quite possible therefore that he might sway the more timid souls, too. Hopefully, our first efforts as baptizers would involve a more modest crowd, yet I feared the worst.

“… Repentance follows admission,” Jesus was saying. “Unless you admit your sins, a nod of the head and simple baptism won’t work. You must pray to God for forgiveness, knowing which sins you must atone for. Some sins are much greater than others, but all of them can be wiped clean by true repentance. We do this today as a sign of God’s grace. Water is a symbol of your new life, but it doesn’t replace the baptism of the spirit, which comes with prayer. My Father wants a contrite heart, not a frightened soul. He is a God of love, not vengeance. Sin is the inheritance of man. Many you are ignorant of it how many sins there are. Moses was given the Ten Commandments by God as your guide. Many of you have broken at least one of them. Some of you don’t know just how many there are.

On the Holy Tablets God commanded the Israelites:

You shall have no other gods before Me.

You shall not make idols.

You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.

Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.

Honor your father and your mother.

You shall not murder.

You shall not commit adultery.

You shall not steal.

You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.

You shall not covet.

“These are the Ten Commandments given to Moses, but I say unto you, that he who dwells on evil has committed the act in his heart. Therefore, if you covet your neighbor’s wife or husband, you have committed adultery in your heart. If you wish to murder your neighbor, you have committed murder in your heart. This rule is true for all of the commandments. How, you ask yourself, can one control his or her thoughts? The answer for those of you who haven’t been saved by God’s grace is simple: you can’t. To think pure thoughts you must pray. There is no sin when temptation appears in your path and you avoid it. The same is true for your thoughts. It’s only when you dwell upon your physical temptations or evil thoughts that it becomes s sin.”

“All evil actions begin right here.” He pointed to his head. “They become sins when they fester here.” He pointed to his heart. “So, I say to you,” he exclaimed, looking out at their expectant faces, “be responsible for your actions and avoid temptation. When you think evil, don’t let it dwell in your heart. Even without a list of commandments or my instruction, you know when you sin. Words and action against your neighbors and strangers in anger or jealousy caused Cain to murder his brother Abel. Cain knew from birth by Adam’s sin right from wrong. That same guilt which you feel is God’s breath on your neck. Turn away and strive to be righteous. Those of you who feel God’s grace now, pause to be sure, then step forward.” “Please, as you have done for my Cousin John, line up in an orderly fashion. For my disciple’s understanding, I will baptize the first in line. Let us begin!”

So far, only a dozen or more men and women, stood in line for baptism. At this point, Jesus introduced his eight disciples to the crowd, then, lowering his voice, turned and called discreetly to the fishermen, “Fisher’s of men. Who will follow my example?”

Peter and his associates would have to decide who would go first quickly. Happy that we weren’t on the spot, James and I lingered by the cart. Bartholomew, who had been under the tree at just the right time, might not have been a fishermen. I knew he was once a thief and highwaymen, but what he was when Jesus chose him had never been discussed. Yet he was with the fishermen Philip’s friend and lived in Capernaum, a fishing town. In a strange way, it might be viewed as guilt by association. Retracing his steps back to the river bank, leaning heavily on his cane, he watched fearfully, as Peter stepped forth, not sure what to do.

An old woman was led into waste deep water by Jesus. His words would one day be part of the ritual for baptizers of the faith.

“Daughter, are you sorry for your sins?” He asked, gripping her frail shoulders

“Yes.” She smiled radiantly.

“And do you promise to live righteously and walk with God?”

“Yes.” She continued to beam.

“Then, by my Father’s grace, I baptize you into a new life.”

Briefly, after he cradled her frail body, the old woman was fully submerged. When she surfaced, she was still smiling.

“You are reborn, daughter,” he commanded, “go forth and sin no more!”

There it was finally: that word reborn, which Nicodemus found so difficult to understand. Most of the disciples had retreated a comfortable distance from the crowd. Jesus stood there in the same spot, as the old woman waded back to the shore. Only a few times have I seen such peace on someone’s face. Peter, who stood a part from the others, had watched the baptism with trepidation.

“Oh dear,” he muttered, “it’s my turn.”

“Don’t be shy!” Andrew said, giving him a shove.

Remaining in the same spot, Jesus crooked his finger. Peter lurched forward, terrified by what lie ahead. While my brother James and I watched with amusement, the other disciples egged him on.

“Oh look men.” John giggled. “This is going to be good!”

“Be serious,” Jesus chided, “this isn’t a game.”

It must have seemed obvious to Jesus that our merriment was caused by nervousness, which in Peter’s case was outright terror. To make things more difficult for Peter was the appearance of a tall, overweight fellow, almost twice the fisherman’s size.

“You do this one master,” implored Peter. “He’s too big.”

“Nonsense.” Jesus frowned. “You can do this, Peter.” “Listen—all of you.” He looked back at us. “Not all of these people are in line. Most of them are spectators. I know you’re tired. This will go quickly. Pay attention to my instructions.” “All right.” He turned back to Peter. “Now take his shoulders.” “That’s it.” He nodded with approval. “Body weight is less in water. As a fisherman you should know this. Grip his shoulders as you saw me do. After you speak to him, cradle his body and dunk him backwards. Make sure he’s pinching his nose.”

Jesus apologized to the big man. “I’m sorry sir. You’re being very patient.” “Now do it!” he commanded Peter.

“Uh, are you sorry for your sins?” Peter stammered, as he gripped his massive shoulders.

“Of course.” The man answered.

“And do you promise to be righteous and walk with God?”

“Yes.” He bobbed his head.

“Then, by Jesus’ father’s grace, I baptize you into a new life.”

As Jesus had predicted, Peter was able to submerge the big fellow, dunking him backward as the man held his nose. Where he erred was in how long he held him down. Surfacing for air finally, the man sputtered and cursed. For a brief moment, he looked as if he might do harm to Peter, but then broke into a wry smile. “Trying to drown me, are you?” He said good-naturedly. Not knowing what else to say, Peter concluded the baptism with the words, “You’re reborn, my son. Go and sin no more!”

“That was good,” Jesus said charitably, “a worthy effort, but next time, say ‘God’s grace, not Jesus’ father’s grace.” “Standby Peter,” he directed, motioning to John and his brother James. “By watching Peter, all of you know what not to do. From this point on, you’ll baptize in pairs. “Andrew and Philip, you are next, followed by my brothers Jude and James. I will work with Peter. Bartholomew will take this slowly at first. We will take turns in this order until everyone in line are baptized.”

“Take turns?” John protested. “There’s not enough of us, Jesus. The Baptist never had this big a crowd. What if they all want emersion?”

“Yeah,” Philip groaned. “I never heard the Baptist preach like that. We might bag them all!”

Everyone, myself included, thought their reasoning was sound. While James, Bartholomew, and I managed to keep our peace, the fishermen continued to grumble amongst themselves.

“Where is your faith?” Jesus scolded them. “I told you I would make you fishers of men yet you panic in shallow water. The wages of sin are deep. Once, my faith protected Elisha and me in the Great Sea from a mighty storm. These are simple people. Why are you afraid?”

“We are simple people too,” John objected. “We throw in our nets and pull them in—for fish, not people. That’s all we know.”

Jesus waved away his objection. “You are not simple. This not all you can know. Open your mind and your heart.” “John and James—go and baptize my sheep.”

With the great apprehension, James waded out to take a young man’s hand. Unseen behind the youth was a beautiful, auburn haired maiden. The sunlight played in her hair and glistened on her fair skin, transforming John’s expression instantaneously from fearful to jubilant. When the rest of us caught sight of her there was a similar reaction. In fact, considering the motley selection in back of her, I felt a twinge of jealousy.

My brother James muttered aloud, “John has all the luck. The others in line are mostly men!”

Peter, Andrew, and Philip sighed wistfully. Bartholomew uttered a lecherous laugh. John surged forward like a love struck youth, as James fumbled squeamishly with the young man.

“This isn’t fair,” he grumbled, looking over at his brother.

“Hello,” John greeted the girl cheerily. “I’m John. What’s your name?”

“Deborah.” She grinned shyly.

“Stop flirting with that girl,” Jesus called irritably. “Avoid temptation. Remember the moves I showed Peter.”

No one paid much attention to John’s older brother, James, except Jesus, who was more concerned with John’s attempt now. I glanced over to see him recoil from baptizing the young man, as if he was foul thing, yet manage to say the right words and perform the ritual expeditiously if not rudely in order to be done with the deed. Everyone hovered close to the bank watching John’s efforts. Gathering his shaken wits, he took the girl’s shoulders, trying not to look down her front. The young woman couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. After sloshing out into the river, much of her figure was outlined starkly beneath her dress. That moment I felt that stirring Jesus had always told me to avoid. The other men stared at her like ghouls. I could just imagine how John felt.

“John,” Jesus hissed, “do it!”

“Uh…Daughter, are you sorry for your sins?” He looked away as if to avoid temptation.

“Yes, I am!” She exclaimed in a lilting voice.

“And you promise to live right and walk with God?” His eyes traveled back to her front.

“Yes, yes!” she bubbled.

“Then, Deborah,” his voice creaked up a notch, “I baptize you into a new life.”

“Psst, John!” Jesus tried being discreet. “Say, ‘by God’s grace.’”

“Oh yes.” He slapped his forehead. “By God’s grace!”

Cradling her body, he seemed to gasp. In what was in reality an innocent reaction by John, the youngest of Jesus’ disciples, he appeared to be acting lecherously, when, in fact, he had simply been smitten by this beauty. He was tender and inadvertently affectionate. James, his brother, on the other hand, treated his subject rudely, dunking him like he might do one of his nets, and escorting him back to the shore as quickly as he could. When John submerged the girl, one hand appeared to slid down to her bottom, while the other gripped an armpit, as he told her in a sing-song voice to hold her nose. He was careful not to make Peter’s mistake by holding her down too long, but his actions, innocent as they were, spoke loudly to us. When he began raising her up, and looked down at her water drenched body, he was speechless a full moment, as Jesus tried getting his attention.

“Oh goodness,” Andrew shook his head.

“John…. John!” Jesus grew frustrated. “Say it: ‘You’re reborn, my daughter. Go and sin no more!’”

“Oh yes.” John grinned with embarrassment. “You’re reborn, Deborah…I mean daughter. Go and sin no more!”

“I haven’t sinned she muttered,” as John led her back to the line.

“Maybe you haven’t,” John replied shamed-facedly, “but I have!”

“Andrew and Philip,” Jesus directed curtly. “Its your turns.” “John,” he took him to task. “do you know what you did wrong?”

John looked down at the ground, muttering, “I think so.”

“Let me remind you then,” Jesus wrung his finger. “It’s all right to personalize this stage of salvation. Treat them gently and with respect. But your base emotions tainted the baptism. You’re young and foolish, John, but you’re not stupid. How do you think that looked to those people, huh?”

“Not good.” John hung his head.

“And you.” Jesus turned to James. “What you did was worse. John’s carnal nature got the best of him, but your intolerance got the best of you. You made that man feel like a leper.” “You overcame your intolerance, Peter, but all of you must use James’ bad example to change you attitude.

We were all embarrassed for them. James was apoplectic, storming away, as if he might just walk all the way back to Capernaum. It appeared as if John might start bawling. To make the two brothers feel even more miserable, Jesus walked over to the crowd, addressing not only the recently baptized and those waiting in line, but the spectators as well. He explained to them that his men were recent converts, themselves, and had much to learn. In the future, he promised, if some of them happened to be in Capernaum, he would talk to each of them personally. They were welcome to join them there. After his rebuke of James and John and his words now, non one dare voice their qualms. When Jesus returned to our group, Andrew and Philip were already in the water baptizing sinners. Though hardly polished compared to Jesus or his predecessor, John the Baptist’s original two disciples tried very hard. They stammered a little and, after Philip’s effort, Jesus had to remind him not to hold down his subject so long, but Andrew and Philip conducted themselves humbly and with great respect. After them, my brother and I took our turns. Where Andrew and Philip had average-looking fellows, James and I found ourselves with one-eyed man and misshapen crone, respectively. To impress Jesus, I grinned and bore it. My excellent memory served me well. Confronted with such an unclean-looking soul, poor James made faces and continued to cringe during the ritual. Unlike his namesake, though, who displayed his intolerance, James cheerful words camouflaged his true emotions.

Jesus said nothing about this, and only lightly criticized my congenial but expeditious performance. John and his brother, whose departure was short-lived, were each sent out again, as were Andrew, Philip, James, and I. That Peter was paired off with Jesus didn’t strike us as significant then. It appeared to us to me now, though, to have been purposeful. In the future Jesus would increasingly look to the big fisherman for leadership. Peter would quickly be the first to volunteer as he had that day. At the River Jordan, however, though his heart seemed finally in it, he stammered and fumbled with each baptism and was all thumbs. Truth be told I wasn’t impressed with any of these men, least of all Peter—greatest of the Apostles.

Because of Jesus forceful personality, my attitude would change. All of the disciples would be forced to get along, gradually learning to love one another as brothers and servants of God’s Anointed or whomever he was. Illumination would arrive in a timely matter. In the days ahead, there would be challenges as we tried working together. New, controversial disciples, who weren’t fishermen, would join our band. As Jesus brothers, James and I would be tested the most, as we tried fitting into this group.

******

After several hours of baptism, the line, as we feared grew significantly in spite of our performances, but finally ended with the arrival of a pair of clean-shaven men, whom we suspected to be Gentiles, maybe Roman spies. Despite the way the converts and remaining spectators shunned the pair and how the disciples resented having to baptize them, Jesus gave Peter and himself this task. His motto was then and would always be: First comes the Jews, our people, but turn no one away—Jew or Gentile. This seemed reasonable to me, as it did to the fishermen but it is here that James showed me his blind spot. The law and old ways he learned from Nicodemus made him predisposed against Gentiles. He dare not say this to Jesus, but he told me that Gentiles were unclean and, because of their habits and not being circumcised, couldn’t be saved. By acknowledging John the Baptist and Jesus notion of repentance, baptism, and salvation, James was half-way there. For now, however, James thought that the fisherman themselves were unclean. He would remain squeamish about Gentiles throughout Jesus ministry.

As the disciples watched the crowd depart for nearby towns—some traveling great distances for this day, Jesus instructed us to make camp by the river. In the morning we would begin our trek through the towns of Judea, our ultimate goal Capernaum again, spreading the good news. We were so exhausted that hour, no one dare question his itinerary. Jesus and Peter handed out our rations, as we sat around our fire. Though weary to the bone, we ate ravenously and shared the skins of wine Bartholomew had tucked in his cart. I led the mule down to the river for water and brought him to a grassy area for fodder, then with the beast safely tethered to the cart, lie down between James and Bartholomew for a well-earned rest. As the Shepherd standing watch, Jesus stood there leaning against the cart. I could see him glancing fondly at us, his newfound family, then gaze out at the sunset lost in his thoughts.

Though his first appearance in Capernaum, the wedding in Cana, and encounter in the temple were milestones for Jesus, it was on that day at the River Jordan that his mission actually began.

Chapter Seven

The Woman At The Well

When Jesus said that we would begin preaching tomorrow, we assumed we would do so in the villages and towns of Judea or southern Galilee. We had no idea he would detour through Samaria to continue spreading the word. After Jesus awakened us and instructed Peter to give us our rations, he dropped this plan on us as we ate our morning meal. It was, of course, an outrageous notion in my brother James’ mind. In fact, all of the disciples, except me, found this route unacceptable. As we sat around the morning fire in discussion, Jesus was out of earshot praying. A few pilgrims, who would follow us during our journey and become party of the ‘seventy,’ were encamped nearby. Anna, the old woman and Barnabas, the large, swarthy fellow Jesus and Peter baptized, respectively, were among this small group, as were a young man named Marcus and two Gentile-looking strangers: Arrius and Marcellus. To Jesus dismay, Deborah was also among this small group, which would become a distraction to us on the trail.

It wasn’t clear to us why Jesus didn’t accept them into his inner circle. The six new followers had all been baptized and saved, which should have made them good candidates. None of the Galileans had been baptized and perhaps he thought James and I, as his brothers, didn’t need emersion. The fact was Jesus had his own reasons. He told us constantly that he was led by his father. At the time, I wondered why he was instructed to choose this bunch, but as it turned out, with the exception of Judas Iscariot, they became able missionaries themselves.

That morning following the baptisms in the River Jordan I wasn’t impressed. So far, in spite of his great potential, Jesus had, as his support, a motley group of fishermen, and only a fraction of those baptized were present that day. I couldn’t have imagined how great a multitude would be attracted to him in the near future. But I was beginning to accept my fate. These weren’t such bad fellows. Who was I to question Jesus’ strategy? Unlike my brother James, I really had no important place to go. Feeling very optimistic that hour, I joined James and the fishermen in their criticism of Jesus, as his advocate. Ironically, when I looked over at the six converts, I saw happy and content faces as they sat around their fire, and yet the seven other disciples were filled with misgivings.

Jesus deserved better. Those moments, as we waited for him to finish his prayers, I felt sorry for him. After several proofs of his special powers, he had to put up with such faint-hearted men. Even Peter, whom Jesus had shown preference to, was confused and dismayed.

“Why Samaria?” he groaned. “That’s enemy territory. What if they waylay us? Would will Jesus do then?”

“It’s the shortest distance to Capernaum,” I explained to him. “Why not Samaria? No one’s going to know we’re Jews unless we tell them. It will take us twice as long if we travel around it. It’s the quickest route.”

“That’s not the point.” My brother James frowned. “You know their history. If it were three times the distance, we, as Jews, must go around not through their land. It’s accursed and filled with brigands.”

“Who cares?” I waved dismissively. “Our father once sold furniture to a Samaritan. He wasn’t defiled. The Samaritans have lived there for centuries paying taxes to the Greeks and then the Romans, just like us. Jesus once told me not to blame a child for his father’s sins.”

“Don’t you have it backwards?” James shook his head. “Isn’t it ‘the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon their children?’”

“That’s the old religion,” I reminded him. “Isn’t Jesus preaching something new?”

“Yes, of course.” Andrew raised a hand. “The important matter, though, is safety. Peter’s right, Jude. Defilement or not, it’s not safe. What’s the hurry, anyhow? Taking the longer route Jesus, you could stop and preach to towns on the way.”

“Yes,” Philip nodded, “what’s the rush? There’s hundreds of towns. This is madness—purest folly. We have no weapons. We could be attacked!”

“Then Jesus will strike them dead!” I blurted in frustration. .

“What?” Bartholomew came awake. “Jesus is a man of peace. Would he really do that? What if they clubbed us to death?” Would he raise us from the dead?”

Dead silence followed. The six converts looked expectantly over at us that instant. At that point in our spiritual development Bartholomew last question sounded absurd, and yet, of all the disciples, he gave Jesus one correct label. After his fiery attack on the temple and his no-nonsense attitude on the march, however, the title ‘man of peace,’ he once gave himself, seemed inappropriate. As if they thought I was Jesus spokesman after my defense of him, the other disciples looked to me that moment.

“You think he’d do that?” Philip asked hopefully. “Would he strike them dead?”

“Sure, why not.” I answered dubiously.

“Yeah,” John pursed his lips. “He turned water into wine. He stood up to priests without being stoned. Why not?”

“I dunno, Jude” Bartholomew scratched his beard. “You really believe that?”

“Let’s put it this way,” I retreated slightly, “he could if wanted to. He won’t let anyone harm us. We’re the chosen.”

“Yes,” Peter said thoughtfully, “we’re the chosen. Sometimes we forget that.”

“We should trust Jesus,” I replied lamely, wishing I hadn’t opened this Pandora’s box.

For a few moments more, we discussed the possibility of Jesus striking men dead and the more enlightened subject of our discipleship. I knew that Bartholomew was right. It seems strange that a once violent man like Bartholomew would say such a thing, but it was true. With the exception of the righteous anger we saw in the temple, Jesus wasn’t a violent man. I was glad he hadn’t heard me make such a boast.

When he had finished praying and meditating, Jesus returned. Because we could see him from a distance, we had time to change the subject. Despite this deception, Jesus knew about our doubts, and he knew of my boast. The fishermen were talking about the new converts as he stood there by the fire, as if this subject would be pleasing to him. During this conversation, John and his brother James couldn’t hide their interest in Deborah.

Looking out at the six men and women, Peter exclaimed, “It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

“Hah!” Philip tossed his head. “Compared to John’s numbers, it’s a pittance.”

“Yeah,” Peter snorted, “but the Baptist was doing it for months. This was a training session. We’re like apprentices. Next time we’ll do better. Our numbers will grow.”

“Still.” Andrew shook his head. Why didn’t the others stay on? Only six converts stayed behind.”

“Most of them were idlers, pure rabble.” My brother made a face. “Two of the new converts look like Gentiles. That old woman looks like she’s a hundred years old.”

“Well, Deborah’s a good catch,” piped John. “I’m no longer just a fisher of men!”

That moment Jesus appeared in our midst, peering at our brother and then at John.

“There are no rabble or fair maidens among the sinners,” he gently scolded. “Everyone is equal in God’s eyes.” “Peter’s right,” he said, looking around at the group, “you’ll do better. Those who returned to their homes—the baptized and spectators—will take the message home with them. Be patient. This is a new message. Not everyone who hears will be saved. The farmer sows the seed, and the fisherman casts his net. In the days ahead there’ll be more harvests and more fish. You’ll be tested and face temptation and fear. Conquering temptation from sloth, avarice, and passion will make you strong. Resist evil in thought and dead. I know you’re afraid, but fear is also a weapon of Satan. Often, fearful men are faithless men. I prepare you as sheep, protected by God’s grace, and send you out as rams among wolves. It’s not for you to question our mission. You must trust in the Lord. God, mysterious and infinite, leads me. Do you dare question the mind of God? Would I send you out, knowing you would be harmed. When fear and temptation come to you, pray, as I’ve taught you. Prayer is your shield against both Satan and men!”

Similar words as these, reworded but in the same spirit would be given to us throughout Jesus’ ministry whenever he saw us display doubt, yield to temptation, or weaken in our resolve. Today it had been inspired by his disciples fear and lack of enthusiasm for our destination. It had also been motivated by our attention upon Deborah, seen especially in young John. Jesus was our shepherd, and we expected no less from him. Resigned to their fate, the men said nothing. While they stood with their packs slung over their shoulders, waiting by the road, I led Bartholomew’s mule down to the water’s edge for his fill and then let him forage in a nearby patch of grass. I had grown attached to this gentle beast. He reminded me a lot of my own mules retired now in our backyard in Nazareth. I had decided to purchase the mule from Bartholomew when our mission was over. I didn’t realize that the mission to spread the word would never be over. Today as the disciples and new converts followed Jesus north into Samaria, I realized, as did all of his followers, that it had only begun. Everything that Jesus had done before our detour into the land of the Samaritans, was but a rehearsal for the journey ahead.

******

Contrary to the expectations of the fishermen, Samaria wasn’t filled with brigands wishing to ambush us nor, as my brother James feared, were we defiled by Samaritan who passed us on the road. As we stopped on the outskirts of Sychar to rest and give Bartholomew a chance to step out of his bumpy cart, we ate a few morsels of bread and dates and sipped from our water skins. The fisherman and my brother James had, for different reasons, no desire to enter Sychar. Nevertheless, after a short rest, Jesus ordered Peter and Andrew to go into town to buy food. Where Jesus got his money is a mystery to me, but he presented the pair with a tinkling bag of coins. Upon their return, the food was placed in the cart along with Bartholomew and we finally entered the town. In the center of Sychar, in an area resembling Nazareth’s village square was a large well. Once again James reminded us of what we were doing. Would we really fill our water skins from that forbidden well? He asked us. The well was tainted. Samaria was filled with infidels who had sullied Israel’s religion. We listened with irritation to him, as Jesus walked over and peered down into the well. I wasn’t sure whether or not he was praying but he seemed deeply moved.

The six men and women converts now mingled with us as equals after Jesus words on tolerance. Though John was self-conscious and tried appearing aloof, I could tell that he was smitten with Deborah, whose shyness had disappeared after her baptism. Jesus subtle rebuke had not dampened his ardor nor kept the rest of us from gazing at the wench. All six converts, especially Deborah, were emboldened by their status. I thought that Anna, the old woman might be slightly touched at times and found Arrius and Marcellus to be a bit strange, but, in general, the six converts were an agreeable bunch. With Jesus watching them constantly, the fishermen also treated them in a friendly and even differential manner.

After arriving in Samaria without a hitch and finding little hostility among the citizens in town, the disciples appeared to relax and let down their guard. Only my brother James was bothered by where we were. Sychar was, he informed us now, like Nazareth and Capernaum, once an Israelite city. Long ago, before the Samaritans polluted their land, this is where Jacob lived. That moment, a woman approached, as Jesus stood by the well.

“So that’s Jacob’s well?” Andrew exclaimed with surprise. “Right in the middle of Samaria?”

“Yes.” James nodded, glancing over at the woman. “I’m certain of this. Nicodemus showed us students a map made before the conquests. It was there in Israel, the northern Kingdom. Now the Samaritans lay claim to it. They have their own temple, their own laws, and have re-written our history. It’s a shame, a terrible shame!”

“Now James.” I waved dismissively. “The Samaritans aren’t demons. I’ve met a few. Papa did business with them. There no different than us.”

“Yeah, that one’s not bad looking.” John pursed his lips.

“So, James.” Philip looked at my brother. “Why are the Samaritans unclean? Is it just were they live?”

“No,” he snarled, “it because they’re mongrelized—a mixture of Syrians, Greeks and Jews.”

“What?” Peter’s mouth dropped.

“My mother’s father was a Samaritan.” Deborah muttered indignantly.

“Our fathers were Greek.” Arrius pointed to Marcellus.

“Mine too!” Marcus frowned. “We’re still Jews!”

“Greeks, you say?” James prodded. “Converts or mixed?”

“Neither.” Marcellus glared at him. “If you knew our history, you’d know there’s Jews everywhere—even in Rome!”

“I know our history,” James huffed, “but you’re not fish or foul. I know you Greek Jews play lightly with the law.”

Anna, the old woman, now cackled with mirth. “That’s why them Greeks wear sissy clothes and don’t have whiskers! They aren’t proper men!”

“Stop this!” Peter wrung a finger at them. “That’s not true, Anna. Shame on you James! Jesus doesn’t care about this. Why do you think he brought us here?”

“To make a point!” I chimed, folding my arms. “Jews come in many shades!”

“It’s true,” Barnabas stepped forward. “I met a black Jew once—a fellah from Egypt.”

Hearing Barnabas’ claim, Andrew and Philip laughed. The converts, John and his brother James looked at Barnabas in disbelief. Bartholomew, my brother, and I, who had seen more of the world than them, thought nothing of this. Once, in Antioch, I had met a Eunuch claiming to be a Jew. While the disciples chatted amongst themselves, Jesus approached the woman at the well. At that point, her back was turned to us, allowing Jesus to signal to us with a toss of his head. It seemed clear he wanted our silence. Sensing the significance of the encounter, we drew closer to the scene. Though my brother James felt that he was defiling himself, it wasn’t unusual for Jesus to stop and chat with strangers, whether Gentile or Jew, but this moment seemed especially important.

“I’m Jesus of Nazareth,” he introduced himself. “May I drink from your well?”

“Not a good idea,” James mumbled.

“How is it,” she asked amazement, “that you, a Jew, asks a drink from a Samaritan woman? The Jews have nothing to do with Samaritans. You think we’re unclean!”

“They are unclean!” James whispered in my ear.

Jesus spoke to all of us then: “No one, who seeks the Word is unclean. If you knew the gift of God, and who it is who asks you for a drink, you would have asked me to give you living water.”

“Living water?” muttered Bartholomew. “What’s he talking about now?”

Holding the handle of her empty pale, the woman was probably asking herself the same question. Seeing that Jesus had no pale, himself, she wrinkled her forehead, uttering a self-conscious laugh. Jesus waited patiently for her reply. Not understanding his meaning, she shrugged her shoulders and retreated a few steps. “Sir,” she said, pointing at the well, “you have nothing to draw water with. This well is deep. Where then do you get this living water?

I understood what his point was, but everyone else scratched their heads. The woman seemed especially dense.

Jesus answered now. “Are you greater than our father Jacob, who gave us the well, and drank from it himself, as well as his sons and his livestock? Whoever drinks of the water in your well will thirst again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. The water I’ll give you will become for you a fountain springing up into everlasting life!”

True to his aim to reach everyone, Jesus now offered salvation to a group even more problematical to Jews than Gentiles. I was deeply moved. I could hear the other men grumbling amongst themselves, and yet the woman’s face was radiant, reminding me of the converts’ expressions after baptism.

“Sir,” her voice caught in her throat, “…give me this water that I won’t thirst.”

I heard Peter mutter to Andrew, “Is he going to baptize her?”

“Sure.” Andrew nodded thoughtfully. “Why not?”

I thought the same myself, and did most of the others, but Jesus said, “Go find your husband and bring him here.”

Shaken by his answer, the woman replied, “I have no husband.”

“It is well that you said, ‘I have no husband.’” Jesus pointed accusingly. “You have, in fact, had five husbands, and the man you’re living with now is not your husband at all.”

“Whoa, this is getting good!” blurted John.

The fishermen and converts held their breaths, as the woman reached out with shaking hands. “Sir,” her voice trembled, “you are a great prophet of the Jews. My people worship on Mount Gerizim, but you Jews believe the proper place to worship is in Jerusalem—”

“Woman,” he interrupted, “Listen to me: ‘the hour is coming when you’ll neither on your mountain, nor in Jerusalem, worship the Father. You worship what you don’t understand, but we know what we worship: the salvation is of the Jews.” Looking over at the nucleus of his congregation (which I characterize in retrospect), he added for our benefit, too, “…The hour is coming when true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, not merely the law or temple. The Father wants such believers to worship Him. God is spirit. He resides everywhere. Those who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth.”

Hearing what seemed like a dismissal of the old faith again, James groaned, while the other followers, myself included, smiled knowingly, favorable to his outreach to our old foes.

The woman then said to Jesus, “I know the Messiah—the Christ. When he comes, he will tell us all things.”

And Jesus replied quickly, “I, Jesus of Nazareth, who speak to you, am he!”

After what John had called Jesus—the Lamb of God and the Anointed—the woman’s declaration didn’t surprise us. The words the woman used were, after all, basically the same words. What surprised us, was that Jesus had broken down the barriers of our faith, allowing non-Jews to hear and receive the good news. Not even my brother James questioned his reasoning now.

The issue of the woman’s five husbands or the fact that she was living in sin with a sixth man didn’t seem to bother Jesus now. He didn’t baptize her nor did he even find out her name. All of these matters were troubling to the disciples and converts. James had thought it was a bad move in the first place. I tried to explain to them that Jesus purpose was to instruct, not merely save the Samaritan woman.

******

After filling our water skins from the well, which James strongly objected to, we left Sychar for a campsite in the nearby hills. Perhaps, I suggested to the others, Jesus, in spite of his fine words, was uncomfortable with staying overnight in this town or was concerned with our state of minds. With the exception of James’ thinking, none of the others were worried about defilement so much as danger. I was just anxious to get on the road. Only the woman at the well had greeted our company, which seemed strange to Peter and Andrew. The converts, particularly Deborah, saw this as a threatening sign. When the women returned with other townsfolk, curious to see this Jesus, for themselves, we were safely on the road out of Sychar. Jesus left our company that moment, walking quickly back to greet them, as if to dismiss them or tell them to go away. None of us heard this exchange. I was curious, but the others continued walking to put distance between themselves and the town. Whatever Jesus said, however, caused them to nod their heads and depart peacefully back whence they came. This was fine with the disciples and converts who had been alarmed by their arrival. In spite of Jesus’ overture, we were all certain that Jews and Samaritans wouldn’t live in peace and harmony in our lifetimes. Thanks to the woman at the well, we now had another titles for Jesus: Messiah. Though it had, because of the Baptists earlier claims, not made a great an impact on our minds, it was the first time that Jesus admitted openly to being the Messiah or Christ (the Greek equivalent of this name.)

I suggested to them, as we detoured into the hills, that this was, after all, the purpose of our detour into Samaria: to demonstrate to us the universality of Jesus message that was open to all. My brother James snarled at this suggestion, but the fishermen and converts thought it was a good reason. Bartholomew, happy to be back in his cart, was just glad to be returning to Capernaum. But then, just as we thought we had made our get-away and Jesus was in our midst, a much larger group of Samaritans began marching up the hill on which we decided to pitch camp. The disciples’ optimism about the Samaritan people suddenly vanished.

“Look!” John pointed excitedly. “I knew it. That woman’s a spy. They’re coming back—lots of them this time.”

“Oh no,” John’s brother wailed, “Why’d we stop in this town?”

“What did we expect?” Peter said in resignation. “They warned us. You can’t mix Samaritans with Jews!”

Ignoring our fears, Jesus ran back again to meet them, his hands raised up as if to say, “Halt!” My brother James shouted with great bitterness now. “Are you satisfied, Jesus? There must be a hundred of them. That woman is leading them. You can’t cast pearls before swine!” Jesus would use that phrase later when he sent his disciples out on their own, but for now it had a negative meaning.

“Who cares about being defiled?” I said to James. “Those people might stone us!”

“I for one think we better run!” suggested Philip.

“Where?” Andrew looked around himself frantically for an avenue of escape.

“Up there!” John pointed to the trees.

John’s brother James was the first to scramble up the hill. Taking his cue, the fishermen and converts dashed away with little regard for the women in their midst. In an act of gallantry it seemed, John took Deborah’s trembling hand, pulling her along with the others. There was no time to prod the lazy mule. Bartholomew thrashed hysterically in his cart as I help him out, muttering bitterly, “I should never have let that numbskull Philip talk me into this! I could be home in Capernaum safe and sound. Hear I am running for my life!”

“Have faith,” I tried reassuring him. “Jesus will quiet the mob!”

“Jesus doesn’t know Samaritans!” he wailed.

The truth was I was terrified too. Drawing on all my energies to appear calm, I led Bartholomew behind a thicket of bushes while the others scrambled every which way, peeking fearfully through its limbs. What I saw was typical of Jesus in a crisis. I couldn’t hear him from this distance, but I could see him gesturing wildly to the men and women surrounding him. He had, I recalled, many times softened the mood of townsmen in Nazareth, was able to prevented the stoning of Ida in Cana, and was fearless in the temple while attacking the money lenders and priests. And yet, I reminded myself, Jesus was still a man. One day his overbearing attitude might just get him into trouble. Was this that day? These were not Galileans as in Capernaum, Cana, or Nazareth or Judeans as in Jerusalem. These were Samaritans, who were, as far as temperate, far worse than devil-may-care Gentiles. With my last bit of courage, I forced my legs to move back down the hill in order to hear what was going on.

“Look,” Philip cried, “he’s going back down!”

“Jude, Jude, come back!” my brother James shouted frantically.

“W-what are you doing?” Bartholomew’s voice quaked. “Are you mad?”

Listening to their pleas for reason, I walked ever so slowly. I could hear John say with grim certainty, “This is what I was afraid of. They’re gonna tear us to bits!” then hear Peter say forlornly, “We must help Jesus. Jude shouldn’t do this alone. Come my brothers and sisters.” Both the fishermen and converts argued over this issue, until finally, in a fit of conscience, Peter called through cupped hands, “Jude, wait a minute. Let me join you. We’ll go down together.”

It was at that point that my opinion of Peter began to change. Timid by nature, he overcame his fear, as I had to do. We had apparently set good examples for the others. When we looked back, we saw them trickling down the hill. Even Bartholomew was moved to emerge from the bush.

We will never know what Jesus said to the people, but, as we crept up to him, they stood a stone throwing distance from him, mumbling amongst themselves. What had seemed like a mob surging toward him now seemed like a group of curious minded citizens. In the front of this gathering, stood the woman from the well, her face radiant with joy.

“Rabbi,” a graybeard called out from the crowd. “Mariah told us you are a great prophet or teacher. Word had come to me before about a man, who cleansed the temple in Jerusalem, turning over the tables of the moneylenders and animal sellers, and scolding the temple priests. Are you that man?”

“I am he.” Jesus pointed to his chest.

“Good for you!” he cried, clapping his hands.

Jesus’ audience followed the man’s example, clapping and cheering for his controversial deed. The Samaritans had their own variation of Hebrew religion, with its own holy site on Mount Gerizim and its own priests. Not knowing what Jesus, James, Bartholomew, and I knew, however, the fishermen were surprised and delighted at this news. Once again, Jesus had won over a crowd—this time, of all places, in Samaria. As the crowd continued to chuckle and chatter amongst themselves, a second, younger man, beside Mariah, now stepped forth, bowing respectfully to him.

“Rabbi,” he said, gesturing to the crowd, “many of us have heard about you. A merchant, who does business with my father, told us about a man who turned water into wine. Was that you?”

“Yes.” Jesus nodded. “That was I too.”

Again everyone clapped and cheered. Mariah ran up to Jesus now and kissed his hand.

The young man who stood next to her might very well have been the man she was living in sin with, and the graybeard who mentioned her name might have been her father. I wondered then how many people knew about her sordid past. At that point another graybeard, hobbling on a cane, stepped forward, frowning and smiling at the same time.

Studying Jesus, he stroked his beard, his dark eyes filled with hope. “Is it true Jesus,” he chose his words carefully, “… My people don’t have a Messiah like the Jews, and yet the Baptist preached about such a man, who would come for all peoples—the Promised One of Israel. Are you he?”

“Yes, I am!” Jesus answered with a bow.

As he had done when meeting the woman at the well, he used this opportunity to preach, this time to her fellow citizens, many of whom were probably her family members and friends. As he preached, Mariah stood beside him, gazing up at his face. Had we not known better, we might have thought this unseemly, but, as we noticed at the River Jordan, Jesus had this effect on men and women alike.

Raising his arms, as if to embrace the crowd, he exclaimed, “Men and women of Sychar thank you for coming. I’m Jesus of Nazareth. Behind me are my disciples: Peter, Andrew, Philip, James, John, Bartholomew, and my brothers James and Jude. We arrive as strangers in your land with great tidings. Most of you may have wondered why would we foolish enough to detour through Samaria? Aren’t the Samaritans enemies of the Jews? This is what most people believe. The reason I stopped at Sychar was revealed to me by my Father. The Spirit of the Lord, through Mariah, brought you here. It is the Lord’s well that we spread the good news to our cousins, who’ve been divided from too long from the Jews. Some of you have heard of John, the Baptist, my kinsman, who called out as a voice in the wilderness, ‘Make way for the coming of the Lord.’ His message was clear to all: Repent of your sins, ask the Lord for forgiveness, and live a blameless life. He promised his followers, whom he baptized in the Jordan River, salvation for this covenant. He also promised Israel, as a whole, that a day would come when a Servant of the Most High would come, whom he called the Lamb of God, the Anointed One.” “… I am he,” he added after a pause. “…. In your presence, I bear out John’s claim. John was the forerunner, introducing the message, that I must share with the world. There is much more to the good news I bring Jews, Samaritans, and, one day, Gentiles, who are equals in one faith, in which we live as brothers and sisters in peace. I am the cause and definition. I bring you the promise of spiritual renewal and life everlasting.”

After this introduction, Jesus explained, as he had at the river, the expectations of the saved, which John had glossed over, including a summary of the Ten Commandments and the resistance of the seven sins, adding the rules of marriage, which Mariah had failed to keep, and a sermon on tolerance, in which he reminded the Samaritans of the ancient custom of hospitality to strangers, which seemed absent when we entered Sychar. Mariah, in spite of her sins (which Jesus didn’t cite), was blessed for being at the well, showing us hospitality, and taking to heart to his words. For this his father would remember her and bless her people for welcoming us here today.

The fishermen and converts were greatly relieved that Jesus had control over the crowd. Even my brother James was impressed by the Samaritan reaction. An awkward period followed Jesus’ sermon, in which some of the people who came out to greet us began to slip away and return to town. Turning to Peter, Jesus motioned for his water skin. Quietly saying the words of grace to her, he baptized her as he had others, but with a personal touch as he kissed her forehead and murmured, “Woman, you are reborn. Go and sin no more!” Mariah stood there before Jesus, a nimbus of sunlight on her dark hair, looking like a bride before her groom, not caring what her family and friends thought. The rite that had just taken place made no sense to the Samaritans, and yet they watched quietly with great respect. Her face streaked with tears and lips quivering, inspired by the Spirit, Mariah spoke as a psalmist:

“I was broken, tainted, and lost. Now I stand straight, cleansed, and with purpose. Like a seedling blown in the wind, almost uprooted, I’m renewed, raised up right, and made strong. You’ve made me whole again, Jesus—worthy of life and the kingdom to come. I am reborn!”

******

Nowhere in the writings collected by Luke are these words recorded, and yet they summarize for me more than any passage what being born again meant. Though she was the only convert made that day, Jesus was deeply moved by Mariah’s faith. The other Samaritans, however, remained on the sidelines looking on. That moment, as Jesus waited for a response, the first graybeard to question him, finally spoke. “Please, rabbi.” He clasped his hands expectantly. “Stay a few days with us. You have much to teach, and we have much to learn.”

Upon hearing this offer, a groan rose up from some of the fishermen and converts. Because I would have to listen to James complaining about being defiled, I wasn’t too happy myself. Nevertheless, no one protested aloud Jesus’ agreement to stay for two days. Considering his desire to return to Capernaum, our home base, he might have shown some reluctance, but he responded amiably to the man’s offer, agreeing to stay in his house. Comfortable with the fact that not all Samaritans were Jew-haters, we were more irritated than afraid. We had no idea what waited for us in the graybeard’s house. Though our fears were greatly reduced, the notion of being inside a Samaritan house still made us squeamish. What changed our minds was the accommodations we discovered in our host’s house, for it was even grander than Nicodemus’ estate. Our host had introduced himself as Abner, one of the elders of Sychar. As we suspected, Mariah was his daughter, whom he had made peace with him that very day.

For those two days, which, as far as food and living arrangements was actually quite similar to Jethro’s and Nicodemus’ homes, we rested up for the adventure ahead. It turned out that Abner and the elders of the town would test Jesus knowledge of the law and history of the Hebrews and Israelites, and endeavor to find out how the good news he preached differed from sacred script. Jesus began his defense with a claim he would repeat again and again: “I won’t change one bit of our law or holy script. What I offer adds to; it doesn’t distract from our faith. The message of salvation that I bring is for all peoples whether they’re Jews, Samaritans, or Gentiles. Though the latter inclusion brought frowns to some of the graybeards at the table, the Samaritans elders weren’t as stubborn and thick-headed as Pharisees.

On one point, however, they proved to be intractable. The Samaritan relatives and friends who visited Abner’s house, unlike Mariah, shrank from the notion of baptism. Like the Gentile god-fearers of old who honored our religion, they would, Jesus explained later, stand back respectively, too timid to go the extra mile, many of them not yet convinced of our message. Mariah, for that matter, he admitted sadly, while dazzled by his ability to read her mind, would remain, in spite of her baptism and fine words, a sinner nonetheless. Though straightened and momentarily cleansed, he explained, the ground on which she lived, with its briars of carnal temptation, was too great. But the seed was planted, he reassured us. For Mariah, Abner, and members of the crowd, and many of the observers at the River Jordan seeking the truth, they would, like the god-fearers, one day, like the converts, become committed believers.

“As gardeners who plant the seed, he exclaimed, looking at the converts, James, and I, “you must wait for it to grow. Be patient. Many plants remain fallow.” “For those casting the net,” he said, turning to the fishermen, “wait and see what you we catch. Not everyone called will listen. Many who listen will not believe. You are gardeners and fisherman now—servants of the Lord. “One day,” he added, with a sweeping glance, “God willing, many of you will do great things. Already, I see among you, the makings of shepherds to tend my sheep. You are the first of my flock. Some of you will return home and share the news with your family and friends, but most of you will remain and one day go forth as herdsmen yourselves.”

******

Jesus’ colorful speech impressed the simple fishermen and converts. James and I were reminded of how well our brother wove words. Apart from the point he was making, however, which was easy for us to understand, were the great expectations he had for us, particularly for his disciples, at which his speech was aimed. Speaking for myself, these expectations were overwhelming. I wasn’t a gardener of men; neither was James. I could tell by the dubious expressions on Peter and his friends faces that casting a net for human fish was still a frightening prospect, and I wasn’t sure if James could overcome his mental imprint of the law. Jesus had much greater faith in us than we had in ourselves. It was easy to make someone a disciple or ‘servant of the Lord’; being one was a different matter. Of the fishermen, only Peter and possibly Andrew and Philip, appeared very promising. John seemed too immature to be a disciple. His brother James barely spoke now, and Bartholomew, though also a member of Jesus’ inner circle, could barely walk.

More questions plagued me on the way back to Capernaum. One in particular was ‘why were the converts tagging along?’ They had been baptized, and yet Jesus hadn’t selected them. Would they one day become disciples, too. I couldn’t imagine how the lumbering Barnabas, young Mark, or Arrius and Marcellus (who looked like clean-shaven Romans) fit into Jesus’ schemes. They were, after all, only converts, as were the two women, who appeared traumatized by their experience. Deborah was too delicate to be a disciple, let alone a shepherdess, and it was surprising that Anna, the old woman, was still alive. That we were the beginning—foundation and bedrock—of what was essentially a new religion we couldn’t have imagined. All things considered—the attitude, likelihood, and small size of our group, it was a humble beginning: a mixed bag of men and women, who would, Jesus promised that day, help spread the good news.

Chapter Eight

Samaria

It was true that throughout Jesus’ life he wasn’t deceitful and never lied. I can personally attest to this fact. As far as I know he never knowingly sinned even as a child. And yet, after telling us that our ultimate goal was Capernaum, which would be our base of operations, we stopped at several towns in Samaria and Galilee along the way. This was a great disappointment to the fishermen, who had families in Capernaum. Though it really made no difference to me, James was having second thoughts about joining our group. The key word here, I suggested to them, was ‘ultimate,’ which left much leeway for preaching on the way to Capernaum. There is no question that these stops would be important in Jesus’ ministry. Galilee was awakening from its long, spiritual sleep under the old order where Pharisees and priests decided what folks believed. Now, with the simple message of repentance and salvation, each man and woman had a one-to-one relationship with God, without intermediary priests or graybeards telling them how to pray.

For most of this period, the number of disciples remained the same. Of course, we had no idea Jesus had in mind twelve, not eight, Apostles, that would later be supplemented by seventy more disciples who would preach the good news. For this early part of his mission, we remained small. Even the number of converts who followed us would grow gradually—a handful here and a handful there. At each stop, Jesus would preach, we would assist him in baptism, and, after staying for a day or two, go on to the next town. Abstract concepts such as the Word, which were too complicated for ordinary minds, were left for his fireside chats with us. Doctrine and points of law stressed by Pharisees and rabbis were absent. John the Baptists familiar shout, “Repent, the day of the Lord is here,” would be followed by Jesus’ promise that all men could be saved by God’s grace if they repented of their sins and, through baptism and repentance, were born again.

We had no idea at the beginning the next phase of Jesus ministry, that Jesus would add four disciples to our circle and the number of converts would require adding seventy more people to baptize and spread the word. This was many weeks away. When we arrived at our first stop on the way back to Capernaum, we were still a small band of eight disciples and six converts, still not clear on what Jesus had in mind. We were stunned by Jesus’ detour. The fishermen and newly saved were already homesick. Haunting James was the notion we might minister to Gentiles, and here we were stopping at Aenon, another Samaritan city.

That moment, as the others walked ahead of us, my brother James and I remained at the end of the march alongside of Bartholomew and his cart.

“Wait, Jesus,” James called from the rear, “we’re still in Samaria!”

“Yes, master.” John tugged at his sleeve. “We might not be so lucky this time.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Jesus chided him. “Where’s your faith?”

At this point, everyone—disciples and converts—uttered a collective gasp. We had assumed when we reached a fork in the road we would continue north, but Jesus led us straight into town.

“Uh Jesus,” Peter grew panicky. “Why’re we stopping so soon? Did you plan this stop? Your brother’s right. We’re still in Samaria!”

“This will be even easier than Sychar,” Jesus explained calmly. “My cousin preached here. As in Judea, he was the forerunner. These people are prepared for the word!”

The fishermen looked at him in disbelief. After muttering hysterically under his breath, Andrew tapped his shoulder. “Oh Jesus,” he tried being respectful. “Wasn’t John arrested here? There’s plenty of towns up north. At least wait until we cross the border!”

“I listen to my Father,” he replied forthrightly.

I trotted quickly up to Jesus. Speaking on behalf of the others, I said discreetly. “Psst, Jesus. If John was arrested here, what makes you think the authorities won’t arrest you too?”

“Because,” Jesus replied impatiently, “they didn’t arrest John—Herod’s men did.”

“Yes.” I sighed. “Who do you suppose told Herod? Is it possible that Sychar was an exception. Next time at the communal well we might all get lynched.”

“Jude.” He gave me a wounded look. “Are you playing the Devil’s advocate? I know your mind. You’re not that frightened.”
“No,” I said from the corner of my mind, “but the others are, even Peter. James is terrified.”

Jesus studied me a moment. I had forgotten that he did, in fact, know my mind. He could read my thoughts and actions like a scroll. The truth was, of course, I was tired of listening to the disciples’ and converts’ complaints. Their fears were their own problem. In this respect, Jesus was right: where was their faith? I wasn’t exactly sure yet what I believed in, but I believed in him. Another issue surfaced in my mind as we entered the town of Aenon. Jesus had the potential to make this journey interesting and fun. The miracle in Cana and even what happened in the temple were exciting points. I also found episodes at the river entertaining too. But this wasn’t fun. Except for Jesus, I was surrounded by grumbling and whimpering people. We all knew Jesus was guided by his father; he told us this enough. That was fine with me—I don’t doubt this a bit, but what was his plan? Would we travel throughout the Roman Empire spreading the message? How far would this go? Other than the catchwords provided by John and a few additions he added himself, his message could be boiled down to “Repent and be saved.” That wasn’t a plan. There wasn’t a map or instructions for us to follow; all we had was the information in Jesus’ mind. Was this going to replace two thousand years of history. If our stop at Aenon was any indication, Jesus—through his father’s command—was making this up as he went along. Perhaps, if Jesus performed a few more miracles, it might liven up this group. Simply telling us that it’s his father’s will, wasn’t enough.

That very moment, as thoughts swirled in my head, Jesus once more read my mind. “Jude,” he scolded, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You worry too much. Stop doubting me. Go back and comfort your brother and Bartholomew. Leave the others to me!”

Once more, I was ashamed of my actions. I, more than any of Jesus’ followers, understood his powers. I’ve been an eyewitness throughout my life. In the town of Aenon, however, I was filled with misgivings. I wasn’t certain why exactly; it was just a feeling. The disciples and converts fears seemed contagious. Here we were inside another Samaritan city with only Jesus to protect us. I remembered what happened in Cana when Andrew, Philip, and I cowered behind Jesus as he confronted a mob. This time there wasn’t a mob—just unfriendly stares as we passed citizens on the road. In whispers I tried bolstering James and Bartholomew’s courage. Looking ahead at the others, I noticed that only Peter and Barnabas, among the disciples and converts, were not muttering fearfully to themselves. After we found the center of town, as we had in Sychar, three women were taking turns drawing water from the well. Nearby, stood a graybeard and two younger men, idling by the well. All six of these citizens, after turning to face us, displayed the same scrutiny townsfolk gave us on the road.

“Stay in back of me,” Jesus murmured discreetly. “I’ll do the talking. Don’t lose your nerve!”

As in Cana, we huddled like sheep behind the Shepherd. I sensed that the villagers were predisposed against us. Cousin John, who was here recently, flashed into my head. Breaking away from the others, the graybeard scuttled over, punching the dirt with his cane. More timidly the young men and women followed behind. How he figured out that we were Jews and not Samaritans, impressed me greatly. At first, he didn’t seem like a threat. Once again, I was wrong.

“You’re a Nazarene,” he said to Jesus. “I can tell by you hair and beard. The others are Galilean fishermen, which, by their dress, is obvious too.” “You, however,” he studied the converts, “are a mixture of Judeans and Greek-speaking Jews.” “And you.” He said, pointing his cane at James, “judging by the ink in your fingernails are a scribe, yet you’re dressed like a Galilean.” “Like you.” he looked over at me with crooked smile.” “All Jews nonetheless,” he concluded proudly. “I can point out Syrians, Romans, Greeks, and Egyptians, too.”

“You are indeed a seer!” I gave him a look of respect.

“I am Jesus bar Joseph,” Jesus bowed politely. “These are my companions.”

Glancing back protectively, he whispered, “Have no fear!” Not distinguishing disciple from convert, he introduced his followers. John held Deborah’s hand to comfort her. Bartholomew sat petrified in his cart. Everyone attempted to smile bravely as Jesus called out our names. Fidgeting with boredom, the graybeard frowned impatiently. The Samaritan women seemed only curious, but there were snarls on the young men’s sparsely-bearded faces. During the introductions, more townsfolk appeared, until there was suddenly a crowd, mumbling with discontent.

With a sudden change of heart, the graybeard recoiled. “I’m Ahab,” he announced crossly. “What business do you have in Aenon?”

Because Jesus couldn’t lie, he came straight to the point. “I come bearing good news!”

“Good news, you say?” Ahab sneered. “Like that rascal John?”

“Yes,” Jesus answered quickly. “John was the forerunner. I come to fulfill scriptures—”

“Scriptures?” Ahab interrupted. “What scriptures. Beelzebub’s scroll?”

With commanding strength, Jesus did something new. Very selectively, as I understand it now, he presented the least controversial of the Mosaic prophesies, carefully using the word prophet, not Messiah or any of the terms the Baptist used. To refer to most of the Messianic prophecies and use such terms would have incited the townsfolk. As it turned out, of course, it was Jesus’ message that antagonized members of the mob.

“For those who seek the truth,” he cried, “lend an ear. For those whose hearts are stone, hearken to the words of Moses. We all know Moses, as we do Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Moses promised that a prophet would deliver his people. Like John, he prepared the way. Moses was a stranger in the land of the Midianites, as I am a stranger in the land of the Samaritans. All of us—Midianite, Israelite or Samaritan are children of Abraham and sons of Jacob. I am that prophet for Jew, Samaritan and Gentile, sent to heal the broken hearted, give hope to the poor, and bring a new dispensation for sinners. The law has been your only guide. But I’m hear to tell you that God’s free-giving grace is a greater guide. As the Jewish leaders have made it, the law has become a sterile and unsatisfying thing. All is really needed is repentance of sins and acceptance of God’s grace. You’ll be baptized anew and be rewarded with paradise—life-everlasting. You, who have been denied the temple in Jerusalem, open your hearts, clear you mind of hatred, and simply heed the word—”

“Lies! Lies!” Ahab shook his cane. “Where is this written? Moses never said that!”

“It’s what that Baptist was saying,” explained a man in the crowd. “He promised a deliverer too.”

“Yes,” a woman piped, “he also attacked Herod. They arrested him this week. I hope they cut off his head!”

“Are you a troublemaker too?” the old man asked.

“I come in peace,” Jesus said serenely. “John was a righteous man.”

“No.” The graybeard shook his head. “John was a stupid man!”

“You would include Gentiles in your promise?” A portly fellow stepped forward. “The Gentile are pagan. They eat pork.”

“Their priestesses are prostitutes and they sacrifice children to their gods.” A second woman wrung her fist.

Jesus bristled at the characterization of John and their accusations yet kept his temper. I thought of James words then, “Don’t throw pearls before swine,” which applied to both their resentment of Gentiles and to themselves. Why was Jesus wasting his time on Samaritans? I wondered The citizens of Sychar had been impressed with his personality but, with the exception of Mariah, none of them were baptized that day. These people looked like they wanted to stone us. At the very least they would chase us out of town. By now, judging by the mood of the crowd, I gathered that Jesus’ inclusion of the word Gentiles was his greatest error. I would be quite happy if they let us leave peacefully without issue. Jesus, however, would once again win over his audience—this time in a way that simple folk understood.

“Lord,” he cried, “your mercy for this stiff-necked people is boundless!” With his eyes shut tightly, his first two fingers and thumb raised, and remaining fingers closed, he called out loudly, “Miriam, daughter of Hur, come forth!”

Abruptly, the restless crowd was silent. The disciples and converts looked on with bated breath.

“What’s he doing now?” James whispered into my ear. “He’s acting really weird.”

“Don’t worry” I reassured him. “Jesus knows what he’s doing.”

“I dunno,” Bartholomew muttered, “That’s a mean crowd. This better be good.”

Peter, who would one day be called Jesus’ Rock, stood alongside of him now. Andrew moved up beside Jesus, as did Philip. While John comforted Deborah, his brother James joined the other four fishermen in a united front. Moving up to join them, Barnabas, Mark, Arrius, and Marcellus stood bravely with folded arms. Standing alone behind them, Anna’s withered face shone with expectation and illumination, which I shared. As Bartholomew remained seated in his cart, my brother James and I took our places beside the converts. On each side of Jesus we stood our ground—a solid line, not knowing where this would lead. Sunlight now glistened on Jesus light brown hair, his shadow stretching forward into the crowd. Looking heavenward, he prayed quietly a moment. When his eyes opened, a frail-looking girl in her teens stood before him, staring into space with clouded, unseeing eyes.

Jesus took her hand now and, moving through the crowd, stopped at the well. Raising up one of pales set aside by the women, he sat it momentarily on the edge of the well.

“Do you believe in the grace of my Father, Miriam?” he asked, taking both of her wrists.

“Yes, rabbi,” she said faintly.

“Do you repent your sins, my daughter, so that you’ll be reborn in spirit and live in God’s grace from this day forward?”

“Yes, oh yes,” she murmured. “I shall.”

“Do you believe in paradise, your reward, and accept death as a gate to life-everlasting?”

“I know you’re the savior John promised!” she cried out in a strangled voice. “Jesus save me. I’m a sinner. I believe! I believe!”

Reaching into the bucket, he brought out handfuls of water, saying solemnly, “I baptize you with water, my daughter, to wash away your sins. You are reborn—in the Spirit—into a new life. This gift is freely given. Because of your faith and to awaken the sleepers in this town, my Father will give you a second gift, Miriam.”

As he released the water over her dark hair, he splashed some of it onto her face. Closing her sightless eyes, she gasped. There was a resounding intake of breaths in the crowd, as Jesus placed his left and right palm over each respective eye and prayed silently again.

“Miriam,” he shouted now, releasing his hands, “open your eyes. Behold your new life!”

Miriam opened her eyes, blinking for a moment, as the daylight shocked her brain. As they surrounded Jesus and the girl, the disciples, converts, and townsfolk were speechless, for there in the once colorless, clouded eyeballs of Miriam were two beautiful black crystals glistening with tears of joy.

“What is this?” Ahab grumbled aloud. “Is this sorcery or trickery, Jesus? Would you make yourself God?”

A man rushed forward, exclaiming, “This is no trick, Ahab. You’re the one whose now blind. Miriam, my youngest daughter, has been blind since birth!”

“Hah!” Ahab said mockingly. “You brought your family here from Sychar, Hur. We never see that child. You keep her hidden away. Are you in league with this magician? No one can heal the sick except God and his Anointed. This man is a Nazarene, leading a band of dirty Galileans and Judeans. I heard about your Jewish messiah. He’s supposed to come in glory, a flaming chariot, not with this ragged bunch.”

We were dismayed by Ahab’s slander, but Jesus ignored him completely. With Miriam and her father present and his disciples close by, he took this opportunity to offer salvation to the rest of the crowd. Thankful that Jesus restored his daughter’s sight, Hur allowed Jesus to say the expected words of grace and baptize him. Unlike the illumination witnessed in the Judean converts, however, he appeared to be embarrassed when Jesus sprinkled well-water over him. Taking Miriam’s hand afterwards, he whispered “Thanks” and disappeared in the crowd. There was, in fact, as in Sychar, a great reluctance to step forward.

This might have been a defining hour for Jesus. From a man who didn’t even believe in the Messiah, a suggestion of Jesus’ identity was spoken, but was cast in a negative light. Though many Samaritans were dazzled by his miracle, his message, at best, received a mixed reaction: from polite curiosity, as in Sychar, to silent opposition. Though Miriam had used one of the Baptist’s less defining names, there was, as I understand it now, the implication that day that Jesus was the Promised One, the Savior foretold by John. This claim, later elaborated upon by Peter, would one day become a catchword. At this stage, however, it was unspoken, only felt, as a prickling at the back of the neck, by his followers. Being a great prophet or even a deliverer of sorts was one thing, but considering Jesus simple message, modest attire, and rustic supporters, being the Messiah was quite another. This reality would grow slowly for the disciples after each miracle and sermon. Except for one cryptic passage in the scroll of Isaiah about a suffering servant, the long awaited Redeemer of Israel was supposed to, as Ahab implied, come in glory as an earthly ruler similar to King David. He would, the Jews believed, smite the Roman oppressors and bring about a new age. Even Isaiah writes about this warrior king, canceling out it seems the other version in his scroll…. Jesus clearly wasn’t this man.

At least in Sychar the crowd grew; it didn’t shrink. When Jesus went on to explain his formula for salvation, as James put it, the people began to disperse. Like the citizens of Sychar they may have thought Jesus was just one more crazy prophet like John, the Baptist. In fact, instead of preparing the way for Jesus, as he had at the river, John’s fiery lapse into attacks against Herod Antipas may have muddied the water for him. Ahab’s conflicting accusations that Miriam’s father was somehow in league with the stranger and that he was a sorcerer, likely influenced the crowd, too. It could also have simply been their resentment at having a Jew preach to them. The first thing Ahab did was make fun of Jesus beard and hair and his followers’ Galilean and Judean attire. But the differences between Samaritans and Jews, I would learn that night from Jesus, was much greater.

The hour had begun in inauspiciously when Ahab appeared. Jesus had made a valiant effort but the flight of Hur and his daughter seemed like the final straw. Nevertheless, this day was a great milestone in Jesus’ ministry. He had restored sight to a girl blind since birth, his greatest feat so far. Contrasting the mood of the crowd, were the reactions of the faithful. The men in our group were slack-jawed at first, jabbering in amazement amongst themselves. Deborah and Anna were weeping. James and I had seen Jesus once resurrect a dead bird and heard about the miracles he did when accompanying Joseph of Arimathea in his travels, so we were less impressed. Unlike Cana, in which our mother forced his hand, Jesus had purposefully tried to grab the Samaritans of Aenon’s attention. It was quite startling, but not as impressive as resurrecting a dead bird. Also effecting James and my enthusiasm was the attitude of the Samaritans. They were a peculiar and fickle lot. Ignoring the spiteful graybeard, several townsfolk had touched Jesus’ robe as if he, himself, held magical powers, and yet none of them wanted baptism and salvation. They had, Jesus must have silently concluded, missed the point entirely. Soon, after he studied the crowd, I saw him heave a sigh. Dissent in the crowd, though not at the level of stoning fever, had been ignited by the graybeard. It seemed as though many of the Samaritans did in fact think Jesus was some sort of sorcerer.

Retreating a distance from us, a group of men listened to Ahab continue to make his case.

Jesus prayed a moment, staring sadly up at the sky. When he was finished, he said only a few words, “We shall leave now!” and turning his back on the crowd, led us out of the town.

******

As we made our way through town, the disciples and converts were relieved to put Aenon behind them, and yet they were excited about the miracle Jesus had just performed. The miracle had served to move them further along in their discipleship. Jesus was, if nothing else, a great prophet and miracle worker. Yet this is hindsight. At the time, they didn’t understand who he was. Neither did James and I. What troubled me most as we made camp was why the Samaritans rejected his message. Already I had thought of a few reasons. I shared my earlier reflections as we sat by the fire. Jesus said nothing a moment, leaving me to wonder if I my reasoning was faulty.

Looking across the flames as we ate our evening meal, he tried explaining the problem. James and I understood him, but the fisherman and Judeans stared at him blankly at times. Though comprehending his words, James, like the others, was drowsy and ready for a night’s rest. I had the special feeling then, similar to those moments in our youth, when Jesus counseled me on my actions or behavior. He looked squarely into my eyes, without blinking, speaking directly to me.

“There are many reason why the Samaritans are so stiff-necked,” he said thoughtfully.

“I don’t understand them at all,” I said glumly. “I’ve been thinking Jesus…They’re so different from us. That may be at the root of it. I heard they’re a mixture of Syrian, Greek, Jews, and many peoples. We’re a pure race—God’s chosen. They talk differently and act differently than us. They even dress differently. They wear wild colors and I noticed that many of the women don’t wear vales. They saw our differences from them at once. The first thing that old man did was make fun of your beard and hair and our dress—”

“That’s not the reason, either,” he interrupted curtly. “It lies deeper than that. The greatest difference, which makes it so difficult for me to reach them, is their religion. The Samaritans have a different Torah than we Jews. Unlike Jews who pray toward Jerusalem where the temple resides, the Samaritans face Mount Gerizim to pray. More importantly, Jude, is the Messianic portion of our faith. You recall John promising people a savior. Until his attacks on Herod, that was his message. The Jews believe in a coming redeemer who will bring in a new age and most of them believed in an afterlife—elements that would seem to make Jews more susceptible to my teaching. Even pagan Gentiles, Syrians, and Egyptians believed in some form of afterlife. Samaritans, who don’t have that promise in their scrolls, have no such expectations. There is no mention of a messiah or an afterlife. What I presented to them must have sounded incomprehensible and was just too strange to accept. Whatever the reason, Jude; at the end of the day, there was only two converts made—Miriam and her father. Her father was so worried that he might offend his fellow citizens he grabbed his daughter’s hand and fled.” “I still believe,” he added, staring into the fire, “that I planted the seed.”

“Perhaps.” I nodded reluctantly. “You planted a few in Cana and Sychar too. Just the same, Jesus, let’s leave Samaria.” “Don’t waste pearls before swine,” I quoted James. “Galilee will be more fertile ground.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “there’s many towns in Galilee. That’s where my Father has been leading us, but I haven’t given up on the Samaritans. There’s one more town we shall visit: Shechem. Our father did business there.”

“Jesus!” I gripped my forehead in despair. “You’re wasting our time! Why bother with this province? It’s cursed. Let’s just concentrate on the Jews!”

“Please don’t argue, Jude.” He held up his hand. “My Father speaks. I must obey!”

What could I say to that? I didn’t have the energy to argue with him. Jesus was not the one to give up. He seemed to choose his words carefully now, as I sulked a moment. “I’m not here for just the Jews. I’m here for everyone: Jews, Gentiles, even Samaritans. It won’t be easy, especially with our people, who are expecting someone I can’t be. That is the most important part of the message. I bring them spiritual rebirth and the promise of eternal life. The message is one thing; it is clear and easy to understand, but I must convince them of who I am.”

“That’s easy.” I yawned. “You’re the Lamb of God—the Anointed One.”

Jesus gave me a probing look. “Do you understand what that means, Jude?”

“Yes,” I parroted some catch phrases, “the Anointed One is a great prophet. You’re bringing to Galilee, Judea, and Samaria a new religion. The old religion will pass away and be replaced by God’s grace—”

“There’s more.” He waved dismissively “That’s enough for now. We have much work to do, Jude. The Samaritans merely need convincing, but many Jews have already made up there mind. The Gentiles, who have many gods, have a better chance of accepting the truth.”

“Really?” I jerked awake.

“Yahweh is just one more god in their pantheon,” Jesus expounded. “They have no preconceptions as do the Jews and Samaritans. They will barely recognize the God I preach to them.” “All this will come later,” he conclude, rising to his feet. “We have a long trek ahead of us to Shechem. For now, little brother, get some sleep.”

In spite of my regret that we weren’t leaving this dreadful province, I was greatly moved. Jesus hadn’t called me little brother for a long time. Though he kept referring to his family in a wider since to include everyone who was a follower, I was, through our mother and father, more than just a disciple. I was, as James, his brother. He had shared his thoughts, confiding his misgivings to me exclusively, as the others slept. I felt special. Jesus and I were the last ones to settle on our pallets that night. I wasn’t certain he was asleep as he lie next to me near the fire. I never once in my life saw him sleep. I sensed, as I drifted into slumber that he was much more than a prophet, and yet it seemed too fantastic to believe. If he was, in fact, the Messiah, the priests and rabbis have had it wrong. Centuries of waiting by our people for a warrior king, as written down in our holy scrolls, have been interpreted incorrectly…How could this be possible? I asked myself somnolently. Who was that other Messiah spoken of by Isaiah? How is it that only a few passages in scripture gives a true picture of this man? I didn’t know what the answer was then, but a great expectation filled me now. In the days ahead, Jesus would be tested again, and we would be tested too: in Samaria, Galilee, and Judea. I was certain of this. We, his followers, would grow spiritually, our doubts fading with each new miracle and sermon, accepting, despite contradictions in prophecy and tradition, Jesus interpretation of himself.

******

Our trek to Shechem, which I hoped would be the last we would see of Samaria proved to be eventful. It seemed as though the closer we came to the Galilean border the better our prospects became. Far from giving up in Samaria, Jesus was filled with new hope. According to him, God had promised him victory in Shechem. It would, he was certain, open the spiritual gates for the entire province. Considering who told him this, we were hesitant to argue this point. Nevertheless, there was much grumbling as Jesus took every opportunity on the way to the city of Shechem, to preach the word. Each little town or hamlet on the way to our destination was an opportunity to plant spiritual seeds as he called them. Without rivers or available wells, baptism was difficult but not impossible. At an village, whose name we never bothered to ascertain, Jesus went ahead to encounter a man, who was apparently insane. James was certain his brain had been destroyed by wine, as was the case with our uncle Joash. The man smelled of drink. He had all the signs of a drunk. He cursed and threw donkey droppings at us. We were certain he might attack Jesus. But, as he came within inches of hitting him, Jesus held up his hand and simply said, “Be silent!”

The man blinked his eyes, looked back at a small crowd gathering by a spring, and walked slowly away.

“Whoa!” Peter crowed.

“Ho-ho,” Anna cackled. “Jesus gave him the evil eye!”

“Absalom!” He called sternly.

Absalom stopped in his tracks. Turning slowly, he snarled at Jesus, yet backed away fearfully this time. Mumbling something incoherently, he held his arm over his eyes, as if the advancing Jesus was a blinding light.

When Jesus was close to the man, he reached out, gripped the man’s forehead, and shouted loudly, “In the name of my Father, whose spirit I carry, depart!”

The man staggered backward, groaning, until a look of peace came over his face. Jesus repeated the command, this time adding the question, “Are you sorry for your misspent life, Absalom?”

“Yes,” Absalom nodded miserably, “I am.”

“Do you repent your sins against your family and God?” Jesus led him to the spring.

“Yes.” Absalom wept. “I do, I really do.”

“Absalom,” Jesus embraced him. “If you believe in me, sent by my Father, you shall have eternal life, but you must sin no more.”

“I’ll be good,” Absalom bobbed his head like a little child. “I’ll be good master. I surely well!”

Scooping water from the spring and splashing it on Absalom’s head, Jesus intoned solemnly, “I baptize you into a new life. You are reborn of the spirit. For your faith, I wipe away the effect of drink that have poisoned you mind and body. Go Absalom, back to your family, and sin no more!”

The fishermen and converts clapped their hands with gladness. So impressed were the simple folk watching this scene, they came forward now, asking to be baptized too. I immediately took the cue, racing up to lend a hand. With less hesitation Peter and Andrew lurched forward, feeling obliged to pitch in. John, who had been standing next to Deborah, followed suit, as did his brother, then Philip. James more reluctantly followed our example, and then, after climbing out of his cart, Bartholomew hobbled up to wait his turn. Lastly, and quite unexpectedly Barnabas and Marcus even volunteered, becoming the first followers outside of Jesus inner circle to perform this rite.

As it turned out, almost the entire community promised to live new lives in order to be saved, receive Jesus blessing, and be baptized by Jesus and his followers. One hundred and four new followers, who would remain as witnesses to share the word, were left behind as we made camp that night. Though we barely had enough food for ourselves, Jesus accepted three men and one woman from the village to accompany us to Galilee. Considering their Samaritan dress, James and I told Jesus this was a bad idea, but he didn’t have the heart to turn them away.

“Do they know this a permanent commitment?” asked James. “You said so yourself, Jesus. There can be no turning back?”

“I know that.” Jesus sighed. “I will give them the strength. Have faith, James.”

“But Jesus,” I reminded him. “Galileans don’t like Samaritans. Commitment or not, they won’t be well received.”
“Don’t worry, Jude,” he replied wearily, “I will protect them. Faith will be their shield. You, my brothers, should set an example for the others. Welcome and embrace our Samaritan converts. They’re making great sacrifices to come along. You think this will be an easy road. This won’t be easy, but it will be rewarding. Each soul you help save is more important than all the wealth of the world!”

James raised an eyebrow and whistled under his breath, as Jesus walked away. James, who had studied with Nicodemus was giving up a career as a scribe. I, on the other hand, had given up no career. There was no better place for me to be than here with Jesus. While he chatted with our new members and reassured the others, James, Bartholomew, and I sat at our corner of the fire ring discussing the events of today.

“Humph! That Absalom fellow wasn’t mad,” Bartholomew declared, tossing a twig into the flames. “I’ve seen drunks before.”

“He wasn’t possessed by a demon either,” decided James. “I saw a demon-possessed man. It’s awful. They had to tie him up. He swallowed his own tongue and choked to death. That man came to too quickly.’”

Bartholomew gave him a bewildered look. “Do you doubt Jesus?”

“No, of course not,” James replied defensively, “but I didn’t see the signs.”

“It was still a miracle.” I said thoughtfully. “Until being set free, Absalom had led a dissolute life. In my travels, I’ve seen people who were purest evil. When Jesus cried out ‘depart!’ he was chasing away evil. How is that so different?”

“I suppose so,” James replied begrudgingly, “but not everything Jesus does is a miracle!”

I couldn’t argue with that. In Cana, Jesus had resisted the temptation to perform a miracle, but our mother had forced his hand. I’m sure he would have preferred not exhibiting his God-given power just to make folks believe. Ever since that first day as child, however, when he brought that dead sparrow back to life, the temptation for him must have been very great. Whether outright miracles as in Cana and Aenon or what we saw by the spring when water seemed to miraculously appear, the power was there. If it still filled me with awe, I could just imagine how it affected the other disciples’ and the converts’ minds. For a moment, as we sat there listening to the crackle of the fire, most of them were bedding down for the night. I was surprised that Bartholomew, old and infirmed as he was, was still awake. Briefly, filled with old longing, I thought of Deborah lying there in the dark. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. What on earth was she doing here in this bunch? I couldn’t help wondering. She was much to fragile and feminine. What would this life do to her beauty and sensibilities? There was danger and hardship ahead of us. Would she really give up her old life for an uncertain future? For those moments, I recalled another girl in Nazareth who had stolen my heart: Tabitha. Tabitha hadn’t been fragile or really feminine. She had been a firebrand at times. That seemed to be ages ago, though. It was a life forbidden to me if I followed Jesus. Suddenly, cast away from my family and companions of the past, I felt alone and adrift on this path. It wasn’t just Deborah who was out of place, I realized. What was I doing here? I was still young, and I had a future. Did I really want to wander around the countryside ministering to rustics and rabble?

James had slipped away and joined the others in slumber. What brought me back to earth suddenly was something Bartholomew said to himself.

“I was evil too, just like Absalom…” I could hear him mutter. “I started a new life in Capernaum, repairing nets, but once I was called Reuben, a bandit, who rode with murderers—”

“Bartholomew,” I whispered self-consciously, looking around at the camp. “You must keep that to yourself. The fishermen don’t care. Even James doesn’t care. Like all of us, Jesus accepted you as you are. But the Judeans and the people we meet on the road might not understand. It’s in the past. Don’t bring that up again!”

“You and your brother forgive me?” he asked in a small voice.

“Of course,” I said, patting his knee. “Reuben’s dead. Bartholomew lives. You’re a disciple of Jesus now, Bartholomew. That’s your new life!”

******

It seems ironic that the onetime enemy of my father and family would become one of my best friends. Bartholomew bore no resemblance to his old self. If I hadn’t known about his past, I would never have guessed that this gentle, old man had been a highwayman and thief.

That night, as I had been doing since our journey began, I helped him make his pallet. The simple bodily movements of younger men were difficult for him. Because of his infirmities, he was, like Deborah and the Greek-speaking Jews, less suited for the rigors of travel, and yet he was content just to be in Jesus’ presence. I wasn’t content. It had nothing to do with Jesus or his mission either; it was much more basic. Like John, who was about my age, I was beguiled by Deborah. I had no idea what I might do with this feeling, but, as we broke camp and journeyed north to Aenon, our next destination, my longing for her became unbearable.

To make matters worse for me, as I tried concentrating on our mission to convert more Samaritans, was the constant stop and go to baptize villagers on the way, a pattern that made the relatively short distance from Aenon to Aenon seem to take forever. Added to these delays, of course, was Bartholomew and his cart. The bumpy road was tortuous to poor Bartholomew, and his mule required water and feeding each time we stopped. I thought it might get better in friendlier climes. Jesus had said earlier that we would stop in Nazareth. The truth was, of course, the problem wouldn’t go away there, either. As long as Deborah was in our company, I would have to face her and act like a fool.

I had been walking in a mental fog alongside of Bartholomew’s cart, as he prattled on—not hearing and barely seeing the road ahead as I held the reigns of his mule, when I heard Jesus talking to a handful of farmers by the roadside. As the young man in Sychar, they heard from a merchant about the miracle performed in Cana in which Jesus turned water into wine. This pattern—traveling merchants acting as unwitting heralds of Jesus wonders—would continue throughout his ministry. An assembly of Samaritans, sent out to investigate this strange man, approached him as he gave his formula for salvation: belief, repentance, and baptism. Calling out “Blasphemer! Heretic!” at the top of their lungs, they demanded Jesus stop sprinkling water from the skin onto a farmer’s head. Jesus ignored him. For the first time since we began, it looked as though the disciples might physically protect Jesus. While the fishermen, Barnabas, and Marcus stood on each side of Jesus, James, Bartholomew, Arrius, Marcellus, the two women, and I lingered in the background. I assumed the others in this group were fearful of the strangers, but I was just very annoyed.

“Who are these local, backwoods magistrates to make such a claim?” I turned to James.

“Jude, stop, let Jesus handle this!” James cried as I rushed forward.

“You have some nerve calling him a blasphemer and heretic!” I screamed at the men. “You don’t even worship at the temple. You have only the Torah—a bastardized version at that. We Jews have the prophets and tradition dating directly to Abraham. You are a mix of peoples thrown together by Assyrian conquerors after they ousted our people from our land. You call Jesus blasphemer and heretic. You are the blasphemers and heretics. Surely you’ve heard of Jesus by now. He’s a miracle worker and man of peace, but one to reckon with. If you don’t get out of here right this minute, he might just strike you dead!”

The four graybeards backed away as if they had encountered a mad man. Then, when I lurched forward as if I might just attack them, they ran away. Everyone was shocked. Jesus was angry. The disciples and converts grinned with embarrassment and surprise. To my delight, Deborah clapped her little hands and gave me an appreciative hug.

“That was stupid and foolish!” Jesus scolded. “What were you thinking, Jude?”

“Well, it worked,” Peter chuckled.

“Yes, Jesus” Barnabas pointed out. “That’s a small town over there. What can they do anyhow. If those graybeards are the best they can do, we have nothing to fear.”

Jesus nodded in agreement. I immediately apologized, giving my reason for losing control at their mistreatment of him. The real reason, I later admitted to myself, was frustration at seeing Deborah every hour and being afraid to even talk to her. Now here she was looking up at me like a hero. Quite abruptly, I found my dilemma more bearable.

Jesus knew this, but whispered discreetly to me. “Yes, you are brave, but for the wrong reasons.”

Without a further word, Jesus and his followers, as unit this time, searched for the

farmers who had fled. The one farmer who had just been baptized, whose name was Ebron, assisted us in our task, calling out through cupped hands, as we traipsed through the uncut wheat. When his colleagues resurfaced, they agreed to be baptized but not at the well. As at Aenon, but at a much lesser degree, the Samaritans were nervous about being baptized by Jews. When we found the stream running near their village, Jesus motioned to Peter and Andrew to tend to the first two, leaving the last farmer for me so that I could redeem myself. It was easier to baptize people by sprinkling water on their heads. As the wives and children of the four farmers appeared by the spring, John, his brother, and Philip said the sacred words and sprinkled holy water on three of the wives, followed by Bartholomew who, with my assistance, administered to a fourth. The children were divided between the converts, including Deborah and Anna, who performed the rite with Jesus’ help. None of the recent converts would accompany us further. As at the River Jordan and that recent village where the seeds of faith were planted, Jesus asked the newly saved to spread the word among their friends and neighbors. Knowing the attitude of many Samaritan elders, we doubted that’s what they would do. Nevertheless, we were greatly encouraged by our success after Aenon.

That evening Jesus managed to give travelers heading north the good news. As it turned out, they had, as folks in previous towns, already heard of this miracle worker. Tired and footsore, the travelers listened to Jesus message and, before joining our camp for the night, were baptized in the faith. That Samaritans shared our meager rations and slept in our camp, was yet another milestone in Jesus’ career. If this particular feat was not a miracle, in itself, it was close to the mark. We all had much to talk about around the campfire. It turned out that the two men, Amram and Baruch, were traveling to Aenon, like ourselves. Because Aenon was closer to the border of Galilee, Amram believe that their citizens would be more receptive than Samaritans in the south. Jesus shared their optimism, but because of their recent conversion and happy state, their enthusiasm might be based upon faith. The rest of us remained shy of the big towns in Samaria. Another pattern that would follow us, was the open-heartedness of farmers and villagers from small towns as compared with the attitude of citizens in large cities, such as Jerusalem.

******

When we arrived finally arrived in Aenon, a modest-sized town near Galilee, Amram and Baruch forged ahead of us, acting as ambassadors for Jesus.

“Wait here, master.” Baruch bowed deferentially in the Samaritan manner. “We will get some of the elders on our side. One of them is my brother. I know many influential men in this town.”

Making camp on the edge of Aenon (another pattern instituted by Jesus), we waited patiently for the new converts to return. Because Jesus didn’t want to waste too much time, he strolled over to a young man riding passed, called out to him, and struck up a conversation by the side of the road. The young man cursed at him and road on. Peter’s temper, following my example, flared up. We were both tempted to throw rocks at him as he continued uttering oaths.

“Jesus,” Peter chided gently, “wait until we’re invited in town. What if that fellow drew a knife or sword. Jude and I would have to stone him!”

Jesus laughed heartily, ruffling our hair, and giving each of us a playful cuff.

“You both know better than that,” he scolded lightheartedly. “No one’s going to harm me yet.”

“What do you mean yet?” I grabbed his sleeve.

“Yes, Jesus.” Peter gave him a worried look. “Please explain.”

“Who guides me?” He looked back at us.

“God,” we answered promptly.

“Do you question Him?” He raised an eyebrow.

“No.” We shook our heads.

Placing his arms around our shoulders then, he replied, “Then don’t worry. We’re in His hands. Everything I do is directed by my Father.”

Peter and I felt a little better. It seemed reasonable to us that God wouldn’t lead Jesus into harm’s way. Of course, neither of us could look into the future and see Golgotha. Today, encamped near Aenon, something incredible happened to us. Even now when I write it down it seemed like nothing less than a miracle, like many other remarkable things surrounding Jesus. How Amram and Baruch were able to bring such a large group to our camp seemed to point to divine intervention, though Jesus gave all the credit to them.

The people were mostly curious at first. After a quick count, I estimated that there were over a hundred men, women, and children in this group. Among their ranks, there were a few critics grumbling under their breaths, but Jesus viewed them all as potential converts. When I reminded him of the attitude of citizens of Sychar and Aenon, who were also curious but refrained from commitment, he reassured me that this was different. As more citizens of Aenon arrived, some of whom began heckling us, the disciples and converts began to panic. Jesus immediately introduced himself and his followers. Then raising his arms as if to bless the crowd, he gave a short, powerful sermon.

“Cousins,” his voice boomed, “remember Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, David, and Solomon whose God we share. Circumstances have divided us beyond our control. The Jews and Samaritans now view the original religion differently, but those differences are no longer important. I bring you a new revelation I received from the Most High that is for Jews and Samaritans alike. It is so simple that you don’t need the interpretations of religious leaders. scribes or doctors of the law. You don’t even have to be able to read; just open your hearts. I have heard that your version of the Hebrew religion, like our Jewish Sadducees, rejects the belief in an afterlife. But you must accept the good news in order to be saved from darkness. I say to you ‘All people can have eternal life.’ All you have to do is accept the fact that you are a sinner, repent of your sins, and be washed by the Spirit of the Lord. Many of you have heard of John the Baptist, who promised that a redeemer would be offering salvation and eternal life.” “I am he!” He paused and looked around the crowd.

“Were is that written?” asked a graybeard. “Are you taking that madman’s place?”

“If John was mad, it was with the power of the Lord,” responded Jesus. “I didn’t replace him. He was the forerunner, preparing the way.”

“The way? What way?” A woman stepped forth.

“I am the way,” answered Jesus finally, “he that accepts me, who is baptized in the spirit shall not perish but have life everlasting.”

“Jesus,” a young man shouted, “We don’t understand. Are you some kind of prophet like John the Baptist? Will your way replace our faith and the Torah?”

“There is only one way to eternal life,” Jesus repeated solemnly. “I am the gate. Knock and the gate shall open.”

The disciples looked at each in wonder. This was something new. A momentary hush fell over the crowd. From that day forward, the name stuck. Our new religion would be called ‘The Way.’ His reference to himself as a gatekeeper was also significant. In retrospect, it’s evident to me that he had to tread lightly about his identity, convincing the Samaritans to accept the message more than the messenger. If anything, to Samaritans not used to the Jewish concept of a Messiah, his statement might have been taken literally: Jesus was a gatekeeper, whose offer of redemption opened paradise for them, nothing more. For we Jews, though, familiar with the hoped for Redeemer of Israel, it was another name for the Messiah. Jesus, of course, wasn’t the warrior king most Jews expected. For the Samaritans, who had no such hero in their Torah, such a presumption would be even less acceptable. This would change when Jesus and his followers were back in Galilee, but for now it appeared that he was playing it safe. All that mattered was that he made his point. The truth was, however, Jesus had actually given greater meaning to the concept of a deliverer or messiah, and he did it deliberately. Jesus always knew exactly what he was doing, leaving nothing to chance. None of us would ask him to clarify himself anyhow. He was always saying strange things. But from that day forward the notion of gatekeeper would evolve into something much more important and our congregation would be simply be called ‘The Way.’

******

That day, as we confronted citizens of Aenon, we had a name. We weren’t simply a different group within Judaism, such as the Pharisees or Sadducees, who reflected the respective conservative or liberal interpretations of our faith. Nor were we Zealots, who wanted to re-establish the Kingdom of Israel after driving the Romans from our land. Unlike those desert hermits, who rejected all groups, including the priesthood and temple, we didn’t wish to withdraw from the world. Jesus must, in order to spread the good news, embrace the world. Since he was grooming us to become preachers in our own right, we had to embrace it too. We had no clear label such as conservative, liberal, revolutionary, or hermit. We were neither fish nor fowl in the minds of religious leaders, holding the simplest definition in the minds of common people: the ‘Way’. Zealots who wished to physically overthrow our oppressors would, like the Pharisees and Sadducee sects and the priesthood, who would see us as a threat, become our enemies… But this is hindsight. To show the magnitude of Jesus and our task, I write this after the fact. Though we were filled with both excitement and apprehension for what lie ahead, we were blissfully ignorant of the future. For now, on that defining day, our adversaries were merely local citizens, who resented not only Jesus’ heretical message but the fact the message came from a Jew.

For a brief spell, as he continued to preach, there were more voices of discontent. Another pattern that would continue in Jesus ministry, which we had noticed in Samaria, was the general acceptance of Jesus message by simple folk and an almost universal rejection of it by religious leaders and most elders. For Samaritan graybeards and educated men, the question wasn’t who he was, which would be a matter of controversy in Galilee and Judea. The cryptic title, Gatekeeper, didn’t bother them nearly as much as what he was saying. Though Jesus tried to be respectful to the old faith, including the Samaritan version, the very nature of his presentation appeared to cancel both of them out. Already, Jesus promise of an afterlife and attack on temple corruption, had shaken the Jewish priesthood. It was especially upsetting to Samaritan priests, who couldn’t allow for a messiah as well.

“This man’s a blasphemer,” a corpulent man shouted, elbowing through the crowd. “Let’s run him and that Jewish scum out of town!”

“Yeah,” cried a second man, “how dare him lord it over us!”

“He’s perverting our religion,” screamed a graybeard. “Stone him! Stone them all!”

“That’s our cue!” Philip looked for an avenue of escape.

“Hold fast! Have faith!” Jesus turned to us.

That very moment, as he surged through the crowd, a man, carrying a small infant, called out, “Jesus! Jesus! Amram and Baruch told me about you. Save my son. He’s our only child!”

Not far behind the man, were the two travelers converted at our last stop. Amram introduced the man and child immediately, as the man presented the boy.

“Jesus,” he wrung his hands, “this is Job and his son Jonah. The physician gave up on him. I think the boy’s dead, but he insisted on coming. Can you save his son?”

Never in Jesus’ ministry would he be tested more than that moment. Here he was, the only shield for his followers, in front of a mob of Samaritans being incited to violence, and now he was being asked to raise a child from the dead. As before, most of the crowd grew silent, while the protesters grumbled under their breaths. Emboldened and excited, Jesus followers, Amram, and Baruch formed an inner circle as a buffer against the townsfolk outside. Jesus began to pray over the infant in Job’s arms. Curious onlookers poked their heads through our bodies, including the graybeards who shouted “Stone him!” A Samaritan crone reached out to touch the child.

“What sorcery is this?” her voice trembled.

“Jesus isn’t a sorcerer!” snapped Baruch.

“But the boy’s dead!” she muttered. “He’s as cold as ice!”

“The boy isn’t dead,” Jesus informed her calmly. “He sleeps.”

“Ho-ho!” cackled Anna. “Then wake him up!”

Other than Jesus, himself, only Anna, who seemed addled at times, appeared to be unafraid. Unlike the Samaritan crone, the old woman looked on with clear-minded certainty.

In spite of everything they had seen and heard, the disciples and converts weren’t so sure. That moment, as Jesus prayed, and we held our breaths, Deborah anxiously clutched my hand. James, in spite of his sense of ritual defilement in the presence of Samaritans, was praying too. Bartholomew, after retreating to his cart, retraced his steps, until I heard him breathing behind me and mumbling curses under his breath. Anticipation was thick in the air, but all I could think of that moment was ‘Deborah was holding my hand!’

When Jesus had finished talking to his father, he placed his hand on the infant’s forehead, smiled at him, and murmured, “Jonah, son of Job, in the name of the Most High, open your eyes!”

Instantly, the boy’s eyes popped open, and he let out shriek, signaling to those unable to see that he was alive. A collective gasp went up from the followers and Samaritans alike.

“Sorcerer! Agent of Beelzebub!” the graybeard exclaimed.

Baruch shoved him away. “Are you blind as well as deaf!” he cursed him.

Everyone else, including the fat man who had been so outraged, were deeply moved.

“Water to wine and healing a blind girl is one thing,” mumbled Peter, “but that child was dead!”

“There is a shadowy realm between life and death,” Jesus explained to the fisherman. “Jonah was given a second chance,” “as all people seeking eternal life,” he added, turning to the infant’s father.”

Job needed no coaxing. “Jesus, I’m a sinner!” he cried. “You gave me back my son. Please give us eternal life!”

Anticipating his next move, Peter handed a skin of water. With some revision, Jesus now spoke the words. “Job,” he said solemnly, “you’re son’s revival was a gift from God. To have everlasting life, do you repent your sins and promise to live a righteous life?”

“Yes!” Job bobbed his head.

“Will you raise Job righteously too, and remind him of the good news?”

“Always!” Job swore.

“Then, with the grace of God,” he said, raising the water skin, “I baptized you in the Spirit. You are reborn, Job—a new man.” “All you,” he declared, looking to the crowd, can be feel the grace of God too!”

That moment, in the jargon of fishermen, by his inspired words, Jesus tossed out his net and made the largest haul yet.

Countless voices rang out—”Jesus, save me! I’m a sinner! Give me eternal life!…” We were overwhelmed. To accommodate so many people, our water skins wouldn’t do. Amram and Baruch led us to a well in the center of town, where other people were drawn to the scene. There, as at the River Jordan, we took turns, in pairs, baptizing members of the crowd. This time, lacking a body of water nearby, we took turns sprinkling water on each of their heads from the well. It was much easier than emersion, but, at the end of the day, after we had baptized what seemed like half of the town, we were so exhausted from our labors, we found the nearest clearing outside of Shechem and set up our camp.

A fire was hastily made. Peter and Andrew assisted Jesus in sharing our provisions. Before we turned in that night, Jesus gave a benediction for our success that day. I’ve never seen him so happy and illuminated with spirit. As I fought the snares of sleep that night in order to recount the days wonders, I recalled the mood of the crowd that transformed them from naysayers to believers after Jesus miracle, the still infant suddenly animated with God-given life, the endless stream of converts, and—yes—the soft hand of Deborah in mind as we confronted the crowd.

Chapter Nine

Nazareth

With the exception of Amram and Baruch, who insisted on accompanying us to the border, none of the Samaritan converts followed us to Galilee. There were two reasons for this, one practical and one strategic. It was not practical for a horde of converts tagging along like camp followers, and it was strategically sound, as my Roman friends might say, to leave them where they were to spread the word among their fellow citizens or wherever they might travel.

On the way back to Galilee, Jesus insisted that we start preaching on our own with his supervision. In the future, we would be sent out in twos to spread the word, but we had much to learn before preaching on our own. After we crossed into Galilee, the villages between the Samarian border and our main destination were numerous, so, to save time, we only ministered to the those settlements closest to the main highway to Capernaum. Before we had traveled too far, Amram and Baruch bid goodbye to us, promising, as did their fellow-Samaritan converts, to spread the word. Jesus appeared to be in a hurry now, as if he had little time. The reason he gave us for skipping over many towns and villages was based upon practicality again. It was simply not practical nor even humanly possible for he and his followers to cover all of Galilee and Judea and he believed that those who heard the word and especially those accepting baptism would spread the word themselves to other communities. If they were traveling merchants, this meant that the message would spread throughout the empire.

Peter had become the most enthusiastic baptizer, but he was a terrible speaker. On the other hand, my brother James was the best speaker, but, due to his lingering fear of contamination, was the least enthusiastic participant in the baptism rite. Though I had no experience in front of crowds, I was able to recite the basic message of repentance and salvation. As long as Jesus was satisfied with my efforts, I kept it simple, performing the baptism expeditiously. Only Barnabas and Mark, among the converts, made the attempt at preaching and mastered the skill of baptism. Bartholomew required a great deal of training, as did the remaining followers, whose expertise would grow at each stop on the way. Jesus preferred full emersion in a body of water, but that was almost impossible until we reached Capernaum, where the greatest harvest would begin. Extra skins of water were carried in our packs and Bartholomew’s cart to accommodate us during each gathering. This method of baptism was easier and faster, though less spiritual in Jesus’ mind.

Before we traveled much further, Arrius and Marcellus bowed out of the procession with the excuse that they missed their families. It was disappointing to Jesus, but they promised him they would share the good news with townsfolk when they reached home. To John and my dismay, Deborah, who was becoming a great distraction, was advised by Jesus to return to her home town in order to spread the word too. Jesus had been also worried about Anna, the old woman, since we left the river. Like Bartholomew, who should also have been advised to leave, she was too old and infirmed to continue. Arrius and Marcellus promised to take both Anna and Deborah home on their way to Jerusalem. A greater disappointment to Jesus then was the decision of Barnabas to return to his home in Jericho and Marcus to his home in Jerusalem when the others traveled back to Judea. Suddenly, at a rest stop between towns, our number was, including Jesus, reduced to nine.

This would change when we reached Capernaum, during which time our numbers would increase to twelve. Until we reached this point, we made countless, unscheduled stops. In fact, other than the goal to reach Capernaum, Jesus had no apparent schedule. Until the disciples began writing down the events of his life and message, nothing was written down. There wasn’t an outline or agenda of things to do. Everything we did came at the spur of the moment out of Jesus’ head.

The good news he wanted everyone to hear competed with the stories spread by travelers of the miracle worker who changed water into wine, restored sight to a blind girl, and raised an infant from the dead. Jesus would have preferred that people be swayed by the message, not the messenger. As if he they saw him as a magician or sorcerer, rustic minds were overawed at his displays of supernatural power, many of whom saw it coming from him, rather than coming from God. Despite this problem, he explained to us, this shallow level of comprehension still drew them to the message. Against the great enthusiasm generated by his appearances in various towns and villages, however, there was a different reception by religious leaders and magistrates, who saw the good news as a challenge to established order and religion. Jesus warned us about this threat several times. His cleaning of the temple and the tongue-lashing he gave to the priests had created a dark undercurrent of protest in Judea and Galilee. As I would learn later, Caiaphas, the high priest, after hearing about the incident in the temple, merely sent out spies to find out more about Jesus, but after his alleged miracles and successes, he grew alarmed and created a special committee to investigate Jesus’ activities. We knew nothing of this committee of priests and Pharisees, but were aware of the spies on several occasions. During one stop, Jesus pointed out men in the audience, busily taking notes with scroll and feather. Peter wanted to eject them from the crowd, but Jesus said it would only make matters worse. That Jesus had serious enemies among Caiaphas subordinates and the Pharisees would have alarmed us greatly now that we knew we were being watched. It was one more glimpse he saw of the future that he protected his disciples against. Only James and I, as King Belshazzar, saw the writing on the wall. The powers that be and our brother appeared to be on a collision course. Fortunately, we couldn’t have imagined how calamitous it would be.

******

As we traveled north into Galilee, the villages in which Jesus spread the good news netted small harvests. The upside was that, unlike the larger towns, there were fewer hecklers in such small communities. Most of the audiences were curious townsfolk, drawn by Jesus’ reputation. At the center of each town, Jesus was able, as at Aenon and Sychar, to preach to passersby and, with our assistance, baptize some of them at the community well. On a much more smaller scale, the pattern we had seen in Judea and Samaria continued: common people were eager to meet and hear the new prophet but most of the town elders, especially the Pharisees and rabbis, greeted him with suspicion and distrust. The large numbers of converts we attained at the River Jordan and in Samaria had bolstered our confidence, but now as we trekked north, that confidence would be challenged: first in Nain and then, of all placed, in Nazareth.

Fortunately, our ordeal in Nain ended quickly. As soon we entered this town, we were beset by a deputation of town elders, including prominent Pharisees, who had heard of the heretic preacher from advocates recounting Jesus message and miracles. Ironically, a trend was developing in which well-meaning supporter’s glowing reports predisposed graybeards and religious leaders against Jesus, who saw his wonders as sorcery and sermons as blasphemy against God. Because of their success at turning the town against us, not one convert was made in Nain. It was, until we arrived in Nazareth, our worst reception, but it was at least short-lived. As Jesus attempted to preach, the elders and Pharisees incited the townsfolk so badly, we were literally shouted out of town.

Though it left a bad taste in our mouths, we felt relieved we hadn’t been stoned or pelted with rotten fruit. After our experience in Nain, Jesus decided to put off preaching anymore until we visited Nazareth, our next stop. There was, inexplicably, a sudden urgency in his stride. We barely stopped to rest. Perhaps, I suggested half-seriously to James and Bartholomew, he was receiving more orders from God. Until we visited Nazareth, Jesus’ success in Galilee was quite modest and, with the important exception of Nain, without incident. For the most part, Nazareth would be, for most of the disciples, just one more town in an endless cycle of preaching and baptism. Jesus, James, and I, though, were filled with great expectation. This was our home town. We had family, friends, and neighbors that would surely be receptive to Jesus’ message…. But we were wrong!

Almost immediately, though it came subtly this time, I detected hostility. I’m certain Jesus and James saw it too. Ethan and Jubal, the very same elders who had greeted Amos and I sarcastically when we returned from the River Jordan, were walking down the main street of Nazareth as we entered town. Eight footsore travelers straggled in, including a mule and cart where Bartholomew—long since departed from his old home, looked around fearfully at these men.

“Oh this it not good,” he groaned. “Of places to stop! We’re back in Nazareth. Why did he bring me here? I should’ve stayed in Capernaum. I was safe there. I know those two men, Jude. What if they recognize me? I was once a wanted man!”

It would have been a revelation to some of the disciples had they overheard, but Ethan’s and Jubal’s voices blared over his ramblings.

“So,” Jubal crowed, “the miracle worker’s back!”

“Yes, Jesus,” Ethan’s voice boomed, “we heard about your exploits in the temple—during the Passover too. It’s wonder they didn’t arrest you for such sacrilege. A merchant in town even claims you “used sorcery to perform miracles. Is that true.”

“You have said it,” Jesus replied calmly. “News travels fast.”

“All of Galilee has heard about you!” Ethan hobbled over, stabbing the ground with his cane.”

Walking up to the cart, he eyed Bartholomew quizzically but said nothing.

“I know what,” Jubal suggested, “let’s gather the townsmen in the synagogue. Rabbi Eli will glad to call a meeting, so we can hear your message.”

“Humph,” Ethan’s voice crackled,” do I know you?”

“Leave him alone.” I stepped between them. “Bartholomew’s not well.”

“Bartholomew?” Jubal frowned. “I knew a Bartholomew once…”

Stomping over, with doubled fists, Peter roared angrily, “You heard him. Leave Bartholomew alone!”

The two men retreated quickly, mumbling amongst themselves, then continued on their way. Coming down the same road were friendlier faces, the elder Habakkuk and my family’s friend Ezra, who rejoiced at Jesus’ return.

“You’re back!” Habakkuk shouted, holding up his staff. “Praise the Most High.”

“We’ve heard great thing about you, Jesus.” Ezra ran up to clasp his hand.

Jesus turned and introduced the fishermen, Bartholomew, James, and I as his disciples, after the two men announced their names.

“Don’t let those men bother you.” Habakkuk embraced Jesus warmly. “They don’t speak for the town.”

“We sure hope so!” Peter shook his head.

“What is their problem, anyhow?” protested Philip. “That was really rude!”

“Awe, they’re always cantankerous.” I reassured them. “Ethan’s never liked us very much. Jubal sounds like he might be drunk.”

“Are they really going to assemble a town meeting?” muttered Bartholomew. “I’ll stay put…. No sir, I’m not up to that.”

“You can rest at my mother’s house.” I gave his shoulder a pat. “I think I’ll stay there too.”

“Whatever the Rabbi Eli decides,” Jesus said, smiling wearily. “We must first greet my family. Please join us if you wish.”

Nodding their heads, both Habakkuk and Ezra joined our procession to Joseph bar Jacob’s house. Though my father had been dead for a while, it would, by custom, always be Joseph, our father’s, house. I wished he could know Jesus now; he would be so proud. Looking around, I saw other townsfolk appearing hear and there, but no one rush over to greet Jesus as Habakkuk and Ezra had. It occurred to me, in spite of Jesus success so far, that there might be others in Nazareth sharing Ethan and Jubal’s views.

******

When the door opened, the remaining members of our family greeted us, except Joseph, who, we would learn, who returned to Sepphoris. There was a mixed reaction at first. Mama grabbed Jesus and squeezed him happily, embracing James and I almost as an afterthought. Simon, our brother, shook our hands and gave us brief hugs, giving us equal affection. My twin sisters Abigail and Martha embraced their long lost brothers tenderly, especially Jesus, the man of the hour. All four of them looked passed Jesus at the strangers with frowns, as if they had forgotten the incident at Cana and Jesus’ calling to spread the word. Of course, I couldn’t blame them. Any respectable Jew would cringe at having such a grimy, smelly, unwashed bunch in their home.

After Jesus presented the fishermen to our family (Bartholomew needing no introduction), Mama quickly introduced Simon, Abigail, and Martha, then launched into summary of what had happened while Jesus, James, and I were gone. Rabbi Joachim, the previous rabbi had died, Ezra’s daughters, Joanna and Meira, were both married, Noah, who lived across the street from Joachim and his wife, was sick and not expected to live, my friend, Isaac, one of James’ friends, now lived in Jerusalem with his new wife, and the Romans were patrolling Galilean towns again, looking for a new bandit gang. After a flood of additional information, including Joseph’s position as scribe in Sepphoris and the pending wedding of Abigail to Jeroboam, James and my friend, our heads were spinning. Apologizing for her flighty-headedness, Mama raced around straightening up the kitchen and preparing us a meal. Jesus asked Abigail and Martha to fetch a few pales of water so that he and his men could spruce themselves up. A dip in a river or stream would have been better, but at least we could wash our faces and rinse the dust off our hands and feet to be more presentable.

During these preparations, Habakkuk and Ezra departed. They had said nothing about Jesus’ new stature. One day, along with Mama, Simon, Abigail and Martha, they would, with their wives and children, join the Way, but they would prove to be the exceptions in Nazareth.

For an hour or so, as Jesus and his men splashed water on themselves and then snacked on bread and cheese while Mama prepared a proper meal for tonight, I took my turn sprucing myself up, grabbed a hunk of bread, and led Bartholomew’s mule into the backyard to munch the grass with the other mules. Our family mules had served me will in my travels. Though I hadn’t named Bartholomew’s beast, I had pet names for each of our mules. Mama had wanted to rent them out while I was gone, but, after their ordeals with me, I insisted on retiring each of them as beasts of burden. They were pets now. I recalled my decision that when Bartholomew had finished using his mule, I would buy it from him and retire him too. As I walked among our family mules, stroking them and calling them each by their pet names—Elijah, Moses, David, and Solomon, Jesus appeared suddenly with a bowel of grapes.

“Tsk-tsk, Jude,” he scolded playfully, “you named your mules after Israel’s prophets and kings?”

“Yep.” I grinned. “I plan on calling Bartholomew’s mule, Jacob, after grandfather, when he’s mine.”

“You rascal.” He tousled my hair. “This is all one big adventure for you, isn’t it?”

“Most of the time,” I answered truthfully, “not always. That episode at the temple gave me a jolt and I don’t like you endangering your life like you did in Jerusalem and Samaria. But it’s been exciting. I got that baptism stuff down pat.”

“Down pat, you say.” He laughed, chewing on a grape. “You really find this exciting?”

“Yes, I do.” I nodded, the image of Deborah flashing into my mind.

“You’re not worried about the dangers or pitfalls?” He searched my face.

“No, uh-uh.” I shook my head. “What is there to worry about?”

“Very well.” He eyed me slyly, stroking one of the mules. “You had your moments of hesitation. At first, you had your doubts. All of you did. Now you pitch in eagerly and seldom complain. I think you’ve fit in nicely with our group.”

“Well,” I admitted, chewing on a grape, “many things have changed: The fishermen have finally accepted me; Bartholomew, who was once our family’s enemy, is my friend; and James, who used to get on my nerves with his self-righteous attitude, is now a disciple like me. I would never had guessed it.” “And I’ve changed too,” I searched for the words. “…I have a purpose now. I’m not sure what it is…I just know it’s there…in the future.”

“The future?” Jesus stared into space a moment. “… You have no idea, Jude. You do realize that this isn’t a game? You’ve traveled much more than the fishermen, even James. After some of the things you’ve gone through this may seem like child’s play.” “But it isn’t,” he added, searching my face. “As a Greek runner might say, this is the first lap. The race is young. This isn’t a game!”

“I know that.” I sighed. “This is serious business. We’ve seen you do impossible things —so many, in fact, that we’re almost taking them for granted. We expect you to use your God-given powers when needed. But it’s much more than miracles or theatrical feats. You’re goal is to revise our religion, which has fallen into error. They—the powers that be—don’t understand that. They see you as a heretic and blasphemer. If anything frightens me, Jesus, it’s not all these stops we make; it’s what lies ahead. It’s like you’re stirring up a hornets’ nest—”

“Jude,” he interrupted impatiently, “have faith. Who is leading me? Am I not the vessel of God?”

“Well,…yes.” I heaved a sigh. “I suppose so…”

Vessel of God was yet another name that dodged the issue of who he was. Jesus now lectured me on the purpose of his mission: bring people the good news (men and women could be saved by God’s grace alone), encourage them to repent their past deeds, and accept baptism as a symbol of their rebirth into a new life. It seemed, as I listened to him, that the afterlife promised to the saved was the lure or bait to entice sinners. Without it, what was the point? We might as well be Sadducees or nonbelievers. The ill defined or non-existent after life in Samaritan and Gentile religions also seemed pointless. What was the sense in praying for earthly rewards if you permanently died or became, as the Romans, mere shades flittering mindlessly about? Of course, Jesus never said any of this. All he really said, and it was enough to chill my bones, was that sinners, who hear the good news, and don’t repent will join all the other evil men and women in hell, a place of everlasting torment…. Normally calm in most instances, I found myself trembling and staring blankly into space.

He had never spoken like that before. I awakened to the sound of his voice. “Jude, Jude!” he said, shaking me from my daydream. I’m sorry I frightened you. My Father speaks through me. On behalf of sinners, it frightens me too.”

“All right,” my voice quivered, “your father told you, but where in scriptures is that written. I heard that word before; hell is a Greek word. I thought that the wages of sin was death, not that awful place.”

“It’s not mentioned in the Torah,” Jesus admitted, “but it exists just the same. Where do you think evil men and women go when they die unrepentant?”

“…Hell,” I answered reluctantly.

“Mankind knows right from wrong,” Jesus explained. “This knowledge began with Adam. God gave people the choice of eternal life or damnation. The problem is, Jude, this choice has been ill-defined and cheapened by all the many laws observed by Sadducees and Pharisees. For the Sadducees, one is considered good by observing the laws, and benefits in this life. Most people are poor, however, scratching out meager lives. For the Pharisees, one is considered good by observing the laws in order to have eternal life. On the one hand, the Sadducee pauper has no reason to live a righteous life. Sin, especially great sin, has to be accounted for or what’s the point? On the other hand, those Jews believing in paradise, are burdened with hundreds of laws they neither understand and can keep. How can they have reassurance of eternal life following the Pharisee’s rules?”

I felt my muscles relax that moment. “Phew!… There’s no purpose—My thoughts exactly. If you tell me something is true, I believe it. If nothing else, Jesus, the specter of hell fire and damnation you described will convince listeners.”

Jesus thought a moment. “You’re right about one thing. Hell is a Greek notion. The Romans believe in Tartaros, a place of torment just as bad. I hate to scare people. I would much rather convince them with the reward of paradise, than the fear of damnation.” “I will pray for guidance about this,” he added looking toward the house.

“Me too,” I said with a shrug. “I just wish you hadn’t filled my head with this. It’s bad enough to die and disappear into nothingness as the Sadducees believe, but fire and brimstone forever? That’s horrible!”

Jesus embraced me, whispering, “You don’t have to fear, little brother.”

“I don’t” I replied dubiously. “Really?… How can you be certain?”

“I just know.” He pointed to heaven. “You must have faith.”

That moment I believed him totally, without reservations. The peace I felt knowing this I would carry the rest of my life.

“Your road will be long and hard,” he added, looking into my eyes. “You’ll be tested by Caesar, himself…but you’ll prevail!”

“What do you mean, Caesar?” I did a double-take. “Please explain.”

“Do you trust me, Jude?” He stood back and frowned.

“Of course.” I nodded promptly. “Completely.”

“Then knowing you have eternal life, what does it matter?”

Once more reminded of Jesus’ promise, I quickly replied, “Not a bit.” (Jesus, after all, never lied.)

“There’s something else.” He gave me a worried look. “When you were out here with the mules, Mama told us more about the bandit gang in Galilee. Do you remember my namesake, Jesus Barabbas?”

“Yes.” I scowled. “A real scalawag!”

“Well, he’s more than that now.” Jesus raised an eyebrow. “Since his father Abbas’ death, he’s been ‘Barabbas, the bandit leader and highwayman.’”

“Well,” I tried being glib. “At least he’s not called Jesus. One Galilean with that name is quite enough!”

After seeing Peter signal to him from the back door, Jesus began walking back to the house.

“This isn’t funny, Jude.” He looked back with a frown. “Barabbas’ gang is robbing and murdering innocent travelers. A courier from Cornelius, the Galilean prefect, warned Rabbi Eli of this. In the coming days, there’ll be Romans patrolling Nazareth and neighboring towns. I appreciate Rome’s vigilance, but they’ll be watching Galileans for the slightest bit of trouble. Already there are spies reporting everything we do to the authorities. Barabbas has just made our task that much harder!”

“Jesus!” Peter yelled through cupped hands. “Rabbi Eli is here. The town counsel is having a meeting at the synagogue.”

Pausing a moment, Jesus closed his eyes, as though God was talking to him that moment. I had seen this before and wasn’t surprised, but Peter called out, “Jesus? Are you all right?”

“You’d think by now he knew you were praying,” I grumbled.

“Peter’s learning,” Jesus said from the corner of his mouth. “Like still water, his qualities runs deep.”

“If you say so,” I whispered begrudgingly. “He’s loyal and tries hard. I give him credit for that.”

******

When we entered the house, Rabbi Eli ran up to greet Jesus. Habakkuk and Eli had returned with the rabbi. The room was filled with family members, friends, and fishermen, who stood mumbling amongst themselves. In spite of the rabbi’s friendly demeanor, a feeling of urgency pervaded the crowded room.

“It’s good to see you,” he cried, embracing Jesus, “—all of you!” he added glancing at James and I. “Your mother invited me to dinner, so we’ll have plenty of time to catch up. Tomorrow morning the townsfolk will meet in the synagogue. Years ago, during the unrest in Galilee, we had a Roman presence in Nazareth. They’ll be patrolling towns in Galilee, including our own now that this Barabbas is afoot. This morning I sent word to your mother about the new threat. Valen, a centurion from the Galilean Cohort arrived at my house with the news.”

“What happened to Longinus?” blurted Simon. “Wasn’t he our centurion before!”

Jesus looked over at Simon, holding his finger up to his lips.

“Habakkuk was with me at the time, and he asked the same question.” Eli smiled at Simon. “A while back, Longinus told him he was being reassigned to Jerusalem. You’d think that might be a promotion to be stationed in our holy city, yet he didn’t seem happy about it.”

A strange look appeared in Jesus’ eyes. This look, like the reaction he had when Peter told him about the town meeting, I now understand as an unspoken revelation he received from God. The specter of Golgotha must have flashed in his mind. Closing his eyes a brief moment, he prayed. Once again the fisherman asked him discreetly if he was all right. Jesus looked at Peter tolerantly as a father would his child. None of his disciples, except James and I, recognized his facial gestures for what they were. Even James was ignorant of what I suspected even now: the town meeting would be a defining moment in Jesus’ ministry and, secondly, Longinus was important in Jesus’ future. Though that’s all we really knew, I felt a rush of fear. I was reminded of his reputation with the authorities and the fact that Caiaphas spies and agents were watching his every move… Now the Romans, always on the lookout for troublemakers, would be watching him too.

Awakening to reality, I heard Eli say something else troubling. The bandit gang would be on the town elders’ minds, but it appeared as though they were also worried about Jesus new message.

“In what way are they concerned?” Peter asked defensively. “Jesus says nothing against the Torah. What he brings is salvation and peace.”

“Of course.” Eli held up a hand. “They simply want reassurance.”

“Reassurance? I stepped forward. “What kind of reassurance?”

“Just clarification, a few facts—” Eli tried to explain.

“Clarification?” I looked at him disbelief. “It’s perfectly clear: all Jesus is offering is what the Pharisees already believe. He just explains it better, but there are rules, which they fail, as you say, to clarify. It’s so simple, Eli: repent, be reborn in the Spirit, and have ever-lasting life. Even Samaritans have accepted his words.”

“What?” Eli gave me a dumbfounded look. “… He said what?”

“He said repent and be saved!” John stomped his foot. “Jesus speaks on behalf of God!”

”Yes!” exclaimed our brother James. “I was a doubter, myself. Now I know he’s the Promised One. Any fool can see that. He’s performed miracles in Cana and Samaria. That high priest is worried that people might have some hope!”

That moment I was proud of James. He had come a long way. Unfortunately, as my Greek friend might say, he had, by calling Jesus the ‘Promised One’ actually elevated his status. Rabbi Eli and Ezra shook their heads in dismay.

“Is this not Jesus, the son of Joseph the Carpenter?” A furrow appeared in Ezra’s brow.

“Surely, you’re not claiming to be the Messiah,” the rabbi tottered on his feet. “Please Jesus tell me this isn’t so!”

“He said no such thing!” Simon cried.

“Yes he did,” Ezra pointed accusingly at James. “We all heard it. The ‘Promised One’ is another name for the Messiah. Jesus didn’t deny it. Why would he say such a thing?”

“What have I done?” James heaved a broken sigh.

“Don’t feel bad,” I consoled him, as Ezra and Eli muttered amongst themselves, “Jesus said as much himself.”

“Yes,” Jesus admitted sadly, “but it wasn’t my doing. I would rather my Father, not men, define me. It’s the message, not just the messenger, that’s matters. What’s in a name?”

Though James had spoken the truth, he had unwittingly made matters worse for Jesus in Nazareth. Our neighbor and the rabbi were momentarily speechless. Their shocked appearance—wide eyes, gaping mouths, and wringing hands—spoke loudly. For several moments, Andrew, Philip, John’s brother James, and even Bartholomew stood up for Jesus, describing the crowds, the baptism, and details of his miracles. Simon, though coming to Jesus’ defense, appeared bewildered by this all. Stunned into silence now, Mama and the twins were beside themselves with worry about Eli’s and Ezra’s reactions. Everyone else were outraged at the rabbi and Papa’s onetime friend…. Everyone except Habakkuk. This old man, I recalled then, had the greatest expectations for Jesus. A look of illumination filled his dark eyes.

“Yes, of course,” he murmured. “…. I’m not surprised. You’re the one we have been waiting for.”

Habakkuk had said this so faintly, only those closest to him—Jesus, James, and I—heard his words. The greater meaning of his declaration would come later for me. For now, it reaffirmed my own suspicion. He was, we had known from the beginning, a great teacher, preacher, or prophet and likely much more…. Even the title Promised One, Deliverer, or Messiah didn’t seem enough…. Who was Jesus? I wondered that moment. Once again, his hand had been forced.

Striking his palm with the side of his hand to signal silence, he shouted above their voices: “I come in peace, not war. I have no desire to divide our people, only to unite them in faith. Tomorrow at your meeting, Eli, I will answer any questions the elders have. Please, don’t be alarmed with my disciples’ fervor. They’re good men. What we bring is a reaffirmation of the doctrine of eternal life. My Father has given me new insight. I speak for the Lord.”

“Your father?” Ezra frowned severely. “You said that before…. Aren’t we all his children?”

“You have said it.” Jesus said wearily with double meaning. “He listens to us all.”

“So you merely speak for God.” Eli stroked his beard. “That’s not so bad.”

“Uh, dinner will be ready soon,” Mama suddenly exclaimed. “This room is too crowded . It’s a nice evening. We shall add Papa’s work bench to our kitchen table and eat outside.”

******

Mama’s decision seemed highly irregular at first, but this distraction as well as Jesus’ words had managed to calm the group. As a team, the disciples, rabbi, and elders placed Papa’s long workbench next to the kitchen table in the backyard, adding the chairs and stools available, including unfinished pieces from the shop. Goodwill prevailed, as we waited to be fed. For the period of time it took for the twins and Mama to finish preparing the evening meal, we gathered around the table and bench. It was difficult avoiding the subject of Jesus identity, so we shared small talk—the death of Joachim, the old rabbi, the Roman sentries that would soon patrol our town, and Barabbas, the new menace in Galilee. Peter recalled, as a child, the rebellion in Galilee and Judea, in which hundreds of men were crucified. Andrew and Philip, who had personally seen a man crucified, bitterly denounced this cruel punishment. These topics were depressing, especially now that the Romans were back in force. Slipping away those moments, Jesus, James, and I separated from the others, wandering down to the olive trees at the perimeter of the yard.

I had fond memories of our orchard and the ancient ruins we discovered on our property. My friend Michael and I kept secret the trail leading to the ruins in order so play our childhood games. When my parents found out about our exploits, Papa explained that our hideout was the remnant of a pagan temple and forbid me to go there anymore. It was I recalled, where I found Reuben the bandit, our family’s enemy, whom Mama nursed back to health from wounds received escaping Roman justice. Looking back from the orchard at our house, I could see Bartholomew, who once owned that name, sitting apart from the others on a tree stump. Habakkuk or Ezra hadn’t recognized him, but I remembered all too clearly the trouble he brought on our house. James walked silently alongside of us, as I reminisced about those days.

“The past isn’t important unless we repeat our mistakes,” Jesus interrupted. “It’s only important if we don’t learn by them and fail to do better. In this way knowledge is rebirth and ignorance is death.”

“Mistakes you call it,” I grumbled. “I forgive Bartholomew—we all do, but what he did back then were hardly mistakes.” “Besides,” I reminded him. “You’re perfect. You don’t make mistakes. Reuben, not Bartholomew, had been an evil man.”

Jesus, who couldn’t lie, was silent, proving my point. He had lectured me briefly in common sense faction, without spiritual overtones, and yet the meaning was clear: Bartholomew, the disciple of Jesus, had been reborn. Reuben, the bandit leader and highwayman, a bad man, was dead. Bartholomew was, like all of us, a new man.

“Can people be forgiven for any sin?” asked James.

“Of course,” Jesus replied, “nothing is impossible with God.”

“What about really bad persons?” I frowned. “Can King Herod, who had children murdered, and Barabbas, whose gang murders innocent travelers, be forgiven too.”

“Yes,” Jesus said without hesitation. “If a man or woman prays hard enough for forgiveness, God will forgive them. Until the moment that person dies, there is a chance of grace.”

“You mean up until the very last moment?” James looked at him in disbelief.

“Until the last second!” Jesus clarified. “In the twinkling of an eye!”

“I wouldn’t tell people that,” James shook his head. “Folks will live a life of sin right up to their last breath.”

“That’s right,” I agreed. “Knowing your plan of salvation, they might make up for lost time.”

“Ah, but that’s the catch.” He raised a finger. “No one knows when they’ll die. Life is filled with pitfalls, and no one is immune from disease or danger. Knowing this threat, those seeking salvation won’t wait. Remember this: death comes quickly like a phantom. For the saved it doesn’t matter when, but for the damned it is final!”

James and I shuddered at the thought. Jesus’ promise of my salvation seemed almost to good to believe. I was hardly a perfect soul. I could tell by his expression that James also had concerns. For several more moments, the three of us meandered to the ancient ruins, which brought the subject of Michael and my exploits up again. It was a welcome relief from all this gloomy talk. From the ruins, we found a second trail that led to Jesus special place. After inspecting his secret cave and nearby grove of fruit trees that we visited repeatedly as children, we trekked down the trail leading to the boundary of our property, looking out on the Plain of Esdraelon and the road leading to Jerusalem. It was then that we saw the Roman sentries riding the perimeter of Nazareth.

“Look,” exclaimed James, “there already here!”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Jesus heaved a sigh.

“Jesus,” I said thoughtfully, “I know it creates a problem, but we need Roman protection. The last time they were here, they were our friends.”

Alluding to a name used by the prophet Daniel, Jesus replied cryptically, “From the Jews, the Son of Man will be delivered to the Romans. The Romans will be the instrument of God’s will…”

That moment as James and I digested his statement, Jesus lapsed into communion with God again, praying deeply to himself. Respectful of his state of mind, we waited until he was finished and we were on the way back to the house, before asking him questions.

“Hey, what was that about?” I jerked his sleeve.

“Yes, Jesus,” James demanded. “Daniel mentions that name, but I don’t remember that passage. He never said anything like that. What did you mean?”

“My Father talks and I listen,” he answered enigmatically.

“Oh that explains everything!” James threw up his hands.

“Listen, I think I understand.” I snapped my fingers excitedly. “God is saying that you’re in danger. If that’s the case, you must stop provoking the authorities, Jesus—maybe tone it down a notch.”

“I do God’s will.” He looked irritably at me. “When will you understand?”

I clasped my forehead is dismay. “I understand exactly, Jesus. God doesn’t want you stoned, beheaded, or crucified. Your mission has only just begun. You have your whole life ahead of you. Why stir things up?”

“Would you defy God?” He looked at both of us. “Whatever He asks of us we must do. Am I any greater than the prophets our people murdered.”

“Yes,” I replied unequivocally, “you are greater than them.”

“Greater!” James set his jaw.

“Then, if this is so,” he said, placing his arms around our shoulders, “have faith in Him who sent me. You also must sacrifice for the truth!”

******

That very moment, we heard Mama shout, “Come and eat!” Everyone else was already seated, as she and our sisters brought out roasted lamb, lentils, and bread. Lamps had been set on the table and bench in anticipation of the setting sun, the faces of the diners glowing with expectation. As we sat down with the others, though, our heads were filled with Jesus’ troubling words—a much greater expectation than food. The fishermen and our family members knew nothing of his strange prediction. I wanted to believe that God was merely warning him to be more careful, but I hadn’t heard Jesus’ silent prayer or the revelation entering his head. I could tell that James was concerned too. Belying the dark thoughts swirling in Jesus head, was a spirited Shema and concise, well thought out prayer of thanksgiving. Added to his special gifts was his ability to control his feelings, which allowed him to rise above his emotions as he did now at the table. Whether preaching, in discourse with critics, or healing the sick and lame, he always kept his head, moving on to the next order of business. Despite his inner strength, however, I wasn’t fooled. Jesus had seen something dark and terrible in his future. Was it merely a warning, I asked myself, or a premonition of things to come? Jesus words, “From the Jews, the Son of Man will be delivered to the Romans…,” would haunt me in the days ahead. Taking advantage of the wine Mama provided, I drank several cups, hoping to wipe those words from my brain. Following my example, James drank more wine than usual, himself. While we drank and ate, we listened to the fishermen boast of Jesus exploits, envying them for their innocence. Bartholomew had squeezed in beside me still self-conscious of his past.

“Well,” he whispered enthusiastically, “I guess you were right. No one recognized me. I’m in the clear!”

“Bartholomew,” I replied discreetly, using Jesus’ words. “Get this in your thick skull. You were born again. Stop worrying so much. You’re a new man!”

Looking down the table at me as if he heard my words, Jesus smiled, nodding with acknowledgment. Breaking into the fishermen’s discussion now, he gave us an inspiring talk meant for his family and disciples, but there was no question that it was intended especially for James and me.

“My family and friends,” he addressed us warmly. “Some of you are troubled by the path ahead. Already, despite our success in Judea and Samaria, you’re worried about the reception we’ll receive in Galilee. It appears as though the high priest has nothing better to do than send his agents into crowds to spy on us. The sudden reappearance of Barabbas in Galilee only made matters worse. Now that Roman sentries are back in order to protect Nazareth from his gang, there’s an added concern. After Judah’s insurrection, Rome will tolerant no rebellion. Assemblies of noisy people make them nervous. They expect the worst when a self-styled prophet shouts epitaphs against Rome and will deal harshly with insurrectionist calling for the end of Roman rule. After all, in the Gentile mind, we Jews are a stiff-necked people. Our predecessors, Saul, David, and Judah Maccabees, were warrior kings. But we aren’t warriors; we are missionaries, spreading the good news. Our mission is one of peace. A new religion, as the priests and Pharisees see it, doesn’t worry the Romans. They are pagans, who worship many gods—all equal in the emperor’s eyes. Until God wills it, the high priest bows to Rome’s will. His wish is to incite the Pharisees, scribes, and priests against us, if not to prove we speak blasphemy, to make them believe I threaten the peace. But once again, I bring peace and you’re emissaries of peace. The shield of God goes before us. So don’t be concerned with the future. In a state of grace, we own the present. The future is in God’s hands!”

******

As I listened to Jesus, I was somewhat comforted. I truly believed he meant what he said. I could even accept that our path was God’s will and, at least for a spell, we were under his protection. What I couldn’t get out of my mind was his reference to that shadowy character, ‘the Son of Man,’ and the implication that he would be handed over to the Romans by the Jews. Like James, who sat plunged in thought across the table from me, I tried, to no avail, blotting out his words with wine. Tumbling later that evening onto my pallet for a welcomed night’s sleep, I awakened the next morning in much worse shape.

The first voice I heard was Jesus. “Wake up, you rascal,” he scolded, giving me a shake. You shouldn’t have drank all that wine!”

Looking up through a fuzzy haze, I blinked and rubbed my eyes. The pounding in my head was merciless as I tried to focus on the spinning room. I remembered having a nightmare: Roman sentries were chasing us up a hill brandishing swords. I could see Jesus Bar Abbas ahead, still a child in my nightmare, beckoning me playfully to accompany him to the ruins where I once found Reuben. Michael appeared suddenly, shouting obscenities at the legionnaires. From that point, my recollection was patchy. When I stood finally on my feet, the dream faded quickly to the back of my mind. Vaguely, I was aware of my concern for Jesus, my dread dulled by his words of comfort at the table. “I must trust him. I must have faith,” I mumbled over and over, as I followed the other disciples example and prepared myself for the day.

After splashing water onto my face, I saw James talking to Simon. I could tell he was in as bad a shape as me. None of the other disciples had been as foolish as us. We were greeted silently with frowns and grins, as we joined them for breakfast. The buzz of conversation during our meal was about the probable topics of the meeting this morning at the synagogue: (1) what was Jesus up to?’; (2) why was he and his followers traipsing around Palestine claiming to spread the ‘good news?; (3) just what was his message, anyhow?; (4) did it conflict with the Torah; (5) was it blasphemous or heretical; (6) and who was he to challenge the priesthood and temple, claiming he speaks for God?’ I was surprised that the disciples raised such rational questions. They weren’t quite the dullards James and I suspected. The reason I numbered these questions was to give emphasis to each of them. Worded various ways, they would all be covered in the heated atmosphere of the synagogue during the hour Jesus gives an accounting of himself, but will almost be forgotten in confusion and pandemonium that followed.

******

Despite Jesus’ comforting words, the disciples were nervous about the pending meeting. After breakfast, after each of us made water in the shack Papa had built, we gathered up our strength and followed Jesus to the synagogue. Mama, Simon, Abigail, and Martha stood in our front yard waving anxiously at us as if we were embarking on a long, dangerous trip (which we, in fact, were). I looked back that moment, envying Simon, the simplest of my brothers. While James and I were heading into harm’s way, he stood there in the morning sun, dimly aware of the dangers we faced. As a mother, Mama’s fears were more general. She might have recalled Simeon’s warning then: “A sword shall pierce your heart!” Perhaps Abigail and Martha shared some of her worries, but it was probably similar to Simon’s brotherly concern. None of them, I was certain, could be as worried as poor Jesus, who, as Peter had put it this morning, was walking into a ‘lion’s den.’

When we arrived, the synagogue was full of town elders, including Nazareth’s Pharisees. We could also see Habakkuk and Ezra’s faces in the room. After a brief prayer and introduction by Rabbi Eli, the congregation erupted into questions, including the ones the disciples thought might be brought up. I can’t speak for the other disciples, but my head swam with apprehension and I actually felt dizzy, as if I might pass out. The most important questions about the nature of Jesus mission (what exactly was his message?; was he planning on replacing the Torah with it?; and why was he spreading his message among the cursed Samaritans) were answered simply by him. After explaining the simple formula for salvation (repent ones sins, accept God’s grace, be baptized as a sign of renewal, and be reborn in the spirit to have eternal life.), I hoped those pompous men might be impressed, but most of them were offended by what they thought were Jesus’ pretensions. Though Habakkuk and Ezra could see nothing harmful about his religious formula, they agreed with the majority that we had been defiled in Samaria. Of equal importance was the question of Jesus’ attitude about the Torah. After strongly affirming that he was not replacing the Torah, which seemed to appease many of his opponents, he argued convincingly to some that the Samaritans, after all, worshiped the same God, and should be brought back into the fold. With the exception of the majority’s rejection of his message, which was still significant, Jesus managed well under the circumstances.

When a final question from Rabbi Eli, himself was raised, however, Jesus was placed in an impossible situation.

“…Who do you claim to be?” the rabbi asked hesitantly.

“Oh no,” groaned James. “I was worried about this.”

It felt like a betrayal to us. How could Jesus answer such a question? In spite of the recent disclosures made to us, he had avoided giving a direct answer to this until this moment. Now, in front of Nazareth’s rabbi and elders, his moment of truth was here. Mindful the implications of Eli’s question, we whispered fearfully amongst ourselves. We were terrified of this bunch. Though I had lived in Nazareth all my life, they were all strangers to me. As James and I, the fishermen were beside themselves with fear. I could imagine how frightened poor Bartholomew was. Jesus didn’t answer immediately. Walking up to the front of the room he stood behind the Torah, opened it to a passage and from the prophet Isaiah read aloud:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me. He anointed me to preach the message to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives, to recover sight of the blind, to set free those who are oppressed, and to proclaim the favorable year of the Lord!”

Closing the book, he looked out at the stunned audience, exclaiming, “Today Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing!” After regaining their wits, the elders, especially the graybeards, comprising the chief elders and Pharisees, shouted out angrily at Jesus. Many of them rent their garments (the official sign of religious protest and grief). One portly elder demanded that Jesus be taken out and stoned. Raising his trembling hands against this mob, the rabbi counseled prudence.

“Order! Order! This is a house of God!” he cried impotently.

“Stone him! Stone him!” a chorus of voices responded

Wringing his hands in despair Eli repeated his demand. Habakkuk and Ezra elbowed through the crowd toward us, making shooing motions, as if to say, “Go, get out, before they tear you to shreds!” While most of the audience was livid with rage, many of Jesus’ critics were merely puzzled by his claim. “Who is this other Jesus?” an elder muttered in dismay. “Is this not Joseph, the Carpenter’s son?” My heart was beating so loudly, I could scarcely hear what Jesus said next. Finally, as I felt James pulling me from the crowd, I heard Jesus cry out angrily, “Truly I say to you: no prophet is welcome in his home town.” After that point, words that Luke had gleaned from onlookers, would spell from Jesus lips, but his reply was drowned out in my ears by shrill screams of rage from the mob and James shouting into my ear, “Jude, wake up. We have to get out of here!”

After this point, matters moved quickly. For a few terrible moments, it appeared as though Jesus had finally gone too far. While James and I followed the fisherman out of town, I stopped a moment to assist Bartholomew. Looking back at the crowd surging out of the synagogue then, I could see the men grab Jesus and carry him toward our house. “To the cliff! To the cliff!” someone cried, and I knew exactly where they were going. In Jesus secret place on our property there was, in fact, a cliff overlooking the Plain of Esdraelon and Jerusalem road.

Leaving Bartholomew in his mule cart, I raced after the crowd. Close on my heels was James and the fishermen. Frantically, we tried breaking through this mob, but we were greatly outnumbered. More people, who hadn’t attended the meeting, among them women and younger men, joined in what looked like a lynching. Peter’s nose was bloodied by a man’s fist, and I was shoved to the ground. Mama, Simon, Abigail, and Martha stood by helplessly, after being pushed aside by friends and neighbors.

The mob might either stone Jesus, hang him, or, more likely, throw him off the cliff. As our family and the disciples followed Jesus’ antagonists, we wept and wrung are hands helplessly. Bravely, Peter attempted to wrestle Jesus from the mob. James had been slapped senseless by a portly woman and my ears rang from someone’s fist. Andrew, Philip, John, and his brother James had been elbowed and knocked aside as Peter was beaten again. Refusing to give up, I took a different trail through the orchard in order to circumvent the crowd. Brambles and thorns tore at my skin and clothes as I negotiated this seldom used path, until, breaking through a clearing near the ruins, in unhallowed ground, I forced my way through the bushes and tall grass until I entered the main trail. At that point, in their bloodlust, the crowd seemed unaware that I had joined their ranks. Entering the narrow path, passed Jesus cave, toward the clearing near the cliff, they carried him aloft. Caught in the flow vigilantes momentarily, I managed to side step them, scrambling up an incline and pushing my way through the prickly undergrowth, reaching the far side of the clearing. I had no idea how I might stop them from throwing Jesus off the cliff. My first impulse was to throw rocks at them, which I did without compunction. Landing a stone on the head of one graybeard, then another off the shoulder of a younger man—both of whom had their hands on Jesus, I followed this effort up by scooping handfuls of gravel and pelting the crowd. Several of them broke ranks to attack me too. I couldn’t blame James, Simon, and the Fisherman for not standing with me. Only I knew about the secret trail and the way of circumventing the mob.

“Dear God, save us!” I screamed, preparing myself for the worst.

“Let’s get him,” someone cried, “he’s that blasphemer’s brother!”

“Brace yourself,” a voice entered my head.

Just as the crowd raised Jesus up to throw him to his death and at the very moment they began pummeling me with fists, another miracle—this time straight from God struck the mob. A tremor, reminiscent of the occasional earthquake rumbling through Galilee shook the ground. Fearful that the cliff would crumble and take them with it, Jesus’ antagonists released him and the men hammering me with blows drew back in terror. I can scarcely explain what happened next. One moment, as diehard vigilantes regained their composure and laid hands on Jesus again, it seemed as if he would finally be tossed down from the precipice and the other men would finish me off. The next moment, after a second temblor, I saw Jesus, his face radiant with light, gliding like a phantom through his attackers, who, caught in knot of bodies, scrambled down the trail. Because the trail was too narrow to allow passage, men and women slapped and punched each other in order to save themselves. I had cowered below the six men pummeling me unable to see. Now raising my head up from the ground, after they had fled, I witnessed a transfiguration. I record this in retrospect, for this concept was alien to me then. Yet I felt a presence then: a deep, abiding warmth and peace. At the same time, a shadow fell over me. One day that shadow would stretch across the Roman Empire, but for now I recognized who it was.

His hand reached down for me to grab now. “Hold tightly, little brother,” he said, pulling me to my feet. “We’ll wait, until their gone.”

There were bruises and scrapes on me from the brambles and beating, but Jesus was unscathed. As if nothing serious had happened, he chatted with me about the wondrous panorama below the cliff.

“Behold, Jude.” He spread his arms. “One day the whole world will hear my message!”

“Jesus,” I said, tugging his sleeve, “I’m greatly impressed, and I’ll dream about this moment until I’m old and gray, but they almost killed us. Let’s get out of here. Those people still want your blood!”

Amused by his triumph over ignorance, as if what I just saw was but a trifling event, Jesus stood with me for several moments until it appeared as though the coast was clear. When we greeted our family and the disciples at the foot of the trail, there were no townsfolk in sight, but Jesus decided that moment not to put our family in any more danger. As Mama hastily prepared snacks for us on our journey, Jesus promised her all was well. The evidence on his body should have been enough to convince her he was invincible. There wasn’t so much as a scratch on him, and yet he had just been seriously manhandled and almost thrown to his death. As we loaded our extra food into Bartholomew’s cart, the old man apologized for not being much help. Later, on the road, I shared with James and him the experience I had by the cliff. It was difficult explaining just exactly what took place. It was even more difficult to explain this event to Peter and the others, and yet no one was really surprised at Jesus spectacular escape. He had changed water into wine, healed a blind girl, and raised an infant from the dead. What I experienced on the precipice felt to me like his greatest miracle, something I could scarcely understand, let along explain.

Chapter Ten

Return to Cana

Before returning to Capernaum, which would be our home base, we would stop over at Cana in order to visit Jethro, his son Boaz, and Boaz’s new bride Ida. Though it was on the way to Capernaum, we couldn’t help grumbling under their breaths. After so many stops in our destination, including our ordeal in Nazareth, we were anxious to arrive in a friendlier town. For such an important milestone in Jesus’ career, there were only three new members made in Cana. This stopover had to be more important than a visitation to check on converts. We sensed that Jesus had big plans for Cana. Just before we arrived at the city limits, however, something remarkable happened—not so much a miracle as something very odd. A wealthy merchant, who identified himself humbly, as Moses bar Nablis, arrived in a cloud of dust just as we were about to enter the town.

We had seen him exiting Cana and thought nothing of a lone rider approaching, until he stopped and he looked down from his horse. We hadn’t seen this man in the rabble that attempted to stone Ida the last time we were here. His fine raiment, bejeweled fingers, and manner were out of place in our assembly, but he dismounted, coming toward Jesus as a supplicant, bowing deferentially with the words, “Peace be upon you Jesus of Nazareth.

After introductions were made back and forth, he immediately launched into his plea: “Jesus, my friend Jethro told me of your miracle. I heard from travelers what you have done in Samaria, too. Please, I beg of you: my son is near death.”

Typical of Jesus, who would take this opportunity to make a point, he replied, “Peace be upon your house Moses bar Nablis, but tell me this: ‘Why is it that people need signs and wonders in order to believe?”

Unable to answer this, Moses reached out beseechingly. “Jesus, please come to my house before my son dies.”

Taking Moses hands, Jesus looked squarely into his eyes, and asked simply, “Do you believe?”

“Yes.” Moses bowed his head.

“Do you repent your sins and promise to leave righteously in order to have eternal life?”

“I do.” The man wept softly.

“Very well Moses.” Jesus smiled faintly. “Tomorrow you’ll be baptized in God’s grace. Go home to you child. Your son lives. More important than the flesh, is to be reborn in the Spirit.”

Without even asking the man were he lived, Jesus gave what I interpreted as a dismissive look. Moses seemed unsure of what just happened as he climbed back on his horse. Just then however, a second rider appeared in the distance. When he was close enough, he called out, “Moses! Moses! Your son lives!”

Turning on his mount, Moses looked down at Jesus, tears glistening in his eyes. “Thank you Jesus. Clearly, you are more than a man. Please come to my house, so that my household can be baptized too.”

All this happened within a short period of time, and its impact on Cana would be lasting. Moses would spread the word, himself, during our visit with Jethro. Beaming happily at us, Jesus turned to Peter and slapped his back and walked down the line of travelers cuffing us playfully and tousling our hair.

“What do you think of that?” he asked us. “Already the word is out. Moses will prepare the way!”

We were, of course, impressed by the potential in this encounter, but we were far more impressed with the miracle he just performed.

“You didn’t even have to be there!” Peter looked at him in amazement. “Zap!” he added, snapping his fingers. “That man is your friend for life!”

“He’s merely one more convert,” Jesus shrugged it off, “no more important than anyone else.”

“Awe come on, Jesus.” Andrew scowled. “You can’t downplay this miracle. We know how important it is. When word of this gets out, half the town will want to join.”

“Two things.” Jesus held up his fingers impatiently. “One: baptism is not a path to salvation in itself. A person must be born again. Two: miracles are secondary. That man believes because of I healed his son. He might feel differently if I hadn’t done this. More blessed is the person who believes without miracles.”

“All right,” I sighed, “but that was incredible.”

“It happened the blink of an eye!” John shook his head.

“No matter,” Jesus changed the subject, “we begin to tomorrow. Tonight we’ll visit Jethro’s house. I’m sure Moses will have sent word to him. There’s a river near town. This is where I’ll preach and you’ll do your baptizing. Until then, rest up men. This will be a great harvest!”

“Oh no,” John’s brother slapped his forehead, “not emersion again!”

“Emersion is best,” Jesus counseled. “The experience is more lasting.”

“What’s wrong James?” Peter teased. “You afraid of a little water?”

“I don’t know if I can go on,” Bartholomew groaned. “It’s been a bumpy ride in this cart. My back’s acting up now; I’ll barely be able to walk.”

After hearing the old man’s complaint, Jesus slowed down a pace, allowing the others to walk ahead of him. Praying silently as he walked, he bent over the side of the cart, so as not to be heard. Within earshot, as I eavesdropped, he murmured, “Pray harder, Bartholomew—God will listen, and when you leave the cart this time, your backache will be gone.” The old man closed his eyes and muttered incoherently for several moments, as our band entered the town. When we reached Rabbi Jethro’s house, I helped Bartholomew out of the cart. Though hobbling on his cane, there was a smile on his face. A servant ran out to greet us, a second one taking control of the mule and cart. The old man laughed with delight, giving Jesus a hug. As we followed the first servant up to the entrance, the door opened suddenly, Jethro, Boaz, and Ida appeared together bubbling out a welcome. In the background stood Moses beaming happily at us. As always, Jesus’ predictions rang true.

“Jesus, Jesus.” the rabbi’s corpulent frame shook. “Moses, my friend, told me what you did. Fantastic! Marvelous! We’ve sent messengers out. We want everyone, including villagers in the countryside, to hear the news.”

Ida, who I believe was slightly addled, grinned foolishly. Jethro’s son Boaz was more reserved, but promised that he and Ida would be baptized too. Though his facial expression belied his words, the reaction his promise had on his father was obvious.

“What?” Jethro’s eyes popped wide. “Baptism, dunking in water…Oh…yes, a quaint custom.” He laughed nervously. “We owe that to Jesus. We must set an example, mustn’t we?”

“This isn’t mere custom.” Jesus shook his head. “You’re not doing me any favor, Jethro. This you do for yourself. Baptism is an outward sign to an inner grace. It’s important but not critical. If there were no water in the desert and a man repented and asked to be reborn, God would grant it.”

“Yes, of course,” he rubbed his hands, “but could we make mine a little more discreet?”

“…Discreet?” Peter pondered the word.

“It means secretive,” explained James.

“You too proud for dunking?” I looked at him with disgust.

“Well,… not exactly…” He squirmed. “I’m a rabbi, you know. We might do it at the dinner table if you wish.”

“You mean sprinkle you with water?” Jesus sighed with disappointment. “There’s a river near your town, Jethro. Wouldn’t that be much better?”

“For the townsfolk perhaps, but not me, Jesus. I’m the town rabbi. Why do I need baptism anyhow. Aren’t I already saved?”

“You don’t understand my message at all, do you?” Jesus shook his head. “God isn’t a Jew, Samaritan, or Gentile, and he plays no favorites. Only children, innocent of fault, are in God’s good graces. Everyone else falls short unless they’re reborn. Rebirth requires accepting the good news then living it as a way of life, not parading around as a rabbi, Pharisee, or scribe or following every jot and tittle of the law. Your position means no more than it does for the baker, weaver, farmer, or shepherd. Everyone, rich or poor, are saved by grace, not merit, status, or money. A beggar, in God’s grace, is better off than a wicked King. Are you greater than Caesar or Herod? You can’t earn eternal life on your own. It’s purest folly. To accept the good news as a path to salvation requires personal commitment between you and the Lord. It’s an inward grace given to you after your covenant with God. Baptism is an outward grace, demonstrating your commitment to God, that you must accept without regard to how it looks or pleases your friends, family, or peers. It should be done freely and shamelessly, with an open heart. Salvation must be the most important thing in your life!”

“Well, I want it,” Moses announced cheerily. “We can all meet at the river. I’m bringing my entire household, including my servants and staff.”

“Dear me, dear me,” muttered Jethro. “…That won’t do at all.”

“I’ll be there!” Ida beamed.

“Me too.” Boaz nodded uncertainly.

Moses decision made up for Jethro’s embarrassment and Boaz tepid response. Such an example set for townsfolk would a high water mark of the mission. After embracing the rich merchant, Jesus looked back at us, exclaiming, “Rich or poor, old or young, man or woman—all seek the Kingdom of God!”

******

At the dinner table, which included Moses and his wife Tamar, the merchant’s buoyant mood overshadowed the reticence and half-heartedness of Jethro and his son. The rabbi’s wife hardly said a word and, by the furrows on her brow, disapproved of their rustic guests. Only Ida, among Jethro’s household, jabbered on enthusiastically about the upcoming event, but her reaction seemed exaggerated, as if she might be intoxicated if not deranged. Jesus studied Ida compassionately, perhaps not sure of her sincerity. He gave up trying to convince the rabbi and, for the remainder of the dinner concentrated on Moses and his wife.

After our meal and a short period in which Jesus took Moses and Tamar aside to answer their questions, he led his travel worn companions to the room Jethro provided. As we were bedding down that night out of earshot of the rabbi and his son, he reminded us about how religious leaders might react to his message. Though Rabbi Jethro had shown openness after the marriage in Cana, he was a prime example of how Jesus would be received even by friends. The reasons for a negative reaction from rabbis, priests, and doctors of the law included narrow-mindedness, stubbornness, and embarrassment, basic attitudes shared by magistrates also fearful of public disorder. Our most serious enemy, however, he explained, was Caiaphas, the high priest, whose motives were more sinister than local magistrates and religious leaders.

“Caiaphas is driven by a darker force,” he announced gravely. “He will fulfill scripture. In general the authorities, whether religious or secular, are fearful of change and challenge to established order. Because of this fear, the Romans will fulfill scripture too.”

“Master,” John called from his pallet, “what do you mean?”

“Yes, Jesus.” Our brother James rose up on his elbow. “I studied with Nicodemus for over a year. I don’t remember reading that.”

“Not all truth is written down,” he explained thoughtfully. “Remember the Living Word: God’s, not man’s, continuing revelation, as opposed to what men have written down inspired by God. Inspiration and revelation are not quite the same. All of you were inspired by the Word will also receive this Spirit, but you have much to learn.”

James and I had grown up with Jesus and were used to hearing him say strange things, but this didn’t make since even to us. Now I understand that Jesus was the Word and incarnation of divine power and revelation for the new covenant God would make through him after the Resurrection. It was appropriate that John asked Jesus what he meant, for in one of his scrolls, which he would one day let me read, John introduced Jesus as the Light or Savior, essentially the fulfillment of our faith. He presented this enigmatic concept also as a way to show the godhood of Jesus, which Paul would later define. As for what Jesus meant by the Spirit, many Jews understood as the invisible spirit of God, but, like his reference to Caiaphas and the Romans fulfilling scripture, Jesus was giving us a preview of something new. When he told us we would be receiving the Spirit, he was, of course, talking about the Holy Ghost—a future concept Nicodemus, himself, wouldn’t have grasped. How then could simple fishermen, his own brothers, and even John, who wrote in his scroll about the Word, have understood him at this early stage?

We were, I decided drowsily, spiritual infants in the shadow of Jesus, privy to immense, impenetrable knowledge or, in the words of the fishermen, sailing into unknown waters. Jesus was our shepherd and pilot. Each day was a new adventure, presenting us with both danger and enlightenment. I was, however, like my companions, too exhausted to wrap my mind around such thoughts, especially Jesus’ promise that Caiaphas and the Romans would fulfill scripture . I scarcely remember falling asleep, but I recall a troubling dream I had that night.… I was with Jesus again at his secret place, but this time they were throwing me off the cliff. Down I tumbled, screaming loudly, the ground rushing up to meet me, until quite as suddenly I awakened staring up into the darkness. The face of Jesus appeared over me, a small lamp in his hand.

“You’re having a nightmare, Jude,” he whispered. “…What did you dream?”

Gathering my wits, I told him about how I was thrown from a cliff. When I was finished recounting my dream, he frowned and shook his head.

“Don’t worry little brother,” he consoled me. “Our experience left an impact on you. Remember what I told you when we were children. It’s night now, so clear your mind and visualize a daytime sky. Just like those times we laid on our backs watching the clouds overhead move past, concentrate on an imaginary pattern—palaces, fortresses, and mythical monsters forming and reforming in the sky.”

I was getting sleepy just listening to him. Sure enough, after he bid me goodnight, I slept peacefully the remainder of the night, with only a vague patches of dreamscapes remembered the next morning.

******

That morning in Jethro’s house was hectic and uncomfortable. We were herded around like sheep, by Jesus, which seemed appropriate. As the Shepherd, he wanted his disciples to look their best and be in the right frame of mind. While we hurriedly dressed, splashed water onto our faces, and ate breakfast, Jethro our host was nowhere to be seen, obviously terrified by the prospects ahead. Boaz was also absent, as was Ida, his harebrained wife. We waited just long enough for Moses to send messengers throughout Cana with the glad tidings before proceeding to the river. It sounded naïve and unrealistic to us that so many people would hearken to Moses’ summons, but we were unaware of how much influence the merchant had in this town. Added to the legend already existing and Jesus reputation as a healer that preceded him, the news of Jesus presence appeared to strike the right chord. Looking out one of Jethro’s windows, we could see townsfolk already filling the street. Another explanation for this marvel—that Jesus used his powers to mesmerize these people—swirled my mind, as I followed the others out the door.

Deciding to keep this thought to myself, I concentrated on getting Bartholomew on his feet and into his mule cart, as the other disciples gathered in front of Jethro’s house. Men and women, many of them probably just curious, on their way to the river, stopped to gawk at us. Though there was no verbal exchange yet, Jesus waved at them. As before, the fishermen were anxious but terrified this time. Bartholomew sat quietly in the cart, uncomplaining, and James stayed close to me, as he had before. Other than Jesus, himself, he and Bartholomew were my closest friends. All of the fishermen had warmed up to James and me, but there was still that distance between us caused by resentment that Jesus gave us special treatment. This wasn’t true, of course. Peter and John held a very special place in Jesus’ heart, and Jesus often claimed that all of his companions were equally loved.

When we reached the outskirts of Cana, the road dropped suddenly in elevation, allowing us to view a spectacular panorama: against a backdrop of an almost treeless plain, a small river snaked in a wide arc around a outcrop of ancient rock. Like the River Jordan, though much smaller, it was, Jesus reassured us, a perfect spot for baptisms. Most importantly for our purpose, we could see a great number of people already present on the shore. Once again, my heart beat with anticipation, but I wasn’t afraid. Always in Jesus’ presence, we expected something incredible to happen. Today, I was certain, would be no different.

The closer we came to the crowd, the more their number grew. Around us, as if oblivious that Jesus was the cause of this event, they moved passed. From other paths out of town and from the countryside they were also arriving: men, women, and children—the largest multitude so far. Upon reaching the closest loop of the river where the crowd was huddled in anticipation, Jesus stood upon a convenient boulder and shouted out in a clear and clarion voice: “Citizens of Cana, it is right and good that you have come, for I bring you good news: God’s grace is upon you! The priests who spoke for you in the temple no longer have God’s ear. They don’t believe in an afterlife. For them, the righteous are rewarded here on earth. Their money changers and animal sellers have turned God’s sanctuary into a slaughter house. Though burdened by the law, the rabbis and Pharisees at least have it right: for the righteous there is life after death. But like a dimly lit lamp, this truth has been kept almost as a secret. Where do I go, after I die? is a hard question for them to answer. The closest they come to a destination after death is the Bosom of Abraham. This might have served the Israelites in the days of the Patriarchs, but this is a new age. There is a wondrous paradise awaiting all believers they don’t tell you about, because it’s not in our scriptures. Here before you scripture is being written. All people—rich and poor—are listening. Even your rabbi has seen the truth. Everlasting life in paradise is open to everyone. All you have to do is repent your sins, strive to be righteous, and accept God’s grace to merit heaven. Your baptism today will signify your rebirth into a new life!”

It was a simple message. All those deep, enigmatic discussions he lapsed into around his disciples would be covered years later in their writings. The fishermen, I would discover, were far more intelligent than I had imagined. Whatever they didn’t understand, Jesus would explain. Considering they were practically illiterate, however, the works that Peter, James, and John wrote must have had divine guidance. Jesus showed good common sense in keeping his sermons brief and simple. His disciples, as well as the new converts, understood just enough of the message now to comprehend the basic meaning. The simplicity of what Jesus offered greatly contrasted the complex, law-ridden, religion of the Sadducees and Pharisees. Even the name of our congregation was simple: the Way.

Filled with much more confidence about our mission, I was proud to be Jesus’ brother and one of his disciples, and yet I was concerned more than ever for his safety. If the magistrates and Caiaphas’ spies had been worried about Jesus impact upon people before, they would really be worried now. As we stood there watching Jesus orchestrate this event, we were stunned by the numbers, which continued to grow. Several men and women had already entered the water, ankle-deep then knee-deep, looking over at Jesus, as if waiting for directions.

“Jesus,” Peter cried, “is the whole town here?”

“No,” he answered, “shielding his eyes from the sun, “but it’s a lot—more than we had in Judea or Samaria. Many of them are merely curious, though. Perhaps they need more coaxing. That’s one of the great benefits of bringing people into the fold: when they go their separate ways they, too, will spread the message. Even those on the sidelines are witness to the word. I see Moses and his wife approaching the water with their family and friends, but so far no sign of the rabbi, his daughter-in-law, and son.” “Men!” He turned to us. “Last time we were at such a river, the numbers were much smaller and you went out in pairs. The numbers are great this time, so we do this together.” His arm sweeping the length of the crowd, he motioned to various spots near the shoreline were people had entered the water. “All of you,” he cried, “take someone’s hand and lead them out until they you are both waste-deep.” “Peter, James, and John,” he directed, “here, here, and here. Andrew, Philip, Jude, and my brother James: over there, there, and there. I will assist you Bartholomew. If it becomes too much for you, return to your cart.” “Now let’s begin!” He clapped his hands.

As he had done previously, before we were turned loose, Jesus gave the audience the three requirements for eternal life: repentance of sins, acceptance of God’s grace, and the promise to live a righteous life. “As a outward sign of inward grace,” he explained once again, there follows baptism, which signifies your spiritual rebirth. Only after admitting your sins to God and asking for forgiveness, is repentance genuine. Even the rite of baptism is hollow if the heart isn’t contrite. Though some sins are greater than other, all of them can be wiped clean by true remorse.” Jesus reminded his audience that baptism was not a replacement for repentance. In this way, water is a symbol of new life but doesn’t replace the baptism of the spirit, which comes with prayer. Fear of God is not the reason to embrace Him, for He is the God of love, not vengeance. After explaining the doctrine of salvation, Jesus listed the Ten Commandments as he had before, warning his audience that the path to eternal life required constant vigilance. “If you dwell on evil,” he warned them, “you’ve committed the act in your heart. A man who covets his neighbors wife has committed adultery in his heart. This is true for having murder or other hateful thoughts in your mind.” Jesus, however, differentiated between merely thinking evil and dwelling on it. Temptation in itself is not wrong, he explained. Only when evil festers in the mind does it become a sin. Those reborn must strive for pure thoughts and set an example for others

Repeating the prelude to baptism, he shouted, “Turn away and strive to be righteous. Those of you who feel God’s grace now, pause to be sure, then step forward.” “Please, line up in orderly fashion. There’s no hurry. Everyone, who is ready and wishes to be baptized, will have their turn.” “That’s it.” He motioned. “Separate into lines before my disciples.” “Remember the lines I taught you,” he said discreetly to Bartholomew, “follow my example.”

The first ones to be baptized, perhaps out of sense deference by the others in line, were Moses bar Nablis, his wife Tamar, his children, and entire household. Of this group, Moses insisted that his wife Tamar be the first citizen of Can baptized.

“Daughter, are you sorry for your sins?” He asked, gripping her shoulders

“Yes.” She grinned happily.

“And do you promise to live righteously and walk with God?”

“Oh yes.” She nodded enthusiastically.

“Then, by my Father’s grace, I baptize you into a new life.”

In a procedure that would be repeated nearly three hundred times for men, women, and children by Jesus and his disciples, Jesus cradled her body and, asking her to hold her nose, dunked her backward into the water. When Tamar surfaced, she was laughing with joy.

“You are reborn, daughter,” he commanded, “go and sin no more!”

******

When were completed with the rites of baptism for a large segment of the crowd, we were all hoarse and trembling with fatigue. Fortunately or perhaps by divine providence, there were no more people stepping forth. Moses, our merchant friend, insisted that we stay in his house that night. Since Jethro’s household had not been represented at the river, it would have been awkward for us to stay in his home. I was so exhausted, I walked alongside of the cart numbly, scarcely able to think. I could hear Bartholomew jabbering about something, but my only thought those moments was for food and rest.

When we arrived at Moses sumptuous house, the rich merchant’s cook had prepared a much finer meal than we received at Jethro’s house. Even Bartholomew’s mule was treated better than before. The stable boy, who had been one of the converts, had been cheerful, as had been the chamberlain, cook, Tamar, and Moses’ three sons. When we finally departed the next day and were on the road, Jesus was in a jubilant mood. All of us, in fact, were quite satisfied with ourselves and were both excited and anxious about the journey ahead.

Chapter Eleven

The Centurion’s Servant

On the way back to Capernaum, Jesus would stop travelers and preach to them. Most of them listened to him politely, though a few grew irritated and shooed him away. I’m ashamed to say that James and I were embarrassed for him, as were the fishermen, but Jesus remained cheerful, even laughing at some of the verbal abuse. It was, in fact, our human frailties that made his sensitive to public derision. Gradually our shyness and squeamishness was fading with each baptism.

Finally, at a rest stop where a small village loomed up on the side of the road, Jesus met a sheepherder and his son, tending sheep in the nearby hills. After hearing him speak, the two men agreed to baptism at a stream nearby. In Jesus’ view if one person is saved among a hundred, the effort was worth it. After the question and answers used in this rite, Jesus led them to the water source, as Andrew and Philip guarded their sheep. The symbols in this encounter—shepherd and sheep—was not lost on us. Because the water in the stream was too shallow for emersion, Jesus scooped water up with his hands, sprinkled each of them, and, as he had with other converts, asked them to spread the word.

Compared to the previous numbers brought into to the Way, the baptism of two sheepherders was not that impressive, but Jesus used this opportunity, to lecture us on humility.

“Are you proud?” he turned to ask us.

“Well,…” Peter answered hesitantly, “that depends.”

“And you?” He pointed to John.

“Who isn’t?” John frowned defensively.

“What about you?” He looked squarely at me.

“Yes,” I said unequivocally, “I’m proud.”

He raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “At least you’re honest. There’s nothing wrong with pride for the right reasons. “This hour wasn’t one of them,” he addressed us all. “You were embarrassed at the reaction I received from some of those travelers. They reacted out of impatience and fear. Get used to this reaction on our journey. At least they didn’t throw rotten fruit or stones at us. Had they not been tired of fearful of strangers on the road, their reactions might have been different. I’ve seen great progress in each one of you, but there’s still room for improvement. As a group, I scold you about this: Consider the misery of doubt and urgency in such men. Be patient, tolerant, and humble. Pray for these virtues and they will come.” “… Now, individually,” he added after a pause. “I offer these nuggets of advice. Peter: speak more clearly, so the initiate understands what you’re trying to say. Andrew: you are speaking too loudly. You’re frightening them. Both of you are nervous; I understand this. Relax and let it come easily. The words will come into your head. Now John and his brother James speak well, but are not always taking the baptisms seriously. When you dunk a young woman, you must look beyond her looks. All of those coming to us—men, women, or children—are equal. Seek them out equally and have pure thoughts. You, too, Philip, often hesitate when a misshapen person approaches. You, too, must discard you prejudices and look at the soul within.”

Looking at Bartholomew in his cart, Jesus shook his head, “You have a pure heart. In fact, you’ve come a long way. Though you’re improving, however, you complain too much. It comes almost spontaneously out of your mouth. I know you have aches and pains and my Father knows this too. When you feel distressed, pray. I’ll pray with you. You’re mule is also tired, Bartholomew. I think the rest in Capernaum will do you both good.”

Looking at James and I now, he sighed heavily. Placing his hands on our shoulders, he laughed softly. “And then there’s my brothers, James and Jude. What can I say? I’m amazed at how James, a student of Nicodemus has stayed with us so long. Nicodemus is a Pharisee, stifled by the law, and yet he’s on the path, as are you James. Try not to be squeamish when you think something is unclean or will defile you. Your facial expressions, such as the snarl you give rustics like that shepherd and his son, are quite obvious.” “As were yours in the beginning.” He looked at me. “Your biggest problem isn’t shyness, squeamishness, intolerance, or impatience. It’s that special insight inside you. Unlike the others, even our brother, you feel you know me better than them. You are blessed with certain feelings, Jude. You look into the future and see shadows, but don’t concern yourself with them. If it wasn’t for your questioning nature and fears for me, your efforts would almost be perfect.”

Jesus prayed aloud, asking his father to give us patience, wisdom, and spiritual strength, so that we won’t worry about tomorrow. On the face of it, it seemed as though I had gotten the least amount of criticism for my performance, but in truth, my task—to not worry about the shadows I saw in my mind—was daunting, in fact, much more difficult than what the others faced. At times, the fishermen acted like children on an adventure, James, who was more concerned about being defiled, didn’t have my insight, and Bartholomew was too concerned about his bodily ailments to worry much about anything else. Nevertheless, I felt special. Jesus had to be impartial with his disciples, just as he wanted us to be impartial with future members of the Way, and yet on occasion, he would tousle my hair, call me little brother, and chat with me about trifling things. He had expected little from me, and yet he singled me out for what had sounded at first like a compliment.

Those moments when it was my turn to receive Jesus’ advice, James made a face. Not long afterwards, as the disciples chattered amongst themselves, he turned to me, and asked, “What did Jesus mean when he said you were blessed?”

“Oh,” I thought quickly, “he just meant my memory. I remember practically everything he did. I’m bound to be more pessimistic than you.”

“Humph,” he said with a scowl. “I could’ve of used your memory in Jerusalem.”

Of course, that wasn’t what Jesus meant at all. When the fishermen overheard this exchange, they frowned, and shook their heads. Perhaps it sounded as if I was trying to he high and mighty. James had always been envious of my almost total recall. Often I sounded condescending to the fishermen. What I had to hide and overcome was my feeling that they were dullards. That most of these men would write inspiring accounts of Jesus’ life and interpret his message now seems miraculous. During the earlier days of our mission, I could barely carry on a decent conversation with them. At times, they had given Jesus blank looks when he used big words; it took a long time for them to comprehend some of Jesus’ concepts; and yet, in the end, they expounded great wisdom.

Though they might not have understood what Jesus said to me this hour, they resented the brotherly attention he gave to James and me, especially to me. Somehow, I told myself, I had to lessen that resentment. Those moments, when I worried about this problem, Jesus walked far ahead of us lost in his thoughts. The fishermen now took issue with the fact Jesus had singled me.

“I though we were all brothers,” Peter said to Andrew.

“You know the expression,” Andrew replied, “blood is thicker than water.”

“That’s a stupid expression,” my brother snorted. “So is wine and vinegar.”

“That’s not the point.” Philip snarled. “He means you’re of the same blood.”

“And that’s not fair.” John glared at James and me.

“Yeah,” exclaimed his brother. “In Capernaum, Jesus said we’re all family.”

“We are one growing family,” I began explaining. “What Jesus said was true, but he’s James’ and my brother—that’s a simple fact.” “The truth is,” I added, looking back at James, “we’re not of the same blood. None of our brothers and sisters are!”

“Jude, shut up!” James cried.

Awakened from his reverie, Jesus whirled around, looking at me in disbelief. James, well aware of our adoption by our parents, knew I had, in fishermen’s jargon, treaded into deep water. Jesus thought so too. Thanks to my big mouth, the truth was out.

“What does Jude mean?” asked John. “He said he was your brother, Jesus. You’re not of the same blood?”

Because Jesus couldn’t lie, he answered directly with the facts. “My mother gave birth to me,” he said calmly, “but afterwards, out of the goodness of their hearts, my parents adopted the other children.”

“Whoa!” Peter slapped his forehead. “James and Jude are adopted?”

“Yes,” Jesus exhaled, “as were Joseph, Simon, and the twins.”

“Huh?” John gave him an incredulous look. “Abigail and Martha too?”

“Uh huh,” he nodded, glancing at me. “I didn’t think to tell you, but there’s no shame in it. James, Jude, and their brothers and sisters have become fine adults.”

“Your sisters are beautiful!” piped John.

“Beauty is in here.” Jesus pointed to his chest.

“I always thought it was strange, them being blond and all,” Andrew muttered aloud, “not at all Jewish in appearance.”

“Well, look at Jesus,” blurted Philip, “he’s got blue eyes.” “Come to think of it.” He snapped his fingers, “so does Mary, Jesus’ mother.”

“You idiot!” James whispered into my ear.

“What have I done?” I groaned. I had gone beyond treading into deep waters. I had, as my Greek friend would say, opened a Pandora’s box that not even Jesus could fix.

“Listen men,” he said, raising his arms up for silence, “there are many Galileans with blue eyes and blond hair. What have I told you? Look inside people, not outside. There are no singularly handsome men or fair maidens in heaven: all are equal in God’s eyes. Jude merely spoke the truth.”

Bartholomew, whose red hair had turned gray, understood what Jesus meant more than anybody. Knowing our secret all along, he gave me a sympathetic look as Jesus took me aside.

“I’m sorry I have to bawl you out,” he chided, “but they’re not ready for that portion of the truth. The fact is, in their untutored minds, the admission that you and James were adopted will make you all more equal. In the end, you’re indiscretion has served a purpose, but in the future watch your tongue. You were doing fine until you said, ‘We’re not the same blood!’ Think before you speak!”

“I-I’m sorry,” I replied shamefacedly. “I was trying to make a point. It just spilled out!”

“It certainly did!” he snapped, giving me a shake. “That was none of their business. You were very indiscreet, Jude! Promise me you won’t bring this up again!”

I heaved a broken sigh. “It won’t happen again,” I swore, “I promise!”

******

From that day forward, I would try keeping my thoughts to myself. Jesus was right: I must watch my tongue. As he also pointed out, however, my indiscretion had served a purpose. The fishermen began treating James and me differently after that day. We were, after all, in their minds, not blood brothers and were therefore on more or less equal footing with them as disciples. Andrew, Philip, and John gave me sympathetic looks as Jesus and I walked back to the group. During a rest stop, John’s brother James walked up to me, patted my shoulder and thanked me for my honesty; he and the other fishermen had grown tired of my airs. Peter admitted that his uncle Benjamin had been adopted too. To perpetuate this feeling of goodwill, I tried very hard not to talk down to them and listen to them intently to show them I was one of the men. Though James remained irritated with me for awhile, he finally joined me beside Bartholomew’s cart, as we approached Capernaum, admitting that my slip had actually made matters better for them. Following my example, he tried harder to fit in.

Though Nazareth was our hometown, the distant glimmer of the Sea of Galilee was like returning home for us too. Peter had a wife, daughter, and mother-in-law there. All of the fishermen, except Bartholomew had been born in Capernaum. Like James and I, they had to overcome their homesickness during the journey. Now because Jesus had decided to make it our home base, Capernaum would become James and my home too.

As we made our way down the hill leading into the town, a distant rider rode toward us, reminding all of us of the time Moses bar Nablis had approached. The similarity of the two scenes would be all the more remarkable when the man called out Jesus name. Almost immediately, my brothers and I recognized who it was. It was Regulus, once an optio on patrol in our town for Longinus, First Centurion of Prefect Cornelius’ Galilean Cohort. Bartholomew, who had once been chased as a fugitive by Longinus’ men, recognized him too.

“Oh no,” he muttered fearfully, “it’s him!”

“Don’t panic!” I called discreetly. “He won’t recognize you. You’re no longer Reuben the bandit. You’re Bartholomew, Jesus’ disciple!”

Regulus, whose red cape bellowed in the wind, raced at breakneck speed on his black steed. On his helmet, we noted, was the plum of a centurion. He had come up in the world. Jesus returned his greeting, scurrying out to meet him on the road. All of us drew close, anxious to hear the discussion. As was the case with most of the events in Jesus’ life, this would be recorded by his apostles. What the writers failed to capture, however, was the background of this singular event. Here was a stern Roman officer, who had looked down on my family and the townsfolk of Nazareth, arriving as a supplicant, seeking Jesus’ help.

“…Jesus,” he said with great emotion, “I have heard of you. Your reputation precedes you. Clementius, my faithful servant, told me you’re a miracle worker. I didn’t believe it. For me, everything I believed was always black and white, right there in front of my face. Now it’s not. My servant Clementius, an old soldier, who once saved my life, is dying. The doctor in Sepphoris told me he will soon be dead, but Clementius believes you can cure him. I’ve never seen such conviction in one man.”

“You must be exhausted.” Jesus looked up with concern. “Did you ride all the way from the Galilean Fort?”

“No Sepphoris,” he replied, climbing off his horse. “Things haven’t gone well at Galilean Cohort. There’s been a shakeup at the fort.”

“To Cornelius and Longinus?” I blurted.

“I’m afraid so.” He looked down sympathetically. “Matters have deteriorated greatly. The new governor, Pontius Pilate, thought Cornelius was too soft on your people. I did too. He was cashiered out of the legions and the First Centurion, Flavius Longinus, was reassigned to Jerusalem. I was promoted to centurion, myself, but the new first centurion is a Jew-hater, handpicked by Pilate. I’ve grown fond of my neighbors in Sepphoris. You’re good people, Jesus. I know that now.”

Jesus, we could see, was deeply moved. Climbing off his horse, Regulus removed his helmet and wiped his brow, his voice husky with emotion: “Recently, when I was riding with my men, a traveler from Cana told me a strange story. He said a man in his town changed water into wine. I laughed at him and thought that was ridiculous. Then just the other day, another fellow—a Samaritan merchant in Sepphoris told me a man cured a blind girl and brought an infant back from the dead. Just how coincidental is that, Jesus, that I heard these stories only days apart as my friend Clementius lay dying in his bed? Clementius calls himself a god-fearer—the name your people have given to non-Jews who believe in their God. Even his physician has heard of you. Some call you a prophet. My Roman friends think you might be a new god. All I know, Jesus, is what Clementius told me. There’s too many stories to discount your miracles out of hand.”

“I have no wife or children, only my servant.” He paused, heaving a sigh. “…. I-I’m sick to death of my pointless life. Clementius, in spite of his pain, isn’t afraid to die. His only concern is for a son in Rome he hasn’t seen in years. I-I want to believe like him Jesus, but I’ve seen too much killing and ugliness. Our Roman gods are made of stone; they’re dead and lifeless. Vascus, the new prefect, ordered the slaughter of one hundred villagers for stoning a soldier who raped one of their women. I was there, helpless against the bloodlust of my men…. It broke something inside of me...” “Jesus,” he cried out finally, “save my friends life and save me!”

For the first time I could remember in his ministry, Jesus was speechless. Knowing full well that Regulus was a Gentile, the fishermen stood there in shock. Now that Regulus appeared to be on our side, Bartholomew was, as I, greatly relieved, light-headed with delight. That a Roman centurion would say such a thing, was a first. History was being made this very moment. I felt it acutely, more than at any other time in our journey: why we were following Jesus, and why we must spread the good news. Because of his training as a scribe, James, naturally looked upon what followed with doubt and disbelief, but the rest of us, like Jesus, were deeply moved.

“… Regulus,” Jesus spoke finally, motioning for a water skin, “this isn’t complicated. It will be the easiest thing you’ve ever done in your life, bringing you peace, joy, and eternal life. Are you truly repentant of your sins?”

“Yes,” Regulus answered, kneeling on the ground.

“Do you believe in God’s heeling grace and life everlasting?”

“I do!” Regulus bowed his head.

“Then, with this water, I baptize you into your new life. You are spiritually reborn!”

This was strange even for Jesus. He had just baptized a Gentile. The centurion rose up shakily and, in the Roman fashion, gripped Jesus forearm, then stood back, recalling why he originally came. “Now please, there’s no time to waste.” He cried, wringing his hands. “Save my servant. I fear it may already be too late.”

“Sepphoris it too far,” Peter exclaimed. “We’ll never make it time!”

“Yes, Jesus,” nodded Philip, “he’ll already be dead.”

The other disciples agreed with Peter and Philip.

Regulus waved irritably. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t expect Jesus to travel to Sepphoris. Even if he did, you Jews consider yourselves contaminated in a Gentile’s house.”

“That’s true, Jesus,” James protested, “this man is an uncircumcised Roman.”

“James, let the man speak!” Jesus scolded.

“I am a centurion, who leads men. If I tell them to do something, they do it.” He snapped his fingers. “You are a man of God, who can do wonders, who merely has to command it for it to be done.”

“It’s my Father who works through me,” Jesus corrected him. “Surely, I say unto you,” he added, glancing back at James. “I’ve not yet seen faith as great as Regulus and his servant.”

“But he’s a pagan Gentile,” James grumbled.

Closing his eyes, Jesus took on an attitude of prayer. For a few moments, he talked silently to God, as Regulus looked on expectantly. Though Jesus clearly included all peoples—not just Gentile—in his mission, the disciples were dumbfounded by this departure. When Jesus opened his eyes, he looked with great compassion at the Roman.

“Regulus, this hour your servant has awakened and is asking for water and food. He is well and blessed by God for bringing you into the Way.”

Once again Regulus embraced Jesus but this time the Jewish way. After hugging him tightly, he took stock of himself, straightened his shoulders, and saluted Jesus as he would a comrade in arms.

“From this day forward,” he cried out, “I pledge my life, honor, and my sword to God. In his service, I live and die!”

Though he sounded very much like a gladiator, I broke ranks from the others and ran to shake his hand. Also moved by this demonstration, Peter, then Andrew, and one-by-one the other disciples, followed my example, until only James stood apart, stewing in his thoughts.

“Come here, my brother,” Jesus beckoned. “This man is our brother. You merely have to follow me. For a Roman to say such a thing is no easy matter. Unlike you, he will, from this day forward, serve to masters: Caesar and God!”

******

With great faith, as Jesus believed, Regulus finally relaxed. Plainly, though illumination glowed from his eyes, this was a man driven beyond human endurance. Slumping wearily onto a rock by the road, he looked eastward toward Sepphoris, satisfied that Clementius would live. Jesus sat down beside him a moment. The two men murmured back and forth awhile as would two old friends. In spite of their respect for the Roman’s new allegiance to the Way, a discontent returned to the disciples as they pondered what this meant. No one dare repeat what James had said, until Regulus and Jesus, stood up and walked a ways from the group. Jesus was obviously counseling the new convert to the Way. It was especially irksome to James, who had remained isolated until he detected a consensus in the group.

Out of earshot from them now, he said with great bitterness, “Jesus castes pearls before swine!” I would hear these word again during Jesus ministry. Now, they underlined the rift between Gentile and Jew. Not familiar with these ugly words, the fishermen were startled by James’ anger.

“I’m just confused,” Andrew scratched his head. “John baptized only Jews at the River Jordan. I was surprised when he reached out to the Samaritans, but at least they’re circumcised and they’re not pagans.”

“Precisely!” spat James. “Regulus isn’t only a pork-eating pagan, he’s uncircumcised!”

“I’m a little puzzled myself.” Peter studied James. “But that’s pretty strong. That Roman traveled a long way, non-stop. He must’ve had great faith.”

“Well, he’s still a Gentile,” observed John. “How does this fit in with the Baptist’s plan?”

“What just exactly is John’s plan?” Peter frowned.

“Don’t you remember?” I looked at Andrew and Philip for agreement. “John’s the forerunner—a voice crying in the wilderness!”

“That’s right,” Philip nodded. “He said it often enough.”

“Humph!” grumbled John’s. “He’s said a lot of strange things!”

“He called Jesus the Lamb of God,” his brother reflected. “How strange is that?”

“And the Anointed One.” Andrew frowned.

“Jesus made it plan he doesn’t like labels.” I reminded them. “He doesn’t want to upset religious leaders. Let’s face: we have a good idea who he is.”

“That’s not the point.” James waved irritably. “You men have changed the subject. Jesus just baptized a Gentile. We all suspect who he is. Everything I’ve read points to a Jewish messiah. Jesus makes no claim to that, but what else could he be?”

“Are you serious?” John looked at him curiously. “I heard about the Jewish Redeemer. Isn’t he a warrior king like David?”

“No,” I interjected. “… Isaiah contradicts himself. I read his scrolls. On the one hand, he promised a savior who will smite our conquerors and set up a new kingdom. On the other hand, he talks about a suffering servant, who comes in peace, like Jesus… Isaiah also says in those passages that he will be a light unto the Gentiles.”

“It’s a matter of interpretation,” James tried justifying his prejudice. “A light unto Gentiles might mean he’ll set an example for them. It doesn’t mean they’ll be brought into the fold. Nowhere in the Torah do the prophets reach out to Gentiles. The old faith and the Way are intended for Jews, not Romans and Greeks, which should make us question the baptism of Regulus—a Gentile and soldier to boot!”

“Let me get this straight,” Peter scratched his jaw. “What your saying is all Gentiles are a lost cause. They won’t be saved or go to heaven. What if they become circumcised and become Jews, themselves. That would make a difference.”

“That sounds very reasonable.” John nodded.

“Yes,” Andrew agreed, “I’ve know couple of Syrians who converted to our faith.’

“That’s just it, though,” I objected. “What Jesus is preaching isn’t the old faith. He’s preaching something brand new. Regulus didn’t have to be circumcised. Why should any Gentile have to go through that dreadful procedure.”

“It’s the basis of out faith.” James said stubbornly. “God ordered Abraham to circumcise himself, his household, and his slaves as an everlasting covenant in the flesh.”

“Ah but those are the key words:” I countered. “covenant in the flesh. When Jesus speaks of God’s grace, he isn’t talking about snipping off foreskins or forcing people to live by impossible-to-keep-laws. When people choose the Way, it’s simple, painless rite: a baptism of the spirit, not the flesh.”

“Bah!” spat James. “Those trips with Romans, Greeks, Egyptians, and Syrians have corrupted you. Now you reject our tradition?”

“There’s another key word,” I shot back, “tradition—not religion. Before God commanded Abraham to mutilate his privates, he was a god-fearer like Regulus’ servant. God wanted that procedure done to separate us from pagans. Now that’s changed. One day, I bet everyone will hear the good news—Romans, Greeks, Syrians, Egyptians, Edomites—slaves or free. Jesus so much as said so himself.”

“First: snip-snip-snip.” James gestured with his fingers. “That comes before conversion.”

Peter shuddered. “I see Jude’s point. We were all infants when that was done. Would a grown man allow himself to be cut?”

“Ugh.” John made a face. “I sure couldn’t!”

“I don’t know,” his brother pursed his lips. “You heard our father and the rabbi. I never heard Jesus say things like Jude. It’s pretty clear in our religion.”

“Our religion?” Bartholomew came alive. “What do you mean our religion? Isn’t the Way our religion now?”

“Of course,” James replied curtly, “but my name sake’s correct. Let’s go by what Jesus says, not Jude. He’s never questioned circumcision. Painful or not, Abraham was following God’s law.”

And then I said it, without even thinking: a basic truth that John the Baptist, himself, had implied. “Jesus has replaced the law!” I cried.

Everyone shook their heads this time. This made no sense to them, especially James. What I meant was that Jesus simple message replaced the Sadducee and Pharisee’s demanding reliance of law as opposed to grace. It was true, at least for now to placate Jews, that Jesus had said nothing against our laws nor had he spoken against circumcision, which was a requirement for the old faith. We were, however, bringing a new faith to people—a point we all agreed upon. Jesus was a the very center of the Way. John had said, “Behold the Lamb of God,” implying that Jesus’ death would replace the old religion’s butchering of untold numbers of animals and birds, hence the Leviticus’ laws, but that realization was a long way off. Now, to quote the fishermen again, I was once more in deep water.

“Jesus replaced the law?” Bartholomew said from the corner of his mouth. “…You must have God’s ear.”

“Jude.” Peter stroked his beard. “Did Jesus say that?”

“Well….” I looked at the ground.

“You know he didn’t.” James pointed accusingly. “That’s heresy. You made that up!”

Andrew gave me a dumfounded look. “It sounds like something Jesus might say, but what does that mean?”
Once again, I had spoken indiscreetly. Gathering my thoughts, wishing I had kept my mouth shut, I explained my interpretation of John’s message and my take on the Way’s break from tradition, which only made matters worse. James tore his vest, and staggered away from me as if he had been wounded. There was dead silence among the others. Bartholomew, though puzzled, was amused.

“Ho-ho.” He laughed at my foolishness. “What do the sheepherder say? You stepped into it, Jude. I wouldn’t second guess Jesus, if I were you.”

That very moment, Jesus appeared suddenly in the group. Regulus was grinning with amusement after hearing this exchange. Though unsmiling, Jesus gave me a forbearing look.

“What is my little brother up to now?” he asked me directly. “Do you have God’s ear?”

“Bartholomew said that.” I replied defensively. “I said no such thing!”

“Very well,” he scolded gently, “but you mustn’t speak for me. That only confuses your brothers.” “…But you’re close to the truth!” he bent over and whispered in my ear.

“What?” I gasped. “… Are you sure?”

“Sure of what?” James perked up his ear. “There should be no secrets among us.”

“Oh, it’s not secret,” Jesus smiled at him. “Our brother has my best interest at heart.”

******

Jesus’ answer to James, explained nothing, and yet the fishermen appeared to be satisfied. Though it would take these simple men awhile to fully accept my views on pagan conversion, they had come a long way in trusting Jesus, whom, I was certain, would one day change their minds. Isaiah, after all, predicted that the Messiah would be a light unto the Gentiles. Already, in Regulus conversion and his servant’s great faith, this had been proven true.

Influencing even my thinking, however, was the long held view, reinforced by the prophet, himself, that our deliverer would be a warrior king, who would smite, not convert, the Gentiles. This troubling knowledge was difficult for me to argue against. Having been delayed by Regulus appearance, Jesus’ cure of his servant from afar, and his discussion with the new member of the Way as we argued about this remarkable event, we finally entered Capernaum, our home base. All of us, even the sullen James, looked forward to a day’s rest, Peter’s wife’s and mother-in-law’s cooking, and a respite from being fishers of men.

Regulus, the source of James’ crisis of faith, didn’t enter town with us, insisting on returning to Sepphoris at first light after resting his horse for awhile. He had, he confessed airily, caused enough trouble, and yet he had, because of his conversion, been an important milestone in Jesus’ mission. He had become the first Gentile convert—uncircumcised at that, a feat Jesus would repeat in Capernaum. He had, because of this controversy and blessing, made an impact on our lives. Before we parted ways with Regulus on the road leading into town, all of the disciples, except James, wished him well. Clearly, I told Bartholomew later, this wasn’t the same ill-tempered optio we knew in Nazareth. Though he looked and even acted outwardly as a Roman officer and legionnaire, the inner man, as Jesus called it, had changed. He had been reborn. Since we would soon be back in Capernaum, we gave him the remainder of our food and water. In good cheer, Peter gave him an extra blanket he carried, and Philip gave him the remainder of his wine he had been saving for a special occasion. That moment, when he was astride his black stallion again, he reassured Jesus that he believed his servant was cured, but there was still doubt in his voice when he bid us goodbye. How a Roman soldier, let alone a centurion, would be able to live righteously in the Way, remained an unspoken and unanswered question as he rode away.

“Regulus is twice blessed,” exclaimed Jesus. “He has lived by his sword; now he must live by the word. The way ahead will be hard for you men, but, if not for the Spirit of the Lord, nearly impossible for him. You men are up against our tradition and history. How much harder will it be for a soldier up against Caesar and Rome? Yet for all of you—Jew and Gentile, there is a glorious reward. The forces of darkness themselves may buffet and tempt you. Religious leaders and magistrates might threaten you, but you will prevail….on earth and in the Kingdom to come.”

Part Two

The Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Another Harvest

Our return to Capernaum was a highlight in our journey. As foot-sore, hungry, and out-of-sorts wayfarers, the sight of the glistening sea beyond this quiet town was a balm to our travel-weary group. I could see the fishermen’s faces brighten now that they were on familiar ground. Jesus had taken James aside during the last few leagues, probably to scold him for his attitude. James had spoken little to me, until we reached Peter’s house. Then, after washing up at the well and lounging idly in his home, we made peace. Though it would take awhile for him to modify his rigid stance about religion and the Gentiles, we agreed to disagree. The feast that Esther, Peter’s wife, and his mother-in-law Dinah prepared that afternoon was beyond our expectations. There was, with a modest amount of wine, lamb, fish, lentils, fruit, bread, and a pastry Esther made especially for the occasion.

Having introduce his wife and mother-in-law when we arrived at his house, Peter introduced his daughter Bernice to us before we sat down for our meal. She was a shy, silly, child-like adolescent of fourteen, who, at first, seemed addled in the head. When Jesus talked to her, though, Bernice became animated chattering nonsensically, then, as if her mind cleared, her words began making more sense. It almost seemed as though Jesus had cured her or at least brought her out of her shell. A long-winded prayer by Jesus thanking God for our safety during the journey and the converts made to the Way was followed a blessing for our meal and praise for Esther and Dinah for preparing our food. He had wanted all the disciples to offer separate prayers, but Peter became tongue-tied and mumbled foolishly, as did Andrew and John. John’s brother’s effort was no better, nor was Philip’s, and Bartholomew, who was so bashful, gave Jesus a blank look. That most of them would become fluent preachers themselves, I would never have imagined. None of the fishermen or Bartholomew were the least bit eloquent. Though they had been taught a special prayer by Jesus, they recoiled at the thought of doing it out loud.

Giving Bartholomew a look of reprieve, Jesus turned to James, who bristled with embarrassment but managed to give a short, concise prayer. When he came to me, I was ready with one I had rehearsed in my mind. Recounting the highlights of our journey, which I thanked God for, I included Jesus miracles as, well as our success with the crowds, until finally, close to the end, I heard grumbling among the diners.

“Moses beard.” Andrew groaned. “He’s giving a sermon.”

“And thank you lord for this sumptuous feast,” I concluded, “Amen!”

“Very correct!” Jesus reached over and tousled my hair. “Now let’s eat!”

******

After dinner, we wandered out to the sea, which Peter explained was actually a fresh water lake. The Great Sea, he added, with a flurry of his hand, was salt water, like the dead sea, where no fish lived. “Too much salt!” he said, making a face. I knew these fact already but expressed great surprise, marveling at his knowledge. I had made progress in gaining Peter’s friendship, so a little flattery was in order. The other fishermen listened politely too, but could care less. I was careful, after my recent arguments on the road, to hold my tongue, listening patiently to their small talk at the right times, agreeing at others, and trying not to stick my foot in my mouth. It was important for me and, though James wouldn’t admit it, for him, too, that we fit in. John and his brother James had been quite stand-offish, but, at the wedding in Cana, Andrew and Philip had already begun accepting us into the group. Now Peter, Andrew, and Philip almost treated James and me as equals. In John and his brothers case, they at least acted with civility. To be completely accepted by the fishermen would just take time.

My defense of Gentiles hadn’t helped my relationship with John and his brother James very much nor had my previous outbursts on the road made me popular with Peter, Andrew, and Philip. But that was behind me. The fact that James and I had been adopted had been a factor in our gradual acceptance, but I vowed to myself that moment by the Sea of Galilee to avoid this subject and, for my brother James benefit, avoid airing my heretical views. Despite the resentment they once had for me and my lapses of judgment, the fishermen no longer frowned at me and grumbled behind my back. I was beginning to feel like one of them. Gradually, even John and James were coming around. After what he said after our encounter with Regulus, however, it would take longer for them to warm up to James. I would, in the days ahead, try to convince him to be cooperative or at least keep his opinion to himself—an effort I would struggle with myself. In this endeavor, I must try to set an example.

Because of the preparation we were getting from Jesus, I knew, more than any of the others, what lie ahead. For a moment, as the Shepherd stood back, watching his small flock chatter amongst themselves, I wondered fleetingly how these men could make on impact on Galilee and Judea when they were sent out to preach. I feared that our brother James might drop out altogether after awhile, and I wasn’t even certain about myself. Despite this feeling, a sense of destiny filled me as I listened to the men recount the mission so far. We were such a small congregation: a onetime bandit, a narrow-minded student of the law, and five barely educated fisher’s of men. A more motley bunch I couldn’t have imagined… And there was me, who knew most of all what Jesus was capable of and yet, more than anyone, remained torn with doubt. Right or wrong James knew what he believed. Other than believing in Jesus, I wasn’t so sure. Questions still plagued me. Would Jesus be satisfied in just spreading the word? How far would all this go? Though he was tight-lipped about his role, was he, in fact, really the Messiah?… Considering the expectation of the Jews, was this even an appropriate title for a man of peace?

******

We retired at sunset, weary to the bone, dropping like sacks of grain, in various corners of the main room. I was awakened the next morning with the sound of movement around me. I was the last one to rise at Jesus’ coaxing but the first one ready for our morning meal. Something significant was about to happen here in Capernaum. As soon as we stepped outside into the morning sun, I felt it as a prickling at the back of my neck. It might have been a religious feeling, but more likely my suspicions were acting up. Considering the controversy Jesus’ message generated with the priests and Pharisees, I wasn’t sure it was a good prickling or a bad prickling, until I noticed Jesus’ mood. He was in an exceptionally high spirits, as he motioned for us to follow.

“Come on men,” he called cheerfully, striding far ahead. “We have work to do!”

“Work?” muttered Philip. “What kind’ve work?”

“A harvest.” Jesus called back mysteriously. “The wheat is ripe!”

“As in farming?” Philip scratched his head. “I thought we were fishermen.”

“You are fishers of men,” explained Jesus, “but now it’s time to gather the harvest.”

When it appeared as if Jesus was out of earshot. John asked Peter, “Is he serious? Are we really going to harvest wheat?”

“No, of course not!” snapped my brother James.

“I think it’s like being fishers of men,” Peter decided thoughtfully. “People are our fish. So wheat are people too. But with Jesus you can never tell.”

“It was a figure-of-speech.” James said succinctly.

“Really?” John looked back innocently. “And what’s that?”

James looked at John in disbelief. “It means when you say one thing and mean another.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Andrew frowned at him.

“Yeah.” John’s brother nodded. “Men should speak plainly, not play with words.”

James rolled his eyes at him, too. “I understand the problem, James. You’re right. Jesus doesn’t speak plainly. After hearing all his strange words, no wonder you men are confused.”

“I’m not confused,” he snapped indignantly. “You’re the one with your head in the clouds.”

“Listen my friend,” Peter drawled thoughtfully, “I know you and Jude have more education than us, but maybe we’re not supposed to understand everything all at once. I don’t think anyone understands Jesus, even you. Jesus gets his information directly from God.”

James slapped his forehead now and muttered silently to himself.

“Psst! Psst!” I whispered, tugging his sleeve. “Stop scowling at Peter. These men may not be educated as you, but they’re not stupid. Don’t talk down to them!”

Glaring with resentment at me, he said nothing. I was worried about James. Unwittingly it seemed, he had faltered in his relationship with the fishermen. Whispering back and forth as we walked by the shore, they glanced back at him. John and James were frowning with disapproval, while Peter, Andrew, and Philip seemed amused. None of us was sure what Jesus had in mind. He appeared to be taking us on a leisure walk down the shore. A cloudless, seamless sheet of blue covered the sky. Lake Gennesaret sparkled radiantly in the morning sun. That moment I expected Jesus to say something inspiring, but he continued his slow pace, wrapped in his thoughts. As luck would have it for poor James, a pile dung sat directly in his path.

“James!” James!” I tried getting his attention.

“… What’s wrong?” He responded belatedly.

“There!” I pointed excitedly. “On the ground!”

“Oops!” he mumbled. “Too late. Sheep droppings!”

Leaning on his cane, Bartholomew managed to chuckle as foot and dung collided. Stopping in their tracks, the fisherman retraced their steps. I tried not to laugh at my brother’s misfortune as he hopped around on one foot.

“Whoa, James,” Andrew crowed, “you stepped into it this time!”

“Oh look!” Philip giggled. “It’s squishing between his toes!”

Pulling off his sandal, James rinsed it in the water, and slipped it back on. “Cursed sheep herders!” he growled under his breath.

“If we follow Jesus, the Shepherd, that’s bound to happen,” Peter replied light-heartedly. “Maybe that was a sign from God!”

“Serves him right!” grumbled John.

Up a ways, having wandered from their herd, a small number of sheep grazed lazily along the shoreline. The sand below was dotted with more of their droppings, encouraging us to swerve away from the lake. By now, Jesus, who had been out of earshot, looked back at his straggling band. I don’t know if he heard all our conversation, but he glanced with disapproval at us. Instead of walking further along the lake to check on how Peter’s helpers were tending the nets, as the fishermen expected, Jesus now turned sharply, walking directly toward town. A look of determination came over his face. Suddenly, several men and women appeared on the side of the road, muttering amongst themselves

“That’s Jesus, the miracle worker,” cried a townsmen. “Welcome back, Jesus!” he shouted, elbowing his way through the crowd.

“Hello neighbor,” Jesus returned his greeting. “This Joshua, the baker,” he announced for James and my benefit.”

“How did he know that?” Peter asked Andrew. “I never told him that.”

“Jesus knows everything!” I answered cheerily.

“Jesus,” a woman called out. “We heard about you. Word is you turned water into wine!”

“Yes, Rebecca,” Jesus nodded reluctantly. “Word travels fast.”

“Ho-ho, that’s not all,” an elder cackled, “cured blind girl, he did and raised an infant from the dead.”

“They were Samaritans,” replied a less friendly voice, “our enemies. Why would he travel there?”

“He’s trouble maker,” a second critic responded. “That the fellow defiled the temple. He turned over money tables, loosened the animals, and insulted the priests!”

“Uh oh.” James gave me a frightened look.

There were a few more grumbles in the crowd—enough to worry James but the great majority of the onlookers were friendly, excited that Jesus had returned. There were many more exclamations of people recalling his miracles. Despite a small group of detractors, it was quite a reception. It seemed as if most of the town had been alerted by the commotion, forming lines, several people deep, on each side of the street. At this point, however, we began to wonder where Jesus was headed. For several moments Jesus raised his first two fingers and thumb, folding his third and fourth into his palm, as if to silently bless the audience. We had seen this before when he baptized Miriam, the daughter of Hur. It would become a trademark of this wandering preacher. Instead of remaining where he was and preaching, as he had before, he led us through the crowd, greeting people here and there, as if they were long lost friends.

“Where’s he going?” James grew alarmed. “That’s in the direction of the synagogue.”

“Yep,” Peter observed grimly, “that’s where he’s heading.

“Oh no, not again,” groaned John.

“This isn’t a good idea,” James turned to me. “You remember what happened the last time? He was nearly killed!”

Recalling that incident in the synagogue and what happened afterwards, I shrugged my shoulders, replying bravely, “That was Nazareth, James. This is Capernaum.” The truth was, of course, this might not make any difference. I didn’t trust the Galileans after the last episode. If they would turn on Jesus in his hometown, what would they do in a town where he was a newcomer? What if he made the same claim here that he did in Nazareth’s synagogue? Who knew how many other detractors we would encounter in a place like this?

Up ahead, standing with a group of grim-faced graybeards and younger men, Rabbi Abram presented a nervous smile. When the rabbi extended his hand in greeting and invited Jesus to speak in the synagogue it almost felt like a trap. Introductions were politely made back and forth. Already, as we entered the synagogue, the room was packed with townsmen, allowing us standing room only. Though Jesus remained calm, it reminded us of our ordeal in Nazareth. As we trembled with fear, he followed Abram to the front of the room, while the Pharisees and elders stood nearby.

“Here we go again!” muttered Peter.

The rest of us trembled with fear, too frightened to speak.

This time, however, instead of turning to Isaiah in the Torah to legitimize his mission, Jesus simply preached. Abram’s congregation, in fact, appeared to be disappointed that his sermon was so tame. Looks of boredom or lack of interest characterized most of them. After simply quoting Isaiah from memory, he avoided identifying himself with the Suffering Servant, and covered all the elements mentioned before—salvation and the promise of paradise, repentance of sins washed away by God’s grace, and the rite of baptism that signified the sinners were born again of the spirit to begin a new life. There was, he reassured his audience, no conflict with our holy scrolls (Jesus avoided calling it the old religion), and yet, when he was rudely interrupted by Ephraim, a venerable Pharisee, it looked as though he might be in trouble again.

“Why did you preach in Samaria?” he frowned severely. “Those people are accursed and impure.”

“That’s simply not true,” Jesus argued gently. “They worship the same God as us and claim descent from the Patriarchs, and have reverence for David, Solomon and the prophets of Israel.”

“We Jews are forbidden to enter Samaria,” Ilshabod, a second Pharisee pointed accusingly. “You know very well we’re forbidden to go there.”

Jesus now lectured to these narrow-minded men: “You would deny the Samaritans heaven because of what the Assyrians did to Israel? Assyria may have been accursed for dispersing the Israelites and replacing them with other peoples, but those people are still children of God worthy of salvation.”

He had stirred up the audience. Interest grew, as he made his case. For nearly an hour, as we fidgeted in the back room, he used scripture, itself, to prove the worthiness of the Samaritans, going all the way back to the Garden of Eden to make his point. Viewed the way Jesus presented it, everyone in the world, as descendents of Noah, would be considered children of God, but all Jesus had to do was remind his audience that those peoples who were forced to repopulate Israel were from the lands bordering Israel and were therefore children of Abraham.

“Let me remind you, Ephraim and Ilshabod, by your own rigid standards of diet and circumcision, the Samaritans follow the Torah completely. Would you deny Abraham’s descendents admission to heaven because they’re from different tribes. Even our priests acknowledge Gentiles if they are circumcised and follow our dietary laws. Why then would you deny Samaritans already circumcised, who practice our laws?

The issue of Jesus preaching to the Samaritans now seemed like a trivial issue, and yet Ephraim and Ilshabod walked out of the synagogue shaking their heads. As I looked around at the faces of some of the men, I saw a mixture of illumination and discord. It struck me then that, in spite of its innocent tone, Jesus message was revolutionary. By identifying himself with Isaiah’s Suffering Servant, as he did in front of the men of Nazareth, he had made himself a heretic in their mind. I was thankful that he stopped short of this acknowledgement in Capernaum, but even without identifying with Isaiah’s passage, a revolutionary message was there. As in the case of the bystanders outside, the deeds of Jesus often outshone his words. After answering questions from members in the synagogue about his alleged miracles, he was growing visibly irritated with the mindset of these men.

“I see a pattern,” James muttered. “Jesus offers people everlasting life. That’s the issue. After a few miracles, he’s a miracle maker—a magician or sorcerer in some folks’ minds. That’s all they care about!”

“Perhaps,” I murmured, glancing around the room. “People are awed by miracles, but I’ve seen rapture in many of their eyes. Don’t forget the people we baptized.”

“Shush!” Peter whispered shrilly. “Save your comments for outside!”

That very moment, Jesus ended his talk. A hush filled the room, as he stood in prayer. His final words were very short (“Thank you Father for letting me talk in your house.”) His referral to God as father, as we’ve noticed before, caused an undercurrent of grumbling, but no outbursts, as we expected. Shaking Jesus’ hand now, the rabbi thanked him for speaking to the congregation and, during an awkward moment of conferring with notaries of the town, allowed Jesus, unaccompanied, to exit with his disciples.

James was the first one to emerge outside the synagogue, breathing in fresh air as if he had been delivered from a crisis. The crowd lining the street had dispersed but there were many hangers-on. “There he is! There he is!” Someone of them pointed. As Jesus exited the synagogue, he looked out at them, a dour look on his face.

“I think that went rather well!” Peter exclaimed.

“Yes,” Andrew agreed, “you put those graybeards in their place.”

Jesus was silent. Leading us away from the town toward the lake, he stopped, looking out at the glistening water.

“There’s two disturbing trends,” he said, holding up two fingers. “One is the Pharisees. Like the priests they won’t be won over. The second problem is this business of miracles.”

“My thoughts exactly!” James whispered in my ear.

“Looking ahead, I can see this latter problem growing. People would rather see miracles than hear words. The priests and Pharisees might very well call this sorcery in order to support their claims.”

“How do you know this?” Peter wrinkled his brow. “Are you referring to Caiaphas’ men?”

I wanted to say again, ‘Jesus knows everything,’ but I bit my tongue. There were many miles ahead of us, but I know now that Jesus was seeing into the future. The trend or pattern, as James called it, had just begun, but it would worsen when the crowds grew. From the outskirts of town, Jesus led us back to a remnant of the original crowd and preached his message again. This meant, of course, we would be baptizing more people. In fact, to our dismay, others were drawn back to the miracle-worker. I wondered then, as we toiled in the water dunking one person after another, if all of these folks were indeed repentant and understood what this meant. Were they hear because of the personality of Jesus the miracle-worker or because of the promise of everlasting life? Baptism, by itself, after all, was a mechanical procedure. The question plagued me so much, I barely heard my own words as I performed the rite. After an incredible number of converts to the Way, we were too exhausted to continue, so Jesus promised those people still waiting in line, he would return to Capernaum another day, which, to our relief, implied it wouldn’t be soon.

Retreating to Peter’s house, we were fed by his wife, mother-in-law, and daughter, who had waited expectantly for our return. Peter, Andrew, and John boasted about Jesus’ success today. With great patience, Jesus gave his family more details, from the parade through town, his reception in the synagogue, and the baptisms in the lake that followed. That night, the two women and Bernice asked to be baptized too. By then, as he complied with their wishes, we were all too tired to care. In fact, I don’t remember being so tired. In spite of my doubts about the crowd’s mindset, I felt a camaraderie with these men, who shared my labors. There was no place on earth that I rather have been.

******

The next morning, after rising sluggishly, splashing water on my face, and sharing a morning meal with the disciples and Peter’s family, I was ready for another day. What it might bring was in God’s hands, I decided. We were but motes in his eye. When I shared this thought with Jesus, he slapped my shoulder jovially, replying, “We are more than that!”

“Where are we headed now?” James came straight to the point.

“Yeah.” Peter smiled at Jesus. “What’s the plan?”

“As I told you before,” he answered, glancing around at the group. “I listen to God.”

“In other words,” James mumbled to me, “he doesn’t know.”

“Oh, he knows,” I said with conviction. “…That’s what worries me.”

“There are many towns in Galilee, Judea, and The Decapolis,” Jesus was explaining. “We must reach as many as possible.”

“Whoa,” Peter said, whistling under his breath, “that’s a lot of towns.”

“Hundreds…Thousands,” Andrew muttered to himself.

James, who had been grumbling under his breath, too, did a double take. “What?…What did he say?”

“We’re going to Galilee and Judea,” Jesus said with a flicker of irritation. “Perhaps Decapolis—maybe even Perea if we have time.”

“Decapolis?” James shook his head in dismay. “And Perea too? I thought it was just going to be Galilee and Judea.”

“I did too,” John admitted. “Peter’s right: that’s a lot of towns.”

“Yes, Jesus, it’s a bit much.” Andrew ventured delicately. “…. We’re fishermen, Jesus. How long is this going to take?”

“We’ll return to Capernaum frequently,” Jesus reassured them. “It’s our home base; I told you this. Don’t worry about such things. You’ll get plenty of fishing done. For now, let’s concentrate on the mission; we have much to do.” “The weather is mellow now, is it not?” He glanced around the group. You have plenty to eat, do you not?” “Look at the birds of the air.” He pointed to the sky. “Live by their example. They don’t sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?

All of us gave Jesus blank looks. Though it was quite poetic, our concerns hadn’t been addressed. Unsatisfied with our reactions, Jesus shook his head with disappointment. “What’s wrong, men? We follow my Father’s map. I thought you men understood: this is a lifetime commitment. No one’s forcing any of you to come along. You came, of your own free well, to share my mission from God.”

“We’re sorry, Jesus,” Peter said contritely. “We’re just worried about our business. We’ll need money for food and travel. Except for our families, everything we make should go into a common purse.” “Believe me,” he added, glancing around the group, “we put the Way first. Nothing’s more important to us than spreading the word.” “Isn’t that right men?” he asked quickly, glancing around the group.

“Yes, Jesus!” Andrew and Philip exclaimed.

Everyone, myself included, nodded in agreement.

John’s brother James, who had lapsed into silence, cried out enthusiastically, “I’m with you, Jesus—one hundred percent!”

James had spoken for all of us. “Blessed are you James, son of Thaddeus.” Jesus slapped his back. “You might not say very much, but you say what you mean. Your mind is steadfast! Your heart is pure!”

His words, in fact, had seemed contagious. Though Jesus schedule was burdensome, we had all made the decision to come. Jesus had reminded us of our commitment. No one needed to remind us why we were here. Only John’s brother and I hadn’t complained this hour. Looking back at me, as we broke away from the group and strolled down the river bank, Jesus gave me a special acknowledgment too, but more quietly so as not to show preferential treatment.

“You’ve come a long way, little brother,” he murmured, after taking me aside. “I’m proud of you for your progress. Our brother will also come around, but it will take time. Please be patient with him and give him a nudge every once in awhile. You can see the future: the Way. James is still tied to the past—the old religion, which must incorporate the new. We’ll need James understanding of the law to do this. I need your optimism. This is still an adventure for you, and you see the bright side of things. The truth is, Jude, this is an adventure but also a leap of faith. You have no ties, as do the other men. You must be tolerant with the others and not judge them. Someday these men might just surprise you!”

Jesus’ encouraging words carried a slight rebuke, but were spoken gently from his lips. Because I was one of Jesus’ brothers, I understood the disciples earlier resentment when it seemed as though he was showing favoritism toward James and I. I wanted them to believe I was just one of the men. As we let the others catch up with us, I displayed a grim face so they would think Jesus had scolded me about something, then, when no one was looking, smiled wryly at him.

None of us knew where he might led us today. As long as Jesus was safe from harm, I really didn’t care. Everyone else hoped we might stay another day in Capernaum, but there was an urgency in Jesus’ movements now. Sooner or later, Peter reassured us, we would know our destination. Not wanting to annoy him or hurt his feelings, we kept our peace. Though I shared some of the other disciples concerns, I presented a happy-go-lucky spirit.

After bidding Peter’s family goodbye and promising that he would bring us back soon, Jesus set out on the main road leading north to Decapolis. It seemed obvious to me, when I thought about it, that Jesus wasn’t really going to every town in Galilee, Judea, Perea, and Decapolis. What he must have in mind, I told James, was a sampling of towns and villages in each province. This sounded like sound logic to James, but the fishermen, who were simple men, had taken Jesus literally. They were, I was certain, still filled with uncertainty by this undertaking. Belying my outward mood of cheerfulness and devil-may-care attitude was my deeper awareness of the peril facing Jesus from Pharisees, scribes, and priests. Though we were striking out into the unknown, a cloudless sky above us and a comfortable breeze boded well for our journey. So far we had escaped serious trouble with the religious authorities and avoided the magistrates in previous towns. Just when it appeared as though we would exit Capernaum at last in order to find a new town, though, something dreadful fell over our path.

On the north end of the town, on the main road passing the synagogue, we encountered a leper. A safe distance away from this poor man stood townsmen shouting insults at him. The emaciated, horribly disfigured man was probably starving. Nevertheless, in many Jews’ minds leprosy was a curse from God for living a sinful life. I never believed that nor did James, but the fishermen were, like other Galileans, simple folk, who cowered in the background as Jesus approached the man.

“Unclean! Unclean!” the leper shrieked.

“What is that preacher doing?” cried a women in alarm.

“Tsk-tsk,” complained a Pharisee, clicking his tongue, “he’s going too far this time. That

man’s beyond help!”

“Yes, Jesus,” James screamed, “stay away from that man!”

The fishermen were horrified, and so was I. I assumed James squeamishness was also based upon fear of contagion more than ritual impurity. This time I didn’t blame him. All of the disciples, in fact, begged Jesus to stop dead in his tracks, but typical of the miracle-worker, Jesus decided to cure him.

“I’m a sinner,” croaked the noseless, earless man.

“All men are sinners.” Jesus reached out tenderly. “Your disease isn’t punishment from God. I shall heal your body and your spirit too.”

“Save me Jesus!” he fell to his knees.

“Bring me a water skin,” Jesus turned and barked at us.

Running up and handing his skin gingerly to him, Peter muttered, “Here master, take mine,” and then, just as quickly, ran back to our group.

“You have heard my message.” Jesus looked into his clouded eyes.

“Yes…from afar, least they stone me.” The man wept.

“You have suffered greatly,” Jesus said with great compassion. “Now you begin a new life.” “Jonas bar Simon,” he called out the man’s name, raising the water skin. “Are you repentant for your sins and promise to live righteously after God’s gift?”

“Yes, master.” The man wrung his hands.

Jesus prayed silently a moment. “Jonas,” he said, opening his eye, “do you accept His grace and gift of eternal life with your all heart and soul?”

“Oh yes, I do,” the man’s voice rasped eerily in this throat.

“Then,” Jesus cried out, emptying the water skin onto his head, “I baptize you with living water as a symbol of spiritual rebirth. Let the cleansing elixir also cure you body….Rise up Jonas into your new life!”

From such a distance none of the disciples or townsfolk could see the man’s features clearly. Creeping like frightened children up to the scene, we beheld what would be one of Jesus’ great miracles. With the droplets still trickling down his face, a middle-aged man with nose and ears and no sign of leprosy looked up at Jesus, his savior. We were speechless as was the growing crowd…all except a Pharisee, who threw up his hands, shouting for everyone’s benefit, “the man’s a sorcerer. How else could a Nazarene perform such feat?”

The cut of Jesus hair and beard had given him away, but not one other voice was raised in protest. The Pharisee was elbowed aside by newcomers joining the crowd. In hushed voices, those who witnessed the miracle were informing the new arrivals. One tall, swarthy young man, outraged at the Pharisees words, ushered the graybeard rudely from the group. Because we were stunned by this wonder, we failed to notice who he was. Next to Cleopas, stood Matthias—the two men who first escorted my family and me to Capernaum.

“Well.” Cleopas grinned at Matthias. “Do you have any doubts now?”

“No,” Matthias exclaimed in awe, “I can scarcely believe it. Where there were no ears, there were suddenly ears. Where there was no nose, a nose appeared. Hair appeared where it long ago disappeared, and what was once a monstrous fellow, behold a new man!”

Though Matthias description of this event was not recorded by the apostles, it summed up this miracle the best.

“Master,” Peter spoke for us all, “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.”

“Let me come with you,” uttered Jonas newly formed lips.

“No, Jonas,” Jesus gripped his shoulders, “go home to Magdala, where you once lived, as a witness. We shall meet again!”

Jonas bowed his head, uttered his thanks, and, with illumination glowing on his face, walked slowly away. Not losing his momentum, Jesus complied with several members of his audience and, after saying the words, also baptized them. Each one of us eagerly assisted Jesus, emptying our water skins too. It was so much easier than dunking them in a river or lake, and yet the impact it had on us this time was much greater than before. This was equal in our mind to the curing of the blind girl, but was far more dramatic. For that matter, the infant, which Jesus claimed was merely sick, but which the fishermen and members of the audience considered dead, simply opened her eyes as proof of a miracle, whereas the leper’s catastrophic ailment, seen plainly by all and vanishing so completely, left no doubt.

Many of those witnessing this event were given the rite that hour, but most of the onlookers shied away from commitment. This was one pattern Jesus had told us about. Another pattern, he pointed out, could be seen in the mindset of those superficially joining the Way. Unlike people who had been drawn by his message, they were convinced by his miracles, not by his words. An example of this was seen in Aenon, when Jesus raised Jonah, infant son of Job, from the dead. Job and a large number of his fellow Samaritans in Aenon would become converts that day, but many of the conversions following this miracle wouldn’t last. The difference between true believers and mere admirers, Jesus explained, as witnessed in Aenon, can often be seen in expressions and actions. Those with furtive eyes, who squealed, giggled, and fluttered their hands elatedly were most likely convinced by miracles. When the show was over, they would fall away. On the other hand, those illuminated by Jesus’ message, who had serious, tearful, and calm expressions, would, miracle or not, remain. There was, Jesus included, also a verbal reaction indicating superficiality, seen in converts who chattered excitedly about what they saw, rather than what they heard, as would true believers. From their chatter, much good be learned about their frame of mind. So often, I had noticed personally, it was the silent ones speaking the words and accepting baptism, who were the most serious about salvation.

Needless to say, Jesus much preferred such converts. Those convinced by his sermon were the true believers. I’m convinced that if he had his way, he might never have used his powers. Unfortunately, it appeared as though the majority of his listeners, even those standing in line to be baptized, were drawn by his reputation as a miracle-worker, not as a preacher. A significant number of them thought he might be a sorcerer or a magician. Like Gentiles I have met in my travels, who loved Greek drama, chariot racing, and gladiatorial combat, they saw Jesus as a form of entertainment. “What will he do next? They would ask themselves. “What miracles or great feats will he perform?” During Jesus’ final days among us, these sort of people, even those once professing to be converts, would turn away from him when the going was tough, while those, like Job, who took to heart his words, would be bolstered by what they had witnessed when the dark days came.

Today near Capernaum’s synagogue, there had been only one conversion, Jonas bar Simon, but it was a milestone in Jesus’ career as a preacher and would leave a great impact on everyone—disciples and townsfolk alike—witnessing the event. As my brother James would suggest to me, the miracles Jesus had performed so far could, under different circumstances, be attributed to trickery, exaggeration, and even coincidence. Though this wasn’t the case for Jesus, a charlatan could, with conspirators, manufacture such events. The healing of Miriam, daughter of Hur, could have been staged as was the miracle in Cana where water was changed into wine. If not trickery, Jesus wonders could have been exaggerated, such as the infant Jonah returning from the dead, where instead of being dead he was merely unconscious. For that matter, it could have been merely the power of suggestion when Jesus dispelled those troublemakers threatening us in Cana. Jesus disciples, myself included, even interpreted the sudden appearance of water during our journey as a miracle, even though that could have been mere chance. With an ounce of cynicism as opposed to imagination, almost everything could be explained away as trickery, exaggeration, or coincidence, but not the curing of the leper in Capernaum that day. A faceless, deformed wreck of a man had been made whole again, transformed by Jesus healing powers before our eyes. There was no way that could have been contrived.

******

That hour, as we discussed Jonas’ transformation amongst ourselves, Jesus spoke to Cleopas and Matthias. We didn’t hear what Jesus said to them, but they embraced him in friendship, gesturing with great animation at what they had seen. Upon visiting Capernaum again they apparently stumbled upon the scene, their faith renewed by what they witnessed, yet they didn’t join our group. In spite what he said about joining of our own freewill, I understand now that Jesus—perhaps following God’s purpose—picked his disciples carefully. Of course, it didn’t seem that way then. So far we were a motley band of ragamuffins, filled with the same purpose but united only by a growing knowledge of Jesus’ mission in the world. Today we had learned more of Jesus personal character. In the face of dangerous diseases, he was fearless, shielded by his faith in God. His handling of the man and his dismissal of leprosy as a punishment from God took some of the disciples’ dread out of this illness. It made us more compassionate and braver when confronting such afflictions in the future. He was a prophet, a healer, and harvester of men’s souls. We were enlightened and humbled by our experience with Jesus, and yet we failed to see who he really was.

Jesus, the Great Physician, could bring sight to the blind, raise the dead, turn water into wine, and even cure a leprosy with his power. What other great wonders lie ahead, we wondered that hour. Despite the heady feeling we shared, there was no time to sit back and reflect. It was time to move on, Jesus informed us after bidding Cleopas and Matthias goodbye. Though we had lost a few hours of daylight, he was adamant. All we had time for was a pause at the communal well to fill our emptied water skins. Because of the delay, we thought we might return to Peter’s house and wait until tomorrow, but off we went. Then, lo and behold, once again our departure was delayed. On the road out of the town, we heard two men shouting frantically for us to stop. We were all very tired and, at first, viewed what followed with dull, unblinking eyes. Restrained by the men was another man who twitched horribly, this way and that, foaming at the mouth. Upon seeing this horror, we gasped, our eyes popping wide, shrinking away like sheep as before. Leprosy was one thing; this was quite another. We recognized this condition for which there was no cure.

Walking quickly up to the three men, however, Jesus stopped in front of them, looked up to the sky as if praying, he shouted in a loud, deep voice, “In the name of the my Father, depart from this man!” That was all he said. The man stopped twitching and rolling his eyes, a look of serenity falling on his bearded face. The sacred words and rite of baptism followed the cleanup his companions gave him with water from one of the skins. The words were similar and the rite practically the same, as before, but it was carried out expeditiously because of Jesus desire to get back on schedule. Not only was the man baptized into the Way but his two companions begged to be baptized too. Thus, as we resumed our journey, three more converts were sent off to spread the good news among family and friends and one more miracle was added to Jesus’ list.

That night on the edge of an unnamed village, we made camp, our heads swimming with images of what happened that day.

“Who is this man, Jesus?” Andrew muttered to Philip. “…We saw that leper, who was made perfect and a man who had the biting disease. Everything else was nothing compared to what we saw today.”

“Go to sleep, my brother,” Peter called from his pallet, “more wonders await the morrow. Jesus has only just begun!”

Chapter Thirteen

Mary of Magdala

When Jesus mentioned Decapolis and Perea in his list of places to visit, he must have been speaking of future travels. Fortunately before our return to our home base in Capernaum, we would only visit major towns near the Sea of Galilee: Bethsaida, Chorazin, and Magdala. To recount each of these ventures might seem repetitious and take much time. Jesus had not yet selected all of his disciples. This concern was important to him too. We knew he would do this one day, but it wouldn’t happen until we returned to Capernaum. Another pattern, that had begun in Nazareth, and which had been more successful in Capernaum, would be repeated in each town: Jesus would preach in the town’s synagogue, a crowd would gather and, after the words were spoken, we would baptize those initiates coming forth. It would have become monotonous if it had not been for the miracles occurring now and then. Though the miracles slowed us down they were often spectacular. People would emerge pitifully from the crowd—blind, deaf, lame, or diseased—begging for a cure. Sometimes, as in the case of the sick, who were delirious with fever or with infected wounds, the crowd would scatter, fearful of contagion, but often the ailments were minor matters, such as the woman who had been deaf in just one ear.

Jesus, however, was growing very weary of this trend. He couldn’t refuse curing supplicants and showing compassion, and yet matters were getting out of hand. In Peter’s words, “These people don’t want salvation; they just want to be cured!” and that wasn’t the purpose of Jesus’ message.

In Bethsaida and Chorazin an assortment of illnesses were cured, which interrupted Jesus’ sermon and even baptisms in progress because of the commotion the supplicants made. More serious in Bethsaida and Chorazin was another familiar pattern Jesus encountered before. Those actually accepting God’s grace and being baptized, though significant in numbers, were greatly outnumbered by the idlers in the crowd. Most of these men and women, many of whom heckled Jesus in the background, were more interested in his performance as a miracle worker rather than a preacher. Jesus gladly cured the sick, lame, deaf, and blind, but his appearances were not meant to be entertainment. Worse than the curiosity-seekers and frequent hecklers was a more serious pattern: the suspicion of Pharisees and scribes, who saw Jesus doctrine as a threat. They were, as a group, Jesus’ worst problem. Often scribes would interrupt his message with questions, such as ‘what does that mean?’ or ‘where is that written’ or they criticized his statements by quoting points of the law. I could fill a scroll with the comments made by these men as Jesus went about his business. While the scribes were crafty and calm, the Pharisees were obnoxious and perverse. At times their criticisms were insulting and even slanderous. One particular question Jesus would hear again, “By whose authority do you cure the sick, God or Beelzebub?” was so outrageous Peter charged after the man and had to be retrained by Andrew, Philip, and myself. These delays, like the stream of supplicants, also slowed us down, because each time a complaint or question arose, Jesus felt compelled to answer. Working against the replies Jesus gave his critics was the Pharisees and scribes mindsets. Like Caiaphas’ agents lurking in the crowd, they had already made up their mind: Jesus was a blasphemer, who perverted their religion with his heretical doctrine.

Though the towns around the Sea of Galilee were situated closely together, we ran out of daylight because of the delays and were forced to camp outside of Magdala that day. As we sat around the campfire, thoroughly exhausted, Jesus finally shared his frustrations with us. It was the first time during our travels that we saw him not merely irritated but actually angry. Recorded in the writings of Jesus that Luke preserved was a outburst by our Shepherd that summed up his frustrations so far. At the top of his list of problematic towns, of course, was Bethsaida and Chorazin.

“Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida.” He shook with rage. “Your puffed up Pharisees and toady scribes are filled with conceit for themselves. The scribes play at words , while the Pharisees behave like children, whose temper has no reason, other than preserving false sanctity. All the scribes wish to do is please their fellows, not God. But my Father isn’t pleased with these toadies nor is he pleased with the Pharisees who think they know the mind of God. One splits hairs to interpret doctrine, while the other spouts trifling matters of the law, showing great malice to those having opposite views. I bring to the world a new hope and reminder of salvation that had been dampened by the doctors of the law: that all people have to do is believe, repent their sins, and be reborn for a life everlasting. All the laws and dogma stuffed down the throats of common folk has clouded the most important issue facing men and women: eternal life. Those doctors of the law seek to squelch the good news. Is it any wonder that uneducated folk reject the news if their teachers predispose their minds? Pharisees, scribes, and rabbis, too, resist the truth, as do the priests, the most to blame, who are molders of the law. They pollute what I give them with backbiting and slander.” “But their day is coming!” Jesus stood up and shook is fist. “To not know the truth and die is one thing. Those ignorant of the word, who are righteous, shall find heaven too. To hear the truth, close your mind against it, and die is quite another. They—the Pharisees and scribes—shall be barred from heaven and punished for preventing others from seeking the truth...”

Jesus voiced trailed off into a whisper. “Father forgive them and set their minds straight. Protect your children against their machinations and wiles.”

More clearly than ever before Jesus had summed up our conflict with the religious establishment. From almost the beginning of our mission, we had been at odds with it. Only a few of the rabbis we encountered would at least give Jesus a hearing. With the exception of a few enlightened Pharisees, these doctors of the law, along with the scribes and priests, hated Jesus. They considered his message heresy and saw his growing popularity with common people as a threat. Peter, who appeared to be Jesus’ deputy now, spoke our thoughts:

“Master, you’ve made great headway with our people. Those graybeards and scribblers are a lost cause. Forget them. It’s the little people that matter. Unfortunately, many of them are too stupid to see the light. The Pharisees and scribes know better. Their sin is much greater.” Rising up, the glow of the fire illuminating his face, he added, with a trembling voice. “You are the light of the world, master. If they can’t see the light, they’re spiritually blind. All the fine words and miracles in the world won’t soften their hearts or change their minds. The miracles may be forgotten but the words of hope will spread from town to town like a great force—a wave off the sea, unstoppable and unshakable.”

Greatly moved by his illumination, Jesus embraced Peter and kissed his cheek. “Well said!” he exclaimed. “My Father put those words in your head, Peter. Why haven’t you opened up like that before? You will make a fine preacher.” “Don’t you think so?” He looked around the fire.

Everyone except Bartholomew (who was asleep) nodded his head.

“Yes, in deed,” I took the initiative, “a first rate speech!”

Though beaming with pride, Peter shrank from the idea. “Preacher? Me?…I don’t know about that. I get tongue-tied.”

“Don’t be modest.” Andrew teased. “We have here another Elijah. Jesus is right: God must’ve put that in your head!”

“He must have,” John muttered in disbelief. “I’ve never heard him talk like that!”

“So, what’s next?” my brother James voice came as a wet blanket. “When do we go home?”

Jesus looked down tolerantly at him. “You consider Capernaum as home, not Nazareth?…That’s an improvement, brother. Do consider us to be your family now?”

“…Yes,” James answered hesitantly, “I have two families.”

“Are we all not your brothers?” Philip asked playfully.

“That’s a good question.” Jesus stroked his beard.

“Sure…. Of course we’re brothers.” James broke into a smile. “The town of Capernaum is a lot nicer than other towns. Chorazin and Bethsaida were nothing compared to Nazareth. I’ll never forgive Nazareth for treating you that way.”

“It’s like I said, James.” Jesus sat down beside him. “A prophet has no honor in his own country.”

“Then you’re just a prophet?” James looked at him quizzically.

“Perhaps.” Jesus sighed wearily. “But I don’t like labels. I told you that. That comes later.”

“If not a prophet, who are you?” James persisted.

“I’m a teacher,” he obliged reluctantly, “a preacher if you wish.”

“No!” John said, shaking his head. “You’re more than that!”

“It’s obvious,” Andrew agreed. “a forgone conclusion. “You’re not like other men, Jesus! You think we’re stupid? Why’re you so secretive? Earlier you admitted you were the Promised One. Are you denying it now? Are you or are you not he?”

“Please, men,” Jesus grew impatient, “let it rest. There’s a problem with this definition. You’ll understand this later. My Father will define me. He’ll let you know. Right now I want to focus on the message: the good news. The stage is being set for greater things.”

On this cryptic note, the subject was dropped. In the near future on just such a night, Jesus would turn Andrew’s question around to his disciples, asking, “Who do you think I am?” At this hour, as he surveyed his exhausted men, he knew it wasn’t the right time. It was clear to me, however, that he was struggling with his own identity, a problem he also had as a child.

“… Anyone can be a prophet,” he explained, after a pause. “There are too many false prophets to respect that name… I am the one John foretold, but that man my cousin referred to has other names: Redeemer, Deliverer, Liberator, Messiah—none of which John used. For most of our people, he’s a warrior king. My role, at least for now, is that of a teacher as well as a preacher, but a man of peace. I repeat—get this into your stubborn heads: my mission is to spread the word. Those people out there have been conditioned by the priests, Pharisees, scribes, and rabbis to expect the warrior king. I am no such person. My message must prepare their minds for who I really am, so let’s not confuse them. I want all of you, including Bartholomew when he wakes up, to remember this command: Don’t try to define me. Don’t even discuss it amongst yourselves…. Let my Father tell you, Himself, as he put words into Peter’s head. For now, I want you to concentrate on preparing yourselves for the work ahead of us. You, too, must become teachers and preachers. I have listened to God again. In the coming days our number will grow to twelve.” “…Why twelve? you ask,” he paused to inquire. “Perhaps, this number commemorates the twelve tribes of Israel, but this is my Father’s decision. None of you are here by accident or whim. Each of you have been selected by Him. Now your group includes a fishermen, a scribe, and a wanderer—diverse personalities that must, at times, work as one. Soon more diversity will be brought to your group, that, like James, Jude, and Bartholomew aren’t fishermen. You can’t yet imagine how important all of you will one day be, when you must go out alone as sheep among the wolves.” “All you have to do now is watch and learn,” he added rising again to his feet. “Don’t worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry about itself! We have a long day ahead of us….Get some sleep!”

******

The next morning, after being shaken awake by Jesus, we struggled to our feet, grabbed handfuls of dried fish and moldy bread, and stood munching this snack, waiting drowsily for our Shepherd to lead the way.

“Come my men.” Jesus snapped is fingers. “Back to work.”

James looked at Jesus in disbelief. “Aren’t we going home?”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” John rubbed his hands.

“I could use some of your wife’s stew,” Andrew patted Peter’s back.

“Me too!” Philip beamed.

Jesus eyebrows plunged in irritation. “I told you men where we’re going. We haven’t visited Magdala yet!”

Everyone groaned. Now that we were on the outskirts of Magdala, this meant Jesus would tackle this town at once. I had a restless time last night, trying, as I pondered Jesus’ last words, to blot out the fishermen’s snores. If it was true, as Jesus implied, that he was conditioning us for the task ahead, this morning would be especially hard. James, who must have had a hard night, too, shuffled along as a sleep-walker. John and his brother James lagged behind in a daze, and Bartholomew, who should have been rested up after falling asleep last night, had to be lifted into his cart. Not one of the fisherman, even Peter, seemed up to this task.

Magdala was barely awake when Jesus positioned himself on the riverbank near the town, his energy contrasting our lethargy and lack of vigor. It seemed ludicrous to me at first.

“Why did we have wake up at the crack of dawn?” James had complained. Yet fishermen were already casting their nets in the lake when we arrived. One fellow, who happened to be standing by the water’s edge, must have recognized Jesus. Running into town at breakneck speed, Jesus’ had his first herald. “He’s here! He’s here!” he shouted. A second and third citizen of Magdala, who were emerging from nearby houses, looked out then and caught sight of our group, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. Soon, as Jesus had planned, people began trickling down to the lake—men, women, and children, wide-eyed with expectation now that the miracle-worker was here.

“Another pattern, eh Jesus?” Peter grinned.

“That’s how it works!” Jesus replied, turning to the crowd.

Immediately following his reply, Jesus preached to the gathering townsfolk. His words were very similar to previous sermons, always with an added flare of words or turn of a phrase. It was, considering the state we were in, the most difficult mass baptismal service we had ever undertaken. Like most of the disciples, I grew hoarse saying the words. James was beside himself as he was forced to baptize some of the less desirable souls in line, and Bartholomew passed out and had to be carried back to his cart. Other than a few hecklers in the distance and the normal problems of keeping an orderly set of lines, the emersions went as Jesus planned. Four hundred and twenty men, women, and children were baptized and became members of the Way. All seven of Jesus disciples were ready to drop in their tracks, when suddenly Jesus held up his hand. Promising the remainder of the crowd future baptism, if they wished to visit Capernaum our next stop, Jesus explained that his men needed rest from their labors.

******

Those moments, as we began our trek back to our camp in the nearby hills, praying that no more sick, lame, or blind people would stop our exit, Jesus led us through Magdala, instead of going around it to avoid more interruptions. It was the quickest way to our camp near town and yet we were filled with trepidation.

“Something’s going to happen,” James groaned.

“Oh,” I tried making light of it, “you’re a prophet now?”

“I have a bad feeling too,” admitted Bartholomew.

Suddenly, just as Bartholomew finished his sentence, something dreadful crossed our path again. An angry crowd were gathering at the end of town, blocking our exit.

“Let’s detour here!” Philip pointed to alley.

“Yes, master,” John wrung his hands, “that doesn’t look good.”

Jesus, whose eyes closed momentarily, as if God was communicating to him again, shook his head. “When will you learn?” he snapped irritably. “In my company, no harm will befall you!”

Jesus, who knew everything, probably knew what lie ahead. Having this gift, I realize now, must have been terrible for him. A curse more than a blessing, it would fill his head with dreadful foreknowledge. Now, he appeared to accept his immediate insight begrudgingly. He knew we were totally exhausted. Looking back at us, as to apologize, however, he motioned us on.

“I think I’m going to faint,” James informed him.

“Take a deep breath,” Jesus counseled, “and hold onto the cart. Hopefully, we’ll make camp soon.”

‘Hopefully,’ we understood, was the operative word, and it gave us little comfort. Directly ahead of us, blocking the right-of-way, the crowd continued to grow. As before, Jesus had a determined look on his face. He saw something we didn’t see. Though I wasn’t sure the others understood, I knew what that look meant. Once again, God was leading him. This time we appeared to be heading straight into harm’s way.

“Peter’s right,” Andrew muttered, “we should have detoured back there.”

“What’re they doing?” Peter asked, shielding his eyes from the sun.

“They’re angry about something,” Bartholomew said, cupping his hear. “Listen to that mob!”

“Adulterous! Adulterous!” they shouted.

“Madgala is famous for prostitution,” Peter said to Jesus. “What else is new?”

At the edge of the crowd, Bartholomew stopped the mule, shrinking fearfully into his cart. For a few moments, as we remained a safe distance from the scene, Jesus moved through the crowd, reminding me very much of the day in Nazareth when he walked fearlessly through such a mob. Climbing onto the seat, next to Bartholomew, I was able to finally see what was in the center of the crowd. Standing there, jerking and muttering to herself, was a woman tied with ropes, bereft of her senses.

“What do you see, Jude?” asked James, climbing into the cart.

“This is going to break!” Bartholomew looked down at the creaking boards.

“This is serious,” I exclaimed, scanning the crowd. “That woman has the biting disease or she’s possessed!”

“Moses beard!” James recoiled. “Look at her: she’s foaming at the mouth!”

“That’s the miracle worker,” someone cried. “Let’s hear what he says!”

“We caught this women behaving like bitch in heat.” A wizened elder cackled with mirth.

“You fools,” Jesus wrung his finger. “Her mind’s sick. She can’t help herself. Untie her at once!”

“So you’re, a holy man, don’t condemn here?” A familiar sort elbowed through the crowd.

“Judge and you shall be judged!” Jesus pointed at the Pharisee.

“I know this man,” the Pharisee snarled at Jesus. “He’s that blasphemer who practices sorcery.” “Stone her! Stone her!” He turned to the crowd.

For a brief moment, as the crowd hurried around gathering rocks and one man brandished a large board, I once again wondered if Jesus had gone too far.

Peter straightened his shoulders. “We have to stand by him,” he said bravely.

“Are you mad?” James asked in disbelief.

“Follow me men,” Peter said, hopping off the cart

All of us, even Bartholomew, who grabbed his cane, pushed our way through the crowd, until we stood beside our leader. Looking at the sky now, Jesus shouted in his loudest voice, “Father in Heaven, how do you withstand this stiff-necked people?”

When the crowd appeared to freeze in their tracks, stunned by his rebuke, Jesus moved quickly to the woman, who had collapsed on the ground. Squatting beside her, he stroked her matted hair, then shooing the feet of onlookers away with a flurry of his hands, he drew a circle around her quivering frame. The woman continued to spout obscenities in her binding. I had never heard such words from a woman. Looking down into a portion of the circle, Jesus knelt down to write in perfect Hebrew, ‘He who is without sin, cast the first stone.’ For those in the crowd whose vantage point prevented them from seeing the writing and for those just arriving on the scene, this couldn’t have meant anything. The Pharisee, however, looked down, read it, and then spat on the woman.

Rising up now, Jesus spoke the message aloud, “He who is without sin cast the first stone!” The sound of rocks thudding on the ground followed soon after. Everyone, except the Pharisee, in fact, backed away, ashamed or confused. When he raised up his stone, several hands reached out to restrain him, dragging him back into the crowd. Jesus prayed silently then said shrilly, “Now depart from her all of you!” Though directed at the woman, the command seemed to include the crowd too. Moving back several paces, they watched in fascination and disbelief as Jesus cast the demons out of her. A commotion of voices similar to a demoniac I once heard in Antioch flowed out her mouth, and then just as suddenly, her body relaxed, and a peaceful expression fell over her face.

Jesus looked back at us, barking, “Don’t just stand there. Help me untie this woman!”

Peter, Andrew, and I came forward reluctantly, as did a man from the crowd. James shuddered at the thought. When the woman was untied, Jesus spoke to her again, but this time in a muted tone.

“What happened?” she blinked.

With his own robe, Jesus wiped her face. “Your name is Mary,” he replied gently. “The darkness was upon you, but now you’re well.”

“She was a prostitute,” the man reminded him.

“And you, Ananiah, were once a thief!” he said discreetly, looking into his mind.

That shut him up immediately. No one but those standing closest to them heard the accusation. Knowing that this incriminating information was in safe keeping, the man gave Jesus a look of great respect and disappeared in the crowd.

“Where are your accusers now?” Jesus asked Mary.

“They’re gone?” she looked around questioningly.

“Yes, Mary, they’re gone,” Jesus said, helping her to feet. “I won’t accuse you either… Go and sin nowhere.”

As if on cue, an older woman—a friend or maybe even her mother appeared beside Mary, escorting her from the scene. We had no idea how important Mary of Magdala would be to Jesus one day. Compared to some of his other feats, this miracle seemed tame, but we were greatly moved by Jesus compassion. After this event, several witnesses, who claimed to have heard Jesus earlier and had witnessed his latest miracle, asked to be baptized in the new faith. Rather than lead them to the lake, where a great crowd had assembled before, we performed the rite at a well instead. We were all spent, but not nearly as much as Jesus, who had shepherded his band tirelessly, eating little and never seeming to sleep. We knew that his miracles drained his energies too. Each time he was completed with a batch of cures, his face would turn ashen and his eyes would become glazed. Yet each morning his energy returned, his expression became radiant again and he was ready for a new day. We had wanted after the ordeal with Mary, to get him away from the crowds for awhile so he could rest, but once again they came. This time, after Peter’s coaxing, Jesus stood by and let us do it alone. Before, while he performed the rite himself, he might look over and bark out a command when our efforts flagged, but on this occasion, he watched quietly on the sidelines, proud of his band.

All of us, including Bartholomew, found ourselves at least one initiate to say the words to and sprinkle water upon. Compared to the baptisms earlier in Magdala, it went rather quickly. A selection of mostly men was represented in this bunch. Among the new converts that day was Mary of Magdala, who John rushed in to baptize, himself. I didn’t blame John, when he elbowed me out of the way. Mary was quite beautiful now that she had been cured. Though the rest of us were goggle-eyed, James, his mind still locked on the quivering, sweating, foaming-at-the-mouth Mary of before gave her a wide berth, picking out a harmless looking youth in the group, while I wound up with two of the loud-mouth ruffians, who had a short while ago wanted to stone Mary to death.

Jesus had politely insisted on Mary going home. For Mary, however, who was starry-eyed with her savior, the advise he gave converts to spread the word among family and friends fell on deaf ears. Though never becoming part of Jesus inner circle of men, she was determined to stay. Earlier in our mission, another attractive woman, Deborah had been sent on her way, as had been Anna, the old crone. “This is men’s business,” Peter informed Mary. “Women have no business tagging along.” Of course Peter had a wife. As a married man, it was easy for him to be rude. For the rest of us, except perhaps Bartholomew who was too old and James who thought she was still contaminated, Mary would be a pleasing sight.

“Awe, let her come along,” John said, walking backward. “What’s the harm?”

“Yeah.” Andrew waved at Mary. “She’s a marked woman. Where else can she go?”

James shuddered at the thought, but the remainder of us agreed with Andrew and John. In a hurry to put this town behind us, Bartholomew made clicking noises, egging his mule along. Looking back at us, Jesus sighed patiently, as Peter tried shooing her away. He couldn’t very well argue with Peter after the request he gave converts in general. He had, moreover, told us that there would be only twelve disciples. It seemed only logical, given the status of Jewish women, that twelve would contain only men…. Still, I wondered, glancing back at this comely woman, it would be a nice touch.

It was an uncomfortable feeling to be dogged by such a beauty and have to discourage her not to follow. When we approached the end of town, not far from our camp, I wondered just how far Mary would follow us. And then, to our dismay, it happened again…. They came.

“Not again!” James slapped his forehead.

Bartholomew drew up his reins. “Moses beard!” he cried. “There’s more of them.”

Though the curing was taking its toll on him, Jesus was confronted with a new batch of unfortunates. The response from his disciples now was unanimous.

“Ignore them, Jesus,” Peter waved his hands. “You can’t cure them all!”

“Yes, ignore them! Ignore them!” we chanted.

“You know very well that I can’t do that,” Jesus gave us a scornful look. “These people are here for a reason.”

“They don’t want baptism,” James informed him. “They want to be cured. You’re ready to drop dead in you tracks Jesus. Come back tomorrow if you must, but tell them no!”

James had spoken all our minds, but, of course, driven by human logic, we, as much as he, was ready to drop. Jesus answered to a greater power.

“You still don’t understand.” Jesus gave James a reproachful look. “First the body, then the spirit. Sometimes that’s how it works.”

As the supplicants lined up, it was plane to see that most of them had minor ailments. Only one serious affliction was found in this bunch, aside from a cross-eyed youth: a man with a withered arm. Out of the crowd, a second and third Pharisee arrived escorting a third man between them. We were very protective of Jesus by now and were ready to do battle with these men, but this time, the two men seemed friendly enough. The man between them, in fact, was beaming with happiness. Introducing themselves as Simon and Jonathon, they had, upon closer inspection, troubled looks on their faces.

“I heard about that episode in town,” Simon sighed, “very troubling. Your reputation precedes you, Jesus. A friend of mine in Cana told me about the water being turned into wine. Why would he lie about such a thing.” “And now this,” he presented the third man. “This young man, who once a leper, arrived whole last night with a story that seems impossible to refute.”

“Hello Jonas,” acknowledged Jesus.

“He’s my son,” Simon announced.

“And my nephew,” said Jonathon.

Finally, we had made a breakthrough with graybeards, I thought. But this would prove to be only partially true. Jesus talked with Jonas, now a member of the Way, as the two Pharisees looked on. It must have been difficult for these conservative purveyors of the law to accept Jonas conversion, but they made no protest. In fact, Simon insisted, perhaps as a reward for curing his leprous son, that we dine with he and friends tonight. Knowing the mind of these type of men, none of us thought that this was a good idea, and yet Jesus accepted the offer. There were times in the past when a sumptuous meal would suit us just fine after our labors. Rabbi Jethro and Moses bar Nablis, the rich merchant, had once given us fine feasts, as did Nicodemus in Jerusalem, but they had been our friends. Simon and Jonathon, despite Jonas’ miraculous cure, were still Pharisees. As such, they still looked upon Jesus and us with quiet disdain.

******

That evening, as we entered Simon’s house, my appetite was great despite my apprehension. The fishermen and my brother James, who were sweating profusely, seemed even more worried about the Pharisees’ reaction, and yet they seated themselves quickly at the long table in the center of the room. Almost immediately, Simon expeditiously said the Shema, gave a short benediction, clapped his hands, and seven steaming courses of food as well as fruit and sweetmeats were brought out to the guests. As the food arrived, he introduced his other guests, and Jesus reciprocated, but the introductions lacked affability on the part of the Pharisees. All of them, conditioned to ferret out unorthodoxy, wrinkled their noses, which cancelled out their perfunctory smiles. It wasn’t a promising beginning, especially when we attacked our food with gusto, while the others waited for all the entries to arrive. We had no preparation for this. When Simon invited us for dinner that evening, he had anticipated that Jesus would accept his invitation, so we were allowed little time to rinse ourselves off. I wondered if Jesus might be testing his host. Other than expecting us to wash our hands with well water, he insisted that we go as we were. Our grimy, travel-worn appearance, odor, and mannerisms at Simon’s table couldn’t help annoying his friends. Because Jesus had cured Jonas, his son, of leprosy, Simon and his brother Jonathon naturally appeared gracious, smiling tolerantly at Jesus and his disciples. Though the other men frowned with disapproval and whispered amongst themselves, they, too, kept their peace. Perhaps, because of the miracle, our host had asked his friends to be tolerant of his guests, but it came off as forced and insincere

In spite of the efforts made by the Pharisees at the table, only Jonas seemed genuinely pleased we were here. Sitting closest to him, I marveled at the improvement made to his once-ruined face. I couldn’t help staring at him. Judged by a woman’s standards he might even had been considered handsome.

“You’re Jude,” he acknowledged with a nod of his head. “You’re blessed to be Jesus’ brother!”

“So am I,” James exclaimed. “Jesus has four brothers!”

“We’re all Jesus’ brothers,” corrected Peter. “We’re all blessed!”

I barely had time to answer when James and Peter set Jonas straight. Jesus, who was several seats down, raised forward now and piped. “That’s true, Jonas. Because you’re one of us now, you’re my brother, too,”

This statement didn’t set well with the Pharisees at the table. Like everything else they did, which was based on a jot or tittle of the law, they defined matters literally. At this point, a graybeard, identified as Obadiah, sitting across from Jesus, muttered, “How so? Are theses men of your flesh?

“No, of the spirit,” Jesus answered promptly, “which is greater than the flesh.”

“The spirit?” Obadiah snorted. “In what way?”

The sound of munching and slurping of wine almost drowned out Jesus’ answer: “The flesh counts for nothing; the Spirit gives life.” I know now, his answer had a greater meaning, which John would incorporate in his work. Obadiah looked at Jesus blankly not comprehending his meaning.

“What does this have to do with blood?” he looked askance at a friend. “Does that make sense to you?”

“No,” Abdiel grumbled, “not a bit.”

Now that the Pharisees polite veneer was disappearing, Simon took the opportunity to entertain his friends with the story of Jonas’ miraculous cure. From the point when the miracle was performed, as told to him by Jonas, until the day his son returned whole, he recounted this wondrous event. Jonas added his own details, as did his father, who regretted the dreaded time when Jonas came down with the disease. No on asked Simon if he cast out his son for having leprosy or if Jonas left of his own free will. I imagine his son had heard about Jesus as did other people seeking a cure and traveled to Capernaum where he thought Jesus might be. What I found particularly unsettling was the faces made by the guests as they listened to Jonas and Simon, some of whom stuck out their tongues, muttering “yuck!” Clearly in the minds of the Pharisees, probably even Simon and Jonathon, having leprosy was a sign of God’s displeasure. Just the mention of the disease seemed polluting to the graybeards. If our grimy appearance and mannerisms weren’t enough, something happened now, that appeared to be unforeseen. As I reflect, however, I think Jesus knew this might happen. When Mary entered the room, carrying an alabaster flask, both the disciples and Pharisees were startled, but Jesus quietly welcomed her. It was obvious, after she pulled out the stopper, that the jar contained perfume. The smelly room was instantly filled with a delightful fragrance.

“What’s she doing now?” James muttered.

Immediately, as the room broke into hushed murmurs from the disciples and Pharisees, she positioned herself behind Jesus, anointing his hair with the oil. It was done gently yet quickly least someone stop her rash act. While the disciples were deeply moved by this action, the Pharisees were silently outraged. I could almost feel their anger. After this action, she knelt on the floor below Jesus. After pouring the oil onto his feet, she anointed them as she done to his hair, wiping them and kissing them reverently, an action that was, in the minds of our host, the last straw.

Standing there, looking at them in disbelief, he was shaken by what he saw. “What is this Jesus?” he asked in a strangled voice. “I-I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand either,” James, who sat next to me, whispered in my ear.

Obadiah, who rose up alongside of Simon, pointed accusingly. “If this man were really a prophet, he’d know what kind of woman this is who is touching him, pouring perfume on his head and feet.”

“Yes, I know,” Simon nodded slowly, “I’ve seen this woman in town. She’s a sinner. I was told she’s an adulterous, caught in the act.

Jesus answered him with a question. ”Did you see what happened Simon? Where you there when I caste out her demons?”

“I didn’t see it,” he confessed, “but she has led a most sinful life.

“Do you believe in the forgiveness of sins?” Jesus pressed.

“Not that one!” Obadiah interrupted. “She was a lost cause!”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jesus dismissed him. “I know your kind; it’s like a steel trap. I was talking to Simon.”

“…Yes, I believe in forgiveness,” he answered finally, glancing at his son.

“I will tell you a story.” Jesus held up two fingers and a thumb, as he often did.

“…Very well,” Simon replied, descending apprehensively into his chair.

As Mary stood in the corner of the room, holding her jar, Jesus walked around the room, totally captivating his audience with what would one day be his first recorded parable later recorded by Matthew, Mark, and Luke.

“It’s goes like this,” he said, his hands clasped methodically behind his back. “…Two people owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii and the other fifty. Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he forgave the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?”

Simon replied thoughtfully after a sip of wine, “That’s a trick question Jesus. The answer is obvious: the one who had the bigger debt was forgiven.”

“You have judged correctly” Jesus laughed softly.

Turning toward Mary, he motioned her over, put his arm protectively around her slim waste and led her to the head of the table. “Behold this woman,” he presented her anew to his audience. “…. I came into your house. You didn’t give me any water for my feet, but she anointed my head and wiped my feet with her hair. Neither did you give me a kiss, yet she kissed even my feet. Therefore, I say to you, because of her great love, her many sins have been forgiven.” “On the other hand,” he added looking down at the graybeards, “those who have been forgiven little by the lender will love little.”

Most of the disciples understood his words as praise for Mary’s faith and a rebuke for her critics in the room. The Pharisees gave him blank looks, while Jonas bar Simon appeared to be amused.

As if to stoke the graybeards resentment that much more, Jesus paused a moment with his eyes closed in prayer, looked in Mary’s tearful eyes, and exclaimed with finality, “Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you. Go in peace!”

Though it was said more forcefully, Jesus had merely restated his previous words, but the Pharisees were taken back.

“Who is this fellow who forgives sins?” grumbled Obadiah. “Is this not God’s right?”

“Yes,” agreed Abdiel, “and now she’s saved. Saved from what?”

“From damnation,” Peter leaped to his feet. “Didn’t you notice? Before hand, he prayed to God. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing.” Jonas looked at Jesus with admiration. “Nothing at all.”

“Well, it makes sense to me.” Simon looked around for agreement. “We all seek eternal life.”

A few of the Pharisees, who had been startled at first, nodded their heads, while most of Simon’s friends sat there in silence, their expressions buried in faces full of hair hard to read. Jonas, though, now a convert to the Way, sipped his wine contentedly, illumination lighting his face. All was well for him. Like the disciples, he had felt God’s grace. Then, acting as a damper, Obadiah broke the silence, with a second challenge: “I’m sorry Simon, but it doesn’t make sense. How did Jesus know God forgave her sins? I don’t think that’s what he meant at all. It sounded to me like he forgave her sins.”

Abdiel rose up and pointed accusingly. “Blasphemer! Heretic!”

“No, no,” Simon bolted up, waving his hands, “how dare you accuse this righteous man. Jesus isn’t a heretic. No man could do such things and blaspheme God!”

Jonathan stood up with his brother now, as did most of the Pharisees and elders in the room, united in alliance with their friend if not in agreement with Jesus’ actions. Walking over to Simon, Jesus embraced him, and then shook the hands of those men standing in support.

Signaling for his disciples, he said before exiting, “Thank you Simon for your hospitality. You and the men who didn’t show rebuke stood by principle: our traditional hospitality to strangers. I would rather it was because you had heard my message and believed. You have spent your lives serving God; why not let God’s grace serve you?’

The play on words must have mystified Simon and his friends, but our host gave Jesus a look of respect, bowing deferentially. “As you said to Mary, Jesus, go in peace.”

******

After leaving Simon’s house, Jesus decided it was time to go home. After the treatment he was given in Nazareth, Capernaum was now my home. I couldn’t wait to taste Dinah’s lamb stew and Esther’s special cakes and walk with Jesus and our brethren along the Sea of Galilee (which Peter had informed us was also called Lake Gennesaret). As we exited Magdala, Jonas ran after us, once again thanking Jesus for saving his life. Though Jonas had been talked into staying in his hometown to spread the word, Mary was adamant about following Jesus. Peter and my brother James attempted to shoo her away, but she tagged along at a distance, a dejected on her lovely face. We weren’t certain at this stage if this woman was love-struck or truly illuminated with the Spirit. Finally, with good reason, Jesus let her join us on our way to Capernaum.

“She’s an outcast in Magdala,” he explained to James. “Our mother took in outcasts, whom no one else wanted. Are we better than her?”

Bartholomew, who had once been one of Mama’s outcasts, himself, gave Jesus a startled look. I knew that Jesus had no intention of disclosing his identity. James on the other hand had several times in the past, by careless remarks, almost given him away. Fortunately, his mind was locked in on the issue at hand.

“Jesus,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “I’m glad you rescued Mary from her wiles, but she was a prostitute. She’ll bring discredit to you if she joins our band.”

“Mary was born again,” Jesus reminded him. “She’s repented of her sins and promised to live righteously. Have you forgotten that, James? What more do you ask?”

“So,” John said with disappointment, “Mary’s not joining up?”

“Of course not.” Jesus looked at him in disbelief.

“Where will she stay then?” he probed more delicately. “In Peter’s house? Where else can she go?”

“Peter’s house, of course.” Jesus cocked an eyebrow. “At least for awhile.”

“I don’t believe this discussion.” James clasped his forehead in dismay “You’re risking your reputation for that woman? Already they think you’re a heretic and blasphemer. Must you consort with prostitutes too?”

“I told you,” Jesus grew testy. “Mary’s not a prostitute! She’s cured and saved by God’s grace. She’s a new person, James. After her transformation, she changed completely. Forgot all that rubbish Nicodemus put in your head. That’s the old way. This—what we’re doing now—is new. Mary’s new. You’re new too!”

“I am?” James said in a small voice.

“Yes,” Jesus studied him a moment. “…I understand were you’re coming from. You were training to be a scribe, but you must use your knowledge for the Way. You must embrace your sister in the Spirit. She’s clean in the eyes of God!”

“Embrace her?” James shuddered. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious.” Jesus wagged a finger. “Mary’s one of us now.”

“Come on,” I teased him, “go give her a hug!”

Looking back at Mary in horror, he exclaimed in a whisper, “No, she did unspeakable acts. She’s unclean!”

Andrew and Philip frowned at James with disapproval. John shook his head.

“Shame on you!” he admonished playfully. “Who are you to judge?” “Look at her!” He turned and pointed. “Mary’s not unclean. We can scarcely recognize her now. That’s not the same woman we saw in Magdala. She’s beautiful!”

“Yes, James,” his brother prodded, “you’re acting like a Pharisee. Give her a chance!”

“What do you say men?” Philip looked around for approval. “We can make room for her. Don’t you agree? She’ small, pleasing to the eyes, and won’t take up much room.”

“Seems reasonable to me.” Andrew scratched his head.

“I think it’s a great idea!” John beamed. “Let’s take a vote.”

“All right.” I raised my hand. I vote yes!”

“Me too!” John and his brother cried.

“I’m in,” Bartholomew came alive.

“That makes five.” Philip grinned. “What about you?” He turned to Andrew.

“Sure.” Andrew shrugged.

Jesus, who had been scrutinizing his men, gave us a wry smile. “Let’s agree for the right reasons,” he scolded us gently, “and not simply because Mary’s pleasing to the eyes.” “What do you think?” He looked over at Peter. “It’s your house.”

“I’m not voting,” Peter huffed. “I’ll stand on the facts. There’s no more room, Jesus. My house is already crowded. Shouldn’t we at least ask my wife and mother-in-law first?”

“Very well,” Jesus sighed patiently. “We’ll ask them first, but I’m sure they’ll agree. It’ll only be temporary, Peter. In the future when matters cool down in Nazareth, I was thinking of having my mother watch over her. As I said, she’s taken in outcasts before.”

Peter raised his palms heavenward, in silent acquiescence. At a distance, Mary had listened to Jesus defense of her. Unimpressed by James and Peter’s protests, Jesus beckoned for her to catch up. John, his brother James, Philip, Andrew, Bartholomew, and I greeted her warmly as she arrived in our midst. Out of breath, embracing each of us eagerly, she exclaimed, “Oh thank you! Thank you! I won’t be a bother—I promise. I can make money for you. Really, I can. I once raised doves for the temple. I know how to capture and take care of them. I can also train them to be pets.”

“Well, there’s an idea.” Andrew snapped his fingers. “Added to our catch on the lake, Esther’s cakes, and Dinah’s cured lamb strips and dried fish, it’ll help support our needs.”

“Yeah,” James replied with scorn, “doves are a big business—especially in the temple!”

“What’s wrong with that?” Philip looked at him curiously. “Pilgrims need them for temple sacrifice. Raising and selling doves isn’t a crime.”

“That’s true,” Jesus said thoughtfully. “It’s an honorable profession. It’s what they charge in the temple that’s wrong. Mary’s a bright girl, James. I’m not sure about her selling doves in Capernaum, but she can lend a hand in the kitchen and help around the house.”

******

Everyone, even James, agreed with that. What happened in Magdala had proved to be a highlight in Jesus’ ministry. Those moments, though, the sun sat low in the sky. With Mary in our company, we continued our journey to Capernaum, hoping to make it before nightfall. By evening, after passing through a grove of trees, we looked out at the great lake, shimmering under the setting sun, and heaved a collective sigh. Mary had walked quietly amongst us at first, wrapped in her thoughts. At times it seemed as if her ordeal as a demoniac had left her addled in the head. She would hum to herself, and, after being asked simple questions, such as “Are you all right?” and “How’re you feeling?” answer perkily, then, at other times, chatter happily, just glad to be alive. Jesus was very fond of Mary. With the temporary exception of James and Peter, we were too. At no time, however, as his critics would later claim, did Jesus act improperly toward her or allow us to treat her with disrespect. In the beginning, I wasn’t so sure about Mary of Magdala’s frame of mind. After all, Jesus was her savior. To her untutored mind, she might not have understood what that clearly meant. That would come later, of course, with great illumination, as she grew into a central character in Jesus’ life

Chapter Fourteen

The Publican

When we arrived at Peter’s house, his wife Esther and mother-in-law Dinah gave us a glowing reception, hugging us one-by-one as we traipsed through the door. The smell of roast of stew, lentils, and pastries, was a wonderful reminder of what we were coming home to. As soon as we entered the house, its interior also smelled of sweat and dust, so the women brought in basins of hot water to wash our feet. A feeling of well-being and belonging overwhelmed me, as the women tended to our needs. But when they saw the waif we brought along with us—the last to enter appear at the doorstep, their faces had dropped. Not everyone caught this reaction. Most of the disciples were tired and hungry; I couldn’t blame their lack of concern. Bernice, Peter’s daughter, of course, ran to embrace Mary, but she gave everyone a glowing reception, so technically she didn’t count.

Because Mary seemed slightly addled herself, she and Bernice became fast friends. Later, I would learn that neither Mary nor Bernice were really daft. They shared a common trait of excess cheerfulness and silliness, which made them appear that way. Tonight, after, having our feet washed, rinsing off our and faces, and putting on clean tunics, we shared a common meal, seating ourselves casually on the floor along the four walls of the room. Esther, Dinah, and Bernice served us, took their portions, and sat along one of the walls. After the Shema uttered clumsily by Peter and a short blessing given by Jesus, we plunged ravenously into our stew. While we avoided banter at first, Mary shamelessly sat next to Jesus, chattering about our exploits.

For a moment, when she skirted a forbidden topic, I thought Jesus might scold her or at least cut her off, but he let her ramble on until the very end.

“… It’s true—all of it,” she said, smiling at Esther, who sat glaring at her from across the room. “Those silly old men with their long gray beards wanted to stone me, but he saved me and gave me a new life.”

She reminisced unabashedly the entire episode from when she awakened from darkness until her rescue from certain death. If Esther and Dinah had been any other Jewish matron, they would have shown contempt for this foolish girl. Mary hadn’t been drunk. Why she came clean so soon, we will never know. Until, we learned better later, we figured her ordeal had left her slightly mad. Peter, however, who felt she had shown great disrespect for the women and his daughter’s more delicate ears, felt compelled to scold her.

“Mary,” he tried holding his temper, “…you obviously don’t know any better. You’re safe and sound here and will begin a new life, but you must never repeat that again. My wife and mother-in-law are kind-hearted souls, but you’ll make no friends among our neighbors and friends with that story.” “Mums the word!” he placed his finger to his lips.

“Peter, Esther, Dinah, Bernice,” Jesus looked around the room at each of them, “if you believe in me, believe it when I tell you that Mary is, in deed, a new woman. Her happiness overwhelms her. She has no guile.” “In the future,” he said for Mary’s benefit, “she’ll keep this secret in our company—a miracle as great as any seen. She is as example of how far one call fall and be brought up to God’s grace. You have much to teach her. She has much to learn.”

“So that just makes everything dandy,” James grumbled under his breath.

“Let’s give her a chance,” I whispered back.

Bartholomew, who sat next to me, overhearing our exchange, agreed with me. By the look on their faces, all of the disciples had been shocked by Mary’s honesty, yet had nodded in agreement with Jesus’ words. Even Peter, having shown less forbearance, gave Jesus a nod. The one exception was expected. Jesus was patient with James because he was gradually changing—if not in words, in deeds. Despite his instincts as a stickler for the law, he remained loyal to Jesus and the Way. He would accept Mary, as he had everything else repugnant to his nature. Considering his original goal to become a scribe and his training with Nicodemus, he had, in many ways, sacrificed more than the rest of us. Jesus had made Capernaum his home base, allowing the fisherman to see their relatives and friends frequently. James had been cutoff from his world, and, like myself, the fishermen hadn’t lost a long-sought career, as had James. Unlike him, we had nothing to lose.

These were heady days, as we followed the Shepherd. In the coming days, though, when Jesus finished gathering members of his inner circle, sealing their number to twelve, our resolve would be tested. Jesus would require much more of us. We would have to assist him not merely in baptismal rites but as preachers, ourselves. That night in Peter’s house, however, we had no thought for tomorrow. With full bellies, a measure of wine, and simple fellowship, we were like children in Jesus’ eyes, caring only for today.

“Jude,” James murmured as we settled in our pallets, “do you think Mary’s mad?”

“A little,” I answered half-seriously. “Anyone would be a little touched after her ordeal.”

“She acts like a tart,” he grumbled under his breath. “She’s going to rub Mama wrong.”

“I hope he doesn’t pack her off to Nazareth,” I replied. “Mama has enough on her plate.”

Watching her bed down beside Jesus, James disagreed. “Our mother may be the one person to tame that wench. Here in Peter’s house, she better keep her hands to herself!”

That very moment, Jesus stood up, mumbled something to Mary and left the house. I remember him walking at night from childhood. It seemed as though he needed little or no sleep. But this time, Jesus seemed irritated. I suspected that he might have scolded Mary for her brazenness. Acting upon impulse now, I waited just long enough for James to fall asleep, and then slipped out of the house.

Had he been tempted by that vixen? I wondered or, when he appeared to scold her, was it merely a matter of decorum? In partial moonlight, moving like a ghostly specter in the glow, Jesus gazed up to the sky. I wanted to discuss the issue playing on my mind, but I knew he was in communion with God. Watching him from the shadows of the house, I saw something no one else had seen. Suddenly, the clouds fell away, allowing the moon to fill the sky. The black shadow of a great bird or bat fluttered passed its brilliant surface, disappearing into the adjacent clouds. I was so startled I must have yelped. Looking in my direction, Jesus beckoned. His voice faint, so as not to waken the household, he called to me. With my heart beating and head swimming with questions, I ran over to him, embraced him then stood there trying to shape my words. The issue of Mary and the question I wanted to ask him paled now in significance.

“…That was him, wasn’t it,” I asked in a trembling voice, “the Devil. What does this mean?”

“Once before in the Wilderness he appeared to me,” Jesus replied wistfully. “He’s my Tempter, Jude, not that child. Make no mistake, little brother, we’re at war with him now.”

“We?” I impulsively clutched my throat.

“Yes,” He reached out as if to bless me, “he will tempt you too.”

“Did he send Mary to tempt us.” I blurted foolishly. “Is that why she’s here?”

“No,” said Jesus, shaking his head. “Your greatest challenge—all of you, is turning your back on this world. That means all of the temptations of life, not just matters of the flesh. When our number is sealed, I will send my disciples out on their own. You must be strong, Jude—physically and spiritually. Say nothing of what you saw to the disciples. They’re not strong enough yet; this would frighten them greatly. I’m sorry you witnessed this event, but you must keep it to yourself. My Father wanted you to see it; otherwise you would be sleeping in innocence as the others. No longer are you innocent of this knowledge, Jude. You have seen Satan…. He’s out there, waiting to place snares and pitfalls in our path. You’ll see him in the actions of Pharisees, priests, and scribes. You’ll hear him in the voices of our enemies. You’ll feel his presence in the crowds, sometimes while alone in the darkness or as a phantom in your sleep. He may appear as old hermit, an ugly crone, a handsome man or beautiful woman, even as a child. But you’ll know him, Jude. You see things clearer than the others, little brother. You and James have been with me since the beginning. You’ll know evil when it’s here, but remember this: he can’t hurt you…. He wants mostly to hurt me, and he won’t give up, Jude. The Devil knows its days are numbered now. I bring a light into the world never seen before, but it has only just begun. It would please the Tempter and his familiars to snuff out the light, so we must be ever so vigilant. For ages, Satan has worked through his familiars…. Now, he’s here in person. I saw him, and you saw him. Yet, having failed to bend my will, he’ll inhabitant the hearts and minds of our enemies…even some of our friends.”

******

The night I learned of Satan’s presence remained a secret until now. As I write these lines, all of the apostles, except Luke, are dead. Long ago was my brother, as the Risen Christ, resurrected, leaving me, the last disciple to pass on the sacred writings of Jesus to brother Luke. On that night, though, after seeing its shadow against the brilliance of the moon, I would know Satan personally. From that day forward, I sensed even then, a war between good and evil had begun. I wonder now, if the Baptist’s acknowledgment of Jesus as the Lamb of God had been the signal for Satan to return full force to earth. I have always believed that men are quite capable of doing evil on their own, without blaming God’s purpose or the Devil’s wiles. Surely, however, in the deeds of Herod the Great, who had the children of Bethlehem murdered to preserve his kingship and in the actions of the priests, Pharisees, and scribes who jealously resented the good news, there was proof of Satan’s presence. I saw him in the flesh—a bat-like specter in the sky, the symbolism of his form against lunar light quite plain to me: a force of darkness against a force of light. Jesus was, by his own words, the light. Though the correct words for him still escaped me, I knew he was much more than preacher or prophet. He was God’s emissary, truly the Messiah, and yet I knew Jesus didn’t like that term. Well aware of the traditional conception of Israel’s deliverer, he preferred such humble names as teacher, preacher, and shepherd.

During my restless slumber, I dreamed that the specter in the sky touched down as a grotesque, shadowy creature with yellow eyes, claws on hands and feet, and a serpent’s spiny tail. Jesus called out to him the words he called out in the wilderness, “Get thee behind me Satan!” but this time it had no effect. Nevertheless, Jesus face was fearless. His blue eyes sparkled with purpose, a snarl playing on his face. Still, though Jesus stood his ground, his great enemy came forward, its tongue flicking out of its mouth, its eyes rolling crazily in his ghastly head, muttering blasphemies too vile to record, until I heard a voice in the dark sky above, call down to me, “Jude, Jude, wake up!”

Looking up into the very face I saw in my dream, I reached out shakily to make sure he was real. “It was awful,” I muttered, drenched in cold sweat, “I-I saw it again. This time it was much more terrible—”

“Shush, little brother,” he whispered, clamping his hand over my mouth. “Remember what I told you, Jude. Keep this to yourself. Mums the word!”

“Oh yes.” I blinked, looking around the room. “I forgot…. But it was horrible Jesus—”

“I’m sure it was,” he cut me of. “You’re sweating like a slave!” “We all have bad dreams,” he tried playing it down. “You have an active mind, Jude. Nightmares are generated by fear. You must think pleasant thought before falling to sleep.”

Jesus words sounded simplistic to me. I was well aware of my overactive imagination and fears. This was different. I wanted to give him details of my nightmare while fresh in my mind, but thought better of it. My dream was too closely related to my experience last night. In fact, I suspected it might be an omen, and Jesus had enough on his mind without worrying about this. Fortunately, everyone was still asleep and didn’t overhear our whispering back and forth. After pulling off my tunic, I retrieved a dry one in my pack, slipped it on, and then followed Jesus out of the house. This time, as we emerged, the sun had just brimmed the distant hills. Recalling times in the past, when Jesus and I watched the sun come up, I once more felt special.

“Well,” I laughed nervously, “no sign of him.”

“He’s out there,” Jesus reassured me. “Come, little brother, this is our time—just you and me. Before the others awaken and we begin anew, let’s take a walk.”

“Where shall we go?” I asked, looking around at the sleeping town.

I could hear a dog barking in the distance, and the murmurs of early-risers, shuffling off to work. As we approached a row of boats as yet unattended, some of which belonged to Peter, we heard Zebedee, John’s and James’ father shout, “Where’s my lazy sons?”

Turning toward the swarthy, sun splotched man, Jesus answered cheerily, “Still asleep. I’ve been pushing them too hard. God’s business is hard work.”

“Infernal foolishness; that’s what it is,” grumbled Zebedee. “Peter’s business is going to ruin because of his absence. The fishermen Peter hired are lazy, like my sons. There asleep too.”

At first Zebedee appeared to be a grouch. After seeing his snarl and hearing a sour laugh, however, I could tell he wasn’t serious. Upon reaching the fisherman, Jesus was given a bear hug and slapped on the back. Afterwards Zebedee broke into banter about current events.

“Well, it’s tax day today,” he said, lifting his net into a boat. “Them Romans want their tariff on our goods. They’ve raised it, you know—ten per cent more, in fact. The townsmen are getting sick of it. I told my men to steer clear of Capernaum today. I don’t want them to get their heads busted.”

“Before the Romans, it was the Greeks.” Jesus shrugged. “In the end,” he added thoughtfully, “our Lord is the master!”

“Always the one with the fancy words,” teased Zebedee. “I can’t understand why you need my two sons. They’re not the brightest lamps in Capernaum. What are your plans, Jesus? You’re not one of them prophets, are you. We had enough of them. Judah’s rebellion cost us many of our children. Their mother’s worried. I am too. There’s trouble brewing in Galilee, Jesus; there surely is.”

“Oh?” I felt my heart surge. “How so?”

“You haven’t heard?” he asked, gazing back at Capernaum. “Some fellah and his gang’s been robbin’ caravans—killin’ some. Now he’s stirrin’ up young hot heads, trying to make trouble for Rome. Mark my word, Jesus. That publican they’ve sent us is in for big trouble. I don’t like the mood in town. I don’t like it at all!”

Glancing at Jesus beside me I notice a change in his demeanor. He was silent, in deep thought it appeared. The smile had faded from his face.” “… I know who it is,” he finally uttered. “It’s Barabbas.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Zebedee snapped his fingers, “his father was a thief and murderer too. Got himself crucified, he did. That Barabbas is going to meet the same end!”

“What’s wrong Jesus?” I studied him a few seconds. “…. You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Not a ghost,” Jesus finally murmured, “…the future.” Turning to me, as Zebedee returned to his task, he signaled me with a toss of his head, as if to say “It’s time to go!” “Thank you for the information,” he said in a strained voice. “I’m worried about that publican.”

“As you should be,” Zebedee replied, climbing into his boat, “I remember folks stoning one tax-collector. One poor fellow was thrown off a cliff.”

I knew, of course, that Jesus was worried about more than the publican. The very name Barabbas, whom my mother once tried to help, made me fear for Jesus that much more. That moment two sleepy-eyed youths arrived belatedly on the scene. Zebedee scolded his helpers profusely, but managed during the diatribe to wish Jesus and me a good day.

As we retraced our steps back to Peter’s house, the subject was changed entirely to small talk, but I wasn’t fooled.

“That Zebedee is a rascal,” he said, forcing out a laugh. “I wonder if poor Esther and Dinah are fixing breakfast. We’re a terrible burden on them, you know… My burden has become others’ burdens. She must be reimbursed somehow—”

“Jesus,” I asked, touching his arm, “… do you see something in the future I should know about?”

“The Lord speaks, and I listen,” he answered enigmatically. “You know everything you need to know.”

As we entered the house, it was filled with grumbling and groans. It was obvious that most of the fishermen had drunk too much wine. Even James had succumbed to the vine. Peter, who loved the vine himself, had the presence of mind to stay sober for his family’s sake and Bartholomew didn’t need to be suffering from the effects in order to whine and groan, but Andrew, Philip, John, his brother, and James were in bad shape this morning. As the women fixed us our morning meal, Mary chattered with Peter’s daughter, making the din of noise even worse. No one saw Mary drinking wine, but with her bubbly, uninhibited personality it was hard to tell. Jesus wasn’t happy with what he saw. Esther and Dinah stood with their hands on their hips, frowning with disapproval at the hung-over men. Looking around the room with disappointment, Jesus announced calmly, “This has to change, Peter. When I’m not around you must shepherd these men.”

“But you’re our shepherd,” Peter answered tritely.

“When I’m gone, you are!” Jesus touched his chest to make his point.

Both honored and dismayed, Peter seemed bewildered. One day, Jesus’ informal designation would mean much more. Now, it struck me as humorous. Anywhere else—in Jethro’s, Moses’, or Nicodemus’ house, Peter would, after a drinking bout, be clasping his aching head along with the others. This moment, he went around the group barking orders: “Hurry up, men! Splash water in your faces! Get yourselves presentable! We have more work to do!”

Esther had a special remedy for drunkenness that she undoubtedly gave Peter at such times. I never found out exactly what it was, but it must have tasted horrible. Like children forced to take mother’s elixir, they made faces and gagged. The best part of Esther’s treatment was eating a hearty breakfast. According to Esther, food absorbed much of the wine, like a sponge—a Roman contrivance now used by Jews. What her treatment couldn’t do was remove the headache entirely from over-drinking. That would be their punishment, both Esther and Dinah agreed.

“Too many fine men have been killed by the vine,” Dinah scolded, “all for the love of drink!”

“We’re in your debt.” Jesus bowed to the women, as we departed. “We’ll repay you when we have the funds.”

“Nonsense, preacher,” Dinah replied in a folksy manner, “we’re just doin’ our share.”

“It’s the Lord’s business,” Esther explained more to the point. “You owe us nothing, sir. We must all do our part!”

Touched by their sincerity, Jesus bent forward and kissed each of their cheeks. One day in the future, this would be called the kiss of peace among members of the Way. Now, it caused the women to blush. Gathering us together in front of the house now, Jesus saw that something wasn’t right.

“Mary,” he said, wagging a finger, “I thought I explained this to you. For now, you must stay with Esther and Dinah. All right?”

“Okay,” she answered in a pouty voice, “if I must!”

“What’s wrong with that woman?” Peter asked when we were out of earshot.

“She wants to help,” Jesus explained sympathetically, “but she’s not ready yet. I wanted to place her with my mother for awhile, but your wife offered to let her stay. Don’t under estimate her, Peter. Someday Mary will make her mark.”

“How is that possible?” Peter frowned. “What mark would that be? The way she carries on—babbling and such, she seems addled in the head.”

“She went through an awful ordeal,” Jesus reminded him. “Let’s give her a chance!”

“My thoughts exactly!” I piped. “She’ll make money for us selling doves.”

“Perhaps.” Jesus cocked an eyebrow. “Let’s let her decide. Mary’s a changed woman. Her path is still hidden from her.”

That made absolutely no sense to me. I couldn’t have known how strong-willed and enterprising she would one day be. Of course, on the subject of Mary of Magdala, I wasn’t very objective. She was, to use John’s words, honey to the eyes. I’ve never seen a more naturally beautiful creature in my life. With these thought whirling in my head, I wasn’t prepared for the commotion waiting for us in town.

As he walked in the direction of Capernaum toward a destination only Jesus had planned out in his mind, I thought about my unworthy daydream, certain that John and some of the others had similar thoughts. Having heard of a mule owner in town, Jesus had decided to retire Bartholomew’s poor beast in exchange for a fresh mule, but Peter insisted on giving it to Bernice for a pet. Peter, Jesus, James, and I discussed the merits of Peter’s idea for a few moments, everyone agreeing that Elijah, the name Bartholomew had given his mule, had served the Way honorably too, and deserved his reward. With the goal of finding Asher, the mule owner, we approached a crowd of protestors, who were shouting at someone in their midst. With spears, crisscrossed, a detachment of Roman soldiers had cordoned off an area between the edge of the crowd and the publican’s table. The fear on their faces was so conspicuous, several youths in the mob, jeered at them, calling them jackals of Rome and other unflattering terms.

Though the morning was still young, the publican had already collected a table of coins, which his assistant scooped into bag and handed it to one of the guards. The sight of this exchange caused most of Jesus disciples to grumble indignantly.

“That man couldn’t be a Jew,” Andrew was arguing with Bartholomew. “No Jew would betray his people like that.”

“He’s a Jew, I tell you,” Bartholomew pointed accusingly. “I’ve seen that man before.”

“Where have you seen that fellow?” Philip challenged. “There’s hundreds of publicans in Galilee and Judea. They all look the same!”

Bartholomew had, as fishermen might say, waded into deep waters. Flashing me a frightened look, he clamped shut his mouth, afraid they might dig into his past. It appeared as though what he divulged might have led to further questions. Fortunately for Bartholomew, though, Andrew and Philip attention was drawn elsewhere. All of us were, in various degrees of severity, disturbed by the publican’s presence, James and I much less so. James had studied to be a scribe. In the minds of the disciples scribes were almost as bad as tax collectors. James had no right to throw stones, and neither did I, who had, in my travels, mingled with Gentiles and eaten forbidden food.

The publican’s assistant, a gangly youth, now fled the scene, and yet the publican held his ground. The young man’s expression was resolute. With eyebrows dropped in anger, and dark eyes staring unwaveringly at the mob, he remained fixed at his station. As the townsfolk, in defiance of the four Romans gathered stones to toss as him, I pulled Jesus sleeve.

“Jesus,” I whispered shrilly. “Those guards aren’t enough to stop them. Do what you did for Mary. Stop that mob!”

“So,” Jesus murmured, “I should wave my hands and poof! they disperse?”

“Yes!” I said aloud.

“Miracles aren’t always necessary,” he replied calmly. “There’s also persuasion.”

Jesus moved out in front of us, walking without hesitation toward the publican.

“What’s he doing now?” asked James.

“He’s going to stop them.” I grinned. “Jesus isn’t afraid. He once quieted a storm!”

“Jesus,” Andrew called through cupped hands, “let the Romans do their job!”

“He knows what he’s doing,” John decided.

Peter set his jaw. “Let’s go men!” he cried, lurching forward.

I was right in step with him. With the exception of Bartholomew, who remained in his cart, the remaining disciples followed Peter’s example. Standing with our Shepherd, we witnessed a very strange event. Here before us was a symbol of Roman oppression, worse because it was a Jew in service to our oppressor, and yet Jesus called out to him, “Matthew! Break the shackles of your class. Free yourself. Follow me, Matthew, collect souls instead of dues.”

“Rabbi,” the publican replied, “my name’s Levi. Matthew’s my Roman name.”

“Would you like to be a new man?” Jesus edged closer. “Levi is you past!”

“I am what I am.” The publican shrugged.

Jesus’ shadow fell over him. “Once, long ago, to Moses, my Father said that. Yet he has many names. He has sent me forth with a new message, Matthew: a wondrous Kingdom awaits those who repent their sins and choose the light.” “This,” he motioned to his table and the crowd, “is darkness. I bring clarification of our religion—the promise of heaven, denied by priests and restricted by the Pharisees’ laws.”

As Jesus spoke, we witnessed another transformation. The change that happened to Mary might have been more dramatic, but it happened too quickly: one moment she was an unhinged demoniac and then next moment she was, save her disheveled clothes and mud-splattered hands and face, perfectly normal. The transformation for Matthew came more slowly. It was as if a battle was in motion inside his skull. There, in the darkness holding the publican fast was a relatively high-paying job. Publicans not only were paid a significant wage for profiting from their people but received a percent of duty on products and industries and poll tax on all adults, which were perceived as blood money by our people. Here, among our small company, in the light, there was, judging by Matthew’s expression, hope for a better life denied to him by his sin. Frankly, I don’t think he was anymore of a sinner than me, but, as Jesus reached out to him, their gaze became locked, Matthew eyebrows fell, his jaw slackened, and eyes filled with tears.

“Rabbi, I’m a sinner,” he said, pointing to the mob. “Whatever respect they have for you will be gone if you persist!”

Matthew’s title for Jesus, ‘rabbi,’ was a common form of address. Before, when Jesus was called this, however, it merely displayed respect. As a preacher, this additional label, which meant the same as teacher to Greeks and Romans, seemed inappropriate, considering the fact that rabbis, like priests and Pharisees represented the old religion. Now, because of the significance of this moment, it seemed to have gained greater meaning. As Jesus performed the sacred rite in front of the crowd and the Roman guards, we knew he was much more.

Jesus signaled for a water skin (a dipping motion, using his fingers). After watching this event with curiosity, the mob was incited by what followed.

“What’s that man doing?” shouted a Pharisee.

“He’s Jesus,” answered a woman. “I heard him speak.”

“He’s a fool, that’s what he is,” a man replied.

In our company, there were mostly groans, until James muttered aloud, “This insane!”

“Matthew bar Alphaeus,” intoned Jesus, oblivious of the crowd. “Do you repent your sins and seek God’s grace, which brings you salvation and everlasting life?”

“Yes, rabbi,” Matthew’s voice broke, “but this is a mistake.” “Look at them.” He pointed again. “They won’t forgive you!”

“He’s right,” spat a townsmen, “that man’s a traitor to his people.”

“We’re tired of these bloodsuckers!” a woman shouted.

Busy with their attempt to hold back the crowd, most of the guards were practically useless, yet one of them broke ranks to pull Jesus back from the table.

“Matthew,” Jesus continued, shaking off his grip, “you’re born again. Receive this living water. In the name of the Father and Holy Spirit, I baptize you with water as a symbol of your new life.”

“Is he mad?” asked the Roman.

“If so,” answered Peter, “it’s a divine madness.”

After pouring water from the skin on Matthews head, Jesus prayed over him, then reaching down to grip his shoulders, said, “Rise Matthew, greet your brothers in the Way, and follow the Lord.”

At this point, several voices rang out in protest as Matthew joined our group and we attempted to leave. Finally, the mob broke through the cordon of spears, surging toward us as witless rabble, and we heard those dreaded words: “Stone them! Stone them!”

Before they had a chance to gather stones and the Roman guards could attack them in self-defense, Jesus shouted out in a thunderous voice, “Be silent! Leave us be!” A distant peel of actual thunder followed, then deathly silence, and, without further fuss, the crows dispersed.

The four Roman guards looked at Jesus with awe.

“Who is this man, who brings thunder to a clear cloudless sky?” one of them marveled.

“He’s a god or demigod,” a second one concluded

“I bring you a gift from God,” replied Jesus, holding out the water skin as if it was a living thing.

“Rabbi,” a third guard cried out, “give me these living waters.”

“And me too.” A fourth stepped forward.

All four men, in fact, lined up for the rite, as well as several men and women, who had earlier fled God’s wrath. We, Jesus’ disciples, could scarcely believe this turn of events. Despite the absolute seriousness of this situation, seeing Roman soldiers step forth for baptism into the Way caused hysterical giggling among our ranks.

“This is incredible!” Peter said from the corner of this mouth.

“Jesus could convert the entire Roman army if he wished!” John’s eyes twinkled with mirth.

I agreed wholeheartedly. Soon, because of the importance of this occasion, our reaction was stifled by a frown from Jesus. This meant, of course, we had to assist our Shepherd. I moved quickly ahead of James to an attractive young woman, as did John. For a moment, James and I almost quarreled with him, but decided to back off and grab the next ones in line. James was forced to take a crippled man, who was behind her. I found myself face to face with a young man, who to my dismay, was covered in spots.

The four Romans now followed Matthew’s example. Here they stood, a publican in the service of Rome and his guards, bedazzled by Jesus of Nazareth. Unlike the Roman soldiers, who waited anxiously for their turn, Matthew looked on expectantly, probably wondering what came next. Now that he was a convert to the Way, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Was he still a publican? Or should he quit and devote his life to the Way? As Jesus and the other disciples went about their business, I stood there wondering what to do, myself. What if the young man had leprosy? I asked myself. Confronted with an impossible situation, I wanted to bawl. Jesus, I noted, worked quickly on the Romans, perhaps wanting to finish up before they changed their minds. Afterwards, all four soldiers stood aside blinking in bewilderment at what they had just experienced. Glancing over at me finally, Jesus noticed my dilemma, smiled patiently, and signaled for me to find someone else. This I did quickly. Even James was on his second initiate when I tried making up for lost time.

The crippled man, who walked as if he had palsy, grinned foolishly after James gave him the rite, happy to be part of the Way. James then found another initiate, a man who stood with his wife and young son. Jesus gathered both the cripple and young man with spots now, led them away from the proceedings, and, looking at the sky, uttered a silent prayer. As I said the words to my subject, I could barely concentrate nor could the other disciples focus on their tasks. Pausing, before more baptisms were administered, we watched Jesus performed two miracles at once. The Roman soldiers scrambled over to witness this event. Everyone—converts and those still waiting in line, in fact, formed a circle around the three men. To the astonishment of Gentiles and Jews alike, Jesus quietly cured both the cripple and diseased man. I wasn’t certain what disease the young man had, but, as soon, as Jesus touched his forehead, his spots quickly vanished, and when he embraced the cripple, and demanded quietly, “Be still!”, the young man stopped jittering, his eyes cleared, and tears flowed down his cheeks. Snapping his fingers, the young man, who once had spots, did a happy jig. The other man walked around, staring at his limbs, which no longer shook. At this point, I hurriedly completed my first baptism and, before any of the others had a chance, picked the second man. After saying the words and baptizing him, I felt obliged to say something more.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t cure you.” I said shamefacedly. “That was cowardly. Only Jesus has special power.”

“You’re learning,” he replied cheerfully.

“Oh yes.” I shrugged. “I have much to learn!”

“I’m Justus,” he announced, extending his hand

“My name’s Jude.” I replied, shaking his hand. “Jesus is my brother.”

Looking at me with great respect, he exclaimed. “You’re very fortunate, Jude. Jesus is a great healer. Some say he’s the one we’ve been waiting for: the Messiah!”

******

Justus wasn’t the first to make such a claim, but he was the first to proclaim that title out loud. Jesus, of course, was much more than that, and yet he shunned titles, especially those pointing to the long awaited Messiah of Israel. One day, after the resurrection, Justus would become a possible candidate to replace Judas and make his mark as an evangelist in Gaul, but now, like the other converts, wasn’t quite sure what to do. The man cured of palsy slipped away quietly with family members, who, had listened but refused baptism themselves. As suddenly as they had begun, the baptisms were finished. Except for gawkers on the sidelines, most of the converts complied with Jesus’ instructions to spread the word among their family and friends. The important exceptions were Justus, who, having been cured as well as saved, was reluctant to leave and Mary, who had no other place to go. Matthew, of course, was now a disciple, whose path had been set by Jesus. The only others remaining were the four guards, who had no family and friends, except in Rome.

“Rabbi,” one of them stepped forth, “we know you’re a man of peace. How can we, soldiers of Caesar, serve your god?”

“As Gentiles, your road’s the hardest,” counseled Jesus. “You must obey orders and still follow God’s plan. Because you have not read our holy scriptures, you have much to learn. For now, the plan begins simply: remain faithful to the one God, through prayer and vigil; do no evil against men, women, and children, whether Gentile or Jew; and stand fast for the greatest miracle of them all.”

“What miracle is that?” asked Peter.

“Yes, Jesus.” I said, noting his troubled expression. “What a strange thing to say!”

“Do you know the mind of God?” he said mysteriously. “I listen and He leads.”

“Rabbi.” Matthew pointed to his table. “What about me? I was a publican. What do I do now?”

“Don’t worry,” one of the Romans exclaimed, “Rome can find another publican. You have a new master now!”

“Yes Matthew. Follow me,” Jesus said, crooking a finger. “Become God’s publican. Instead of taxes, gather souls!”

Chapter Fifteen

Nain: The Raising Of Laban

So far, the disciples have been called fishers of men, harvesters, and now publicans, gathering souls instead of coins. Today, however, we had seen and heard enough. Thankful of being witnesses of Jesus miracles and participants in his wonders, we were nevertheless mortals, weary to the bone.

Jesus had needed four more disciples, but why he picked a publican we had no idea. Had it not been for his inspiring words, everyone, including myself, would have protested Jesus’ choice. Was this not a hated tax collector, a lackey or Rome? Not only had Jesus baptized Matthew into the Way, he also brought four Romans, not merely Gentiles but oppressors of our people, into the fold. That night, to challenge us that much more, we dined at Matthew’s house (Jesus’ suggestion)—the home of a tax collector in a city Jesus, himself, had cursed, and yet the only one to complain, as we entered the publican’s house, was our brother James. The fishermen showed only quiet disdain. For me, it didn’t matter. If Jesus could accept an ex-prostitute into our ranks, why not a tax collector. “Who will Jesus choose next,” I heard James mutter, “a Gentile?”

Fortunately for us so late in the day, Bethsaida was a relatively short walk. Leaving directions to his house with us, Matthew rode ahead on his steed to alert his cook. As it turned out, we arrived there just before dark. While we waited in an anteroom for dinner to be set, we discussed the events of the day. Mary had made friends with Matthew, which, as two one-time outcasts, seemed fitting in James’ eyes. Justus, who had a sense of humor in spite of his bad luck, had not had leprosy, but a common skin disease in Galilee and Judea. Though Jesus probably knew this already, Justus divulged this information just as a servant announced dinner was ready. Like actual lepers, he became a complete outcast avoided by family, friends, and strangers on the road. Even his parents in Nain shunned him. Except for myself, the men found it easier to accept Justus and Mary into our group than Matthew, despite the fact Jesus had in fact chosen Matthew to be a disciple. Nothing was worse in the eyes of the fishermen than the Jewish parasites who taxed them on behalf of Rome. Of course, they understood from the beginning that this attitude would have to change. Despite hard looks from Peter and the others, I joined Mary, Justus, and Matthew on the road as we walked alongside of Bartholomew and his cart, giving them a summary of my childhood with Jesus and our family. One day Matthew, the newest disciple, would write the most definitive account of Jesus’ life and prove to be a great missionary as well. For now, with Jesus help, he had to prove himself to the fishermen and our narrow-minded brother. The feast he presented to us was a peace offering for his misspent years. During our meal, after the Shema and a blessing by Jesus, Matthew gave us a speech, which made me realize why he was selected as a disciple.

“My friends,” he began looking around the table, “thank you for sharing my food. Like some of you, I’m a sinner. I was once your enemy, too concerned with money to care about our people. Because of this, I became an outcast and told myself I didn’t care. Then I heard Jesus’ message. When he called me to join, it took little to remind me of what I was.” “In here,” he said, pointing at his chest, “I’ve always cared. Our people were chosen by God, and now God has chosen us to remind them of just how special they are. The good news is so simple a child can embrace it, and yet, as a publican, I have an ear to both Rome and Jerusalem. While many townsfolk listen with an open heart, the priests, Pharisees, and scribes have hardened their hearts. I know many of them; I’ve heard their secret talk. They’re trying to make our Roman masters see Jesus as a troublemaker, but they’ve failed. Rome is filled with all manner of foreign gods. Even the town magistrates can see no harm in our message.” Looking down at Jesus, he announced with a grin, “Rabbi, I know many people. Some of the Romans and magistrates are my friends. You’d be surprised to know how many have a favorable opinion of you and what you preach. I was greatly moved to see you baptize my guards. Your message reaches beyond Jews to all manner of Gentile, including soldiers and their leaders, to the prefect of Galilee himself!”

“Cornelius?” the named leaped from mouth. “Does he believe?”

“Alas.” Matthew’s eyes dropped low. “He became what is called a God-fearer, but has fallen on hard times.”

“We heard.” Jesus frowned. “Cornelius was our family’s friend.”

“Yes,” Matthew smiled. “Jude told me about your friendship. I never met him, myself, but I hear all the news: who’s in and who’s out. Cornelius was a good prefect. Pontius Pilate, thought he was a Jew-lover, though. That’s why he replaced him.”

Jesus looked up at the speaker with great respect. Bowing self-consciously, Matthew sat back down to concentrate on his meal.

“Pilate wants men who think like him,” observed James, munching on his victuals. “Nicodemus sees hard times ahead for our people now that he’s in power…. Nothing Roman can be good for our people.”

“Pilate is a hard man,” Matthew conceded, “but he’s a realist. As long as we behave ourselves, he’ll leave us alone.”

“Really?” mused Jesus, sipping his wine. “We heard that Longinus was replaced too. For his punishment, he was assigned to the Antonia Fortress in Jerusalem.”

“Yes,” Matthew agreed, “that’s probably true.”

I shook my head. “At least he has a job. Cornelius was cashiered and replaced by a rogue named Vascus. Where’s Cornelius now?”

“I don’t know.” Matthew shrugged. “He was, I was told, well-liked by the people of Sepphoris. If he got his soldier’s pension, he might’ve bought himself a farm nearby or a place in town. Until I became a publican, I never heard of a Roman officer being a Jew-lover, but that’s what he was.”

“Hey,” I said, snapping my fingers, “if you know Cornelius and Longinus, you must know Regulus. He’s a changed man. Jesus saved his servant’s life.”

“Regulus?” He glanced down the table at me. “I heard of him…a centurion at the fort. I know them all now, even the new ones.” “Trust me,” he said, looking across at Jesus, “their leaders may be hard men, but the average soldier is a carefree soul. Give him his ration of wine, bread, cheese, and a little time for chasing wenches and he’s content.”

The expression on Jesus’ face had changed when he spoke of Longinus, and it continued to transform with Matthew’s discussion of Roman soldiers. It was as if a dark cloud had passed over his thoughts. How could I have known that he was looking ahead to Golgotha. With Matthew’s crass attempt at humor, Jesus forced a smile but gave him a studied look.

With a note of reproach, he replied, “Your insight is important to me, but you’re no longer a publican, Matthew. You’re one of us. The old patterns will be hard to break.”

“Patterns, he calls it?” James muttered aloud. “That remark about wenches was in bad taste.”

“What do you expect from a publican?” grumbled John.

Several of the disciples, in fact, appeared to be annoyed by Matthew’s words. I for one, though, liked his spirit. At that point, after emptying my mug of wine, my tongue was loosened. “I propose a toast,” I stood up impulsively, raising my mug in the air. “To Matthew: our newest member. Let’s give him a chance!”

“To Matthew!” Justus joined the toast.

“The newest disciple!” Mary cried.

“Very well,…to Matthew,” Peter laughed sourly.

“Come on men.” Jesus stood up and motioned with outstretched arms. “Welcome your brother!”

Perhaps he had seen this as another vulgar display, as he had Matthew’s banter. Instead of toasting, he walked over to Matthew, and, placing his hands on his shoulders, exclaimed with great cheer, “You were lost. Now you’re found. What you once were is in the past. As all sinners, inside of that rough-edged shell, there’s a pearl of great price. I saw it clearly from the beginning. We will use this pearl of wisdom in our mission. It’s your gift.” “Everyone of you,” he added, looking around the table, “have a special gift. You may not even realize it. Matthew’s gift is his knowledge of the Romans and magistrates. Like Jude he has a good memory. Like James, he also knows the scribes, Pharisees, and priests. Jude is right: you must give Matthew a chance!”

Later in his ministry, Jesus would refer to pearls of great price during a sermon in Capernaum. When I looked at the fishermen, I wondered what pearls he could possible find in them. At this stage in their discipleship, they appeared to be, in Jesus words, rough-edge shells. Though Jesus singled out James, Matthew, and I, as having knowledge and skills he would use, the fishermen and, for that matter Bartholomew, seemed to lack foresight and vision. Yet Jesus had told them that they might not know what gifts they possessed. Looking back in time, I understand what he meant. All of the disciples, including the doddering Bartholomew, had talents they hadn’t tapped. They would become eloquent and some of them, like myself, would be inspired to write epistles, taking the word to distant lands. All of them, for the most part, even Matthew, shared a common bond with simple, hard-working folks. This perspective I had that night, however, would change in the coming days with the addition of men who weren’t fisherman, who weren’t simple, and, in one case, brought treachery into our ranks.

******

At first, the notion of three strangers joining our ranks was unsettling. We seemed to be a perfect number. Why did Jesus need twelve disciples? Why did he want three more men? We realized, of course, we had no choice. Jesus was the Shepherd. We just had to get used to the idea. I was able to do this fairly quickly. I would have my doubts later, but I could think of no good reason right why there shouldn’t be twelve.

“It is,” I suggested after some thought, “a logical number. Weren’t there were twelve tribes of Israel? Hadn’t Jesus had mentioned that possibility himself?”

“Makes sense to me,” Bartholomew replied dubiously.

Matthew nodded his head. “Yeah, why not?” he agreed..

“Not me,” John scowled. “I thought we were special. What’s wrong with eight?”

“Eight disciples isn’t significant,” James explained drolly. “It’s not sacred. In fact, it’s nothing. But what does that matter?” “What’s the real reason?” He took on a scholarly air. “Twelve is also considered a perfect number in the Torah, is it not? Twelve unleavened cakes are placed in the temple every week. There were, as Jude pointed out, twelve tribes.” “So why not ten, for the Ten Commandments,” he countered cleverly, “or seven for the seven days of Creation? Why twelve disciples? What does it matter how many disciples Jesus chooses? Why the number twelve?”

James laughed sarcastically. I shrugged my shoulders. He had made good sense to most of us, but he really didn’t care. There was a personal reason for keeping our number at eight. The notion of adding strangers to our band seemed unthinkable to the fishermen, who wanted Jesus all to themselves. At that point, Jesus ears perked up to the grumbling in our ranks.

“It’s already been settled!” he called back through cupped hands. “Count them!” his voice boomed. “My Father wants twelve men! It’s His decision.” Holding up five fingers on each hand, he made two fists, and then uncurled two more. “Twelve is the number,” he exclaimed, “not eight, not ten, or eleven, but twelve!”

“Are we not your fishers of men?” asked Peter stubbornly. “You called us harvesters too. Why bring in strangers we don’t know?

“Peter!” Jesus shook his head in irritation. “Are you deaf? Have you not heard me? My Father talks and I listen.”

Fleetingly, I had second thoughts on my acceptance of his number—not because I really had concerns, but because I was weary of that excuse. We all were. “My Father talks and I listen,” was Jesus answer for almost everything. The logic wasn’t apparent. As he went along guided by the Spirit, he was, for instance, choosing several different men, barely compatible with each other. When considering how illogical his selections were, Justus comes to mind. If in fact, Jesus insisted on twelve disciples, it occurred to me and the others that he should be one of the twelve. The fact that Jesus didn’t pick him outright after his miraculous cure was a mystery to us. Jesus wanted converts to return to their towns to spread the word, but Justus wasn’t an ordinary member of the Way. If anyone should be selected it would seem that a convert cured by Jesus would make a good choice. As it turned out, with Jesus coaxing, Justus departed for Nain, his hometown, the next morning to present his miracle to his parents and friends. Perhaps, Jesus told us after Justus departed, the miracle would soften the citizens of Nain up as it had at other stops. At least we had an important member there to represent the Way. In this manner, explained Jesus, Cleopas, who lived in Emmaus, Mark, who lived in Jerusalem, and Barnabas, who lived in Jericho, were likewise representatives of the Way.

During the next phase of our journey, Mary Magdalene, as she chose to be called, would be left with Esther and Dinah in Capernaum. No one suspected how important this woman would one day be. Though pleasing to the eyes, she was, at this stage in her spiritual development, a flighty-headed nuisance, who was getting on everyone’s nerves. Jesus had wanted to take her home to our family during his next visit, but decided to keep his distance from Nazareth after his close call. Our destination, as always, depended on where God told him to go.

Another reason for leaving Mary behind, we were reminded, was the potential dangers of the road. According to Hamid, a merchant we encountered in Bethsaida, Barabbas and his bandit gang were now in Galilee, attacking caravans and even pilgrims foolish enough to travel without guards. Considering the small size of Barabbas’ band of cutthroats, they moved about with stealth, ambushing merchants and pilgrims, but scattered like jackals when faced with Roman troops. As long as a Roman contingent accompanied travelers, Hamid explained, people were safe. During this period, he advised, we should stay in Bethsaida. It was only a matter of time before Barabbas and his gang were caught. Traveling unguarded now, as we were doing, was insane. For the time being, therefore, Jesus decided to led us no further than Capernaum, where he had planned to drop Mary off, a decision met with unanimous support.

The sooner we reached Capernaum the better, we agreed. We were reassured by a townsmen that the Romans were hunting Barabbas in earnest, but there was no telling when he would actually be caught. As before, when our courage flagged, Jesus lectured us on having more faith. “Have I not kept you safe so far?” he chided. “My hour has not come—neither has yours!” Caring such an ominous note as it did, we wondered what that meant. Had we known what we know now, we might have reacted like frightened sheep. That future episode, however, was much more serious than Barabbas’ band of thieves. I remembered how Jesus dissuaded a band of highwaymen from robbing us on our way to meet Cousin John, so I wasn’t afraid. James, who believed this story, was also encouraged by this recollection. Together we tried bolstering the disciples’ courage. Before we disembarked finally for places unknown, Peter, who appeared to be our leader after deferential treatment from Jesus, put on a good face.

“Master,” he said bravely, “we’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. Shall we bring our swords?”

“Humph.” Jesus smiled wryly, looking around at the group. “Do you men have swords?”

“No!” We replied unanimously.

“I had a sword once,” Bartholomew mumbled.

“Me too.” I nodded pertly.

“I left mine at home,” confessed to Matthew. “What a stupid thing to do!”

“I was joking,” Peter said lamely. “As Jesus said, ‘we must have faith!’”

“There’ll be a time for swords,” Jesus spoke enigmatically again. “We go in peace. For now, your faith is your shield.”

The sunlight on Jesus tanned face, sparkle in his blue eyes, and cheerful grin, seemed to wipe away in one stroke our lingering fears. On that final note, we began our trek south, not knowing where Jesus would led us, buoyed by his courage and resolve. Though it made James uncomfortable, Matthew remained with us at the rear of the procession. With a new mule and cart, Bartholomew seemed in good spirits. Only moments ago, he had slipped again, by bringing up his past. Fishermen carried knives for scaling and gutting fish, I reminded him, they never had swords. Only bandits, as Bartholomew once was, carried swords.

“Your brother’s very sure of himself,” Matthew spoke discreetly. “He convinced me. Jesus has great power!”

“Jesus isn’t afraid of anything,” James said matter-of-factly.

“Why should he be?” I replied, looking at the sky. “Thanks to him, we’re protected by God!”

“If I were a pagan,” Matthew said imprudently, “I might think he was a god!”

******

For the longest time, as we traveled south, we wondered where Jesus was leading us. Peter thought it might be Sepphoris this time. Andrew wondered if he might go much further into Judea. Finally after making camp in a grove of myrtles near a bubbling spring, we set out our pallets, and, taking our places around the fire, ate a meager meal. Jesus was in a dreamy mood, saying all sort of strange things. I was too tired to focus on his words. Bartholomew once again was already fast asleep. That hour, as we discussed our journey, a man arrived: a mere shadow at first, startling us half out of our wits. In the glow of the campfire we recognized immediately our friend Justus. His normally smiling face was streaked with tears.

“Jesus,” he said, reaching out wearily, “I know you have much to do. I didn’t plan coming back so soon, but something happened when I returned home. Everyone was so glad to see me. I was so happy, and then something terrible happened. My brother Laban was stricken—by what we don’t know. He’s dying, Jesus. My aging parents already lost one son. Now, my youngest brother will be lost, but for your healing hand.”

Jesus smiled with understanding. Everyone else groaned. We had already visited Nain. It was, we recalled, a most unfriendly town. Thanks to those hate-mongering graybeards, its citizens had chased us out of town. Normally, Jesus wouldn’t visit the same town more than once. Cana had been an exception, as Capernaum, our home base, and Jesus told us we would be visiting Jerusalem again. There were just too many towns to re-visit, he explained. This was fine with us. But now, judging by Jesus’ expression, we would, because of this emergency, we would be visiting Nain again.

“Oh no,” James moaned, “not that awful place. They treated us like lepers! We were almost stoned!”

“That’s an exaggeration,” I whispered to him. “Nazareth was much worse!”

“I’m sorry,” Jesus said to the group. “Justus has shown great faith in coming to me. Considering the dangers of the road, he’s also quite brave. We will travel to Nain, and thereafter find friendlier towns. You have my promise.”

No one dared argue with him. Justus had earned our friendship. Out of earshot of Jesus, however, after that report by Hamid, the fishermen harbored fears about the road.

“We should have waited awhile,” exclaimed Philip. “Is Justus’ brother worth all our lives?”

“Yes,” fretted Andrew, “Barabbas is out there. There’s no telling when he’ll appear!”

“Listen to them,” James whispered to me. “They’ll run for the hills if we’re attacked.”

“That’s not going to happen,” I reassured him. “On the way to the river, I saw Jesus in action. In just a few words, he stopped those bandits cold.”

“I believe you,” replied Matthew, “but we might get ambushed. Hamid warned us about this area. We need a Roman escort!”

Bartholomew had awakened beside his cart, as if awakening from a bad dream. Watching Jesus slip into the darkness to pray, a thought occurred to me.

“There are things he’s not telling us,” I said, looking back into the fire. “Jesus has a master plan unseen by us. Even Justus’ request that he cure his brother is foreordained. After everything he’s said, I believe he has a timeline, too. He said as much himself.”

“So,” Bartholomew declared groggily, “Jesus knew Justus would return with his request.”

“Lucky us,” James grumbled.

“Everything is predestined,” I said with great conviction. “Because of Laban’s illness, we have one more chance in Nain.”

It was as if a warm current had swept over me as I spoke those words. Matthew looked at me then with great respect. Despite my efforts at reasoning, though, Bartholomew remained ill at ease.

“Jesus is a miracle worker,” he chose his words carefully. “No one argues that point. He can even raise up the dead, but is he immune to arrows, spears, and blades? Can he raise himself from the dead? Who would protect us then?”

Unwittedly, in his trepidation, Bartholomew had touched upon prophecy, his response carrying an ominous ring. As I stared at him contemplating his words, Matthew reached into the cart and patted his arm. “We must trust Jesus,” he said calmly.

“I trust him,” Bartholomew replied in a quavering voice. “I just don’t trust Barabbas. I’ve known that rascal since he was a child. He’s an evil man!”

Matthew gave him a startled look. “You knew Barabbas?”

Quick to cover Bartholomew’s slip, I told Matthew a story from James and my childhood when Jesus cured the sparrow—his first miracle, which he heard me mention before. In an effort to support my effort, James joined in my reminiscing by telling Matthew about the time Jesus visited the temple as a child, confounding the scribes and priests with his knowledge of the Torah. Matthew, though he said nothing more, not fooled, glanced dubiously at Bartholomew.

******

That night as I slept near my friends, I was, in spite of my fine words, filled with dread, but not of Barabbas and his gang. Recalling Bartholomew’s question about Jesus, “Can he raise himself from the dead?” I sensed, with murky intuition, that it had greater meaning.” “Why am I concerned about his words?” I asked myself. “What do they really mean?” Soon, however, I fell asleep, my ill-feeling replaced by a nightmare. I was hiding in the shadows from an angry mob, shouting “Crucify him! Crucify him!” In my nightmare, as an added touch of horror, it was night, and the townsfolk carried torches. Their faces were illuminated hideously—men and women spitting rage. Looking beyond the crowd, as I cringed in fear, I saw the silhouettes of three crosses outlined against a moonlit sky. Then, as the mob turned on me, I found myself running for my life. “Save me Jesus!” I called to my brother, as I fled into the night. Suddenly, as times before, I awakened from my dream in a cold sweat. It was first light. Beyond the camp, transfigured in the glow as the sun brimmed the horizon, Jesus was standing watch. I remembered times in the past, when he had awakened me from a bad dream, consoling me with logic and reason, but this time I awakened alone, as the rest of the camp slept. Unlike the last time, I wouldn’t share my dream with him…. He had quite enough on his mind.

******

Like all of my bad dreams, I would bury this one away. I didn’t know it then, but that hour, from the moment Bartholomew spoke those ominous words, through my nightmarish vision of the mob and crosses, until I awakened in our camp, I had experienced a revelation—the icy breath of prophecy. Why I had been cursed with this gift, I will never know. Fortunately, it came infrequently, in times of stress and anxiety, and was never clearly interpreted. This would come later, at the end of Jesus’ mission.

That moment, I struggled groggily to my feet, shaking off the dark tendrils of sleep, the dream imagery fading with the dawn. Moving more quickly to the embers in the fire ring, I tossed in kindling and a few branches, waiting only a few moments until they caught flame. My companions continued to wrestle with sleep as I sat by the fire. I was hungry, my head ached, and I longed for a long swig of wine. Bartholomew’s snores marred the tranquility of the scene yet were reassuring. Though hungry and weary, I was alive—more alive than any time in my life. I was surrounded by men who shared my burden, blessed by their greater ignorance of what was to come. What’s more I was comforted by sight of the Shepherd still standing watch. Though the temptation to ask him to interpret my dream was strong, I would keep this one to myself. Against the forces of Satan he once endured. This was enough for me.

After the others joined me by the fire, we shared a frugal breakfast, rose up one-by-one, slung on our packs, and once more accompanied Jesus on the road. Jesus spoke in murmurs to Justus then, as we followed him south. Justus nodded thoughtfully as he listened. At one point, it sounded as if Jesus was praying. Lulled by the inevitability of it all, I was, for a short while, at peace. I knew the other men were afraid. Though I was comforted by the memory of Jesus handling of bandits in the past, their fear became contagious. Thanks to Hamid’s report, the disciples had one thought on their mind: Barabbas and his bandit gang. James looked around as if expecting him to pop up anytime, and Bartholomew sat in his cart nervously gripping the reins. Some of the disciples, I noticed, had taken on more militant poses, Matthew keeping a hand on his dagger, Peter brandishing a large stick, and Andrew carrying stones in each hand. Had I not been frightened myself, I might have been amused. When I traveled with my Gentile friends, I had been prepared for battle. Papa’s ancestral sword would have been too unwieldy on the road, but I wished I had taken along my Roman gladius. I was, like the other men, defenseless against Barabbas’ gang.

At one rest stop, which allowed us to fill our water skins and allow Bartholomew to stretch his legs, Jesus was approached by travelers on the road heading in the opposite direction. As was his custom, he preached to them and offered God’s grace. The men listened but politely rejected his offer. Jesus took this opportunity to warn them of Barabbas’ band. The four men were unaware of this menace yet shrugged their shoulders and continued their journey north. In spite of our own unguarded condition, it struck me as foolish for travelers not to understand the dangers of the road. When we warned other travelers heading north or south, we discovered that many of them actually knew of the threat but, because of business and engagements, must travel nonetheless.

“Those people are insane!” mumbled Philip. “Until Barabbas is caught, no one should be on the road!”

Of course, we were just as insane. Though Peter attempted to set an example, the fishermen grew increasingly alarmed and Bartholomew seemed paralyzed with fear. Seeing my own efforts at courage, James tried acting brave, as did Matthew, but our resolve was tested each time Jesus made a stop. Despite the urgency of making good time and reaching our destination, Jesus couldn’t resist preaching to persons on the road, a pattern that was slowing us down. It wasn’t in his nature to deny supplicants and not spread the word. Considering how few actually responded, it hardly seemed worth it, and yet Jesus was relentless. In all his endeavors, he never gave up. On behalf of the other disciples, James and I prayed very hard for a clear road ahead. As it turned out, the number of travelers on the road became fewer and fewer as we approached Nain. Perhaps God heard our prayers and finally cleared our path. We quickened our steps now as Jesus lengthened his strides. Encouraged by our spirit, Bartholomew gave his mule a prod, grinning happily as his cart surged ahead. Soon, we could smell cooking fires and see their smoke rising above the trees.

As we arrived in Nain that evening, we were met, as before, with surly gazes on the street. A friendly dog romped up to Jesus to have his head patted. A youth leading a goat down the road waved at us, but, judging by the few elders who passed us on the road, we were still, as the Romans would say, persona non gratis.

Justus led us immediately to his mother’s home. Upon seeing the commotion in front of her house—people mulling around the door and loud lamenting inside the house—we knew we were too late.

“Who are those men?” A boy tugged at his mothers dress.

“It’s that preacher from Nazareth—Jesus.” She sneered.

“Sorry, master,” Peter said sympathetically. “You did your best.”

“Laban sleeps,” Jesus said simply to Justus. “Lead us into the house.”

Without argument, Justus scurried ahead to make a path and announce Jesus’ arrival. None of the people in the crowded house were glad to see the preacher. Grumbling could be heard (“It’s that fellow from Nazareth.” and “What’s he doing here?”). Many of the mourners remembered Jesus last visit, a few giving him hostile glares, but most of them were just curious as to why Jesus was here.

When the mother came to Jesus, frowning quizzically at this interruption, Jesus didn’t wait to exchange amenities, but came straight to the point. “Woman, where’s your son?”

“Why?” she asked with great bitterness. “He’s dead.”

“No,” Jesus shook his head, “he’s in the dark sleep—that place in between.”

“What nonsense is this?” a male relative called from across the room. “Laban’s in his coffin. Who let that lunatic into this house?”

After our last trip to Nain, our reception came as no surprise to us. Nevertheless, with Justus’ coaxing, three other men helped him bring the coffin to the center of the room. Justus opened the lid and stood back reverently, fully confident in Jesus’ powers. Jesus prayed a moment over the body in the coffin. Then, opening his eyes, he called out loudly, startling the neighbors and relatives in the room, “Laban, in the name of my Father, rise and join the living.”

“So he was dead!” Justus blurted.

“He was asleep.” Jesus insisted.

Laban stirred and, his eyelids fluttering a moment, stared uncomprehendingly until his mind cleared.

“I was in a dark place,” his voice came out thinly. “Was I dead?”

“You were very sick,” Jesus persisted, shaking his head. “Considering our laws about burying the deceased before sunset, this man might have been buried alive.”

When this would be written down by Luke, there would be no mention of this conversation. I have great respect for Luke, but he wasn’t there. His report of this miracle, precedes his account of Lazarus’ resurrection, a more factual account. During that hour, however, we, who were eyewitnesses heard the truth, but were still impressed. Justus was just happy to have his brother back and spare his mother Laban’s loss. For the Pharisee and two elders in the room, however, what Jesus had done was nothing short of sorcery. Once again from a graybeard we heard that familiar refrain.

“You call this sorcery?” Jesus looked squarely at the Pharisee. “By what logic do you arrive at that?”

Justus placed a mug of wine in Jesus hand to bolster his courage. Jesus, who didn’t need wine to fortify himself, thanked him but handed it to me. As I gulped down the wine, I listened to the Pharisee, who identified himself as Menalech, rant and rave about the impossibility and unnaturalness of returning from the dead.

“That you are a Nazarene with a band of no-accounts makes it all the more difficult to believe.” He shook his fist. “That man was dead. I don’t care what you say. I felt his pulse. He’s been dead for hours.”

Jesus closed his eyes once more, as if praying again to God. “Be silent!” he commanded the Pharisee. “Leave this room in peace!”

That moment, as we watched in hysterical amusement, Menalech and his associates turned on their heels and, like men in a trance, marched single file out of the room. It was the only time we saw Jesus use his power this way, and yet he didn’t do it in anger. Peter insisted later that Jesus did it in self-defense, but that wasn’t true either. I believe that the Pharisee and his friends had evil intent. Jesus’ work wasn’t even close to being finished. He had much more to do. The mere fact that he asked God’s permission therefore made it a righteous act. With the surly graybeards out of the room, Jesus and his disciples mingled with the guests. Laban was taken to his bed and given soup and bread. Before leaving the house, Jesus, with Peter and John’s assistance, spoke the words and baptized Laban, his mother, and the men who helped carry Laban into the room. Afterwards, we bid everyone goodbye, as Justus escorted us back to the road.

“When will I seen you again?” he asked eagerly. “I have much to learn.”

“I’ll see you in the Kingdom,” Jesus replied thoughtfully. “Until that day, go among your neighbors and friends—spread the word. The words are simple. They’re burned into your heart!”

As we retraced our steps toward Capernaum, James turned to me and asked in a muted voice, “What did our brother mean back there?”

“You mean ‘I’ll see you in the Kingdom?’” I frowned.

“Yes,” James nodded, “I don’t like the sound of that…. That’s a strange thing to say, don’t you think? Kingdom of what? Is he talking about the Messiah?”

Not wanting to alarm James, I answered carefully, “Who knows?… Jesus is always saying strange things.”

Chapter Sixteen

The Death Of The Baptist

Hamid, the merchant, had planted lasting fear in Jesus’ disciples. I recalled my father telling us about some parents, including his own, using the threat of phantoms and demons to make their children behave. Though my parents never used this tactic, my playmates in Nazareth believed in these fiends. Some of this must have worn off on me, because I was still to this day uncomfortable, often frightened, of the dark. Barabbas gang had been like a dark shadow on our path. Unlike the imagined night stalkers and walking dead of my childhood, he and his men were out there and they were real. The other men were, at times, like frightened children. I tried to dispel my own fears with the memory of our trip to the River Jordan in which Jesus had used his power of persuasion. It was the same power he used in Cana to send that mob away. Had they not been a gang of cutthroats and thieves too? I reasoned with James, Matthew, and Bartholomew. They had appeared out of nowhere in our path, and Jesus had, using his powers, dismissed them like a bad dream. We weren’t rustic, superstitious fishermen. Why were we afraid of a mere rumor? What was so special about the latest band of thieves?

“Because,” Matthew replied with great conviction, “this is Barabbas and his gang!”

James and Bartholomew vigorously agreed. Though I bolstering their courage, it was no use. They were right. I didn’t believe my own words. For a long stretch of the road, we half-expected to be ambushed by Barabbas gang. Lurking in every grove of trees or behind every hill we imagined them lying in wait, swooping down and waylaying our group. But then, as the time dragged on, when our fears failed to transpire and we succumbed to weariness of travel, we let down our guard. Peter was tired of holding his big stick and Andrew was weary of holding rocks in each hand. Bartholomew relaxed in his seat, his attention turned inward inside outward at the surrounding terrain, longing for a nap. James, Matthew, and I occupied our minds with idle chatter for awhile, and Philip, John, and his brother entertained themselves by throwing rocks at birds.

“Stop that at once!” Jesus shouted at them. “Have you learned nothing in my company?”

“They’re bored,” Peter said flatly. “It’s better than being afraid.”

“Afraid?” Jesus frowned at him. “That explains nothing. They have nothing to fear. Where is their faith? You saw them throwing yet you said nothing. You must set an example Peter. I know you’re all tired, but stoning birds isn’t acceptable. That won’t happen again!”

“Sorry.” John and his brother muttered.

“I don’t understand.” Philip said, dropping his handful of rock. “We kill fish don’t we? Most Galileans love the sport of hunting: jackals, foxes, deers, and when my father was young, even lions.”

“Listen well to me,” he addressed us all, “you’re new men. When you’re with me, you represent a new faith: the Way. Fishermen, like right-minded hunters, kill for food, not sport. This rule, forgotten in the old religion, is one more commandment to obey.” “A righteous man cares for the need of animals,” he quoted liberally from Psalms. “He gives them food, even feeding the young ravens when they call…. Even the sparrows won’t die unnoticed…. All creatures, great and small are my Father’s creation, not men’s playthings. The smallest worm and gnat is counted and worthy of respect.”

During his lecture on behalf of God’s creation, which I strongly approved, he had, without mentioning Barabbas and his gang, gently rebuked our fears.”

Within the last few Roman miles, we had, in fact, gained a grip on our courage. It was, of course, a tenuous grip, caused by lethargy as much as resolve. The fishermen continued to distract themselves by stone-tossing, this time using boulders and tree trunks as targets. James, Matthew, Bartholomew, and I, chose more intellectual pursuits, by discussing Jesus’ reprimand of the fishermen. Considering the nature of men, Matthew and Bartholomew thought his views on the sanctity of life unreasonable, but my siblings and I were raised to respect life. Jesus had set a memorable example for us when he brought a sparrow back to life. When the tiny bird flew from his hands, it was a prelude of things to come—Jesus first miracle, and yet, in his innocence, his only intention had been to cure the bird. He was the village pet doctor, with no concern for grand things. My parents knew the secret, but Jesus didn’t know who he was…. In many ways, he was still struggling with this knowledge.

As Peter and Andrew walked in silence, Jesus forged ahead of us, deep in thought. He must have been growing weary of babysitting, rather than shepherding, these men. I was, after an uneventful stretch of road and hearing Jesus lecture on the sanctity of life, once more at peace. Soon, I consoled myself, Jesus would bring us back to Capernaum. He would protect us as he had on our journey to the River Jordan. With this thought in mind, my pace quickened. I had the sudden urge to talk to Jesus. Looking back with a flicker of irritation, he slowed down until I was alongside of him.

“Jesus,” I whispered discreetly, “you were right to scold them.” “Look at those men !” I glanced back with scorn. “They’re so immature!”

“Yes.” He heaved a sigh. “All men are children at times.”

Walking backwards a moment, I watched them frolic like young boys. Philip, John, and his brother had switched from stone-tossing to mock sword fighting with sticks. For Jesus’ benefit, Peter scolded them, but with a smile on his face. He was right, I realized: it was better than being afraid. James, Matthew, and Bartholomew, as they brought up the rear, still seemed a bit edgy. We hadn’t seen a traveler on the road for almost an hour, which seemed odd, and yet we would arrive in Capernaum soon.

Not far ahead, upon one last hill, Lake Gennesaret would appear, glistening in the evening sun. With this thought in mind, I chatted with Jesus for a short while. I asked him, half-seriously, what God had in mind for us. Jesus said, also half-seriously, that he didn’t know. His revelations came to him hourly, sometime moment-by-moment. Suddenly, as I happened to glance up at a distant rise knoll, I saw him. I knew it at once. At first he sat on his mount alone, a dark silhouette against the setting sun, and then on each side of him several more shadowy riders appeared. Fortunately that very moment, for the disciples peace of mind, we just happen to approached a stand of myrtles.

“Say nothing to the others!” Jesus said from the corner of his mouth.

“Will the attack us?” I asked in a strained voice.

“Jude, trust me.” He gripped my shoulder. “We have nothing to fear from Barabbas!”

“Really” I gave him a searching look. “Did God tell you that?”

“I already knew it,” he replied confidently. “Some things are taken on faith.”

When we passed by the trees, the knoll was behind us. For that last leg of our journey before reaching Capernaum, I tried being brave again. The truth was, however, we could be ambushed at anytime before entering the town. What made it much easier for me was walking beside Jesus. I had shown scorn for the behavior of the fishermen, and yet here I was feeling small and vulnerable like a child in his presence. As if an ill-wind blew over them, too, the fishermen stopped cavorting and fell silent, moving up and around Jesus on the road. James, Matthew, and Bartholomew likewise inched up closer to him, James taking the reins to hasten the move. As the Shepherd, Jesus often thought of us as his sheep. That moment as we approached our town, we felt more like lambs.

******

That evening, as we were by greeted by Peter’s family and Mary Magdalene (a vision of loveliness reaching my weary eyes), I thought fleetingly of my sighting of Barabbas, but then, just as quickly as I heard her lilting laughter in the room, I pushed it out of my mind. Nothing could happen to me or my companions when Jesus was around. After the evening ablutions, as we waited for our supper, I wanted to talk to Mary but John, that wily rascal, got there first. What calmed my jealousy was her furtive glances at me, as if, I fancied, she was bored and would rather be talking to me. Because of Jesus admonishments to me about my feeling toward Mary, as he had concerning Deborah, I wouldn’t force the issue. It was enough to share Mary’s gaze.

The smell Esther’s special stew mingled with the scent of crushed flowers, which Dinah used to camouflage the odor of Jesus’ men. As I waited expectantly along with the others, happy to be among friends, a crisis befell Jesus. He had just settled down on his cushion and was chatting with Peter, when there was a knock on the door.

Looks of fear replaced our contented expressions.

“Who could that be?” Peter rose up hesitantly.

“Where you expecting guests?” Esther called from the kitchen.

“Oh dear,” Mary wrung her hands, “is it more bad men?”

“Ask who it is,” suggested Jesus.

“All right,” Peter took a deep breath, “but I’m not expecting anyone at this hour. “Who are you?” Peter called nervously through the door. “State your business!”

“Amos Bar Jonah!” came the reply. “I have another message for Jesus.”

“What!?” I cried, leaping to my feet. “Another message”

Jesus stroked his beard. “He’s John the Baptist’s courier,” he announced for the women’s benefit. “Let him in.”

After opening the door, Peter, Jesus, and I were greeted by that same ragamuffin who escorted Jesus and me to the River Jordan and informed us of the Baptist’s arrest. Amos was even more unkempt and grimy-looking than before. He must have ridden straight-away to us, barely stopping. Behind him, snorting and trembling with fatigue as did the rider, was the same black steed. Now that things had quieted down outside, Peter instructed Bernice to take Amos’ horse to the pasture where Bartholomew’s mule foraged.

Jesus introduced the women and Matthew to him. Esther and Dinah wrinkled their noses upon greeting this smelly man. I embraced my old friend, as did Jesus. Amos responded politely but there was a look of disapproval or disdain on is bristly face.

“I have grave news for the preacher,” he looked squarely at Jesus.

“He’s more than a preacher now,” Matthew corrected him. “He’s a great prophet!”

“Very well,” a note of sarcasm tinged Amos voice, “I wish have grave news for the prophet.”

Jesus, who wasn’t ready to be labeled, frowned at Matthew. It was, of course, an understatement, and yet Matthew gave it a commanding ring. For a moment Amos fidgeted in the middle of the room. Everyone except Jesus and I felt uncomfortable around this man. His brusque manners and odor were too much for even the rustic fishermen.

“Well, out with it!” Peter snapped his fingers.

“John is dead!” Amos declared solemnly.

“Oh no,” I slapped my forehead. “Herod kept that poor man prisoner for months.”

Visibly shaken, as were Andrew and Philip, who had been John the Baptists followers, Jesus listened to Amos’ full report. Everyone knew why John had been imprisoned: he had verbally attacked Herod and his wife. As we gathered around Jesus, he explained how John’s preaching of repentance and salvation was changed by the appearance of himself. Now that the Promised One was finally here, despite the pleading of his disciples and himself, he began turning his attention to Herod and his wife. The Tetrarch would never have had him arrested if he had stuck to preaching repentance and salvation, but then Herod divorced his wife and married Herodias, his brother’s wife. Because of the Hebrew law in the Torah against such behavior, John felt obliged to speak out, which was his undoing. According to a servant who witnessed the debacle, Herodias played upon her drunken husband’s lust for her daughter, promising him a dance by Salome for the Baptist’s head. This struck us as obscenely implausible. Nevertheless, the fact remained, Amos, concluded, John lost his head as Salome danced.

“I’ve heard of men doing rash things,” James muttered, “but that’s hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” Amos glared at James. “I heard it from an eyewitness. He heard Herod say, ‘I would give anything if Salome would dance.’ ‘Anything?’ Herodias replied. ‘Anything!’ Herod promised. ‘Then give me the head of the Baptist!” she cried.’”

“That’s awful!” I shook my head.

“I’m sorry, Jesus,” Peter tried comforting him. “He brought it on himself.”

“Yeah,” spat Matthew, “he was a damn fool!”

For a moment, I thought Amos might hit the publican. Both Andrew and Philip were offended too. In addition to what Peter and he had said, however, I heard John, his brother James, and Bartholomew agree with Matthew. It was, James would later say to me, as if the Baptist had committed suicide. All of Galilee knew that Herod was an immoral man. He could have kept on preaching or joined Jesus on the road. Why had be picked the one issue that cost him his head?

“This isn’t the issue,” Amos heaved a broken sigh. “I know John was foolish. He had been insulting Pharisees, scribes, and priests for years. Unlike Jesus, though, he stayed put in Judea. Herod wouldn’t let anyone touch him, because he thought John was Elijah, whom God took up to heaven.”

“You’re serious?” Andrew made a face. “He thought John was Elijah?”

“I didn’t know that,” Philip looked at him in disbelief. “Andrew and I were John’s disciples. I never heard that.”

“You wouldn’t, would he?” Amos shrugged his shoulders. “This was palace gossip. The servant, who was converted by John from his cell, took the Baptist’s remains and hid them in the desert to prevent Herod’s men from defiling him.”

Amos lapsed into silence.

“Did they bury John?” Andrew reached out to prod him.

“Omri, the servant, didn’t have time to dig a grave. He was so frightened he would be found out, he fled.”

“Where is his remains?” Jesus voice constricted.

“I’m not sure,” Amos shrugged again. “I barely escaped myself. Now that the Baptist is dead, his disciples have fled. I can’t blame them. I was there with John during his last hours. When we saw Herod’s men in the distance, I fled, too. I learned of John’s death from the servant. When the order to have John beheaded was given, he ran away. It was very brave of Omri to return and fetch John’s remains.”

“He’s not even buried?” Andrew looked at Amos with scorn.

“I panicked,” Amos admitted. “I almost kept on going, but here I am.” “At least I was there before he died,” he said with great bitterness. “If I hadn’t found Omri, I wouldn’t know what happened. That almost cost us both our heads. Jesus should’ve come when the messenger told he was imprisoned. If he has such powers, he could’ve save him, but he didn’t. He let him die!”

I could hear everyone in the room, including me, gasp. Mary was weeping softly beside Jesus. Esther, Dinah, and Bernice stood in the kitchen shaking their heads. John’s brother James, like Matthew, took offense his accusation. With his fists clinched at his side, James came right up to Amos’ face, “You uncouth barbarian!” he cried. “Who are you to judge him? John acted rashly. Jesus isn’t to blame for his foolishness. He put his own head on the block!”

“He’s right!” Matthew agreed. “Just who do you think you are, Amos? Jesus doesn’t have time for fools. He’s a busy man!”

“Really?” Amos stared him down. “Too busy to save his cousin and best friend?”

“Matthew and James.” Peter pulled them back rudely. “Let’s not make this a brawl,”

With great reluctance in his voice, as Amos looked down at the floor, Andrew placed a hand on his shoulder. “John must be buried. Philip and I were once his disciples. We’ll go back to help with the deed.”

“I’ll go back as your guide,” Amos offered half-heartedly.

There was no love lost between Amos and John’s old disciples. Andrew and Philip looked at Amos as is he was a coward. I didn’t like what Amos said about Jesus, but I felt sorry for him. I wanted very much to say something comforting, now that his purpose in life as John’s courier was gone. In stead, after Esther graciously offered to feed him supper with us, I said in a muted voice to him, “Join us Amos. Jesus will give purpose to your life!” Amos looked at me with scorn that moment but said nothing. Though I hoped he would change his mind, I didn’t press the point. As we sat across from each other on the floor, I watched Jesus slip out quietly, without a word, during our meal.

He was greatly shaken. I wanted to go after him, but Bartholomew reached out to restrain me.

“Let him go so that he can talk to his father,” he murmured to me. “He would’ve gone if he could have. Jesus chose God’s will over his own.”

******

That night I tossed and turned in my pallet. Even with Mary Magdalene in the room, it was difficult for me to sleep. Strangely enough, I considered the fate of John the Baptist tragic, but I felt more sorry for Amos, who had lost his benefactor and friend, now that his livelihood as a courier was gone. When the morning finally came and we were all up and about, Amos and his black steed was gone. I wondered if we would ever see Amos again.

Chapter Seventeen

Thomas and Simon

The death of the Baptist, which came as no surprise to anyone, had caused only a temporary lull in Jesus’ work. We remained in Capernaum for only one more day, as he mourned our cousin. Now, back on the road, after putting it behind him, the cheerfulness he had earlier in our odyssey returned. There were great things ahead of us, he told us after we bid the women goodbye. There were places to go and much to do.

As we followed the Shepherd, on course with another one of his revelations, we were in good spirits. We had, all things considered, done well so far. We had even made converts in Nain. Jesus was certain that that congregation would, as other towns filled with converts, continue to grow after Laban’s cure. With towns by the Sea of Galilee to preach to in the coming days, he seemed to be in a hurry. We weren’t halfway done, he reminded us. On the way to Tiberius and Gennesaret, our next stops, however, Jesus began preaching to travelers again, which interrupted his schedule. This time, unlike our trek south, he struck a chord with a young couple, who sought our company after hearing of the threats on the road.

Ira and his wife, Mahalia, listened to Jesus tell them of the wondrous afterlife offered for simply accepting God’s grace. I was quick to reassure them after their baptism of how safe they would be under Jesus’ protection. It seemed strange and very foolish for them to be on the road. When our parents traveled to Bethlehem (a town we hadn’t stopped at yet), Mama was pregnant with Jesus. Because of the tax levied by Emperor Augustus in Palestine, there were Roman soldiers everywhere, so our parents had been safe. The story behind this journey, which I related to Matthew, was quite unlike the experience of Ira and Mahalia. Unlike our parents, they were traveling at a bad time. Moreover, Mahalia had lost her child. Jesus comforting message had brought them from the depths of despair. In what became a unrecorded example by the Apostles of Jesus prophecies, Jesus placed his hand on her stomach and, after praying silently, made an incredible promise to her. Mahalia, he prophesized, would give birth to a son, who would one day become a great voice for the Lord. As I write these words, I still don’t know whom it was who served the Lord. Perhaps he joined the long list of martyrs for our faith. Jesus interchangeable reference to God, Father, and Lord confused some of the disciples, but, I explained to them as we made camp near Tiberius that night, they meant basically the same thing. This, I would realize later, was not quite true. To begin with, as I see it now, Jesus hadn’t yet told his disciples and the public at large who he really was. Our brother James referred to him as the Promised One and it was also implied at times that he was even the Messiah, but Jesus shunned labels. He had given them hints and did things that, as Matthew said imprudently, only a god could do. During the first half of his mission, in which he introduced himself to people and sent early converts home to spread the word, he continued to train us to be proficient evangelists. Though he was, as John the Baptist, called him, the Anointed One, Jesus knew very well what most Jews expected in that name, so he avoided the titles Messiah, Deliverer, and such. He was at this stage merely God’s emissary: both teacher and preacher and, as Matthew pointed out again, a prophet, too. Jesus, of course, never claimed to be that either. Prophets, after all, such as John the Baptist, got themselves into trouble with their claims. His only purpose during these formative days was to make himself known and get out the word. When Jesus referred to his father, though, there was no mistaking the implications of this word. He had personalized his relationship to God, for, as we would learn, he was His son…. When Jesus used the word Lord, he was using a word that would one day be applied to himself, for indeed he is God.

The shadowy outline of this realization continued to grow in my mind as I watched him converse with the new converts. Because Ira and Mahalia were traveling to his parents in Tiberius, their appearance on the road, as we overtook them, had been especially fortuitous. I’m still not clear on why they traveled to that destination. They couldn’t have picked a worse time. As we finally entered Tiberius, Jesus blessed them as they went their own way and led us directly to the synagogue as he had done before.

I could hear a few groans from my brethren. James and I managed to stifle our dissent. After a few bad experiences in synagogues, we were naturally apprehensive, but this time it was early morning, so we entered town less conspicuously. The synagogue was, of course, empty. We knew it would fill up with townsmen when the word got out. Since rabbis often lived near houses of worship, Jesus expected to meet one soon. This time, as we waited nervously in the synagogue, it appeared as if he might not show up. After nearly an hour of pacing back and forth, Jesus led us out of the synagogue.

“Something’s wrong.” He turned to us. “… You notice how quiet this part of town is?”

“Yes,” Peter nodded, “It reminds me of Nain.”

“No,” Jesus replied, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Nain was unfriendly. This is just quiet.” “Listen,” he said, cupping his ear, “do you hear that?”

“Yeah,” Philip’s eyes widened, “… in the distance.”

“Uh oh,” Andrew cried, “here they come!”

Suddenly, from a side road, a crowd of townsfolk moved toward us. We had, in fact entered town quite early. Whatever must have happened, occurred in a different sector of town. Upon spotting us, a young man with blazing gray eyes called out excitedly, “Praise God; it’s you at last. Hopefully, it’s not too late. Jairus’ daughter is very sick. Please come!”

In the crowd we were temporarily reunited with Ira and his wife Mahalia, who told us who Jairus was, though I’m certain Jesus already knew. The young man, who had run to fetch him, identified himself as his servant, Nun. Jairus, Ira explained, was Tiberius’ mayor and, because of his generosity for the poor and leadership in the synagogue, was a beloved member of the town. After losing his son, his daughter Tabitha was his only child. Unfortunately, Jairus lived in a villa at the far edge of town. On the path straddling the Sea of Galilee leading to his villa, which, Nun said was a short cut, we were inundated with more people, more interested in Jesus than Jairus’ daughter.

“Because you’re fishermen,” exclaimed a woman, “we thought you’d come by boat.”

“Jesus isn’t a fisherman,” our brother James corrected her. “He’s a carpenter.”

“Today,” Jesus replied, “I’m a healer. We must hurry, men,” he called back to us.

It was an uncomfortable feeling, being pressed and shoved on the narrow path.

Ahead of us, a distant figure appeared. Because the sun had risen in that direction, it blinded us as we tried making out the form.

“It’s Jairus!” Ira cried, out of breath.

“This isn’t good,” Nun mumbled unhappily. “I’ve never seen him run like this before.”

“Calm down, sir.” Jesus ran up to Jairus. “Your daughter’s going to be all right.”

“Oh, you think so?” Jairus gripped his shoulders frantically. “Yes, yes. I’ve heard about you, Jesus. You can heal her. Please hurry. Her forehead is burning hot.”

As if Jesus didn’t have enough on his hands, a woman behind us tugged on his robe. Fearful of ridicule, perhaps, she said nothing at first. Then, tugging harder, she mumbled to herself “If I just touch his clothes, I’ll get well. Jesus has great power.”

Jesus finally stopped and looked back. “Who tugged on my robe?” he asked, scanning the crowd.

“Jesus,” Peter protested, “this is a narrow trail. This isn’t the time to stop!”

All of the disciples were already unnerved by this interruption. Because Jesus stopped so suddenly, we felt the crush of the mob behind. There were, in fact, several people anxious to talk to him, who reached out to touch the miracle worker. I noticed Jesus close his eyes momentarily as if uttering a brief prayer. I had heard the woman mumbling to herself, but thought nothing of it, since people were always touching his clothes. Now, after looking back and seeing her pitiful face and realizing she was in a bad way, I noticed her face beaming with happiness.

“Why are you stopping?” cried Jairus.

“Just one moment,” Jesus held up a finger, glancing below her sash.

“Jesus!” She clapped her hands with delight. “I felt great pain this morning. I was bleeding. Now it’s stopped, and the pain is gone!

“My daughter, faith has made you well. You’ve been healed through prayer, not any magic in my robe. Go in peace, and be healed of your troubles, too.”

Once again Jairus and several of his friends begged Jesus to get going, but Jesus took his time. With water from his water skin, he said a few words and then baptized the women before moving on. Considering his daughter’s illness more important than his random cure, Jairus was beside himself with frustration, his face red and fists clinching as if to prevent himself from flying to unbridled rage. Only a few moments after the woman’s cure, a servant ran down the path wringing his hands and wailing, “The preacher’s too late. Your daughter’s dead!

Jesus waved off the ridicule he received from some of the crowd. “Do you believe?” he asked Jairus now.

Saying nothing in reply, the Pharisee hung his head, and wept.

“Come, Jairus,” beaconed Jesus, forging ahead. “Tabitha sleeps.”

“Her pulse is gone.” the servant shrieked. “The child is dead!”

“What kind’ve miracle-worker is this?” a graybeard sneered. “The man has nerves of ice.”

Calmly with the same look he had with all his miracles, with long purposeful strides, Jesus led the crowd and his disciples to Jairus’ house. When we arrived we could hear crying and wailing. A woman, identified as Jairus’ sister, screamed in rage at the tardy miracle-worker, and yet his wife led Jesus quickly to Tabitha’s room. In a gentle tone belying his words, Jesus asked those sobbing and cursing, “Why are you crying and carrying on? The child isn’t dead. Where is your faith in God?”

“Faith? Bah!” spat the graybeard.

Unruffled, Jesus entered the room with Jairus and his wife, with Peter and John and his brother on each side of him, while the rest of us stood watching at the door. It was too crowded in the small space for everyone, but I managed to squeeze in nonetheless. Jesus had said that Justus’ brother Laban and Regulus’ servant were dead too. I didn’t believe that either.

At this point, egged on by the graybeard, several people mocked Jesus’ efforts.

“No one comes back from the dead?” scoffed a young man.

“Yes,” a woman said resolutely, “death is permanent. Jesus has come too late!’

Similar barbs were thrown at Jesus from other men and women. Predictably, the graybeard pointed a gnarled finger at him. “If he raised that child, the man’s a sorcerer!”

As if that was the final straw, Jesus turned to the crowd outside the room, and shouted, “Silence, you foolish people.” “Jairus,” he directed brusquely, “shut the door. I need to pray!”

“Look at her, Jesus,” Jairus said hoarsely, “she’s turning purple. I tell you, she’s dead!”

Taking Tabitha’s little hand, Jesus ignored her father’s doubt. Looking at her mother, he whispered, “Do you believe?”

“Yes,” she murmured, “I believe!”

Praying quietly a few moments, as we waited, he bent down and kissed her forehead. “Little girl,” he commanded gently, “I bid you to rise. Awaken from the dark sleep!”

Her eyelids fluttered, her hand twitched, and she groaned faintly as she returned from the land of the dead.

As he had for Laban, Jesus told her mother to give her soup and bread and let her rest awhile. “Your daughter has been chosen by God,” he said to her parents. “Those he saves have a purpose, if for nothing else to spread the word.”

“Forgive my doubt,” Jairus spoke contritely now. “Me, my family, and my servants will be baptized. We shall serve the Lord too. Your faith shall live in this house!”

By now all of the disciples had forced their way into the room, including the graybeard, who shouted, “Sorcerer! Sorcerer! This is a infernal deed!” To prove his goodwill toward Jesus, Jairus turned, and with a servant’s help, physically removed the man from his house.

“If I seen you on my property again,” he shouted, “I’ll break your nose!”

“Where to now?” asked Peter. “Are we in business again?”

“Baptize me! Baptize me!” shouts rang out.

“There’s your answer!” Jesus said, leading us out into the sunlight. The light shining on the water was blinding. “Let’s do as we did before by the lake,” he instructed, pointing this way and that. “Make the crowd form several lines for each of you. Bartholomew will work with me.”

Today, along with several hundred men and women, a Pharisee would be dunked and saved in the word—something we seldom saw. That night, exhausted more than ever before, we were fed a great feast in Jairus’ house, entertained by his daughter’s presence, and allowed to sleep passed dawn.

******

The next morning we were given a morning meal before we departed and our packs were stuffed with all manner of food. Jairus and his family, as new members of the Way, would become spiritual guides to other converts in the days ahead. Today it had been a great harvest for us, and Jesus had reached a great milestone. Not only had be baptized a Pharisee but a mayor of one of Galilees major towns. Happy to have their daughter alive and well Jairus and his family bubbled with thanksgiving as we departed. Since our next stop was Gennesaret, where Jairus had relatives, we would bring his glowing recommendation, a scroll describing the miracle and conversions in Tiberius. Jesus thought it was excessive, but since it was a Pharisee making the recommendation, Peter believed it would open doors. “We’ll wave it those graybeards faces!” Peter crowed. “You baptized one of their own!”

That day, as we paused to look down upon Gennasaret, Jesus turned to us and exclaimed, “The harvest is growing, but we have much work to do!”

“But we are fishermen, not farmers,” replied Peter. “When shall we return to the sea?”

“Peter, faithful Peter,” Jesus slapped his back. “That is a lake out there, with fresh water—you said so, yourself. One day, you’ll cross the Great Sea to spread the word, but today you shall be a farmer, harvesting more souls.”

A voice, faraway, called out then. Looking back at the distant shape, Jesus shielded his eyes from the glare of lake, as it advanced. When the man was close enough to be recognized, Peter waved at him. “I baptized that man,” he told us discreetly. “He’s a curious fellow. He kept asking me questions about Jesus miracles.”

“Yes,” Jesus said with a nod. “I had a chat with him, myself.”

“Why is he following us?” Andrew frowned. “Aren’t converts supposed to stay in their hometowns?”

“Normally that is so,” Jesus replied matter-of-factly, “but I invited him along. Don’t you recognize him? He was one of the hecklers in the crowd. Now look at him, men. He’s got all his worldly belongings on his back.”

After calling out all of our names one-by one, including his baptizer, Peter, Jesus introduced the man, as if he was an honored guest. “Men, this is Thomas, who was once a farmer. Now he’s one of us!”

******

In deed, Thomas was a strange man. He looked around at us, with a touch of suspicion, as if not quite sure of his decision to join. Because of his harsh words earlier, it would take awhile for most of the disciples to warm up to him. Matthew and, with my coaxing, James, followed Bartholomew and my example of welcoming him into our group. I did it for Jesus benefit in spite of my own doubts. He appeared to be awed by Jesus raising Tabitha from the dead, and yet he still found it hard to believe. “Does Jesus really have the power over death?” he asked, with, furtive, bewildered eyes. Because he hadn’t seen the miracle himself, he remained doubtful, which annoyed us very much. At one point, after our attempt at welcoming him aboard, Matthew, James, and Bartholomew through their arms up in disgust. Jesus was watching us from afar that moment, so I stayed by the cart, giving Thomas some sage advice.

“Listen to me, Thomas,” I scolded, trying not to frown, “it’s not what you think that gets you into trouble. It’s what you say. If you have doubts, keep them to yourself. That’s true for anything stupid you might say.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas lowered his head, “this has all come upon me suddenly. I don’t know why Jesus wants me to join. I’ve always asked questions about everything all my life. I don’t mean any harm. Doubts just appear in my head.”

“Really?” I gave him a studied look. “Do you doubt God?”

“No,” he replied, after thinking a moment, “…I take Him on faith.”

“All right. What is faith?” I asked, watching him squirm.

“Who can answer that question?” He frowned.

“Think about it Thomas.” My eyes narrowed to slits. “You might not have seen her eyes open or been there when she died, but you know Jairus. The man’s a Pharisee. We’ve had nothing but trouble from those kind of men, and yet he saw and believed. He’s a member now. Like your belief in God, who’s invisible, you don’t have to see something to believe it.” “Am I right?” I searched his face.

“Yes, I guess so,” he answered dubiously.

“All right then,” I said, poking a finger into his chest, “until you get this straight in your head, keep your doubts to yourself. Okay?”

“Okay.” He swallowed, looking at the ground

Later, when Thomas was trying to make conversation with the disciples, James and I caught Jesus out of earshot from the other men.

“Jesus,” James came straight to the point, “you begin your ministry by picking a handful of fishermen, added a woman of ill-repute, and then a tax collector—not the cream of the crop as farmers would say. I don’t even understand why you picked Jude or me. I was training to be a scribe—they’re almost as bad as Pharisees, and I’ve never known for certain what Jude believes. Now you’ve invited that moron into our group! Please tell us why.”

“Is that how you feel, Jude?” Jesus looked at me.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I had a talk with Thomas. He’s a doubter; that’s his disposition. He implied that he’s been this way since birth.”

“That might be true,” Jesus pursed his lips, “but Thomas has had a hard life. He had several brothers and sisters. He was the youngest and least in his parents’ eyes. When his father died, his mother gave him to a farmer to help pay for her debts. He has never known peace of mind. Is it any wonder that he has doubts. Such travail as that happening to Thomas has led many a soul into crime and mayhem. Look at Barabbas and men like him. And yet Thomas continued to try to better himself and eke out a living. It is precisely for such people that we give hope.”

“That’s fine,” I sighed, looking at Thomas, standing forlornly by himself. “He’s a member of the Way now; that’s good and proper, but why make him a disciple?”

James nodded enthusiastically. Jesus studied the new member that moment, then replied with great conviction, “I don’t want perfect men. I want men, who strive for perfection, but know their frailties. How can they serve if they don’t understand common people? I don’t want self-righteous religious men, who think they know the truth. I want seekers. Thomas will always have his doubts, and yet he will believe, just like Mary and Matthew, who gave up their old lives.”

“Wait,” James objected, “Mary’s not a disciple, and how Matthew turns out remains to be seen—”

“Ah, look at you James,” interrupted Jesus, “casting aspersions when you have doubts too. Who are you to cast blame?”

“Yes,” James shook his head. “I doubt myself sometimes…but I never doubt you. I’m here to stay Jesus, just like Jude.”

“Yes,” He said, turning to me. “What about you little brother?”

That moment I didn’t like the nickname ‘little brother.’ I suddenly felt very small.

“All right…I’m willing to give Thomas a chance, but what about them?” I pointed at the disciples now shunning Thomas. “He got on the wrong foot with them.”

“They’ll come around,” Jesus said confidently. “They did for Mary Magdalene and they did for Matthew. It’s not easy for men to admit they’re wrong.”

Having winced at mention of Mary’s name again, James raised his palms heavenward in submission. “I’m sorry I’m such a pain, Jesus. I complain too much. That’s one of my faults. I just don’t understand your selection of disciples. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Jesus said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “…Trust me, James,” were his final words before walking away. “I listen to God. Above all, my brothers, trust Him!”

******

With our letter of recommendation from Jairus, which Peter kept inside his vest, we entered Gennesaret, a town in which Jesus’ eleventh disciples would appear. Despite Jairus letter, which did, in fact, fill the synagogue to capacity that day, our pickings weren’t as large as it was in Tiberius. What the letter did for us was act as an introduction for Jesus and his disciples and soften the criticism from many townsmen, who might otherwise be predisposed against us. Other than a few miracles which Jesus tried to downplay, however, there would be no outstanding events in this town, as there were in some of the towns visited. We much preferred sprinkling to emersion, but with the lake so close at hand, we had a ready-made place of baptism that Jesus felt was more appropriate. His preaching was effective enough to garner several dozen men and women, almost all of whom had heard of him and expected miracles in their town. Jesus, however, was growing tired of being a showman. So many converts appeared to be lured by the expectation of miracles that he wondered, as we did, if their conversions had really taken hold. For this reason he attempted to keep his miracles a secret. To the sick, blind, and crippled, who were cured, he would tell them to say nothing of it. It was between God and them.

This, of course, normally didn’t work, especially with an audience looking on. Even, after shutting the door to Tabitha’s room, everyone in Tiberius learned of the miracle, which was true for almost all of his cures.

Compared to Tiberius, our work in Gennasaret was easier, much less spectacular and far less exhausting, and yet, judged by how it affected Jesus inner circle, it was a very important town. At almost the end of our baptisms, when a handful of men and women showed up by the lake, a darkly clad, swarthy stranger with piercing hawk-like eyes, stood in the background, arms folded appraising the scene. His demeanor struck us as a crafty even treacherous, and yet Jesus turned the last initiate in his line over to Bartholomew, and waded back to shore in the direction of the man.

“Don’t tell me,” James groaned, “a prostitute, a tax-collector, and now a sicarii.”

“He’s certainly dressed like one,” I agreed.

“Is Jesus asking him to join?” Peter grew anxious. “Somewhere he has to draw the line.”

As quickly as possible, we finished up our baptisms, giving our pitches in abbreviated form, fearful that Jesus might select this man. I have no idea what Jesus said to him or what he said in return, but suddenly Jesus was leading the stranger into the water to perform the rite.

“Phew!” Peter exhaled. “It’s just another initiate. Jesus won’t pick that rogue.”

“Yeah, a later arrival,” replied Andrew. “I hope there aren’t any more.”

“Wait,” I said, cupping my ear, “it’s over, but there’s still talking. They’re coming toward us. This can’t be good.”

“Brothers,” Jesus called out cheerily, “this is Simon, who has special talents.”

“I bet he does,” James grumbled. “Ask him to show you his knife.”

“I was a temple guard, not a criminal.” Simon smiled indulgently at James.

Philip snapped his fingers. “I though I recognized that outfit. You’re not wearing you armor or helmet. Why’d you quit?”

“I didn’t quit, not formally,” he said to Jesus, “I was sent to spy on you, and I simply didn’t go back. Awhile back I saw you confront the priests in the temple and punish those moneylenders and dove-sellers. I thought you were mad to do such a thing. When I was sent out to gather information, though, I began to listen. You’re miracles were impressive. I’ve seen conjurers before and tricksters. I knew you weren’t a charlatan or blasphemer as the priest and scribes, but it wasn’t just your wondrous feats. It was what you said. I wondered if you were the one we have been waiting for…. I want to learn more. They’ll think I’m gathering information to use against you but I’m gathering this information for myself!”

“Simon knows the mind of the priests.” announced Jesus. “He knows their every move.”

“That’s what you mean by talent?” Matthew looked at him in disbelief. “Jesus, I’ve seen his kind before. How can you trust him? This man was a temple official and spy!”

“How can I trust you?” Jesus turned the question around. “You were a publican, whom people considered parasites, but now you’re a new man. Simon was once an agent of the high priest, whom even the Pharisees despise, and yet he’s a new man too. I don’t expect perfection. I expect dedication.”

“Who could argue with that?” I later asked James. At this point, Jesus introduced Simon to each one of the disciples. Watching us to make sure we reacted properly, he lectured us on the fundamentals of the Way: “You’re all sinners, with sins great or small, but sinners nonetheless. When you’re saved by God’s grace, it’s what you do now that counts…” On and on he went, as if to belabor the point, but for most of the disciples it was necessary to penetrate their thick skulls. Bartholomew, who had a checkered past, himself, quoted Jesus’ words to Mary’s detractors: “He who is without sin, cast the first stone.” Considering my own tainted past, I agreed with him, as did James, who had studied to be a temple scribe and understood more than any of us the mindset of the priests. According to James, the men who acted as their guards, agents, and spies were not dedicated guardians of the temple as they were in the time of King David and Solomon. They were mercenaries, who, like everyone else, worked for a daily wage. That he threw in his lot with Jesus was as easy to understand as Matthew’s decision to join. Both men had given up lucrative earnings. For Simon to be seen in Jesus service baptizing and saying the words, was actually quite brave, James believed, considering the heresy of Jesus’ actions perceived by Pharisees, priests, and scribes.

Nevertheless, as we made camp that night, the other disciples, with forced respect, still shunned the new member. Simon therefore joined James, Matthew, Bartholomew, and me at the end of the procession, and remained in our company that night. To show his willingness to be part of us, Simon insisted on tending to the mule that evening, giving it water and food. He was, in spite of the distrust of the others, quite congenial, sharing with us all sorts of anecdotes from his life. I don’t know what sort of man he was before joining up, but his dark clothes and appearance belied the illuminated man he was now. He said nothing of his deeds on behalf of the temple, but related, in glowing terms, his travels to Egypt, Cyprus, and Rome. We didn’t ask him why he went to those faraway places. Nor did we question his boast that he once entertained the notion of being a priest himself. There was, I can say with absolute certainty today, no one more contrite for his sins than Simon nor was there a disciple more willing to spread the word. For this reason, the apostles referred to him in their writings as Simon Zelotes (or Simon the Zealot).

That night, overcompensating as he did for his lack of popularity with the other disciples, Simon didn’t seem quite genuine. I understood this almost immediately. He was hiding a dark side that only Jesus would know. After we laid out our pallets, I lay there between James and Simon, listening to Bartholomew, not far away from us, snorting in his sleep. How is it, after all my misadventures, I asked myself, was I in this motley band. Only Jesus, the miracle worker, appeared to know what he was doing. We had given up whatever goals we had to follow a man, who many in high places, viewed as a heretic, even an outlaw. The rest of us were, in many ways, misfits—in Matthew’s case, as well as Mary’s case outcasts to boot. The fishermen were like children, and Jesus had become a father figure to them, whom they blindly followed. What kind of men would leave their families and livelihood to follow one man? As mere fishermen, they might have felt that they had little to lose. Matthew and Simon, who were earning good wages, I was certain had their own reasons for becoming disciples. Perhaps, when Jesus selected them, they took the opportunity to escape their own misspent lives. Bartholomew, unbeknownst to the other disciples, had once been a fugitive. What Jesus offered him, in spite of his infirmities, was a permanent refuge and one more chance to give meaning to his life. None of the disciples, however, had asked to join. They were selected. James and I, as Jesus’ brothers, had not planned on becoming disciples either, but then, like the fishermen I had nothing more important to do. Like Matthew and Simon, I was in my own way escaping an ill-conceived life. Only James, who wanted to be a temple scribe, had sacrificed a promising future. James, who would one day be called ‘James the Just,’ had given up the most to join.

******

The next morning, despite the presence of a temple guard, nothing had changed. We must have appeared as a dusty, ragtag, scraggly-bearded band to travelers, especially to the occasional refined merchant, Pharisee, or scribe. Like the others, I no longer cared what people thought. Only James tried to keep himself presentable on the road. Despite the occasional petty argument between the fisherman, coarse statement from Matthew, or complaint from Bartholomew, we had been a carefree lot.

That morning, Jesus said to our brother James when he complained about his threadbare clothes, “why do you worry about your clothing? Look at the lilies of the field and how they grow. They do not labor or spin.”

Looking out at the flowers growing alongside of the road, after Jesus spoke, James questioned the counsel give to him. “What do lilies have to do with clothes?” I heard him mutter. “If my tunic and pants rot and fall off, I’ll be naked.” As he often did, James had been exaggerating. With all his education he must have understood the deeper meaning in Jesus’ words. He missed having a bath, trim, and change of clothes. Matthew, Bartholomew, and Simon were savvy men, and I doubt if even the rustic fisherman failed to see significance in Jesus’ words. Jesus was saying that we shouldn’t worry about the cares of the world—riches, food, and comfort, but trust in God, our patron and protector. Jesus was always saying such things, sometimes I suspect to get our minds off our weariness and Impatience.

Not long after rounding the Lake of Gennesaret, trudging faithfully behind our Shepherd, it occurred to us that we were heading south. After what Jesus said weeks earlier about the towns of the north, as yet unvisited, this seemed strange. Of course, as James put it sarcastically, “What did we his disciples know? Jesus must listen to his father.” Peter said as much to Andrew, Philip, John and his brother James, but the fisherman were growing anxious, themselves, when we reached a fork in the road. Instead of taking the road to Capernaum, where they would visit their families again, he took the Bethlehem road. With little explanation given to us, this seemed illogical to us at first. Then it occurred to James and me, who understood Jesus’ background more than the others, that he was, as he had been in Nazareth and Jerusalem, visiting a historical milestone in his life. Bartholomew, Matthew, Simon, and Thomas thought that was a great reason.

Hearing our explanation, Jesus walked back to our group, his hands clasped behind his back. “That’s correct James and Jude,” he said cheerily, “but it’s my Father guiding our steps.”

“Of course,” James said with an edge of irritation. “It appears sometimes that your Father is leading us around in circles.”

We chuckled with mirth. James was not the only one with that notion. Though in deep thought at times, Jesus was aware of every sound. We had been speaking in normal voices. He had been at the head of our procession, too far away for a normal person to hear, and yet he heard us. I was certain he had also heard the complaints and curses uttered by the men about this detour and his frequent stops to preach to passers by. The smallest distance from one town to another could take days because of these stops. As I understand it now, the entire world was his forum. During my discipleship, however, I found it annoying. From the lowly haunts of the poor to fine mansions, no one was too great or too small to hear his message, and yet there were times when it seemed as though he was wasting his time.

“That last man was a Pharisee,” grumbled Andrew. “Those men report everything he says!”

“Jesus doesn’t care.” Philip sighed. “At our last stop, I thought that fellow might be possessed, but he was a roadside drunk, and yet Jesus preached to him. The man could barely walk.”

Jesus was nowhere in sight that moment, probably praying in the nearby hills, but I’m certain he heard. If we had enough water and food, John complained, it would have been better if we traveled in a desert, where there were no villages or towns. As we trekked south to Bethlehem, there were numerous hamlets and small villages not even on Roman or Jewish maps. Despite his preaching and roadside chats, however, there were few baptisms made. It was, he once told me, important to make converts, but sometimes it was only necessary to spread the word. Most people might listen intently and not be ready for baptism, and yet a seed of belief would be planted that, because of the daily grind of living, would grow and blossom. So simple was his formula for faith a child could grasp it.

One day when we stopped at a small out-of-the way village, there was only a few families, a miserable herd of goats and sheep, and one dilapidated well, and yet, out of nowhere, as Jesus chatted with a graybeard who seemed addled in the head, six young children—three boys and three girls sat down by the well to listen to the Shepherd speak. Once again, Peter said politely, “If we don’t get a move on, will be forced to stop for the night.” There were, he reminded Jesus (without mentioning names), bandits roaming Galilee and Judea. Irritated again by this delay, the other disciples were less patient than Peter, kicking the dust impatiently, and grumbling under their breaths. For the longest time, Jesus talked to the children and the graybeard, who had the mind of a child.

Pausing in his chat, Jesus said for our benefit, “Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

What he said stunned James and me, not because it was a rebuke (which, in fact, it was), but because of what it implied. Jesus hadn’t said come into my Father; he had said, come into me. The other disciples accepted the gentle rebuke for what it was: criticism for their impatience, as it had to do with children. They couldn’t imagine what we all know now. James, on the other hand, suffered a form a denial, shared by our family since Jesus’ first miracle. How could we his siblings and even his mother, who had seen him grow up as a mortal, accept his divinity? Because of this inclination, James and I were afraid to speak our minds. Jesus had graduated in our minds from preacher to prophet to a questionable messiah. What he implied was something much more.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” James shut his ears. “Jesus is our brother. He’s a man, who bleeds and must eat, drink, and sleep.”

“Really?” I threw up my hands. “Have you seen him do any of these? He rarely sleeps, if at all. What man can do what he does?”

******

That night as we made camp, James remained silent. While the disciples sat around the campfire and the Shepherd slipped away to pray, Bartholomew, Matthew, Simon, Thomas, and I discussed Jesus’ mysterious words. Simon believed Jesus meant he was a holy man, able, like priests, to pray for sinners, which was a logical conclusion for him since he was a temple guard. Matthew agreed with him, but Bartholomew and Thomas didn’t have a clue. When Peter asked me for my opinion, I felt honored that Jesus second-in-command would turn to me. Not wanting to confuse the disciples, I offered them one humble name Jesus had for himself: God’s servant. He had used that name long ago when he first became aware of his powers. Now it seemed like an understatement. I had forgotten that Isaiah had called him that too. Though this was an inadequate explanation for the words “come into me,” everyone, except James, appeared to accept it.

“Yes.” Peter replied solemnly. “We’re all His servants.”

“That’s true,” Thomas nodded in agreement, “we serve God!”

“I like Jesus’ modesty,” Matthew said thoughtfully. “It’s just like him to call himself a servant. He knows he has power, yet he’s humble. He accepts everyone, even a sinner like me. His words were like a balm to my soul!”

John laughed softly. “Such eloquence for a publican. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“All publicans have clever tongues,” quipped Peter. “Now Matthew will use his tongue for the Lord.”

“Ho-ho!” Andrew chuckled. “I like what Jesus said to him, “now, instead of gathering money, you can gather souls!”

Smiling at their jests, Matthew raised a hand. “I’m no longer a publican. I’m God’s servant now!”

“Me too!” I was obliged to say.

Simon stood up dramatically that moment, exclaiming aloud. “Was not Abraham, Moses, and Elijah servants of God? The priesthood and scribes are but servants of God, too. Blessed be His name!”

“Careful Simon,” cautioned Peter, “you’re not in the temple now.”

“Yeah,” hooted Philip, “he sounds like a priest!”

Awakened from his thoughts, John’s brother James shook his head. “Bah!” He made a face. “The priests and scribes aren’t servants, not anymore. The temple has failed the people.

Abraham, Moses, and Elijah didn’t have to deal with Pharisees back then. There weren’t any. My father taught John and I the history of our people. We live in different times. There wasn’t a temple in Jerusalem then. In fact, there wasn’t a Jerusalem either. We were a simple people, with a simpler faith. David changed all that when Samuel made him king. That was the first mistake the Israelites made, because King David first great act was to build the temple, which Solomon turned into a golden shrine—our second mistake. After filling it with priests and scribes, the temple became, for the people, the voice of God, when, in fact, it was a tool for making them behave. Bleeding them of their earnings and giving them little in return, it became sanctified. But it wasn’t sanctified. Our forefathers had no temple or gang of priests, only a humble chapel in Shiloh and a handful of priests, who answered directly to God, not the high priest or magistrates of the towns. Jesus is changing all that. He’s bringing the people back to a simple one-to-one relationship with God.” “Priests? Scribes?” he spat, looking squarely at Simon, “only God can make priests!”

Everyone agreed with his words, except my brother James, who had studied to be a scribe, himself. Jesus, for his part, was deeply moved. Appearing suddenly in our midst, he walked over to this normally reserved disciple, embraced him, muttering with great respect, “Well said! God put those words into your mouth.” From that moment on, John’s older brother, would grow in Jesus’ esteem. This talk about the temple stimulated my memory. Inspired by his words and treading into deep water, as the fishermen would say, I quoted something Jesus had once shared with me in our youth.

“All men and women are priests,” I announced boldly, “the world is our temple, in each believer is God’s shrine.”

“Ah, little brother,” Jesus called from across the fire, “I told you that in confidence. They weren’t ready for that!”

Bartholomew gave me a wink. “I didn’t think those were your words.”

“Jude remembers everything.” Jesus patted my head. “It’s true my brothers. A new wind blows over the land: the Spirit of the Lord. James, son of Zebedee, said as much. The temple will endure for a while, for men are weak. They need objects and incense in order to believe. You and I, my brothers, bring them freedom from slavery and tyranny. Instead of one sacred and hallowed edifice, all corners of earth where the truth is planted are sacred and hallowed. All men and women belong to a universal priesthood of believers. In each heart is His shrine!”

“Now that makes sense!” Thomas jumped up and looked around the group.

“Yes, it does,” Simon exclaimed, clapping his hands. “Abraham and Isaac had but a simple tabernacle in the wilderness. Jerusalem, after all, was once a pagan city. Our ancestors wandered the desert, with nothing but God’s word.”

James had taken issue with the slander given to scribes, but, having heard Jesus make such a claim before, was resigned to his role as a disciple. After a few more words on the subject, then a short prayer, Jesus rose up, raised his hands as if in dismissal, then retreated into the shadows. I’m still not sure he ever slept. As James and I lay on our pallets staring at the firmament, most of the disciples followed Jesus example and retired. In a corner of the camp, we could heard Peter talking to Andrew. Though, he had remained in our company, James was struggling. Jesus once said to me that wisdom is a double-edged sword, bringing both enlightenment and doubt. James’ knowledge of the Torah and the teachings of Nicodemus conflicted with Jesus simple faith. In spite of everything Jesus said, his disdain for the fishermen and new disciples in our group faded slowly.

“He’s replacing the temple, plain and simple,” he whispered to me. “Those men are too stupid to figure that out.”

“Do you agree?” I gave him a searching look. “You seem to have doubts.”

“Don’t worry, Jude.” He heaved a sigh. “I’m here to stay, but it’s not easy. Don’t forget, I studied to be a temple scribe. Much of what Jesus says flies in the face of everything I believed.”

“I understand,” I replied sleepily, “…but these views are central to the Way.”

James was silent. Bartholomew, who was normally sound asleep this late at night, murmured next to me, “Jesus is the Way. Nothing else matters. I’ve given up trying to make sense out of it. God is inscrutable…Jesus is inscrutable. We don’t need to understand!”

That summed it up for me. If I hadn’t been so exhausted I would have responded to Bartholomew’s wisdom. How very simple but so very true. We didn’t need to understand!

******

The following morning, after our morning meal, found us back on the road to Bethlehem. What Jesus almost told the disciples last night appeared to have left no impact on them. After all, as Peter reminded them, Jesus was always saying strange things. James and I had grown up with Jesus and seen, heard, and understood the nuances of his speech and actions. What he implied when he admonished the disciples, was not so different from many hints he gave us in the past. Nevertheless, “Let the little children come unto me” had been soon followed by Jesus saying to me, “they weren’t ready for that.” It was, in fact, that comment, more than anything else he said which troubled James and me.

To be out of earshot of Bartholomew, Matthew, and Simon, James and I stopped in our tracks, as the mule cart surged ahead. Jesus didn’t think they were ready to know who he really was. So we decided to be discreet. He wasn’t the messiah that the Jews expected. Jesus was not a warrior prince, and he had no intention of destroying our Roman oppressors. Our family in Nazareth had befriended Romans. Jesus had baptized Roman soldiers. For that matter (something Jesus was quite aware of), it was Romans who had once saved my life. Though we didn’t know the full story attached to his identity—prophecy too dreadful for us to accept, we were certain that he was an emissary from God, not a revolutionary bent on physically changing the world. His purpose was to change people’s hearts—a spiritual conquest, promising peace of mind and eternal life. James and I, however, would not share this insight with the others. What we saw, was the leading edge of something far greater. It was, as Bartholomew said, something we didn’t need to understand. We knew just enough, I reassured him. At this stage of our understanding, we agreed that God had selected Jesus since birth to one day introduce the Way. Neither of us wanted to believe Jesus was divine. Though he had miraculous powers, he didn’t actually say that. Moses and Elijah had such powers and they were mere prophets. It was sufficient for the disciples to think of him as a prophet of God. James and I decided to follow the advice of Bartholomew that Jesus is the Way, and nothing else mattered.

******

Inexplicably to us, Jesus’ mood changed. When we reached a small hamlet, he remained aloof. There were only few people near the well where we filled our water skins: an old lady and small child. Jesus gave the child’s head a pat and greeted the woman, but said nothing more. Perhaps, he sensed that there would be an unfriendly reaction to his preaching this time, which has happened before. The woman did, in fact, have a cranky look on her face, and quickly led the boy away, but that proved nothing. Old women were often cranky. At this time of day, many villagers were indoors or somewhere else in the shade.

We learned what the real reason when we were on a hill overlooking the place of Jesus’ birth: fear. It came suddenly upon us, startling us greatly. Peter and Andrew stood protectively in front of Jesus. Seeing his example, Matthew stepped forward too, as did James and I, but the remaining fisherman cowered behind Jesus. Bartholomew clamored out of the cart to calm the mule. Simon, who had been a temple guard, ran ahead of Peter, brandishing a sword he had evidently hidden in his pack.

“No, Simon,” Jesus called in a trembling voice, “put your sword away. Those men will kill you.”

On a black stallion, in the garb of a highwayman, his face shielded by his hood, sat the bandit leader, his fierce black pupils staring down at the foolish man. When Jesus repeated his demand, Simon withdrew obediently, sword in hand, standing near Jesus with a defiant stare. A hush fell over Jesus’ disciples. The fourteen members of the leader’s band sat on their horses, their faces also covered, hands on their swords, waiting for his command.

In a loud, booming voice, the bandit leader barked calmly, “your valuables men. That is a fine looking mule. What is in the cart?”

Jesus stepped forward. “Barabbas!” he called out in an reproachful tone. “You were known to my family as Adam—a troubled youth. Now you’re a thief and outlaw of Rome.”

“Aw yes.” Barabbas uttered a sour laugh. “I remember your family. You’re Jesus, the miracle worker. I’ve heard of you. To many of those money-grubbing priests and graybeards you’re an outlaw, too.”

“I’m Jesus, who brings good news to the people,” he corrected him. “Our religious leaders have killed the prophets. They weren’t outlaws; they were selfless men, who dared to tell the truth.”

“And what is that?” asked Barabbas with a snarl. “What is the good news you bring our people. What is the truth?”

“It is this.” Jesus raised one finger. “That all people, not merely priests, scribes, and Pharisees, are given direct communion with God. My message has replaced the formula and ritual of the past, which most believers don’t understand. The good news has changed this.” “The news is simply this,” he announced, raising a second finger. “That those accepting the message, repenting their sins, and receiving the sacrament of redemption, merely have to open their hearts to have eternal life. Believers become an assembly of universal priests and a temple unto themselves. Each one’s heart is a sanctuary in which faith is stored. The truth, which is God’s grace, shall set you free!”

“You preach to me!” Barabbas spat. “I could strike you down, preacher. If I say the word, my men will kill your men as well. Now give us your valuables! Hand over the cart and mule!”

“No!” Jesus shouted angrily. “You’ll not rob my disciples. Be on your way, Barabbas. Your day is coming, but that’s far away, long after I’m gone. One day, you will know the truth. It will come to you in old age—a broken, misbegotten soul.”

“Oh, now it’s prophecy.” Barabbas forced out a laugh. “What next, preacher? Are you supposed to be the Messiah?”

Visibly shaken by the appearance of this rogue from our past, Jesus had also been concerned about our safety. Now, with mention of that troublesome word, Jesus’ eyes widened with revelation. I had elbowed my way passed Peter in order to stand beside my brother. I could see it in his blue eyes: knowledge of the future hidden from us. It seemed obvious to me that Barabbas must play a part in that future, but I kept silent. We had wondered about this very possibility ourselves. Was Jesus the long awaited Messiah? I had told the other disciples that this was impossible, because most Jews expected a warrior king. They agreed with me, so the matter seemed settled.

Walking forward several paces, Jesus looked up at Barabbas. “You have said so,” he replied finally.

I had once thought this enigmatic response was merely another way of saying, “Yes,” but I realized that moment that Jesus had dodged the issue. I remembered him doing this before. Now I was certain that Jesus was saying something else. This time he was leaving the answer up to Barabbas. The bandit sat silently in his saddle, as if puzzled. How could such a man be the Messiah? He may have wondered. In his soiled white tunic and threadbare cloak, if a stranger didn’t know better, Jesus could have been mistaken for a poor farmer or laborer. Yet Barabbas, like many people in Galilee and Judea, begrudgingly sensed it. The sunlight sparkled in Jesus’ blazing eyes. A capricious breeze stirred his light brown hair. Suddenly, to our astonishment, a second gust on the ground caused the dust to swirl into a whirlwind between Jesus and the horsemen. We could hear Barabbas gasp. Startled by this unexpected phenomenon, he made the sign to ward off the evil eye. The horses neighed nervously, and their riders mumbled fearfully amongst themselves. The whirlwind of dust remained stationary reminding me of the column of fire God placed before the Egyptians as they pursued the children of Israel.

Barabbas found his voice. “You are a sorcerer!” he shouted hoarsely.

“Barabbas,” Jesus cried out in a commanding voice, “your day is coming. Be gone!”

Jesus raised his first two fingers and thumb, closing his third and fourth into his palm—a gesture I never clearly understood. Was it, in this case, a symbol of blessing or a curse? For a brief moment, the bandit leader, after unsheathing his sword, appeared ready to attack him where he stood. Then, as the whirlwind moved toward the horsemen, guided by the hand of God, Barabbas and his men turned their horses and fled. As soon as they were out of sight and the road ahead was once more clear, the column of dust vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“That was awesome!” Philip hooted. “Those bandits ran like jackals. Against Jesus’ power, Barabbas was a frightened child!”

“God protected us,” Andrew cried. “With Jesus leading us, we have nothing to fear!”

“Jesus has great power,” Peter summarized. “His authority gives our people hope and everlasting life. Our Shepherd is God’s prophet—the Lord’s hand on earth. The very wind is under his command. What he touches is blessed or cursed, and his words are the thoughts of God!”

Jesus winced at Peter’s boast. Despite Jesus’ reaction, Peter had summed it up quite well. What I heard that moment belied the rustic fishermen he often seemed to be. Despite his sudden wisdom though, there was another issue escaping most of the disciple’s notice. They understood Jesus’ ability to see into the future, but merely thought he had detected an immediate danger: Barabbas and his gang. James and I, who had grown up with Jesus and seen and heard his philosophy of religion and human nature, sensed it was also something else. It seemed to us that Jesus saw Barabbas playing a part in his life. Some of his words—”Your day is coming…Long after I’m gone, you’ll know the truth”—had proven that. And yet, even Peter, whose understanding had improved, failed to make the connection.

******

It was early evening as we made camp near Bethlehem. Jesus’ policy of camping near important towns and villages in which he had no relatives or friends, such as he had in Jerusalem or Nazareth, included the city of his birth, where, ironically, he had no contacts at all. Aside from the reason that he didn’t want us to be a burden or nuisance in towns, we also had a very limited amount of coins that were needed for food and drink. Despite such sound logic, I longed for four walls, a roof overhead, and a soft pallet filled with goose feathers on which to rest my weary bones. I think all of the disciples and Jesus, too, were tired of sleeping on the ground. Here we were overlooking such an important city in Jesus’ life and, like desert nomads, we made a crude fire again, ate dried fish, stale bread, and moldy cheese, and slept on the hard, cold earth.

Jesus told us that this was how our ancestors lived. I couldn’t help reminding him that Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob at least had tents and other accoutrements, as did our neighbors the Nabataeans. We were living like the outcast lepers near Jerusalem and Sepphoris, who at least could beg for alms. Though what I said was partly in jest, the disciples agreed whole-heartedly and added their own complaints.

“Is it really because of our limited funds and not wanting to be a burden to townsmen that makes us nomads?” asked John.

“At least find us a tent-maker to make us portable lodging,” suggested his brother James.

“We can’t afford that.” Jesus reminded him. “There’s no other motives for my policy,” he explained to John.

“That doesn’t explain the reception we sometimes receive,” Andrew grumbled

“We bring them the good news,” John exclaimed naïvely. “They should open their doors to us. Why do so many of them treat us like outcasts when we arrive? For every one person, there are ten who show resentment. Some want to stone us!”

“Not so!” Jesus shook his head. “No one’s going to stone you, John, and you exaggerate our difficulties. Most people are bystanders, not agitators. There’ll always be close-minded and unyielding people, such as the Pharisees, scribes, and priests. Those folks incited by these men are inclined to do. They are rabble and idle troublemakers. Everyone else can be swayed. It just takes patience and work. Unfortunately, most of those in the audience are beguiled by miracles. At times is it what they see, more than what they hear, that convinces them. More blessed are those who have not seen, and yet believe. It is this precious number—the ones who are convinced by the message, not the messenger, that we must reach. The Lord willing, those fair-weather and miracle-seeking multitudes will join our ranks too.” “Every place that we stop is a new challenge,” he added, stroking his beard. “Not every village, town, or city is that unproductive. There were times, such as Tiberius, where we had great success and our harvest was in the hundreds. When we return to Galilee, the numbers will be in the thousands. Our audience will overwhelm you, John, James, and Andrew. You’ll wish it was mere hundreds again!”

“All right,” our brother James drawled, “that’s all very fine, but why do have to live like savages?”

“This is temporary.” Jesus sighed. “I know the ground is hard. Life is hard. Paradise is pure bliss, without hardship. You’re not savages or nomads. You’re in my care. I will protect you and give you what you need. You’ll have your four walls, roof, and soft pallets soon enough. You must toughen up for the road ahead!”

Philip seemed ready to protest against this oversimplification. Bartholomew muttered to me, “Toughen up. What have we been doing?” It appeared as if all the disciples were in agreement on this subject, until Peter stood up, cleared his throat, and put the matter to rest. “We can take it men,” he assured us. “Jesus got us this far, in good order. Let’s not complain about small matters. Did he not say ‘Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will care for itself.’ Did he not promise us salvation and ever-lasting life? We’re much better off than nomads, savages, or lepers, who have no such assurance.” “You have eaten bread, cheese, and smoked fish, but in heaven Jesus told us we would not hunger or thirst…. Go to you pallets and rest. Tomorrow we enter Bethlehem, the city of our Shepherd’s birth!”

Chapter Eighteen

Bethlehem

When we finally made our way into the city of Jesus’ birth, it was, to say the least, anti-climactic. Though larger than Nazareth, it was an even smaller town than Capernaum: a dusty, drab-looking collection of domiciles and a few shops surrounding a community well. A handful of unfriendly-looking men and women, who came out to see our procession, followed us to this stopping point, but there would be no welcoming committee in Bethlehem, as there were in towns who had heard of the miracle-worker. Once again, however, as was Jesus custom, he began preaching in this central location, oblivious of the fact that hardly anyone had arrived.

The message to the citizens was the same—powerful and yet down-to-earth: a simple formula for salvation denied to them by the priests, who didn’t believe in an afterlife only in a set of rituals and sacrifices that did nothing for them in this life. To those few citizens who listened on the sidelines, Jesus was just another wild-eyed prophet from the desert. We understood this immediately, when graybeards—both Pharisees and rustic elders—appeared on the scene.

“Who are you to question the temple?” The first Pharisee called.

“I speak for my Father, whom your temple glorifies,” replied Jesus. “It is He for whom the temple was built.”

“Who is your father?” a man in butcher’s apron asked. “Is your father a rabbi or priest?”

Seeing sincerity in the ignorant man, Jesus answered, “He is your Father, too—all men’s Father, not a rabbi or priest. The temple was built for men, not the priests. We are all God’s children, are we not?”

“Hah! You’re clever one!” A second Pharisee stepped forth. “You’re that preacher from Nazareth; I’ve heard about you. With your honeyed tongue you spread blasphemies. Your miracles are the work of Beelzebub!”

“In deed!” A third Pharisee wrung his finger. “What right does this heretic have to speak for God?” A stranger from Nazareth of all places comes to attack our temple and tradition, expecting us to listen and clap our hands—”

“I’m not a stranger,” Jesus interrupted with great irritation. “I was born here. I wasn’t born in Nazareth. Bethlehem’s my birth place. You, who think you represent the people, listen but you can’t hear. Your ears are stopped up with stubbornness and mean-spiritedness. Who are you to shield our people from the truth? I speak to those who know the Lord, but not the ritual or the law—those who thirst for the truth!”

At that point, as Jesus elaborated on his rebuttal, a large number of townsfolk were drawn finally to the scene. So once more, rephrased and expanded upon, Jesus preached, this time moving out, his arms outstretched as if he would bless them all. We, his disciples, were, of course, furious, at this reception, especially since it was a town special to Jesus’ heart. In stead of a welcoming touch of hands and a few words of goodwill, this mob recoiled, as if already predisposed against him.

At that point, a fourth, fifth, and sixth Pharisee, all spouting the same hatred, verbally attacked Jesus, drowning him out as he tried to speak. Those angry citizens not wearing phylacteries, such as the butcher, weren’t so strong in their outrage at Jesus and, like the butcher, stood back now, as the Pharisees took him to task. It was clear that Bethlehem was under the thumb of these self-righteous men. The remainder of the audience of men and women of various ages and a few children, were mostly just unfriendly and even a little frightened of Jesus, worked up by the hate-mongering of these men. Peter, more visibly than the other fishermen, was livid with resentment. Seeing his scarlet face and clenched fists, Jesus had to physically restrain him. The other fishermen, Matthew, Simon, Thomas, James, and I presented a united front in our resentment but little else. As if a silent command was spread through the crowd, the townsfolk began to chant, “Blasphemer, heretic!”—words many of them probably didn’t understand. Bartholomew was so upset by this reception, I thought he might have a stroke. Matthew called the Pharisees puffed up swines, and Simon actually drew his sword.

Standing back from the hostile crowd, Jesus nevertheless stepped bravely in front of us—the Shepherd protecting his flock. For a moment, as the Pharisees tried to whip up dissent by shouting, “Blasphemer, heretic, sacrilege!”, it looked as though the crowd might rush in to attack Jesus and his disciples. Despite his admonition to put away his weapon, Simon moved up beside him, vowing to die rather than let him be harmed. Matthew, who had only a dagger, and Peter, who, judging by his countenance was going to fight them with his bare fists, insisted on standing with him, too, and, after a moment of deliberation, all of the disciples stood with them, including Bartholomew, who brandished his cane.

Suddenly, as more townsfolk arrived, and, judging by their dress, a pair of magistrates were drawn to the scene, a crackly, wheezing voice cried out in the crowd. Moving through the audience, carrying a shepherd’s staff, he approached Jesus with great reverence and awe.

“I remember this man!” he exclaimed jubilantly. “He’s not a blasphemer or heretic. He’s the Redeemer, Israel’s Savior. Long ago, when I was with our flocks, the angels spoke to us. I’ll never forget what they said. It’s as clear in my mind as when I first heard it. They told us not to be afraid. In deed, it had scared us half to death. The angels said they brought good news, causing great joy among the people. ‘This night,’ they proclaimed, ‘in the town of David, a Savior was born: the Messiah and Lord.’ ‘This will be a sign to you,’ they said to us. ‘Look for an infant, wrapped in cloth, lying in a manger. That very night, we saw a star in the heavens so bright it was like the moon shining on the fields. My sons and I followed that star, until we found ourselves in the nearby hills, approaching a manger, where the very beasts worshipped the child.” “Yes, yes!” He raised his shaft in salute to Jesus. “…It’s you. When I asked your father what your name was. He answered, Jesus. I swore I would live until I saw you again.” “Here you are at last!” he wept with joy. Unable to speak a moment, he dropped his staff, bowed down to the ground as he would to a king and exclaimed, “Jesus—Messiah. My brother died, and my sons have moved away, but I waited. Too old and broken down for my flock, with no one else to help tend my sheep, I lost my livelihood. I became a beggar, living off alms, but I knew you’d come. After what I’ve heard happening in Galilee—the good news you bring to our people, I knew for certain that you were he.” “Save me, master,” he wept. “Let me rest in peace!”

Jesus looked down at him, his eyes filled with tears. I had never seen him so moved. Touching his head, his voice breaking, he called out his name, “Tobin, you are a righteous man. What words can anyone add to the testimony of your life. You were saved that day in the manger. This will be a reaffirmation of that. Now, as I sprinkle water on your head, I give the good news: all those who come unto me seeking God’s grace and have repented of their sins will have life everlasting. Your wait is over. Rise, Tobin, the way to paradise is your reward!”

Almost as an afterthought, Jesus poured a few drops of water on his head, but it seemed unnecessary. Other than Jesus himself, Tobin was one of the most righteous man I’ve ever known. Hearing what he said and how Jesus responded, I was reminded of who Jesus was and what the simple title of our congregation meant. The issue of whether or not Jesus was the long awaited Messiah had been settled in my mind. He was that and, by those other names (the Redeemer or Deliverer), the long awaited Savior, whose way led to ever lasting life. Tobin, one of the shepherds who found the manger, must have been one of the reasons why Jesus brought us to this unfriendly town. At this point, as the reaction to this stirring conversation settled into the minds of the townsfolk, I was certain many of them would be moved by Jesus and Tobin’s words. I could tell that my brethren felt the same. But all we could hear was grumbling and cursing, indicating disagreement, resentment, and disbelief.

The first Pharisee who accosted Jesus now ploughed crossly through the crowd, and attacked Tobin’s credibility.

“That crazy old man doesn’t speak for Bethlehem. He’s a beggar and nuisance. His mind’s probably addled. No one else I’ve known ever reported such an event. You think we would know if something like that happened in our town!”

“No,” spat the second Pharisee, “it wouldn’t. I don’t believe it. It’s nonsense. A messiah? Born in a manger? Hah! We all know how our deliverer will come!”

“He’ll smite the Romans!” the third Pharisee cried

“Yes,” shouted the fourth Pharisee, “and Jerusalem will be the capital of the world!”

“You pillars of righteous indignation!” Jesus’ words dripped with sarcasm. “You puffed up purveyors of holy writ! You wonder why I speak for God. Who are you, who scarcely know Him, to speak for God?” “This man,” he added, raising up Tobin and presenting him to the crowd, “is more blessed than any of you. He’s lived a blameless life, and you mock him because he was forced to beg. You call him a nuisance, who, because he speaks the truth, is addled in the head.” “Get out of my sight—all of you!” He pointed to the crowd. “I won’t cast pearls before swine!”

A collective gasp rose up from the audience. It seemed even to the faithful Peter, who gave him a frightened look, Jesus had gone too far, but then it happened. The dust cloud, similar to the one we saw as we confronted Barabbas, swirled up suddenly, moving toward the townsfolk, scattering them like rats as Peter put it aptly, until the Pharisees, town elders, and mob vanished completely from the town square. Tobin’s begging days were over. He would, Jesus insisted, accompany us back to Capernaum. Bartholomew said there was plenty of room for him to ride in the cart. In the company of the elect, led by the Messiah, he would spend the remainder of his days. Staggered by the message given to us this hour, no one doubted that Jesus was the Anointed One promised by John the Baptist. Even now, however, no one, including James and myself, knew his most important identity. The revelation Jesus accepted from Tobin for himself was a big enough shock. It almost seemed as if Jesus had waited for this hour. From this day forward, the reverence toward our Shepherd would grow. For now, we were still wary of the attitude of this town. In Nazareth, another historical town in Jesus’ life, he had almost been stoned.

Normally, in the larger communities, Jesus would have us visit the synagogue, but because of our reception, this was out of the question. As we filled our water skins from the well, he told us that there was one more place we must visit before heading north: the manger where he was born. This brought on a few grumbles, not so much for impatience to leave, but from fear. Other than Tobin, who was worth a hundred citizens of Bethlehem, there were, thanks to the Pharisees, no converts made here. The mindset of the townsfolk had been predisposed after the persuasion of those men. Just as we began heading through town, something unexpected appeared. A distance shadow appeared on the barren road ahead… Something evil now came our way.

“Stop,” Jesus turned to us. “I knew I would see it again.

“It?” James voiced quivered. “What is that thing?”

A dark, misbegotten creature in black, holding his hood over his face with a clawed hand, approached slowly. His back seemed humped and he walked with great effort, as if he was carrying a heavy load. The closer he came, though, the more my first impression changed. The hump on his back appeared to be great wings, which explained his gait. Two red eyes peered out of the blackness of his hood, and the scaly skin visible on his arms and hand glistened like polished bronze. Except for the day I was kidnapped by bandits in the desert, I had never felt such terror. All of us, even the pugnacious Simon, trembled with fear. Tobin, however, stood up in the cart, and pointed at the apparition.

“It’s the hermit, who lives in the hills,” he declared excitedly. “I saw him that night when I left the manger. He reminded me of giant bat. I thought it was the end of me, until an angel scared him away.”

Whether that part of Tobin’s story was true or not, it did, upon closer inspection, look like a great, dark bat with its wings folded, until, when it was only a few cubits way from us, its appearance was clarified. There standing before us, appearing like a monstrous bird, with a man’s leprous body between it is wings, was something worse than the Gorgon or Medusa of Greek mythology. I remember in my travels seeing fanciful drawing of that creature, but this was, upon reflection, much worse.

“It’s the Devil,” Jesus corrected Tobin gently, “cursed to be an infernal thing.”

“That’s a monster!” Peter found his voice.

“Kill it, Jesus,” John implored. “Use your powers to destroy that beast!”

“It has many names:” Jesus stood his ground. “Satan, Beelzebub, the Tempter. Don’t sully the name of the beasts. For me this is the Devil, neither man nor woman, but an infernal shape-changing fiend.”

The thing now spoke. “I know you!” a frothy, high pitched voice spewed from the recess of the hood. “You’re Jesus of Nazareth, the miracle worker, he-he, the Lamb of God. Some lamb you turned out to be. Because of you four thousand children in Bethlehem were murdered by Herod’s men. Thanks to those meddling magi, Herod thought you would replace him as King, but—he-he, your kingdom is not of this world, eh Jesus? You really believe people will believe that tale?”

“Why do you frighten my men?” Jesus replied calmly. “At least show your face.”

Obligingly, in a blur of motion, as the shape-shifter changed, it melted onto the ground, then, as a formless blob inched upwards until it was the height of man. Hands, legs, and head grew out of the glistening mass, then fingers, toes, and facial features, until a hideous parody of a human stood before them. So frightened were we—Jesus’ disciples, we would have fled the scene, if he had not commanded us to stay.

“I’m warning you, Satan,” he identified him at last, “stop scaring my men!”

The skinless, naked creature quickly transformed into a woman, who remained translucent a moment as the details took shape. Her bared female organs might have scandalized the Pharisees recently in our midst, but soon, as her blue eyes, light brown hair, red lips, and delicate hands and feet formed, she was dressed in the familiar hood, sandals, and gown of a Jewish matron. Jesus and his brothers (James and I) recognized the specter at once. Satan had taken the form of our mother, Mary, who gave birth to the Messiah and King.

“Oh my Lord,” James said in a strangled voice. “That’s outrageous—horrible!”

“Yes, Jesus,” I cried. “This is awful. Kill it or send it back to Hell.”

“Who is this woman?” John asked innocently. “She’s beautiful!”

“It’s supposed to be our mother,” Jesus remained tranquil. “Throughout history, it has taken human form. God has given him its role. Because of evil rulers and their subjects, influenced by Satan, and lapse of our temple priests, it has gained strength and harvested many souls. For this reason, I have come into this world.”

Though this was the closest Jesus had ever come to unveiling his full identity, the other disciples were too overwhelmed with the specter before them. That it was imitating Jesus saintly mother was, as James claimed, outrageous and horrible. Most of the disciples stood behind Jesus speechless and dumbfounded. James and I, and to Jesus irritation, Matthew and Simon, let our feelings be known. .

“Be gone, you creature,” Simon waved his sword, “or I will cut you down.

“Put that away at once!” Jesus pulled him back to the group.

“You monster! You dare imitate Jesus’ mother!” Matthew said, gathering spit in his a mouth. “Take that you, infernal fiend!”

Following his example, Philip, John, and his brother James spat on the thing and Peter, Andrew, Thomas, Bartholomew, my brother James, and I thrust handfuls of dust, which the fake Mary, wiped off her face, uttering an icy laugh, exclaiming in my mother’s voice, “Fools, sycophants—you follow a marked man. You tell him to destroy me! Hah, he can’t do that it! The priests, scribes, and Pharisees will destroy him! Just you wait and see!”

“You can’t stop me.” Jesus motioned dismissively. “You’re wrong, Satan. I could destroy you, but I won’t. It’s not God’s plan. Instead I will dispel you like a fly or gnat.” “Be gone, Tempter.” He pointed to the road. “Go annoy someone else!”

As though the words “Go annoy someone else” had magical properties, Satan vanished completely. Everyone, including Jesus, himself, heaved a sigh, and remained there muttering excitedly to each other

“Whoa, that was something!” Peter said, wiping his brow.

“That wasn’t a something.” I shuddered. “That was the Devil!”

James looked at me, with wide, unblinking eyes. “I never thought I’d meet it in person.” Now it turns out, it’s not even a man!”

“It’s not human,” Tobin’s voice quivered, “I thought I’d faint dead away… I-I can scarcely conceive of such a thing.”

“Me neither,” Bartholomew agreed.

“It’s a shape-shifter,” Jesus reminded us. “That thing tempted Herod and all evil men and of history. Let’s put this behind us. It won’t be the first time it appears.”

“Where did he go?” John stepped out to where it stood. “Back to Hell? Like a viper or jackal, does it pop up once in awhile?”

“It’s not in Hell,” Jesus placed his hand on John’s shoulder. “When my Father cleaned out the rebels of Heaven, sin was born. Hell, filled with these rebels, chief of whom was Satan, was created. God gave Satan dominion over sinners, and the gates of Hell were open.” “But Satan isn’t the only evil spirit,” he warned us. “There are other devils roaming the Earth.”

“What!?” Peter’s mouth dropped. “Surely your not serious.”

“Yes, Jesus,” I asked, stunned by his words, “do you literally mean ‘devils’ or just evil souls? Why would God allow such a thing?”

“God is unknowable,” explained Jesus. “His ways unquestioned. The world is a testing ground: God versus Satan, good versus evil, or right versus wrong. Given freewill after Adam’s fall, people have a choice, but with the world’s pagan religions and flawed priesthood, the line between good and evil has been blurred. Ritual and animal sacrifice have replaced daily prayer and faith… Now there’s a new wind blowing that will one day change the world. The magis and shepherds first saw it. My earthly family lived with it for many years. Now it’s upon us. I bring the wind. As human windmills, you shall direct it.” “We’ve begun His work, as harvesters and fishers of men. Now the seed is blown far and wide.”

Raising his arms, he gathered us to him like children. “Let us finish the task!” he exclaimed spiritedly. “We have much to do!”

At this point, we were not only harvesters and fishers of men, we would be windmills channeling the good news. When I said this to James later, he laughed hysterically, overwhelmed with what he had seen and heard. In Philip’s words it was the high-water mark of strangeness in Jesus’ ministry. That moment, after witnessing Satan’s debut and as we digested the notion of devils on Earth and Jesus admitting just who he was, we followed the Shepherd north, through Bethlehem, filled with wonder but fearful of the days ahead.

“Just who are these devils?” Bartholomew muttered, looking out of his cart. “Do they look like Satan? Are they everywhere or just in some places, where evil thrives? Are they shape-shifters, too?

“Don’t worry,” Tobin smiled, taking the reins. “Jesus will protect us. Satan and his devils don’t stand a chance!”

“They better not get in the way of my sword!” Simon swore.

Simon’s boast drew frowns from the disciples. James, Matthew, Bartholomew, and I had accepted this strange men. His urge to draw his sword to protect our leader, though commendable, came quickly with too much energy. James suggested discreetly that this was his nature. I was never sure how much he believed Simon’s conversion, but Bartholomew and I, who had been out in the world and seen how men behave, saw a fire in his eyes that must have been zeal (hence the name, we would give him when we were sent out in pairs to preach the world). It would take time for the other disciples to accept Simon and, for that matter Matthew, the onetime publican, and the peculiar mannered Thomas. As a temple guard, men who did the priests bidding, and an agent of the high priest sent to spy on Jesus, Simon’s acceptance would be the most difficult of them all.

******

At the edge of town, Jesus reminded us of our last stop: the manger where he was born. We had passed the nearby hills where it was located. No one dared to protest this stop. In fact, there was a silent, breathless awe amongst us I could almost feel. Now, taking a trail once pointed out to our parents by an innkeeper, he led us to a cave in the side of the nearest hill. Still used by a farmer for his livestock, it looked every bit like a makeshift place for livestock. We were, Jesus told us, seeing a rustic setting very much like the one that greeted our parents when they first glimpsed the cave. This place was blessed, he said with great sincerity. A star had shown overhead to guide the magi and shepherds. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh—items our father hid away to prevent highwaymen from stealing these sacred items, were presented to the holy couple that night. Looking around the humble shelter, we were deeply moved. We could just imagine the three magi bowing before the newborn king, a title Jesus would not admit until asked by the high priest. This hour, having greater knowledge of Jesus history, James broke into prayer, rejoicing quietly that it was all true: Jesus miracles, his wondrous words, and now this—the very place where he was born. As Jesus stirred the religious hornet’s nest, I had doubted his safety, never his role in bringing the good news.

Jesus expounded upon what James and I already new and what Satan had disclosed to us in town. How, a short time after Jesus birth, our parents fled Bethlehem and traveled to Egypt. Earlier, the magi, Balthazar, Gaspar, and Melchior, who informed Herod they were looking for the newborn king, had been led this far by a star in the heavens. Sensing Herod’s evil intentions, they slipped away and continued their journey. Trusting their search to God and their beacon they found the babe in the manger directly below the star. After handing our parents their treasures, they bowed down and worshipped him. Soon after this the shepherds arrived. At this point, Tobin, one of the shepherds, gave his account. Perhaps, not wanting to overwhelm his disciples’ minds, Jesus paused here, and avoided telling them the full story. That would come later, of course, when his full identity was likewise revealed. It was and is still unclear to me whether, because of his vast intellect, this information was already in his mind. His account of his birth in the manger, the magi, and shepherds, was either intrinsically known or based upon our mother’s account. The cattle, donkeys, and sheep sharing the manger at night or during bad weather were normally out in the pasture, but on this holy they night crowded around the cave, as if paying homage too. The gentle beasts gave warmth, as well as special meaning, to the couple and infant. Straw on the floor was placed in one of the empty drinking troughs and used as a cradle for Jesus after he was born.

Jesus grew silent and frowned after this portion, as if he sensed something again. For several moments, as he stood there in deep meditation, we his looked around at the manger trying to imagine the holy scene. For James and I, who had lived with the Messiah, it was especially blessed. We took samplings of the straw and stuffed them into our pockets. I noticed the other disciples doing the same.

When Bartholomew and Tobin climbed into the cart, I took the reins of the mule and led it down the path. Ahead of us I could see great animation in the men. As they chattered excitedly about this wondrous day, they reminded me again of children. It occurs to me now, that we were all children, grappling with the sublime. James was in deep thought, as he held the edge of the cart. Everyone else sounded as though they had just drunk unwatered wine.

Chapter Nineteen

Judas Iscariot

As we returned to the main road on the outskirts of town, we were in high spirits. Simon and I were discussing what we had seen and everyone was talking at the same time, then, suddenly, a warm breeze stirred up the dust, as it had when Jesus confronted Barabbas and then the mob. Looking ahead at the road, we saw another rippling silhouette in the afternoon sun. Because of the bend in the highway to avoid a foothill, the shadow stretched forward, the western sun at its back. Considering what we had experienced, it seemed symbolic to us. Once again, it appeared, something evil came our way. Almost total silence fell over the group. I heard a collective gasp. Only John could find his voice. “It’s back, isn’t it?” he muttered, with wide, unblinking eye.

Placing his hand over his brow to shield his eyes from the sun, Jesus said nothing. It was perfectly obvious, at least to me, that this was important to him. He looked back at us but remained silent. Looking back, I know that God’s words had filled his head. As I reflect on that moment, Jesus must have been conflicted. There was, I know now, as do all members of the Way, good reason for him to dread this encounter, even more than Satan’s appearance. He exhaled deeply, as it approached, and shook his head. A look of grim resolve was on his face. As the shadow grew larger and larger, murmurs of fear and anxiety erupted among the disciples. When the stranger was close enough to discern, he stopped and called out to Jesus “I’ve been looking for you, master. I was told by a traveler that you were heading south. Now your heading north, and we cross paths!”

With the edge of the foothill at his back and walking due south, the setting sun was no longer at his back. The dark specter we imagined to be Satan again or one of his minions was replaced by a man, grinning, and waving at us, as he spoke. What we saw was a red-haired fellow with a neatly trimmed beard and fine clothes, who seemed totally out of place on the dusty road and in our midst. Not only did he seem out of place here, but in all of Judea and Galilee red-haired people were a rarity, especially ones with freckles and piercing green eyes. It seemed as though his unwavering gaze, when it locked on you, was genuine warmth. I noticed this when he singled me out. Each one of us, even before introductions were made, were studied by this man, especially Jesus who reached out to grasp his hand.

“I’m Judas Iscariot,” he said with a bow. “I’ve heard there’s bandit in these parts. May I travel with you for awhile.”

“Don’t worry about bandits,” piped John. “Jesus frightened Barabbas away!”

“He did more than that!” Matthew exclaimed. “He scared the Devil off.” “Phittt!” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that!”

Jesus scowled at him, as if to say, “Please shut up!”, but Andrew and Philip added their eyewitness accounts, ignoring his silent plea.

“My-my, that’s impressive,” Judas laughed heartily at their reports. “I’ve heard of his powers. A traveler I met told me he raised a child from the dead.” “Is that true?” He looked searchingly at Jesus.

“You have said it,” Jesus gave his enigmatic reply.

Turning politely, he introduced each one of us. Judas appeared a bit odd, but we couldn’t help being impressed with his appearance and manners. No one knew what he would do in the future. How could we? Jesus was acting on continuing revelations. He couldn’t explain this yet to us, himself. For now, even he seemed enchanted with the young man’s buoyant mood. Perhaps, I wonder now, he might have hoped this wasn’t the one who would betray him in order to fulfill prophecy. There was nothing in Judas’ manner that seemed evil. And yet, of all the things that threatened Jesus, including Satan, itself, Jude was the most dangerous.

From the beginning as he tagged along with us, not even officially a disciple, he wormed his way into our affection and almost became Jesus’ favorite. Unlike times before, Jesus was in a hurry to put Judea behind us. Except for the shepherd Tobin, Bethlehem was a great failure, but, as he reassured us, everything was part of God’s plan. After a much swifter journey to Galilee, in which we got to know Judas, it seemed clear he was here to stay. When we were about a Roman mile from Capernaum, Judas insisted on being baptized into the Way, something ironically few of us had undergone. There was a spring bubbling out of a large misshapen rock. Saying the words graciously, then splashing water on Judas’ head, Jesus heaved another sigh, as if not sure of Judas’ conviction. The young man gave Jesus a perfunctory embrace, then shouted to us, as if we were many cubits away, “Whoa, I’m saved. I have eternal life!”

“I don’t trust him!” James whispered to me.

“Really?” I replied discreetly. “You think he’s a spy?”

“I dunno,” he murmured. “I can’t put it into words. It’s just feeling, like you have before a storm.”

Our exchange of doubt wasn’t shared by the others. Judas was friendly and affable, and what’s more, he carried a purse of money he offered to share for our travels. Peter, Andrew, Philip, John and his brother, Matthew, and Bartholomew found Judas a little too talkative, but a likeable sort. Even Simon, who had been a spy himself, had no qualms with him. In good humor the disciples welcomed the new member of the Way, patting his back and shaking his hand, in a more affable way than their reception of Matthew, Thomas, and Simon. I gave him a quick handshake, which seemed adequate, considering what James had told me. When James shared his doubt with Jesus, though, Jesus waved him off, saying sharply, “Judas has a purpose like all my disciples. He’s one of us!”

When the other disciples heard of this they were as shocked as James and I. It was one thing welcoming him into the Way; it was quite another making him a disciple. Suddenly, the good humor Jesus expected the disciples to show converts, vanished almost entirely. It now seemed to the fishermen that Jesus would pick just any one who came along. When they were conveniently separated from Jesus and the new members in our group, James, Matthew, Simon, Bartholomew, and I perked up our ears to hear their complaints. Ticking it off on his fingers, James, John’s sullen brother, summarized Jesus choices.

“First he adopts Mary Magdalene, a prostitute, then he makes Matthew, a publican, who bleeds his people. Then Thomas, a peculiar sort, who continually questions everything Jesus does, appears. Though he seems addled in the head, he’s now a disciple, constantly jabbering about everything he sees. When he picked Simon, who admitted he was a temple spy, I thought that was a new low. Now, out of nowhere, someone we thought was an evil spirit, arrives on the scene, and suddenly he’s a disciple, making our number twelve, which Jesus had planned all along. I don’t trust that man. Like Thomas, he talks way too much. He’s much too friendly. Where, in the middle of nowhere, did Judas come from?”

“That’s a good question,” Peter seemed to agree. “He doesn’t seem to fit either and he’s dressed like a Judean dandy. However, my brothers, Jesus has accepted Judas. You all liked him until he was made a disciple. Now you’re turning against him. Let’s give him a chance.”

“I dunno, Peter.” Andrew shrugged. “Jesus’ selection does seem strange. With all the educated men in high standing, he picked us, a bunch of backwoods fisherman. I think it was appropriate that he picked his brothers, James and Jude, but Matthew and Simon were agents of the Romans and Temple, and Thomas does, as John believes, appear addled in the head. Now, like a desert phantom, a red-headed man in fine clothes conveniently appears and he’s picked too!”

“Yes,” Philip sight, “and now that there’s twelve, the matters settled. Simon was, until his conversion, a spy. What if Judas is a spy too.”

“That ridiculous,” John shook his head. “He doesn’t strike me as a spy. Judas is annoying more than anything. He stares at everyone. I’ve never seen him blink. He gets right in your face when he’s talking.

“That’s true.” Philip nodded. “And he smells as if he’s wearing perfume—like a Syrian whore.”

“That’s enough!” Peter held up his hand. “We all have our differences. You mustn’t judge Judas by how he looks or how he talks. I repeat, Andrew, Philip, James, and John: let’s give him a chance!

“Well,” Simon whispered bitterly, “it’s nice to know what they think of me!”

“Yeah,” Bartholomew said glumly, “what’s wrong with redheads. I have red hair.”

“Don’t feel bad,” I consoled them, “at first they resented James and me, too. They thought Jesus showed us favoritism at times.” “I can understand their concerns,” I patted Simon’s shoulder. “After all, you were a temple spy. Time heals everything, my father always said. That’ll also be true for Matthew, Thomas, and Judas. James and I were spooked by his sudden appearance, but, if you think about it Simon, you suddenly appeared on the water’s edge. For Jesus sake, if nothing else, I want to give his twelfth disciple a chance.”

“I’m sorry.” James set his jaw. “I don’t trust him… Another adage our father taught us is, ‘time will tell!’”

******

On this disquieting note, I pause to reflect on the gullibility I shared with the other men. Only James remained fixed on his first impression. For him, as it would one day become apparent to Jesus’ disciples and the future of the Way, Judas arrived like an ill-wind. To this day there is some argument that he was not a man at all, but a minion of Satan and even the shape-shifting Devil, itself. Our first impressions were overshadowed by the personality of Judas, which wasn’t threatening or ominous in the least bit. Now, we know, as in the case of Satan, that something evil had come our way… So far, Jesus had been gentle on us. He had been patient with our doubts and fears. He had allowed us to be critical of his motives and patient with the intolerance in our ranks. Today, there was determination in his blue eyes, as we moved quickly back to Capernaum. I sensed, and I’m James also felt, a resolve in our brother that would make him less amenable to his disciples idiosyncrasies and personal faults. A new chapter, in which Jesus would harvest, by a huge margin, the greatest number of souls, in which his twelve disciples would go out on their own to spread the word, and his full identity would finally become known, waited for us at our home base. All thoughts of Judas and his peculiarities would be put aside for the time being, with the arrival of great crowds who came from all corners of Palestine to see Jesus’ wonders and hear him speak.

Part Two

Harvest of Souls

Chapter Nineteen

Miracle Through The Roof

When we arrived back in Capernaum, they were waiting: crowds from the towns of Galilee, Judea, Decapolis, and even Perea. No sooner had we reached our destination and arrived at Peter’s house hoping to rest and eat home cooked food, than emissaries from the towns appeared, grinning and waving happily at the miracle worker and preacher. Jesus was pleased but everyone else, including Peter, groaned with despair. We were in no mood for this. Perhaps it was temptation from Satan, but I longed to see Mary Magdalene. I had the same feeling for Deborah, an earlier convert. Now, I was satisfied just to see Mary’s bright face and hear her tinkling, nonsensical voice. Alas, though, as James reminded, I was meant for greater things.”

We could see the crowd from a distance in what was either an amazing coincidence or divine intervention: a great multitude brimming a hill. A spokesman for the delegation, who identified himself as Uzziah, stood forth immediately before we could enter the house, bowing in greeting then, without delay, announcing the towns from which they came. Certain he would impress his listeners, especially Jesus whom he addressed directly, he waited with bated breath, rubbing his hands together excitedly as Jesus formed a reply.

“Dear Uzziah,” Jesus said as delicately as possible, “my disciples are worn out by our journey. Please tell the people that I’ll come tomorrow morning.”

“Yes,” John muttered aloud, “tomorrow. Thank your Jesus.”

“Just tell them to go away,” grumbled his brother.

“Tell me, Uzziah,” Jesus added after some thought, “…. did the people bring food with them?”

“Oh no,” Philip mumbled, slapping his forehead, “here it comes.”

“I don’t know sir,” Uzziah answered, pointing to each of his friends. “Abilah, Ezmir, Hadad, and I brought victuals. I assume they did the same.”

“You didn’t make sure before you left?” Jesus looked at him in disbelief.

“Rabbi,” Uzziah said, ignoring the question. “I had a dream—no a vision. An angel appeared and said, “Call forth the people of Israel. Take them to Capernaum. There, at last, you shall find the Messiah, whom they call the miracle worker, who is Jesus of Nazareth. I knew at sight that you were he.”

Greatly moved by his words but worried about the people, Jesus replied, “Uzziah, I know that my Father brought you and the multitude here, but did those people bring food?”

Again Uzziah dodged the question, “It’s only common sense, Jesus. What fool travels without provisions?”

“You didn’t answer my question, Uzziah.” Jesus grew impatient. “Did they bring food?”

“I think so,” Uzziah answered dubiously. “I can go check.”

“Don’t worry, rabbi,” Abilah said with conviction, “most of them probably did.”

“Uzziah told us the Lord would provide,” chimed Ezmir.

“And here we are, Rabbi,” Jael said, bowing graciously, grinning like a fool.

“Master,” Peter pleaded, tugging his sleeve, “the men are exhausted. Can’t this wait until the morning?”

It seemed unrealistic to us for them to expect us not to rest from our journey, and yet they looked at each other in bewilderment, disappointed by this delay.

“Yes, of course,” Jesus answered Peter, giving the emissaries a troubled glance. “I’m sorry. I would go back with you this hour, but I need my disciples with me, rested up and fed. Please explain this to the people.”

“Very well, rabbi,” whined Uzziah, “but those people are anxious. It’ll be like holding back the tide!”

Upon that warning, we entered Peter’s house. We had been fearful that Jesus’ sympathy for the multitude would force his hand, but we had underestimated his wisdom. Peter’s wife Esther, daughter Bernice, and mother-in-law Dinah greeted us warmly, asking many questions before we had a chance to catch our breath: “Where did we travel?”, “What wonders did Jesus do this time?”, and “What did those strange men want?” came just from Dinah’s and Bernice’s lips. Esther was more concerned with Jesus, her husband, and the disciples well-being.

“Thank you for bringing my husband home,” she added, kissing Jesus cheek. “Once more, rabbi, our home is blessed.”

Suddenly, to my delight, Mary Magdalene, who had held back politely, stepped forth, her eyes seemed to lock on mine at once. As her eyes wandered this way and that I wondered if John, who had grown to admired her, thought the same. While she stood out as a diamond among lesser jewels, Peter introduced his family to the new members. When he came to Mary, my heart leaped again. Judas not only eyed Mary lustfully but also appraised the blossoming Bernice. He then greeted our hosts with a bow and flurry of words, complimenting them on the aromatic smell filling the house. As always, though in his fine yet travel-stained clothes, he looked out of place. Mary giggled foolishly at his antics.

After these introductions, we set about washing ourselves up for dinner, which was difficult now that Capernaum’s visitors were lurking outside. Normally, we would be able to splash our faces and hands with water from the well, but this time there was only one basin, which grew murkier and murkier after each use. Like John, I felt embarrassed as Mary and Bernice watched. Judas, who wound up last in line, slipped out the back door, pale in hand, and, flinging curses at the crowd, managed to cleanse himself at the well. Though James, criticized his manners, I thought he showed great courage. I noticed that Mary and Bernice thought so too. Most of the disciples were, in fact, impressed, especially when Jude returned with a bucket of well water for our morning ablutions. Throughout this example of Jude’s fortitude, if not courage, the crowd outside grew more restless. We managed to ignore them at first. Peter’s mother-in-law asked Jesus anxiously how the crowd knew they were coming home. Jesus simply raised his eyes heavenward. I had a few questions myself, as we waited for dinner.

“I am confused,” I confessed to him. “Some of the disciples call you master now, but I’m no longer sure what to call you. After all, you’re the Messiah.”

Placing his hand on my shoulder, Jesus gave me the answer I wanted. “Call me Jesus,” he replied, smiling with mirth. “I am your brother and leader, but also your friend.”

“Thank you,” I nodded, “I hate formality.” “There’s something else,” I looked at him quizzically. “Uzziah was told by an angel to bring the people to the Messiah, and yet he and his cohorts called you rabbi. I got the impression they weren’t sure.”

“It’s good that you ask this question,” Jesus expression grew serious. “You are perceptive, little brother. Uzziah and his friends are agents of the temple. I suspect soon I’ll be harried by Pharisees and scribes who came with the multitude. I’m afraid we’ll get little peace this afternoon.”

“Really, Jesus?” Peter gave him a worried look. “Uzziah sounded so convincing. Why would they give themselves away?”

“They’re wolves disguised as sheep,” Jesus smiled sadly.

“Stupid wolves.” Simon snickered.

“Perhaps,” Jesus agreed partially, “but wolves nonetheless. What better way to draw me out than representing pilgrims? Perhaps, if God wills it, I’ll convince them too.”

“Well, you have me!” piped Simon. “Now, I’m just one more sheep!”

“I wonder how many of them are out there?” Andrew peaked through the window.

“Agents or rabble?” John sneered.

“Both.” His brother heaved a sigh.

Jesus raised his eyebrows. “That should concern us. Let’s not worry about Caiaphas’ agents. Those people have come a long way. There’s a lot more of them this time. Uzziah and his men had nothing to do with that. What is most suspicious is the fact that they don’t know whether our visitors brought food or not.”

“They might’ve brought food, but ran out,” Matthew suggested. “If that’s true, there might be some unrest. You know human nature. When the stomach growls, the mood darkens.”

“I can hear those humans now,” I said, cupping my ears.

“Listen” Bartholomew gasped. “Those are voices. Can you hear them? What if those men got them worked up like they did in Bethlehem and Nazareth?”

“Yeah, Jesus.” Andrew’s eyes widened. “You just assumed their friendly. That could be a mob out there!”

“It could be a trap!” Philip looked around fearfully.

“They’re not going to wait!” Thomas wrung his hands. “Not now. There’s more of them this time—much more. You said so yourself, Jesus. What if they storm the house.

“They sprout everywhere,” James muttered, “—the mob, ready on a moments notice to turn on us. Caiaphas’ agents are probably everywhere. We’re not safe anywhere he sends his men!”

“Shut up—all of you!” snapped Peter. “You mustn’t lose heart. Jesus will protect us. We’re safe anywhere with him!”

Tobin stood in the background, as did the women, listening intently. “Compared to those people in Bethlehem this is nothing,” he remarked coolly.

Jesus glanced with approval at Peter and Tobin. Though the others showed a lack of nerve, Peter, Tobin, and I (by my silence) had kept calm. I had made up my mind to keep my head, as did Peter, but, unlike us, Tobin, was genuinely unafraid. Inside of me, I was in a panic like everyone else. We were letting our imaginations get the best of us. Fear also registered on Esther’s, Dinah’s, Bernice’s, and Mary’s faces. For a moment, as someone hammered on the door, Peter tried showing how brave he was, growling fiercely through the door, “Aren’t you listening. They can wait until tomorrow!”

Having given the fake agents this same message, Jesus gave a faint nod and folded his arms, pondering his next move. As the commotion outside worsened, Peter stood beside him, as if expecting him to use his powers, perhaps to make them go away as he had Barabbas. Then a voice boomed through the door, “Open up. Give us the miracle worker. Our father is paralyzed. He can’t walk!”

“That’s all they want,” Peter stomped his foot. “Uzziah implied there were thousands coming. Let’s hope they’re not a bunch blind people and cripples. You can only do so much!”

“Phew!” James exhaled. “It’s only a supplicant!”

“For now, there’s only one,” Jesus corrected him. “There will be more.”

The rest of us heaved sighs of relieve, and yet silently, Jesus held his ground. We had never seen him refuse a healing, but enough was enough. With an anxious look on her face, Esther informed us that supper was ready. I could see Mary in the kitchen with Dinah and Bernice. As we sat on cushions around the room, Esther and Dinah, with Bernice’s and Mary’s assistance, began serving us our food. Thomas, normally by himself, sat between Bartholomew and me. While we gave him sympathetic looks, the others scowled at him. My brother James also looked at him with disdain. Only Simon and Matthew had made some effort to accept him into the group. Too busy looking down Mary’s and then Bernice’s front as they served him, Judas could care less. For a moment the commotion outside ceased, but then to everyone’s horror, they began boring through Peter’s roof. Mary grabbed her mouth in terror and Bernice screamed.

“Hark!” Jesus cried, pointing to the ceiling. “They’re here!”

“I won’t stand for it!” Peter cried. “It took me a week to repair my roof after the last storm!”

He and his brother Andrew charged the door now, livid with rage. All of the disciples, in fact, with eyes raised and fists clinched, forgot themselves completely and shouted threats, insults, and oaths. Tobin wrung his staff and Bartholomew waved at the ceiling with his cane.

“I’m sorry, Peter.” Jesus grabbed his tunic. “It’s too late. Listen people: In a few seconds the roof will give way.” “Everyone in the kitchen!” he cried.

Dropping our bowels of food, we scrambled out of the way just as timbers and tiles crashed to the floor. Accidentally, I ran right into Mary’s lovely bosom, too filled with fear to care. A bizarre set of actions followed those moments: an elderly man lying on a makeshift pallet was lowered by ropes down to the rubble strewn floor, the ropes were released, and we could hear his cohorts clamoring off the room. Knowing full well the ire waiting down below, the man had a frightened look. His cohorts in this act didn’t even bother to show themselves, as the man waited to be healed.

“Papa, Papa!” Bernice wrung her hands. “Look what they’ve done!”

“You stupid bastards!” Peter shouted at the ceiling. “And you.” He wrung his fist at the man on the pallet. “You’ll pay for this. So help me, this is going too far!”

“I agree,” Jesus said, patting Bernice’s and Mary’s heads, “but he’s here. What am I to do?”

“Turn him to stone!” Esther shrieked. “He’s ruined my house!”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dinah wailed. “You’ve worked miracles. You should’ve stopped this. How could you let this happen?”

“Wait a minute,” I exclaimed, coming to Jesus’ defense. “This isn’t his fault. We get these types all the time. Those people could’ve waited. That was a reckless, foolish act of desperation. How could he foresee that?”

“The question is,” spat Peter, “who’ll repair my roof? They had no right doing that. Jude’s right; they could’ve waited until tomorrow. If you hadn’t been here Jesus, I would’ve throttled that man!”

“But I’m here,” Jesus said, with a shrug. “It took both lawlessness and great faith. I shall deal with his faith now.” “Sir.” he looked down at the man. “No harm will come to you.”

“I’m sorry, rabbi—” he began contritely.

“He’s the Messiah!” interrupted Peter. “At least get that right!”

“Lord,” the man began again. “Whatever name they call you—Redeemer, Deliverer or Messiah, I believe you’re the Promised One.”

“If you know this to be true,” Jesus studied him, “understand also that I come to heal the spirit as well as the body.”

“Yes, I do, I do.” He bobbed his head.

“Azariah,” Jesus reached down to touch his head, “you have lived a spiteful life.”

“Yes, Lord,” he looked up in wonder, “but how do you know my name?”

“I know many things,” answered Jesus. “I know that you’ve treated others wrongly, bore false witness against them, and acted with a mean spirit but have not repented until you were in the depths of despair. Will you promise to live a righteous life from this day forward?”

“Yes, Lord.” he nodded expectantly. “You have my word.”

“Don’t call me Lord.” Jesus wagged a finger. “I work on His behalf.”

This was, of course, a great underestimate of who he was. We would learn later why Jesus shunned that title. Lord was interchangeable with the title God, especially in simple folk’s mind. Azariah was a simple man in spite of his station in life. That Jesus was more than the Messiah, we couldn’t have imagined. It was only natural for some Jews, though, especially those influenced by pagan religions, to think of someone who could works miracles as either a sorcerer or god. Ironically, I see in retrospect, as do all members of the Way, Jesus was, in fact, God. As he looked into this sinners face, he saw something only he could see. We were still angry at the roof falling in and the fact that too many people looked upon Jesus’ miracles more than his words. It seemed to us that this lawless act which the man inspired should cancel out his plaintive words. Nonetheless, taking the water pitcher from Peter’s hands, Jesus performed the ritual we had performed for countless initiates. Sprinkling water on Azariah’s gray hair, he now completed the ritual by saying something that startled everyone in the room. “Your sins are forgiven, Azariah. Your faith has made you whole. Rise up and walk, and sin no more!”

Azariah was so overjoyed his voice was as paralyzed as had been his legs. Just as he began raising himself up, and, with Jesus help, was brought shakily to his feet, however, voices shouted down at Jesus, “You said, ‘your sins are forgiven.’ Who are you to forgive sinners?” There was also a tumult of voices outside the house, echoing his cry, and the thud of rocks against the walls. A second man, who managed to climb onto the roof, now screamed, “Blasphemer! Your leading people to perdition!”, and a third overhead, shrieked those fearful words, “Stone him! Stone him!”

While Jesus remained calm, our anger turned to fear. Several more voices rang out on the roof and through Peter’s door, repeating the outrage of the second and third man. It was an ambush that, at the very least, sullied the miracle. Without censure from Jesus, most of us tossed our supper bowels and mugs at the men standing by the hole in the roof. Judas flung a pitcher at them. Simon drew his sword and waved it menacingly. Tobin, like Esther, Dinah, Bernice, and Mary tossed handfuls of food, and Bartholomew shook his cane. These actions merely agitated the detractors above us that much more. In fact I hesitate to record their fulminations. Nevertheless, ignoring the onslaught, Jesus helped the man walk a few paces before letting him go, as we followed up our first volley with anything at hand. When Azariah was on wobbly legs walking on his own, he called up to the men angrily, “Stop this at once. Jesus is the Chosen One—the Anointed. He healed me and made me whole. It’s only right that he forgave my sins!”

“Is that Azariah, the paralytic, that Pharisee from Chorazin?” asked the first man.

“Yes, it’s him all right!” exclaimed his friend. “He’s been cured!” “Of all people to say such a thing,” he muttered aloud. “I knew him before he was stricken. He was a real firebrand for the law!”

The third antagonist—the very man who had called for his stoning, was at a loss for words. Peering down through the hole, the three men continued to look at Azariah in disbelief. Azariah shook his fist up at them, crying. “Of course, it’s me, you fools. Why’re you so surprised? Why do you think my sons carried me all this way? You’re a disgrace—all of you! How dare you spoil this moment.”

“Go away now!” Peter looked up and made scooting motions.

“You’re lucky I don’t have my bow!” Simon shook his fist.

“I’m sorry.” Azariah said to Peter “I’ll pay for the damage. The commotion I caused for your house is unforgivable.” Turning to Jesus, he exclaimed, “Jesus of Nazareth. You’ve healed more than my body. It was my sons who insisted on smashing through your roof. Those idiots on the roof and shouting through the door were once my colleagues and friends—Pharisees and scribes, who shared views with me I now reject. I am a new man now—one of you!”

“That you are.” Jesus sighed heavily. “It took a miracle, Azariah; it takes that for some. But I believe you. I know your heart. That’s all that matters.” “Go in peace!” he added, ushering him gently toward the door. “Your original views have misled your people. You were a hard, bitter man. One physical calamity and a miracle changed all that. I have forgiven you, and God has forgiven you. Your example has been duly noted by my critics. It will, God willing, encourage those men to join the Way.”

“What is the Way?” Azariah turned, as Peter opened the door.

“It’s not a group as in the temple or synagogue.” Jesus explained, reading his thoughts. “The Way is a place where your soul is safe. The barbs of the world might prickle you, but they’re temporary. Life is transient, Azariah; heaven is forever. With others, separately or in families or friendship, you’ll share fellowship, and then eternal life and the glory of the Lord. As a member of the Way, the word of continuing revelation is placed in your heart: God will speak to you. You have but to listen, and he will speak.”

“What is this word? Azariah gave Jesus a dumbfounded look. “There’s nothing in the Law or the Prophets about continuing revelation?”

There was an edge of impatience in Jesus’ voice. “They are spoken by the Spirit of the Lord, whom you know,” he answered wearily. “Listen with your heart not your mind, as you have done as a Pharisee. Don’t question so much. Trust in His silent voice.” “Remember this Azariah.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “…There are no Pharisees or scribes who think as you once did in the Way. You’re a child of God now, no longer an enemy of the truth.”

“The truth?” Azariah persisted. “I’ve been an enemy of the truth?”

“Yes,” Jesus said with some bitterness, “you and your kind, like the scribes and priests, have blinded people to the truth!”

As we listened to his words, there was silence all around. All commotion ceased. Those on the roof and even those outside had completely stopped their protests. Once overwhelmed with rage, Peter had calmed down, as did the other disciples, Peter’s wife, mother-in-law, and daughter. Mary Magdalene, who would one day rival his own mother in importance, stood there, staring stupidly into space. There would be no greater rebuke of the Pharisees, than what Jesus said today. We learned that Jesus can forgive sins, something we had sensed all along—a claim that would follow him each time he was confronted by Pharisees, scribes, or priests. More importantly to us was the clearest definition of what the Way really was. It was, as I understand it even now, not similar to a synagogue, the temple, or other association having rituals and tradition that separate them as a specific group. Jesus believed that all men and women were equal to priests. They were a universal priesthood of believers, each a place of worship unto themselves. That we meet in secret together now, as we did during those dark months, has become a necessity, not a requirement given to us by Jesus. The simple definition given to Azariah, but also meant for us for the Way, would be carried by us throughout our lives, contradicting the ecclesiae sprouting up in Jerusalem, Damascus, Antioch, Athens, and Rome.

Jesus said a few more inspiring words to Azariah just before he departed. As Azariah emerged on the other side of the door, we could hear him shout at the top of his lungs, “Hear this Pharisees, scribes, and rabble rousers and citizens of Galilee, Judea, and Decapolis, too. If you fear God, stop your noise and agitation. Jesus forgave me and he will forgive you, but only if you repent your sins. He’s the Messiah—the one foretold by Isaiah. This house, which my sons damaged, is sacred. Drop you stones and stow your hatred. When Jesus comes out tomorrow, listen to him. Open your minds and hearts!”

Jesus smiled that moment. “My beloved disciples.” He embraced us with his eyes. “That was a prelude of what will come, but fear not—you’ll prevail. Today was yet another milestone we weathered together.” Glancing at the pugnacious Simon, he added with a twinkle in his eye, “You’re becoming warriors for God. Azariah, when he returns home, will be such warrior. Nothing I have done so far to quiet a mob will ring louder than that man’s voice. No one—rich or poor, great or small—is excluded from the word. He was an important Pharisee in Chorazin, brought low by his sins, and now, thanks to those words, he silenced the mob.” Looking up to the hole in the roof, Jesus added with a chuckle, “They’re gone. They’re all gone. Hopefully, we’ll see them again when I preach. Azariah set an example for them to follow. Until the morning, my brethren, eat some supper and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day!”

Chapter Twenty-One

The Sermon On The Mount

We awakened the next morning with sunlight streaming through the roof, hearing Jesus coaxing us to get up, wash, and eat our morning meal. Over and over again, he chanted cheerily, “The harvest awaits! The harvest awaits!” We knew today that things would change. Gone were the small crowds and towns were the harvest was bleak. This was Capernaum. A great multitude from Galilean towns and cities, Judea, Decapolis, and Perea waited in the nearby hills. We knew now that Jesus wasn’t merely an itinerant preacher, rabbi, or prophet. The almost full realization of who he was in the past few days made us realize the dangers but also the wonders lying ahead. Jesus, loved by many, was a marked man. Temple agents, magistrates, and the great majority of Pharisees, scribes, and rabbis would come at him with increasing force. Yet we were bolstered by Jesus’ courage as much as his miracles and words. Trapped by our fascination and love for him, we had left our previous lives forever. There was no turning back. We were on the precipice of something mind boggling—a brand new conception of the godhood not written in the Torah or spoken by the prophets. Each day that we had been with Jesus, we saw just a little more of his divinity. The words that he spoke, which came from the lips of God, became ingrained in our mind, until they became our words. We were, however, on the subject of his divinity, no better than infants in our comprehension. James, with all his knowledge of the law and history of our people, couldn’t explain what he felt. The more worldly Matthew, Judas, and myself, should have better insight, as should Simon, who had once been a temple spy. But the world had never seen the likes of Jesus. Doubting Thomas, after all his many questions, and Peter, who had drawn closer than anyone to Jesus, didn’t have a clue.

This morning, as the rays of the sun fell on Jesus head, a halo of light shimmered on his brown hair. His blue eyes blazed too brightly for a mortal man. That moment, as I rose to my feet, I could accept him as an angel or, reflecting upon my travels with Roman, Greek, and Egyptian pagans, a demigod or some sort, but I couldn’t have imagined my own brother as a manifestation of God. None of us could have understood this, least of all James, who, because of his teaching as a scribe, had to cast away most of what he had been taught. Everyone, however, including Peter’s family and Mary Magdalene, agreed on one thing this morning: Jesus was the Messiah, the Anointed One spoken of by John.

******

As soon as Jesus, his disciples, Esther, Dinah, Bernice, Mary, and Tobin emerged from the house, we were mobbed by people, which Peter and Andrew angrily shooed away. There were a few hecklers, but nothing like last night. Simon reminded us about supplicants who were really wolves in sheep’s clothing: temple agents, like Uzziah and his men, some of whom were scribes or priests. Simon, after all, had been a spy, himself. Peter, who had become Jesus’ chief protector, wouldn’t allow anyone to get close enough to do him harm. Andrew, Philip, John, and his brother James, quickly surrounded him as we exited, elbowing us away, as if they had claims to Jesus now. This would be the pattern from this day forward. It had been a compulsive action for the fishermen, but it was deeply resented by Matthew, Simon, Thomas, James, and me. With the addition of Judas, we outnumbered them, and James and I were his brothers. We especially shouldn’t be considered outsiders. Yet suddenly, with Jesus’ apparent approval, we were shoved aside by those men. Bartholomew, on the other hand, was philosophical about it. After a misspent life, he had changed his name and found new meaning for his life. He felt he was lucky just to be here. As resentful as James and I, though, were Matthew, Simon, and Thomas, who had never really fit into the group. Unfazed by this apparent discrepancy, were Peter’s family as well as Mary, satisfied just to tag along. Judas, still hard to define, seemed unconcerned about this issue, especially with Mary and Bernice in our midst. While we grumbled amongst ourselves, Bartholomew, his newfound friend Tobin in tow, had, like Judas and the women, a cheerful disposition. The mule and his cart couldn’t navigate the bumpy trail, so Bartholomew and Tobin were forced to walk. Yet both men huffed and puffed, laboring for each breath, stabbing the earth with their canes, refusing to be left behind.

Jesus led us to the hills near Capernaum, inside the protective ring, which seemed like overkill, but appeared to have special meaning. From the beginning, the fishermen had thought of themselves as special, the true inner circle. Now they fancied themselves as Jesus’ protectors. But we were in no danger now. Men and women with happy looks, as will as foolish children, strode and scampered on each side of us. The occasional harsh look flashed at us, as we first began our trek, had nearly vanished. Through a friendly corridor of expectant faces we ambled. When we reached a spot on the top of the tallest hill, our antagonism for the fishermen likewise vanished. Jesus was about to give the greatest sermon of his life.

As we sat around him, others gathered from the waiting multitude, those the swiftest getting the closest spots on the slopes. The fishermen sat right below Jesus. The remainder of the disciples shared proximity with Peter’s family and Tobin. By sheer chance or divine providence, I wound up beside Mary. This time, however, I tried clearing out my foolish thoughts. Standing up and looking around at the people strewn thickly below on the hills, Jesus said in the most clarion voice:

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

“Blessed are you when they revile and persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you falsely for My sake. Rejoice and be exceedingly glad, for great is your reward in heaven, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you. You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lamp stand, and it gives light to all who are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.”

“Do not think that I came to destroy the Law or the Prophets. I didn’t come to destroy but to fulfill. For assuredly, I say to you, until heaven and earth pass away, one jot or one tittle will by no means pass from the law until all is fulfilled. Whoever therefore breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches men so, shall be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever teaches them righteousness shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven. For I say to you, that unless your righteousness exceeds the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven.

“Remember the Commandments of the Lord,” Jesus spoke in a reverential tone. “Take heed that you understand what they mean. It is said, ‘You shall not murder,’ and whoever murders will be in danger of judgment. But I say to you that whoever thinks murderous thoughts has committed murder in his heart. An angry spirit is often a murderous spirit. Whoever is angry with his brother, sister or neighbor, showing contempt or hatefulness without cause, shall be in danger of breaking this commandment and may suffer hell fire. Therefore when you bring your gift to the altar but remember that someone has a grudge against you, first find your enemy, and be reconciled with that person before offering your gift. Agree with your adversary quickly, in case your adversary deliver you to the judge, the judge hand you over to the officer, and you are thrown into prison. For there you must pay the price!”

“You have also heard it said.” He raised a finger. “‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I say to you, if man looks at a woman or a woman looks at a man with lust, they have already committed adultery in their heart. Furthermore, they tell us, ‘Whoever divorces his wife or husband, let them provide a certificate of divorce.’ But I say to you, ‘whoever divorces for any reason except sexual immorality causes his wife or husband to commit adultery; and whoever marries someone who’s divorced commits the same offense.

“If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out and cast it from you, and if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and cast it from you. It is more profitable for you that one of your members perish than for your whole body to be cast into hell.

“It was written, ‘You shall not swear falsely, but shall perform your oaths to the Lord.’ But I say to you, don’t swear at all: neither by heaven, which is God’s throne or by the earth, which is His footstool nor by Jerusalem, which is the city of David. Nor shall you swear by your head, because you cannot make one hair white or black. But let your Yes be Yes, and your No, No. Anything more than this is from Satan, not the Lord.

“It was also written, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I tell you not to resist an evil person. Whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other cheek to them. If anyone wants to sue you and take away your tunic, let that person have your cloak too. And whoever compels you to go one mile, go with that person two. Give to those who asks you. From those who want to borrow from you, don’t turn them away.

“Now we come to a great commandment.” Jesus looked back at his disciples. “It’s thought proper that you love your neighbor and hate your enemy, but that’s not in the Law or the Prophets nor shall it be now. I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven; for He makes the sun rise on the evil just as He does on the good, and sends rain on the unjust as well as the just. For if you love those who love you, what reward have you? Do not even the tax collectors do this also? And if you greet your brethren only, what do you do more than others? Do not even the tax collectors no do the same? You shall be perfect, just as your Father is perfect in heaven.

“Take heed that you don’t do charitable deeds before men, to be seen by them. Otherwise you have no reward from your Father in heaven. When you do a charitable deed, do not sound a trumpet before you as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory from men. Assuredly, I say to you, they have their reward. When you do a charitable deed, do not let your left hand know what your right hand’s doing, that your charitable deed may be in secret. Your Father, who sees in secret, will Himself reward you openly.

“When you pray, don’t be like the hypocrites. For they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the corners of the streets, that they may be seen by men. Assuredly, I say to you, they have their reward. When you pray, go into your room, and when you have shut your door, pray to your Father who is in this secret place. Your Father, who sees in secret, will reward you openly. And when you pray, do not use vain repetitions as the heathen does. For they think that they will be heard for their many words. Your Father knows the things you have need of before you ask Him. In this manner, therefore, remember this prayer:

Our Father in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. They will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen.

“Remember this,” Jesus said, letting the prayer sink in, “if you forgive those of their trespasses, your heavenly Father will forgive you, but if you don’t forgive men their trespasses, your Father won’t forgive you. Moreover, when you fast, don’t be like the hypocrites, with a sad countenance. For they disfigure their faces that they may appear to men to be fasting. Assuredly, I say to you, they have their reward. When you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, but do it privately, not publicly in order to be seen fasting. Do this for your Father in a secret place and He will reward you openly.”

“Remember this too,” he added solemnly. “Life is brief; heaven is everlasting. Don’t lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. Where your treasure is, there will be your heart, so choose spiritual things that last forever!”

“The lamp of the body is the eye.” He pointed demonstratively. “If your eye is good, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. Therefore, if the light that is in you is darkness, how great is that darkness!

“No one can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will be loyal to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and mammon. Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? Which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature? So why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of them. Now if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will He not clothe you that much more. Oh you of little faith? Don’t ask, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For after all these things the Gentiles seek. Your heavenly Father knows you need these things. Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and these things shall be given to you. Don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

Looking out with a stern eye, he raised a finger again. “Judge not, that you be not judged. From what judgment you give, you, too, will be judged and with what measure you use, it will be measured back to you. Why do you look at the speck in your someone’s eye and not consider the plank in your own eye? How can you say to someone, ‘Let me remove the speck from your eye’, when there is a plank is in your own eye? Hypocrite! First remove the plank from your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck out of someone else’s eye!”

With some bitterness in his voice, he said for the benefit of his critics: “Do not give what is holy to the dogs nor cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet and turn and tear you in pieces.” Then, changing the tone entirely, he smiled and raised his arms wide. “The Lord is gracious in his mercy,” he cried. “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find. Knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and he who seeks finds, and to him who knocks it will be opened. What man or woman is there among you who, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will he give him a serpent? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him? Therefore, do unto others as you would have them do unto you, for this is the Law and the Prophets.

“Enter by the narrow gate, for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction, and there are many who go in by it. Because narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life, there are few who find it. Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves. You will know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes from thorn bushes or figs from thistles? Even so, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. Every tree that doesn’t bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. By their fruits you will know them. Not everyone who says to Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ shall enter the kingdom of heaven, but he who does the will of My Father in heaven. Many will say to Me in that day, ‘Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in Your name, cast out demons in Your name, and done many wonders in Your name?’ And then I will say to them, ‘I knew you not; depart from Me, you who practice lawlessness!’

“Whoever hears these sayings of mine, and follows them, is a wise man who built his house on rock. The rain descended, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, and it did not fall, for it was founded on rock. Now everyone who hears these sayings of mine and does not follow them, will be a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain descended, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house and it fell. And great was its fall!”

******

When Jesus was finished, the people appeared spellbound. Raising two fingers and his thumb, as he had done many times before, as if blessing his audience, he signaled by this and his silence, the end of his sermon. I’ve never heard such stillness in so great a multitude. He hadn’t merely preached this time. He had given them a sermon in which he not only laid out the formula for salvation but added new commandments for their daily lives. Although he avoided attacking the temple, priesthood, Pharisees, and scribes, he condemned all hypocrites who tried winning salvation by outwards such as praying in public and making a show of ritual in place of inward grace. Matthew managed to remember most of what Jesus said and write down. Many of the disciples, however, in writing Jesus life and mission long after the events that occurred, left out details. Though the basic elements are there, often the original words of Jesus depend upon fading memories and are clouded by the prejudice of the writer. One of my gifts recognized by Jesus in our youth was my memory, which allowed me to fill in some of the gaps. What I recall now is similar to Matthew’s account, but is somewhat more accurate and not tainted by the male prejudice against women, seen in the treatment of Mary of Magdalene and other women. The constant reference to ‘him,’ for everyone, even though there were as many women in our audiences as men, was used by all the apostles, even Paul, but Jesus referred to both men and women or remained neutral, using words such as person or people.

Aside from the sayings themselves which were something a great preacher like Jesus would utter, portions of his sermon were rebukes against the doctors of the law. Clearly to me, for example, when he talked of praying in a secret place and bragging about the great things done for the Lord, he was referring to these puffed up and arrogant men. When I told James about my views of Jesus’ defense of the Law, however, he disagreed with my opinion that Jesus meant his defense of the Ten Commandments, not all those social and dietary laws added after Moses’ time. Because of his background as a scribe, the gulf between the old tradition and Jesus’ message was difficult to cross. Most of his expectations for converts regarding dietary and social laws hadn’t changed. Though Jesus cared not a wit about these minor laws, his own expectations for converts, when they accepted the simplicity of the Way, was actually more severe. It wasn’t enough not to commit murder, adultery, or any other commandment laid down by Moses. If you dwelled upon these actions, you have committed them in your heart. Jesus’ view on marriage was also in great contradiction to tradition. Jewish law allowed for a man to divorce his wife, but it was impossible for a woman to divorce a man, and yet Jesus’ view on divorce, which was much stricter than tradition, made it possible to divorce only for sexual immorality—for both women and men.

As I write down these words, I realize that most of what Jesus said to the multitude wasn’t new to his thinking. Yet the sermon was, in Latin terms, his magnum opus. The disciples, who hadn’t known Jesus as James and I, saw it as a new dimension to him. In the words of Matthew, who would one day record Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, Jesus had proved he was the Messiah. It was his finest hour.

But Jesus success, many of us feared, had a downside to it. There were, we were told, five thousand people in his audience. The fishermen worried that we would have to baptize many of them. Matthew, Simon, Thomas, Judas, Bartholomew, James, and I discussed this amongst ourselves and agreed that doing the ritual for such a number would be staggering, in fact impossible. It would take days to process that many people. Despite our attempt at being optimistic, though, we knew that Jesus was unpredictable. Because of the constant revelations in his mind, there was no telling what he might do. As he took a breather and chatted with us a few moments, I felt compelled to bring up the subject. He laughed and slapped my shoulder. To everyone’s relief, he reminded us of those times when he preached and no one was given the ritual or baptized.

“My purpose today,” he explained thoughtfully, “was to spread the word—this time in sayings, not ritual. There are too many listeners and, in the future, there will be too many listeners for ritual and baptism. Except for when I send you out in twos, that’s in the past.”

“Send us out!?” Simon, Matthew, and Thomas muttered in dismay.

“You didn’t know that?” John looked at them in disbelief.

“No,” Thomas’ voice trembled, “When are we doing that?”

“Soon,” Philip smiled with mirth. “We’re going out—sheep among the wolves.”

“Uh-uh.” Simon shook his head. “I’m not a speaker, I’m a doer.”

“That goes for me!” Judas folded his arms.

“Me too.” Matthew frowned. “I was a tax collector, not a preacher. I got enemies out there!”

“Well, you’re preachers now!” Peter wagged a finger at them. “What do you think Jesus has been preparing you for?”

“I dunno,” Simon scratched his head, “I thought we just assisted him. We’re really going out on our own?”

“No, in twos,” Peter grew irritated. “You should pay attention Simon. You also Matthew and Judas. Why would Jesus make us disciples if he didn’t want us to share the load. You’re his apprentices!”

“Is that what we are?” Matthew grumbled. “I thought we were disciples.”

“I can’t do it,” Thomas shook his head. “I chatter like a magpie at times, but I can’t preach.

“Oh, the preaching is easy,” Simon shrugged. “It’s those baptisms I worry about.”

“I don’t understand,” Judas looked around the group. “I thought Jesus did all that stuff? I’m new here. I’m not prepared for this!”

“Judas came late,” Jesus entered the conversation, “he hasn’t gotten the word. Have faith Matthew and Simon. As I’ve said before, take one day at a time. Your all going to do just fine!”

For the time being the subject was put to rest. Though Peter tried to put a good face on it, we dreaded going out on our own. Despite this concern, the grandeur of today overshadowed our doubts as we looked out at the crowd. For the Shepherd, whose audience was now in the thousands, there were more immediate concerns. Fortunately, we didn’t have to look for the representatives of this gathering. We couldn’t find Uzziah and his friends, whom Jesus suspected were spies, but representatives from different cities soon arrived to congratulate Jesus on his stirring speech. Though no mention was made of how many of their countrymen felt about his sermon, Jesus was quite satisfied. As important to Jesus was the question of whether the crowd had brought food. The representatives, whose enthusiasm had encouraged the people to travel so far, were unclear on this matter. Jesus asked them to find out if there was enough food to hold them over until they returned home.

Peter, who shared our opinion on the subject, suggested we go back to his house before Jesus was stuck performing an endless line of cures, but Jesus dallied, answering questions and explaining his message to listeners. I noticed that the vast majority of people were polite. In fact, as Jesus chatted with his disciples and then talked to the representatives, those nearest to the speaker waited patiently for their turn. We had plenty of time to slip away. Unfortunately, Jesus had waited too long. Finally, after standing back in awe of the miracle worker, the crowd saw their chance, and we were suddenly mobbed. Several sick, maimed, and blind men and women appeared in this group. With them, came a pair of idlers who simply wanted to put Jesus to the test.

“Rabbi! Rabbi!” voices called out, explaining in detail their ailments.

One fellow, dressed like a scribe, asked Jesus if he did this in the name of Beelzebub or God.

Jesus ignored the scribe and a second request that he turn a container of water into wine. Word had evidently gotten out about the wedding in Cana where Jesus performed this miracle. What might have been worrisome was the scribe who challenged Jesus. Fortunately for him this time, the crowd was in no mood for such interruptions. A burly fellow who had tenderly carried his sick wife to Jesus for a cure threatened to break the man’s nose. Several men and women in line cheered him, a few making similar threats. If there were Pharisees, scribes, or Temple agents in the crowd, they must have gotten the word, because there were no more challenges today.

Greatly perturbed nevertheless by the line of supplicants, we waited as Jesus performed his cures. Making important exceptions, after telling us he would leave this business to us, Jesus took this opportunity to make converts for the Way. This delayed matters that much more. That hour, as quickly as possible, he gave the rites after curing a blind woman, a man with a cough, a deaf mute child, a man who injured himself fixing his roof, three crippled youths, and a palsied old man. Then, after a mixture of ailments I can scarcely explain, a leper appeared scattering everyone, including his disciples to the foot of the hill.

“That was awful!” Judas spat. “He had no nose. He barely had a face.”

“He smelled too,” Matthew made a face.

“He was a typical leper.” Andrew summarized. “Sores all over, clothes in tatters, his body eaten away.”

“That poor wretched fellow.” I shuddered. “What sin did he do for that?”

“None.” James said thoughtfully. “Good men suffer too. Remember Justus, whom Jesus cured? Look at Job, who was tested by God.”

“That’s true.” I gave him a look of respect. “God allows misfortune to come to both sinners and saved.”

“Humph!” Judas shook his head. “Why would God give someone leprosy?”

“He works in mysterious ways,” Bartholomew offered, stroking his beard.

“Right.” Tobin nodded in agreement. “Look what happened to me.”

“That’s right.” Judas snapped his fingers. “I heard about you, Tobin. You’re one of the shepherds who visited him in the manger.”

“He was in a bad state when we found him.” Bartholomew gave him a pat.

“That’s a prime example of God’s capriciousness.” James sighed. “We mustn’t question Him, though. His purpose is inscrutable. He’s unknowable. Jesus is his interpreter: the voice of God.”

“Exactly,” I exclaimed, “that’s what he is, James—the voice of God.”

“It’s true,” Judas mulled over the idea, “Jesus is his voice, but why is there so much death and disease. Why would a merciful God allow that?”

“Through Jesus, God is merciful,” the words poured out of my mouth.

“Really?” Mary’s voice intruded. “Why would he allow our people to be persecuted? Why are Temple agents against Jesus now?”

I had almost said it. If Jesus spoke for God, I couldn’t help wondering, what did that make him? More important to the group that moment, however, were Mary’s questions. Peter, who had been talking to Andrew, looked over at her, shaking his head. “Now, now, Mary, we don’t question God.”

“It’s a fair question,” Simon raised an eyebrow. “I’ve often asked it myself: ‘Why is God cruel?’ Why, for that matter, does He let those bloodsucking priests fleece our people.”

James bristled but said nothing. Peter and the other disciples now joined our conversation.

“That’s a strange thing for a Temple agent to say.” John teased.

“Yeah,” drawled his brother, “once you were in the pay of those bloodsucking priests.”

“I’m one of you now.” Simon glared at the brothers. “Why can’t you two accept me. If I had still been a spy, I’d have the goods on Jesus by now. He’s challenged the temple, our tradition and everything I believed in, but I’m here to stay. There’s no where I’d rather be!”

“Simon, Simon,” Bartholomew, hobbled over, his voice thin with fatigue, “they’re just joking. They poke fun at me too. We all have questions. Jesus is here to answer them!”

“Well,” Judas announced airily, “we don’t have to worry anymore. The Messiah’s come—the voice of God. He’ll answer our questions. Our enemies don’t stand a chance!”

If we hadn’t been so tired and focused on the moment, Judas exclamation would have troubled us. Though that title had been used repeatedly for Jesus, it should be clear by now that he wasn’t the Messiah spoken of by the prophets who would sweep away our conquerors. No one else in our group, except Judas, saw Jesus in that light. Turning our attention completely to Jesus and the leper then, we returned to this discussion.

“What could Jesus be saying to that man?” Philip complained.

“Yeah,” Andrew studied the scene. “…Why was it taking so long? Jesus did the others quickly. He’s exhausted and needs a rest. What was so special about him?

“Well, one thing for sure.” Peter said, looking down at the crowd. “That leper shooed them away. There are all manner of diseased and crippled people out there. Jesus can’t cure them all.”

“Just how contagious is leprosy?” Thomas gave me a worried look. “He brushed passed me as I stood there.”

“Don’t worry, Thomas,” I said reassuringly. “Jesus told me that leprosy is hard to catch. A person has to be in poor shape and share the same bowl or mug with someone. It’s not like the plague or fever.”

“What’s the big deal?” waved Simon. “We have Jesus. If you catch it, he’ll cure it. I sort’ve feel invincible with him. He’s like a shield against the world.”

“Yeah,” Judas savored the idea, “I like that—invincible, a shield. Jesus has great power! In a sense, we’re indestructible!”

“We won’t be when we sends out to preach,” Thomas sighed.

Reminded of this prospect, we lapsed into silence. I could scarcely imagine myself preaching to a crowd. I couldn’t imagine any of us as preachers, especially the bumbling Thomas or pugnacious Simon. When we finally saw Jesus and his patient turn toward us, the cure was over. As they began walking toward us, we waited with bated breath. The person he cured this time had been a ruined shell. As Judas said that moment, “If he could fix him, he could fix anything, anyone, anytime!” Judas had become a great enthusiast of Jesus, but he failed to understand who he was. The sun shone on Jesus brown hair those moments, giving him that halo-effect. His eyes flashed like sapphires. The onetime wreck of a man, whom he introduced immediately as Thaddeus, was a brand new person. John and his brother James’ father was named Thaddeus too. This name was also significant to me because I was called that during my travels. My Roman friends thought Jude sounded too Jewish, and yet I was addressed as Thaddeus Judaicus at times. As I stared at this transformed man, remembering this trivia, I was reminded of the fair-haired Britons that joined our band. This man was even fairer. He was obviously not a Jew, but a Gentile. Because Jesus had cured a Gentile before, we weren’t surprised. What surprised us was his countenance, which made him appear as an angelic figure emerging in our midst. His hair was blond, his skin almost milk white, and he had, like Jesus, piercing blue eyes. Jesus had given him a new set of clothes too: a white tunic, white sash, and white robe, a combination he sometimes wore himself. Greatly moved by what we saw (especially me), we had to be prodded to give our names. As Jesus pointed his finger at us, we sounded off one-by-one. Of our group, Judas was the only one to maintain his wits, when Jesus finally came to him.

“Judas Iscariot,” he piped. “Jesus,” he turned to him then, “that was incredible. He looks like he just stepped off a cloud.”

Jesus ignored the compliment, replying quickly, “Thaddeus and Tobin will be a part of the Seventy. They will remain in Capernaum, with Mary Magdalene and Peter’s family. The remainder of the people cured today will also join the Seventy. After you disciples go out, I have big plans for them. We will, as Simon might say, have an army of agents for the Lord.”

“What about the multitude?” Peter motioned. “Are they going home?”

“In the morning,” Jesus heaved sigh. “They want me to speak again.” “I know men.” He glanced around at us. “Many of them are here for the show. They want miracles more than words. But I saw illumination in many of them. It shouldn’t take miracles to believe, but I saw true conviction in those I cured. This time, all of the cured, will serve the Lord. As the word spreads, our army will grow. The islands of converts in various cities and towns will themselves become missionaries. Today was another milestone—the greatest so far. Have patience with the masses. If only a small portion of them are saved and, in turn, save others, it will one day reach the corners of the empire. The entire world will know the truth!”

There was that word again: truth. Jesus was, I understood dimly, the truth. His destiny

seemed awe-inspiring but overwhelming. Though fearful, we were also excited to be in the army of Jesus, on the edge of a wave sweeping the earth. Only Judas frowned that moment. “The Empire? The world,” I heard him mutter, “I thought he came for the Jews!”

******

We weren’t happy that the crowds had lingered. We were used to smaller groups and moving from town to town as Jesus spread the word. Now, they were coming to us, and they wanted him to make another appearance. Jesus was more exhausted than he had ever been before. Peter had voiced our concerns about this several times, but it was no use. He wouldn’t disappoint the crowds. In spite of his optimism, he was worried about peoples attitudes: most of them wanted miracles. He was, more immediately, worried about the welfare of the multitude. They would have to camp overnight in the hills. Even though they were near Lake Gennesaret, it was doubtful if they had the means or know-how to fish. Judging by the response given to him by their representatives, they had little to eat. But Jesus, though a miracle worker, was still a man… He was bone weary and needed to get away from the crowd.

“Come back to the house,” Peter coaxed him. “Esther will fix you something special.”

Esther nodded wearily, but Dinah shook her head in disbelief. “Just whip something up, eh?” I heard her grumble under her breath. “Why doesn’t Jesus use his powers to whip something up!” Considering the chaos his presence caused, I couldn’t blame her for what she said. I’m glad Jesus and the other disciples hadn’t heard her remark, but the truth was, as we entered the main room, the house was a shambles after the damage done to the roof, and the women were exhausted themselves. Mary was quick with her input, too, suggesting the same thing as Dinah, but in a positive spirit. Jesus looked at her tolerantly, replying wearily, “I don’t use God’s power frivolously.” I doubt Mary knew what the word frivolously meant, but I knew she wasn’t stupid. Someday, I told myself, she would surprise us. For now, I comforted her quietly as the disciples plopped down in various corner of the room: “Your heart is pure, Mary.” I said discreetly. “Jesus knows this. Don’t ever change!”

Mary smiled warmly at me. Had I been the man I was before—the adventurer and scamp, I would have done everything in my power to have this woman… But I wasn’t that selfish man nor was Mary the person she was before. As we glanced at each other, while Esther, Dinah, and Bernice entered the kitchen for the purpose of making us supper, I sensed greatness in her. It wasn’t in her beauty, words, or girlish manners, but in the simple fact, Jesus had transformed her, as he had Thaddeus. He had a purpose for her far beyond a helpmate for Peter’s wife and mother-in-law or mere convert of the Way. What it was I didn’t know then, but there was no one, except perhaps Jesus own mother, who would love him more. I had decided almost immediately, after the miracle that made her who she was, to be her friend. Though John, Judas, and I looked at her lustfully at times, the other disciples thought of her as ‘that ex-prostitute,’ as they looked upon Matthew as that “ex-tax gatherer,’ and Simon as that ‘ex-temple spy.’ The fishermen were slow to accept outsiders. Now, I felt the urge to be her protector against their criticism. In this noble enterprise, I competed with both Judas and John.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Feeding The Five Thousand

I’m still not sure what Jesus greatest miracle was. He did so many. Perhaps at the top of the list, however, is what he was forced to do the morning after his Sermon on the Mount. We awakened once again with sunlight streaming in through the roof. It was late morning. Jesus was up and about, this time managing the cleanup of Peter’s house. Because of the shambles caused by Azrael’s sons, we were expected by Dinah to clean up the mess. There were fewer idlers outside this morning, so we were able to toss the rubble safely in back of the house. That done, we cleaned ourselves up with the water fetched by Judas plus an extra bucket Bernice brought in after tending to Bartholomew’s mule. Breakfast was, as it was many times, simple: goat cheese, milk, and bread (fresh on this occasion) and dates Esther had been saving for a special occasion. This morning would prove to be a special occasion.

As before, the disciples, as well as Tobin, Mary, and Peter’s family, accompanied Jesus. Azrael and several other new members had been waiting outside Peter’s door. What Jesus would say to the multitude today we had no clue. Almost immediately, though, an element of alarm was added to the mystery. As Jesus feared, the people were hungry. Ishbadad, who had been delegated to lead Jesus to the waiting congregation, explained their dilemma in a matter-of-fact manner, having been wise enough, himself, as many of the people, to bring provisions. Jesus gave him a troubled look but said nothing, until we arrived on the hilltop again. Looking down at the multitude, he shook his head.

“The foolishness of men and women exceeds their faith,” he said to Ishbadad. “So eager are they to see miracles and hear great words, they don’t bring food for their families or themselves.”

“Tsk-tsk,” Ishbadad clicked his tongue, “foolish indeed!”

“Jesus,” Peter tugged his sleeve, “those people look hungry. What’re we gonna do.”

“We’re not doing anything,” he seemed to jest. “I have to solve this dilemma, not you.” “Ishbadad.” He turned to the representative. “Bring me someone’s lunch.”

“Pardon me?” Ishbadad was taken back. “Did you say ‘someone’s lunch?’ ”

“That’s what I said.” Jesus frowned.

Bartholomew, who, as always, was bringing up the rear, cupped his ear. “What did Jesus say?” he asked Tobin.

“I think he said someone’s lunch or was it hunch?” Tobin turned to Mary.

“Lunch, silly!” Mary giggled.

By now, Ishbadad had scurried down the hillside on his quest. After only a few moments, he returned pulling a little boy along impatiently by his hand.

“Be careful with that child!” scolded Jesus.

“What is Jesus doing now?” Dinah grumbled to Esther.

“Hello, Eblas,” Jesus called to the boy. “What do you have for us today?”

“Five loaves and two fish,” the boy answered promptly.

“Well, that’s a big lunch for such a little fellow,” Jesus said, tousling his hair. “How about sharing that with us?”

The boy nodded unhesitantly.

“Are you serious, rabbi?” Ishbadad laughed. “What can you do with that?”

“Watch and believe,” Jesus replied calmly. “Peter, Andrew, Philip, John…” he called out our names, “the people are spread out. Gather them closely around the hill, so that we can distribute the loaves and fish easily.”

“Gather them together?” Judas asked in amazement. “Is he mad? There are thousands of people down below.”

“Do what he says!” Peter pointed a finger into his chest.

“Judas is right,” James complained, as we set forth, “this is insane!”

“James,” I chided. “After all your fine words, you doubt him now?”

“Even Jesus has his limits!” grumbled James.

My words had belied what I really felt and yet I felt giddy, eagerly setting about our task. Making shooing motions, we scooted the crowd upwards, a Jesus stood on the crest directing each sector of the hill. After a short while, the multitude was bunched up around the slope. From testy remarks to outright blasphemies, members of the crowd let us know how they felt. Finally, after maneuvering here and there, Jesus raised his thumb in the Roman fashion (signaling in the arena life for a fallen gladiator). Jesus gave the Shema, and then blessed the bread and fish, with a simple prayer. At that point, the miracle of the five thousand written differently by Matthew, Mark, and Luke commenced. Having read all accounts thanks to Luke, who collected Jesus words and sayings, I’m not sure who was more accurate between the three writers. In the words of a Greek, time is the enemy of truth. What the apostles had wrong in their accounts, however, was insignificant compared to the actual miracle, itself, which no one can doubt. Breaking the first loaf up and handing it to Peter, it was torn in two and passed down the line. From Andrew, Philip, John, his brother, and then onto the rest of us, it remained one half loaf—the first miracle witnessed that hour. Not long after this distribution began, Jesus repeated this with a second loaf, then the third, followed by the two fish (one at a time), each time tearing the portions in half and each time the half remaining as it continued through the crowd. In what should have a nightmare of distribution, the recipients of the food simply divided their share and passed it on until finally the multitude sat on the grassy slope eating the little boy’s lunch.

“This is awesome!” Judas, who had so recently, thought Jesus was mad, cried.

“I still can’t believe it,” James said, munching on his bread. “We all have three half loaves and two halves of the original fishes; who could ask for more?”

“Look!” Philip pointed a pair of men, carting a baskets in each hand, “those are left-overs.”

“Ho-ho,” Jesus laughed heartily. “Let the people take some of it for their trip home. What’s left they can give to the poor!”

All of Jesus followers—the Twelve Disciples, members of the Seventy, Mary Magdalene, Esther, Dinah, and Bernice had seen what they thought was Jesus greatest miracle… But the week in which Jesus preached to the multitudes was still young and Jesus mission on earth wasn’t halfway done.

******

Though the gospel writers didn’t divide Jesus appearances before crowds into separate stages, I could see two major phases so far in his ministry, (1) preaching salvation, as he had to smaller groups in which he and his disciples gave the rites and baptized, following his encounter with John the Baptist in the River Jordan; and (2) during his Sermon on the Mount uttering sayings that essentially redefined the Ten Commandments and gave a plan for living righteously simpler yet, in some ways, were more demanding than what is found in the law.

That day, as I reflect, there would be a third stage, which I call the ‘parable phase,’ which became increasingly important in the days ahead. Because he followed God’s schedule and timetable, there were, of course, no hard and fast rules for Jesus. What was revealed by God to him and unchangeable was his purpose to spread the word and his expectations for us to do the same. That our separate missions would begin soon, we clearly understood. Jesus was, after all, only one man. I can’t speak for the other men, but there was a symbolism in what I saw that day. The multitude, us large as it was, struck me as but a microcosm of the thousands untouched by the word.

As we watched Jesus gather his thoughts while looking out at the cheerful, munching and smacking faces of diners, we hadn’t expected today to equal yesterday’s sayings to the crowd. They weren’t even paying attention. Any moment, we expected another batch of sick, lame, blind, and demon-possessed people to line up on the slope. Once again, we weren’t disappointed. Idleness invited opportunity. What preceded his parables, therefore, was a series of healings much greater than yesterday.

“Speak, Jesus,” coaxed Peter, “before they come!”

Jesus had waited too long, however. Most of the crowd, apparently finished with their lunches, grew restless. To make matters far worse, in the near distance, we could see men and women hobbling or being led by others: the sick, lame, blind, and possessed. Much more important in the very near future, was a distant multitude of people, moving over the field near the lake.

“Why did he dally?” Philip groaned.

“This isn’t the first time,” John grumbled. “He can’t heal the whole world. What did everyone do when he wasn’t here?”

“Good question.” Peter scratched his head. “His patients have all kinds of ills, from simple sores to blindness. One fellow who brought his wife in could have patched her up at home. Jesus shouldn’t use his miracles for every cut and bruise.”

Jesus had already moved out to meet the line of supplicants before the disciples began grumbling, but I’m certain he heard their complaints. Despite our concerns for his welfare, we understood, each in our own way, what this meant. The fishermen found it difficult to put it into words, but I viewed it as a high water mark for Jesus’ ministry. Apprehensive about the demanding crowds as we were, none of us wanted to miss a thing. Though Bartholomew hadn’t been able to bring his cart along, he and Tobin remained steadfast, as did Peter’s family. While Esther and Dinah, assisted crotchety Tobin between them, Bernice and Mary braced Bartholomew’s trembling elbows, to keep him from falling down.

“There-there,” Mary said to Bartholomew, “sit down here and rest a spell.”

“Phew,” he exhaled, wiping his brow, “I’m not what I used to be.”

“None of us are what we used to be,” she replied, easing him down onto the grass. “I envy you and the other men. You’re his disciples. I’m just one of the women.”

“Oh, your much more than that.” Bartholomew said artlessly. “You’re one of Jesus’ greatest cures.”

That could have been taken as an insult by Mary, considering what she was cured of (prostitution), but I could tell by her grin that she considered it a great compliment. That moment, though, as Jesus began his healing, Bartholomew gave Mary another compliment she found less suitable when he told her she would make someone a fine wife and, God willing, have many children. Of course, in a spiritual sense, Mary would one day think of herself as married to Jesus, but now, considering her high expectations, his second compliment made her frown severely with disapproval. Because of the male dominancy in Jewish society as well as among Jesus disciples, such statement was expected. Bernice, for her part, saw it as praise to Mary’s womanhood.

“It’s true, Mary,” she said discreetly, “you could have your pick of those men.”

“I don’t think so,” whispered Mary, glancing down at Bartholomew. “He’s a silly old man!”

Had these moments not demanded a certain amount of reverence, I might have broken into laughter. Neither Bernice nor Mary understood what sort of men we were. That very instant, Jesus cured an epileptic girl, who had fallen into a faint, then a jerking and gyrating fellow who may have been possessed. Afterwards, he healed a blind women, a child with a withered arm, and countless ailments, ranging the gamut of human misery. I’m not making light of this; I simply don’t have the time or ink to write down all his cures. There was no telling how much healing he would have to accomplish when the second group appeared. Jesus was forced to perform his miracles expeditiously this time. Suffice it to say it took just long to complete this batch for the second multitude to spot Jesus and come rushing to the scene.

“Great Moses beard!” Andrew pointed. “We’ll be surrounded!”

“Quick!” Jesus came alive. “To the water, Peter.”

“What for?” Judas frowned. “Then he’ll really be trapped!”

“No, he won’t,” I said with understanding, “not if he’s in a boat.”

“Good idea!” exclaimed Peter. “After preaching awhile, you can make a proper getaway.”

“Esther, Dinah, Bernice, and Mary,” he snapped his fingers, “there’s not enough room in the boat. Wait for us back at the house.”

“What!?” Mary looked around in disbelief.

“Come on Mary,” Dinah crooked her finger. “We don’t want to be caught in that mob!”

“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “I’m staying!”

Dinah, who had never liked the headstrong Mary, threw up her hands. “Foolish girl!” she grumbled. “What does Jesus see in her?”

I couldn’t hear Esther’s response, but I saw her glance back with a frown. Bernice, who had made friends with Mary, gave her a sympathetic look, as did the converts made that day. Peter’s family had accepted his suggestion with moderate protests, but for Mary this was a serious affront. I felt sorry for her, but more sorry for Bartholomew, who felt obliged, in spite of his ills, to climb into the boat. He was too old and infirmed to be in our company. Why Jesus chose him, I will never know. The boat was now crammed to its limit, rocking too and fro as Bartholomew found his place. It took the rest of us, after frantically grabbing oars, to row a safe distance from the crowd.

Moving out a ways, as Jesus stood by the mast, we watched anxiously as some of the horde waded into the water. Tobin, Azrael, and the other new converts remained ashore to witness the event from afar. Mary, who refused to go back with the other women, stood amongst them, her arms folded resolutely. I admired that young woman’s spirit. Even at such a great distance, she was a striking and beautiful woman.

In what many call his Sermon on the Lake, which Matthew would later record, Jesus moved into the third phase of his ministry I mentioned earlier: parables, giving his listeners short sermons, which, through stories of human interaction, showed designs for living as well a path to salvation and eternal life. From one of Peter’s boats, while clutching the mast, he became a storyteller, rather than a preacher.

“Faith is like a field,” he began after gathering his thoughts. “A farmer went out to his field to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop— multiplying thirty, some sixty, some a hundredfold.”

“So you no see,” he exclaimed, pointing to the sky. “The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field. While everyone was sleeping, his enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and went away. When the wheat sprouted and formed heads, then the weeds also appeared. The owner’s servants came to him and said, ‘Sir, didn’t you sow good seed in your field? Where then did the weeds come from?’ ‘An enemy did this,’ his master replied. The servants then asked him, ‘Do you want us to pull them up?’ ‘No,’ he answered, ‘because if you pull the weeds, you may uproot the wheat with them. Let both grow together until the harvest. At that time I’ll tell the harvesters to collect the weeds and tie them in bundles to be burned, then gather the wheat and bring it into my barn.’”

As I gazed out at those closest to the shore, I could see blank faces and a few frowns. Parables were too subtle for most of their rustic minds. Clearly, however, to the more astute, it might seem that Jesus was referring to heaven and hell in this parable. Why Jesus even spoke in parables would be answered later to his disciples, when he explained why he used them and what the most important of them actually meant.

“Why is he being so mysterious?” James whispered in my ear.

“He’s trying to make a point,” I whispered back.

In hindsight, however, I realize this isn’t quite true. It didn’t appear to matter that the multitude and most of his disciples didn’t understand them; Jesus was, I understand now, speaking to the ages. Even back then, I understood the mindset of my people. His Sermon on the Mount was relatively easy to comprehend. It was something a preacher would say to a crowd, but that day on the lake, in a difficult to understand parable, Jesus appeared to skirt the ultimate issue, perhaps because he didn’t believe the multitude was ready, that he was the promised Messiah. Unfortunately, the great majority of Jews expected a conquering redeemer like King David. From the beginning, I had feared for Jesus safety—a fear based upon the attitude of Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents. Now, a feeling of trepidation for Jesus grew in me that had a much wider scope…. As I studied the miracle-seeking crowd and the mob Jesus fed before, mingling together for one final show, I wondered how many of them were only dazzled by Jesus ‘magic’ and charisma. Those who became converts, who hadn’t melted away after coming to their senses, would, I know now, become what we would one day call the ecclesia, but that hour Jesus audience struck me as a great horde of rabble, who didn’t understand Jesus at all.

Perhaps sensing their frame of mind, he paused, as if mentally constructing a different story. “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed,” he resumed, “one which a man planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds come and perch in its branches.”

After this, however, Jesus grew enigmatic again when he said, “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed into and worked all through the dough.”

This short parable drew blank looks from everybody, including myself. As I understand it now, thanks to my friend Luke, who expounded upon Matthew and his own recording of what he called the Parable of Unleavened Bread, this short parable is an explanation of the Lord’s grace upon the believer. As Luke saw it, the word works like leaven in the hearts of those who receive it, slowly and silently, as when bread rises and expands. When I first heard this, however, I was puzzled by its brevity. It seemed incomplete. Everyone waited for Jesus to finish his train of thought. Jesus, in fact, paused a few moments before continuing, as if listening to his father.

During this pause, the audience and his own disciples grew restless. It was plain to everyone that Jesus’ sermon on the mount and sermon on the lake were different. When Jesus gave his sayings to the first crowd, they had listened quietly, hanging onto his every word. This time the multitude, upon hearing the new format, grew restless. Most of those who waded out into the water had retreated and were sitting idly on the shore. As the farmer’s seed that fell on shallow soil, they had dull looks on their faces. Many weren’t even paying attention. I could see Mary standing amongst the converts, chatting with a woman in this group. A stream of people were hiking away now, though most of the crowd remained, wondering what the miracle-worker would say next. While everyone waited, Jesus remained perfectly still, his eyes shut and expression tranquil as if he had fallen asleep.

“Jesus!” Peter shook him gently. “This is no time for a nap!”

“I’m not sleeping,” he said from the corner of his mouth. “I’m listening! When will you learn?

“But Jesus,” John pointed excitedly, “they’re drifting away. Those are simple people out there. They don’t understand!”

“Humph!” grumbled his brother. “I don’t understand. We’re simple too.”

“John’s right.” Andrew scratched his beard. “You’re losing your audience…. The kingdom of heaven is like yeast—what did that mean?”

“Listen with your heart,” Jesus answered flatly, “not your mind.”

“How’s that possible?” Judas grinned foolishly. “The heart has no brain.”

“You’re taking it literally,” Matthew raised an eyebrow. “Jesus is using stories that mean something else. The prophets used them to teach the children of Israel, but Jesus stories are brand new!”

“That’s right.” I gave Judas a wry look. “They’re parables. He knows that.”

“Have some respect!” Simon scowled.

“Parables?” Philip made a face. “What are parables?… What does literally mean?”

“Master,” Thomas called from the rear of the boat, “just speak plainly, like you did before! Your sermon was easy to understand.”

“Shut up—all of you!” Jesus hissed, raising his hands.

His eyes glowing with revelation or annoyance, he looked once more out at the crowd.

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field,” he continued, raising a finger. “…. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field.” “The kingdom of heaven is also like a merchant looking for fine pearls,” he said, raising a second finger. “When he found pearls of great price, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.” “Consider this,” he said, raising a third fingers. “The kingdom of heaven is also like a net that let down into the lake to catch fish. When it was full, the fishermen pulled it up on the shore. Then they sat down and collected the good fish in baskets, but threw the bad away. This is how it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come and separate the wicked from the righteous and throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

“Now that made sense!” mumbled James.

“Yes,” Bartholomew murmured, “even the fishermen understood that.”

“He said shut up!” Peter whispered shrilly.

“All right,” Jesus said forbearingly, raising a fourth digit, “consider this…. Every teacher of the law who has become a disciple in the kingdom of heaven is like the owner of a house who brings out of his storeroom new treasures as well as old.”

The multitude stirred. There was a mixture of sighs, groans, and coughs.

“Have you understood all these things?” Jesus stopped to ask the crowd.

There were only a smattering of yes’s, many nodding heads, but also a great many blank looks.

“Do you really?” he asked again.

Again there was an effort to show approval. I asked myself that moment, “Was this just a test he was gave the multitude?” If so, they had, as a group, failed the test. Once more, though, I’m thinking like an average mortal. Like God, Jesus was inscrutable. He had proven it that hour. Later, though it would still be an enigmatic answer, he would explain why he gave the multitude parables. As he stood there at the mast studying the crowd, questions rang out but not from ordinary citizens.

At first, as the first voice erupted from a nearby group of idlers, the question sounded sensible enough, but Jesus saw right through him. “Teacher,” the man said, “I will follow you wherever you go, but first let me go and bury my father.”

Shielding his eyes from the setting sun, Jesus replied, “Follow me, and let the dead bury their own dead.”

Stepping forward into plain sight, a young Pharisee, the man who pretended to be a supplicant, said mockingly, “Teacher, give us a sign from you.”

“Yes,” a second man, likely a scribe, echoed his sentiment, “show us a miracle, rabbi. Make it rain. Strike yonder tree with a bolt of lightning. Surely, after feeding a multitude you can do that!”

Enigmatically again, Jesus replied, “Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”

“By whose authority do you perform your sorcery?” A graybeard thrust himself forward haughtily. “God or Beelzebub?”

Lurching forward angrily, causing the boat to rock to and fro, Jesus pointed an accusing finger at the last speaker: “A wicked and adulterous generation asks for a sign! But none will be given it except the sign of the prophet Jonah. For as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of a huge fish, so the Son of Man will be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth. The men of Nineveh will stand up at the judgment with this generation and condemn it; for they repented at the preaching of Jonah, and now something greater than Jonah is here. The Queen of the South will rise at the judgment with this generation and condemn it; for she came from the ends of the earth to listen to Solomon’s wisdom, and now something greater than Solomon is here.

“When an impure spirit comes out of a person, it goes through arid places seeking rest and does not find it. Then it says, ‘I will return to the house I left.’ When it arrives, it finds the house unoccupied, swept clean and put in order. Then it goes and takes with it seven other spirits more wicked than itself, and they go in and live there. And the final condition of that person is worse than the first. That is how it will be with this wicked generation.”

Almost submerged by his overall rhetoric was the first admittance to citizens at large that he was the Messiah and, more ominously, an allusion to his own death and resurrection.

“Row us away from here!” Jesus commanded his disciples.

Needing no coaxing, we manned the oars, rowing continuously, with the expectation that Jesus would tell us when to stop. During our efforts, Jesus fell asleep—an amazing feat considering the sudden swell rising on the lake. Pausing in our rowing then bringing in the oars, we looked at Jesus in dismay and disbelief. Even the old, infirmed, and weary Bartholomew couldn’t sleep in such a storm. As our self-delegated leader, Peter took it upon himself to awaken Jesus. “Lord, save us!” he cried. “We’re going to drown!”

Awakening from sound sleep, one eye still shut, Jesus scolded us for being cowards. “You of little faith,” he chided irritably, “why are you so afraid?”

Then standing back up, he rebuked the winds and waves with a flurry of his hands words. “Be silent!” was all he said, and just as suddenly the Lake of Gennesaret was like a sea of glass, the sky was clear again, and there wasn’t a hint of breeze.

Looking around at us, Peter asked the question in everyone’s mind: “Who is this man who commands the wind and waves? By two words, ‘Be silent,’ they’re still!”

“He’s Jesus of Nazareth,” announced James.

“He’s our brother,” I added, looking around proudly at the group.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Commission Of The Twelve

When we returned to the shore in a remote part of Lake Gennesaret, we were greeted by Mary Magdalene, Tobin, Azrael, and the converts. Not far behind them a segment of the crowd, who followed behind them, also appeared. Unlike the crowds before, they marched toward us with purpose in their eyes. In their midst were several Pharisees, scribes, and, what Simon identified as temple priests. We knew there would be another confrontation, so we surrounded Jesus in a protective circle. The healings and speeches had taken their toll on him. Though casting an angry glance at his persecutors, he said nothing as they questioned him. It sounded childish, as the fishermen blared over their questions with a constant “Blah-blah-blah!”, but it was effective. James, Matthew, Simon, Judas, and I laughed hysterically. With Mary, Tobin, Azrael, and the converts falling behind us and getting the brunt of the verbal attack, we led Jesus down a trail leading to Peter’s house. Bartholomew’s cart would have come in handy now for both Jesus and himself, but the trail would have been too narrow. As it was, James and I braced Bartholomew wobbly body on the trail. I thought surely that hour our numbers would drop to eleven, as the old man struggled for breath. Mary ran up to help us as he floundered in our arms, cooing, “There-there, you can make it Bartholomew, just a few more steps.”

As we approached the house, the religious leaders and scribes were stopped dead in there tracks by Simon. Having left his sword in Peter’s house, he pelted them with sheep dung found near the path. Inspired by his bravery, Matthew and Judas joined in the attack, throwing sheep’s dung and also dirt clod at our pursuers.

“You’re not fooling me,” Simon pointed accusingly at two of them, “I know who you are. The rest of you are Pharisees and scribes—mere nuisances to Jesus, but you’re agents of Caiaphas—I’ve seen you before!”

“You turncoat!” one of the agents shouted. “Wait till Caiaphas hears about this, Simon. What will he think when he finds out you’re one of Jesus’ men!”

Matthew, Judas, and Simon answered his rebuke with another volley of dung—again and again, until our pursuers ran back down the trail.

******

When we entered Peter’s house, we found dinner waiting in the kitchen. Though moonlight would enter the gaping hole in the roof, Esther, Dinah, and Bernice had also finished cleaning up the debris off the floor. I noticed some resentment from Dinah that Mary hadn’t been here to help, but Mary, upon entering the house, quickly pitched in, serving Jesus first after he settled on his cushion. It seemed obvious to everyone that Mary loved Jesus. As I write this, however, I will put to rest those scurrilous rumors that it was romantic love. Mary may have loved him more than the rest of us, but it was adoration, not infatuation. After John’s infatuation with Deborah, I could never be sure about his intentions. Judas, as did Simon, had gazed lustfully at both Mary and Bernice. For my part, however, I was satisfied just to have Mary in my company. She was, Judas put it crudely, food for the eyes.

After such a long, tiring day, everyone, the women included, dropped off to sleep barely an hour after our meal. I remember chatting with John’s brother James about Simon, Matthew, and Judas driving away the Pharisees, scribes, and agents, but then, after falling asleep, and after a silly stream of dream imagery in which Mary played a leading role, I awakened to the sound of voices all around. Sun streamed through the roof right into my face. Rather rudely, Peter came over and nudged me with his sandal.

“Get up, Jude,” he ordered, “we have guests! You too, James, Matthew, and Jude!”

“What? Huh?” I blinked and rubbed my eyes. “What problem? Is it them agents again?”

“No, not this time,” he said gruffly. “Now get on your feet!”

My brother James was also nudged awake by his foot. “Who does he think he is?” he grumbled. “What’s going on outside?”

“I dunno,” Thomas mumbled. “… I heard shouting. Someone was banging on the door.”

“I was having such a great dream,” Judas said groggily.

“I never dream,” Simon scratched his head. “I’m out like a candle then zap I’m awake.

“Everyone dreams,” remarked Matthew, struggling to his feet. “I have really crazy ones!”

As we chattered, we tucked in our tunics, tightened our sashes, and took turns using the cloaca outside the house. Water was heated for our ablutions. We could hear several men outside, but we had heard commotion outside Peter’s before and thought nothing of it. Evidently, because the house was already overcrowded, the meeting was occurring in front of Peter’s house. Esther fed the strangers and gave them water from the well. Though Jesus chatted with them a spell, the men received a cold reception from the disciples. Opening the front door a crack, we listened to the conversation in progress, surprised by what we discovered.

“They’re John the Baptist’s followers,” explained Andrew, perking up his ears. “Listen to them. They still don’t have a clue.”

“I can’t believe it.” Philip whistled under his breath. “The Baptist’s followers…. You’d think they’d of joined up by now!”

We hadn’t heard the first words spoken between Jesus and these men—a conversation that began when most of us were still asleep, but I remember snatches of accusing voices after awakening (“Why didn’t you come to see John?” and “Are you really the Redeemer?”) This rankled Andrew and Philip the most, since John had turned them over to Jesus personally and told his other followers exactly whom Jesus was.

One of them, Andrew identified as Menaster, chided Jesus as we listened. “How is it,” he was saying, “we and the Pharisees often fast but you and your disciples don’t?”

Jesus followed an old Jewish custom of answering a question with a question that baffled even James tutored mind: “How can the guests of the bridegroom mourn while he is with them? The time will come when the bridegroom will be taken from them; then they will fast. No one sews a patch of new cloth on an old garment, for the patch will pull away from the garment, making the tear worse. Neither do people pour new wine into old wineskins. If they do, the skins will burst; the wine will run out and the wineskins will be ruined. No, they pour new wine into new wineskins, and both are preserved.”

Once more Jesus appeared to give an answer to a speaker unrelated to the question. Because of the original rebuke implying that Jesus hadn’t cared enough for John and the other question, “Are you really the Redeemer,” though, a case could be made that Jesus was comparing the old religion (old wineskin) and its reliance on mere ritual such as fasting with the new message embodied by Jesus, himself. Why should the disciples fast when the Messiah was, in fact, here in person? I don’t believe that John’s disciples understood his answer anymore than the fishermen, who had lived simple lives. I remember Amos telling me that John told his followers after meeting Jesus, “He must increase and I must decrease,” clearly conveying the identity of Jesus to his men. Despite this, John’s disciples, like the religious leaders, appeared to be jealous of Jesus standing with the people as well as he and his disciples heresies and laxity toward the law. When I shared my views with the other disciples after they left, however, most of them found all this ambiguity a bother.

“Why doesn’t he just speak plainly?” grumbled Thomas. “What do all those things he says mean?”

“Yeah,” Philip nodded, “those par-a-bles or whatever. Now this. Why can’t he just say it straight out?”

“Jesus receives his revelations from God,” I replied thoughtfully, “and no one knows the mind of God. That’s the key to the problem. He told us our understanding would grow with faith, but sometimes I’m not sure he understands God’s revelations, himself.”

That, of course, wasn’t true: Jesus was infallible. I could have bitten my tongue for saying such a thing, and yet Thomas and Philip, at least, accepted my explanation. While John’s disciples began eating the meal provided them, Jesus had slipped back just in time to hear snatches of our conversation and my reply to Thomas’ and Philip’s complaints. Raising an eyebrow then breaking into a smile, he let it pass. In the past, he had heard me say much more outrageous things.

Mary rushed over that moment and gave him a hug. “Are you all right, Jesus?” Her bright green eyes fluttered. “Are those mean men going away?”

“I’m fine,” he said, gently disengaging her arms. “Those type of men will never go away!”

Turning his attention to Philip’s comment, uncomfortable with Mary’s burst of affection, he began a lengthy explanation of parables and the hidden meaning in his sayings.

“Why do I speak in parables?” He began, looking first at Philip. “Another question you might ask is ‘why do I speak this way to the multitude?’”

“Yeah.” Thomas bobbed his head. “It might as well be Greek.”

“You remember Isaiah’s words?” He looked over at our brother James.

“Yes,…most of it.” James gave him a dubious look. “Isaiah says some conflicting things.”

“All right,” Jesus pursed his lips. “This is what Isaiah has to say about this subject: ‘Though seeing, they do not see. Though hearing, they do not hear or understand. They’ll be ever hearing but never understanding. They’ll be ever seeing but never perceiving. For their hearts have become calloused, they hardly hear with their ears, and they have closed their eyes. Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts, and turn so I would heal them.’” “Blessed are your eyes,” he added, looking around at everyone in the room, “because they see and your ears hear. Truly I say unto you, many prophets and righteous people have longed to see what you see but did not see it, and to hear what you hear but did not hear it.

“Listen then to what the parable of the sower means: When anyone hears the message about the kingdom and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what was sown in their heart. This is the seed sown along the path. The seed falling on rocky ground refers to someone who hears the word and at once receives it with joy. Since they have no root, though, they last only a short time. When trouble or persecution comes because of the word, they quickly fall away. The seed falling among the thorns refers to someone who hears the word, but the worries about this life and the deceitfulness of wealth chokes the word, making it unfruitful. But the seed falling on good soil refers to someone who hears the word and understands it. This is the one who produces a crop, yielding thirty, sixty, or a hundredfold.”

“What about the parable of the weeds?” Thomas raised a hand. “Explain that.”

The answer he gave Thomas was most unsettling: “The one who sowed the good seed is the Son of Man. The field is the world, and the good seed stands for the people of the kingdom. The weeds are the people of the evil one, and the enemy who sows them is the devil. The harvest is the end of the age, and the harvesters are angels. As the weeds are pulled up and burned in the fire, so it will be at the end of the age. The Son of Man will send out his angels, and they will weed out of his kingdom everything that causes sin and all who do evil. They will throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of heaven.”

“The two parables I explained are the most important,” Jesus paused to explain. “The other parables I gave yesterday we can discuss later, but you should have understand the parables of the hidden treasure and the mustard seed. Surely, you fishermen understood the parable of the net.”

Peter, Andrew, Philip, John, and James nodded their heads.

“What about that answer you gave John’s men?” Simon frowned. “That wasn’t a parable and it still didn’t make sense.”

“Jude already explained that.” He gave me a nod.

“I was right?” I looked at him in disbelief.

“Yes,” he answered, looking around the room. “All of you will know the truth, which comes with increasing faith. It’s enough for you to be reminded of how difficult it will be for close-minded people to accept my message.” “You,” his said, spreading his arms, and looking around the room, “are the new vintage. Many times it will like mixing water and oil. The path is narrow. The road is long.”

*****

Jesus use of colorful speech was annoying to many of his disciples, but, with the two principle parables explained and his reminder of how difficult our mission would be, we set out for new territory that morning. To Mary’s dismay, Jesus ordered her to stay with Peter’s family. It was too dangerous out there for women, he explained as delicately as possible, not a comforting thought to those overhearing that conversation.

On our way out of Capernaum, heading north this time, with Jesus at the forefront chatting with Peter and the disciples, we encountered two blind men, who begged him for a cure. Jesus sighed heavily, shaking his head.

“Have mercy on us, Son of David!” the cried out.

I heard him mumble something to the men, and they replied. “Yes, Lord.” Clearly these men knew who he was. Jesus simply touched their eyes and said, “According to your faith, you’re healed,” and their sight was restored. Jesus warned them sternly, ”See that no one knows about this.” But, of course, the two men would spread the word everywhere they went.

Not long after the two men departed, a small crowd arrived with a man who had the biting disease. Restrained by ropes—four men holding the lines tightly, he spat and lunged at Jesus, as Jesus said the words. I was so shaken by this specter I scarcely remember what he said. A so-called demon was driven out, it was later claimed, but Luke, a physician and disciple of Paul, would one day tell me it was caused by the bite of a bat or other warm-blooded creature—a fatal malady with no human cure, that is until Jesus came along. If I had this knowledge back then, I would have been more amazed. The men who brought him to Jesus, as well as the crowd gathering to watch were likewise amazed. It was a spectacular healing for Jesus. As always, though, a Pharisee (in fact the graybeard who accosted Jesus before) claimed that Jesus drove out the man’s demons by sorcery through Beelzebub, the prince of demons. No one listened to the old man. Peter and Andrew, in fact, angrily escorted him from the scene. When the afflicted man was cured and untied from his restraints, he was given water, which, according to Luke, was something those afflicted with the biting disease shunned. Though his clothes were torn, his beard and hair flecked with foam, and he was bleeding from several cuts, a radiant smile spread across his sunburned face.

Jesus thanked the man’s friends for their faith. When family members arrived to protest the treatment of the Pharisee, the rest of us joined Peter and Andrew in shooing them away, while Jesus took the man and his friends aside, spoke the formula, and baptized them into the Way. We would learn later that Zariah, the man healed and his friends, like Azrael, were selected for that larger group of followers, who would eventually number seventy. The depth of their faith had made them prime candidates. What didn’t make sense to me yet was why Jesus hadn’t selected more potential members. It appeared to James and I that the faith of those men, who brought Zariah must have been especially great, since they risked being attacked by the rabid man.

******

After the previous days, what transpired in the small villages surrounding Lake Gennesaret seemed anticlimactic. Jesus taught in a few synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and there were a number of cures, but we could tell that he needed a rest. He admitted to James and me privately that he wanted to spend time with our mother. We sensed by his words as well as the direction we were heading, that we would soon be sent out on our own, as he promised us earlier. Finally, at one point, as we made camp, he pointed to a distant town, exclaiming, “Look, men. The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. The Lord of the harvest must therefore send out workers to harvest his field. The people are sheep without a shepherd, but the shepherd needs herders—you, my disciples, must to take up the load.”

“It’s that time.” Peter acknowledged glumly.

“Yes.” Jesus replied with resolution. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Me too?” Bartholomew looked at him in disbelief.

“Yes, you too.” Jesus said with a nod. “All twelve of you.”

“Oh dear me.” The old man whined. “…I didn’t bargain for this.”

“None of us did.” Simon stared blankly into the fire.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured Bartholomew. “You’ll have your mules and cart. The rest of us have to walk!”

“Yes,” Simon mumbled, “walking into the unknown.”

“Sheep among wolves!” Philip exclaimed.

“No,” Jesus quickly replied. “You’re shepherds in your own right. You’re not going into the unknown. When you begin your missions, you’ll know exactly what to do.”

“Uh, excuse me Jesus,” James cleared his throat. “Unless I’m mistaken, the prophet Amos was a shepherd, the Lord guided him too, and he was killed and tortured!”

“Amos wasn’t my disciple,” Jesus raised an eyebrow. “I’m aware of how our people treated the prophets. Don’t use scripture with me, James. What we’re doing is the Living Word. I explained that to you men. God has given me the shield which I share with you.”

James, Philip, Bartholomew, and Simon shook their head in dismay. There was, in fact, a collective groan around the fire. “God’s Shield…Living Word,” Matthew muttered fretfully. “Fine words indeed. But I’m not popular in some towns, Jesus. Without my guards, I might just get myself stoned!”

“Remember.” Jesus wrung a finger at him. “You were Levi then. You’re Matthew now—my disciple.”

“If you’re worried about disclosure,” Judas sneered, “shave off your beard. You’re lucky you don’t have red hair.”

“I had red hair,” Bartholomew murmured light-headedly, “now it’s snow white.”

“I-I have enemies,” Judas blurted.

“Your enemies are God’s enemies.” Jesus gave Judas a studied look. “I wouldn’t send you men out without God’s shield.

Despite my efforts to strengthen Bartholomew’s resolve, John’s brother James spoke all of our minds. “Jesus,” his voice trembled. “You are our shield. You won’t be out there when we preach. An arrow, javelin, sword, or errant rock would end our careers.”

“Good point,” John agreed. “The Pharisees and scribes are out in force now. We might also anger the town magistrates when we preach.”

“And don’t forget Caiaphas’ agents.” Thomas gave Jesus a frightened look. “They’ll sick the Romans on us!”

“My dear disciples.” Jesus glanced around at the group. “Nothing is going to happen to you. They want me. That fox hasn’t nabbed me yet.”

“By fox, you mean Caiaphas?” Judas frowned. “He’s a powerful man, a dangerous man.”

“That’s correct, Judas.” Jesus exhaled wearily. “Are you sorry, you joined?”

“Well,…no,” Judas answered indecisively, “but like Matthew, I’d like to avoid certain towns.”

“That goes for me,” Simon said shakily. “Send me to Tyre or Sidon—towns farther north where they don’t know me.”

“Exactly!” Judas snapped his fingers. “Tyre or Sidon, anywhere north of Capernaum.”

Jesus closed his eyes, as though he was once again in communion with God. When he opened his eyes, all of us leaned forward, ready for his revelation.

“It’ll be like this,” he said, raising a finger, “when you go out in twos, you will go to certain towns. I want no duplications. You will all go north into regions we haven’t been, so there’s no need to worry about disclosure. I promised you a shield, but I want your fears dispelled. Your minds must be clear. As you travel and see road markers or Roman milestones, choose your direction to towns and villages as you see fit: there are many to choose from. From each fork in the road move on, until all six pairs have chosen their directions. Don’t go among the Gentiles; their time is coming. This time avoid Samaria and other places where we’ve already been. This I command you for your own protection. Go rather to the lost sheep of Israel. As you go, proclaim this message: ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ When the opportunity arises or is forced upon you heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those who have leprosy,drive out demons. Freely you have received, so freely you must give. You will not bring money with you nor extra tunics or sandals, for the worker is worth his keep. Whatever town or village you enter, search there for some worthy person and stay at their house until you leave. As you enter the home, give it the greeting of peace. If the home is deserving, let your peace rest on it. If, however, they won’t welcome you or listen to your words, leave that home or town and shake the dust off your feet. Truly I say unto you, it will be more bearable for Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgment than for that town.

“Philip is right, though,” he paused to reflect. “I’m sending you out like sheep among wolves, but your faith will protect you.”

“Uh-uh.” Thomas’ shook his head. “You said God’s shield will protect us.”

“Yes, your faith in God,” Jesus clarified with a flicker of irritation. “No matter what they do to you, they won’t kill you.”

“Oh that’s encouraging,” Judas snarled. “What if the magistrates get their hands on us?”

“Well.” Jesus shrugged his shoulders. “You might be imprisoned temporarily, even flogged, but no matter what they do to you, they won’t kill you. So, to avoid arrest and undo mistreatment, be shrewd as snakes but innocent as doves. Be on your guard, men. On my account you will be brought before town leaders and magistrates as witnesses to them as well as to Gentiles present. When they arrest you, don’t worry about what to say or how to say it. When you preach or when you must defend your actions, the words will come to you. It won’t be you speaking but the spirit of my Father speaking through you. Many times you will be in the shadow of evil. At that point, remember the Psalmists words, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…” You will see the best but also the worst in mankind. Brother will betray brother and a father will betray his children. Children will rebel against their parents and have them put to death. You will be hated by everyone because of me, but if you stand firm to the end you’ll be saved. When you are persecuted in one place, flee to another. I admit, men: you are being tested. What you do now is only the beginning. In the future, as preachers, going through the towns of Israel, you won’t be finished with your mission before the Son of Man comes.

“The student isn’t above the teacher, nor the servant above his master. It is enough for students to be like their teachers, and servants like their masters. If the head of the house has been called Beelzebub, how much more the members of his household!

“So don’t be afraid of them, for there is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight. What is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs. Don’t be afraid of those who kill the body, for they can’t kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the Evil One who destroys both soul and body in hell. Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. The very hairs of your head are all numbered, so don’t be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows.

“Whoever acknowledges me before others, I will also acknowledge before my Father in heaven. But whoever disowns me before others, I will disown before my Father in heaven. Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to turn a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. In fact a man’s enemies will be the members of his own household.

“Anyone who loves their father or mother more than me is not worthy of me. Anyone who loves their son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. Whoever does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Whoever finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it.”

“Pardon me, Jesus.” Simon bolted to his feet now. “I thought you said we wouldn’t be killed.”

“Yeah.” Thomas ran his hand through his hair. “What’s this business about the cross? Do we face crucifixion as well.”

Everyone, not just Simon and Thomas, was overwhelmed with Jesus’ speech. After first promising us God’s shield, he so much as told us we might face death. I understood that revelation filled Jesus head constantly, and his mind was just too vast for our simple brains. But surely he wasn’t talking about tomorrow but a later fearful time.

“Jesus,” I stood up shakily. “Is this prophecy. Are you talking about now or later?”

“Jude understands revelation.” Jesus grinned with approval. “He grew up with me. I was coming to this clarification. I’m not talking just about now; I speak for the future—your futures. When you go about your work, most folks will treat you kindly. Many of them, who know and believe in me, will surely welcome you, but, as time passes, when you’re on your own one day, things will worsen. For now, I want you to be vigilant and wise. If you listen to the spirit within you, you’ll have few problems. Wherever you go, the Lord goes with you!”

Jesus went on to press this point. Though he had cleared up the matter of our safety during our current missions, there would be dark days ahead, and yet most of the disciples appeared to be satisfied with his clarification. After all, Peter would later say, Jesus implied that we might not would be killed. Even James decided not to worry about this far off day. How was it that I alone saw such a dark forecast in Jesus words? Jesus had tried to spare us form God’s revelations, but the fact was he couldn’t lie. During the months our mother nursed Reuben (Bartholomew) back to health, we had to hide not merely him but Jesus when our neighbors came to visit for fear Jesus would admit to them Bartholomew was in our house.

To dispel our fears and make sure we understood what he wanted, he would repeat several points he spoke that night the next morning before our departure. Matthew has recorded fairly accurately his farewell speech, but what is missing from his account, is how Jesus separated us into pairs. The following couples, which he would bless and send on their way in the morning, caused even more dismay in our group:

Peter and Andrew

John and his brother James

Philip and Matthew

James and Thomas

Simon and Judas

Bartholomew and Myself.

It made sense to place Peter and Andrew and John and his brother together, but Philip and Matthew and Simon and Judas? Jesus was placing men together who didn’t like each other. For that matter, James thought (unfairly perhaps) that Thomas was an imbecile, and he saddled me with Bartholomew, who shouldn’t even be going on this trip. I could just imagine how Philip dreaded being paired with that rascal Matthew and how Simon and Judas would be at each other’s throats. What I found most disagreeable was babysitting Bartholomew during our mission. I had been responsible for caring for his needs on the road since we began. Now, considering Jesus reference to the future, the situation appeared to be permanent.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Going Out, Two-By-Two

Enclosed with my scrolls is a map showing the towns covered by Jesus’ disciples. After crossing the border of Galilee into Phoenicia, we scrambled to find the least populated and closest towns in the north. Because Bartholomew and I had a mule and cart it would seem that we had an advantage, and this was true for the first leg of the trip through northern Galilee. Just when the twelve reached the border and entered the province of Phoenicia, however, disaster struck Bartholomew and I. Under our combined weight and previous wear and tear, the axle of the cart finally broke. With no way of repairing the axle, we abandoned Bartholomew’s cart. I was able to help the old man onto the mule, but from this point on, I was on foot. Having to guide the mule and tend to Bartholomew’s frequent trips to relieve himself or just to rest, slowed us down to a snail’s pace.

All of the other disciples felt sorry for me, but, as Peter put it grimly, God guided our steps. God must therefore assist Bartholomew and me during this crisis. We would learn later where the other pairs wound up. Despite Jesus’ expectations for us, though, there was some confusion as well as a little deceit during their missions. Simon and Judas had rushed to Sarepta, to what they thought was the smallest of the coastal towns, after they crossed the border, only to discover a much larger community with a large minority of Gentiles. Since Jesus had told them to avoid preaching to Gentiles yet, they relied on this admonition as an excuse to move on to a few small fishing villages, leaving Sarepta untouched by the word. Peter and Andrew reached Tyre, the closest of the main towns and Philip and Matthew were forced to move further on to the Sidon—both destinations heavily populated by Syrians and Greeks, while James and Thomas took the road to Ptolemais—the largest and most heavily populated Gentile communities of the Phoenician towns. Jesus’ admonition to avoid the Gentiles, I pointed out to Bartholomew, didn’t mean to shun them. Since it would be difficult to find purely Jewish or Gentile towns, who sometimes mingled in the same crowds, Bartholomew and I, as most of the disciples, couldn’t take him literally.

Though our journey was hectic and troublesome, Jesus was proven correct: there were no serious incidents on the way: highwaymen didn’t cross our path and Bartholomew had so far survived the trip. What was left for Bartholomew and me when we arrived in the port town of Ecdippa was not much better or worse than it was for the other pairs. There were fewer inhabitants than Sidon or Tyre, but there was also a large assortment of Syrian and Greek citizens, whom Jesus told us to avoid.

“How,” Bartholomew asked, as we encamped that night, “can we filter out Gentile from Jew?”

“That’s a good question” I said, passing him the wine skin. “Jesus meant that should avoid them, not turn them away. Let’s just play it by ear.”

“Play it by ear?” Bartholomew gave me a worried look. “God’s supposed to guide us, not luck.” “….What about those miracles we’re suppose to perform?” He gazed forlornly in the fire. “Jesus said we have to have strong faith… I’ve been a sinner much of my life.” “Oh woe is me!” He held his head. “What if I fail?”

“Stop that.” I waved impatiently. “Get a hold of yourself, man. You won’t fail. I know your mind, Bartholomew. You’ve got plenty of faith!”

“Even so,” he said, taking a long swig of wine. “What if I get tongue-tied? I hate crowds. Why do you think I hid out in Capernaum? I just wanted to be left alone. Now look at me: I’m a preacher and miracle worker all wrapped up into one.”

“Moses beard!” I shook my head. “Did you even listen to him? God will put the words into your mouth.” “When you open your mouth—poof!” I snapped my fingers. “Trust me: you’ll preach up a storm!”

“You really believe that?” he asked, lifting up the wine skin again.

“Yes, of course,” I answered dubiously, “…I have to. We have to believe Jesus. I know for a fact he’s never lied.”

“Never lied?” Bartholomew wiped his mouth. “What man never lies?”

“Jesus,” I replied, my tongue loosened by wine. “He’s also perfect—without sin. My mother told us that God’s his father. That’s a plain fact!”

“Yeah, sure.” Bartholomew took a long swig. “We’re all God’s children. No ones perfect and without sin.”

“It’s true. I’m not making this up.” I swore, staring reflectively into the fire. “As a child, Jesus could work miracles. The town children were afraid of him. We all thought he was addled until Mama told us the truth. Jesus, she once admitted, is God’s son. Though pregnant when my father married her, she was a virgin. How weird is that?”

“Whoa,” Bartholomew’s eyes twinkled with mirth, “and I thought Judas was a liar.”

“Judas is a liar,” I grew indignant. “I’m telling the truth. You were Mama’s patient for months. You must’ve overheard. You saw him when he was a youth. Jesus has always been special—since birth. Our father adopted him. The rest of us were adopted, too. Not one of us, including Jesus, were sired by him, and yet our mother gave birth to him. You heard him tell the story when we visited Bethlehem. Tobin, who was one of the shepherds, verified this.” “It all points to one thing for Jesus,” I said with finality. “He’s God’s begotten son!”

Bartholomew’s eyes were half closed. He was obviously quite tipsy. “Why’re you telling me this?” his voice was slightly slurred. “Your saying that Jesus is literally God’s son. Jesus is man—a flesh and blood man, Jude. You make him out like he’s a god!”

Suddenly, as I recalled the Greek myth written by Hesiod, ‘Pandora’s Box,’ I took stock of myself. Like Pandora, who foolishly opened her box, I let out my family’s secrets.

“Whoops!” I clamped my hand over my mouth. “What am I saying…. Forget I said it…. I drank too much wine.”

“It’s camel dung,” Bartholomew frowned and smiled at the same time. “Ho-ho, your Mama wouldn’t tell you a story like that. She’s an honorable woman.” “But don’t worry.” He slung his arm over my shoulder. “I won’t remember it in the morning. Not after this!” He patted his wine skin. “Enough of wine and I won’t remember my name!”

“Wine has no memory,” I tried being glib. “Forget-me-juice, thought obliterator, pickler of the brain.”

“Ho-ho,” he cackled, wagging a finger, “that’s good—forget-me-juice, pickler of the brain…. But maybe I’ll remember after all. That was a tall one, Jude. You broke a commandment: you lied. You’re going to hell!”

As Bartholomew got himself progressively drunk, I let him believe I fabricated that story. I scarcely believed some of it myself.

“You’re right.” I gave him a depreciating shrug. “I should never drink unwatered wine.” “By the way,” I took this opportunity to change the subject, “you don’t need wine to have a loose tongue. You can do it stone sober. You gotta be more careful, Bartholomew. People are listening!”

“Would-a-you-mean?” his words ran together.

“Earlier,” I reminded him as his head drooped lower and lower, “you slipped, admitting you had red hair. That was stupid, and it’s not the first time you made such a slip. Only Jesus, James, and I know you were a fugitive. I’m not worried about Matthew, Simon, and Judas. They have their own pasts. Watch what you say around those fisherman, though. Thomas might grow inquisitive too.”

“Yup,” he grinned foolishly, “gotta big mouth, I do, but I won’t tell Jude. Your secret safe with me! Yup, I got me some forget-me-juice. Turns the mind to mush!”

“Here, give me that,” I said, reaching for the wine skin. “You had enough of wine. Lay down over here Bartholomew.” “That’s it.” I guided him to his pallet. “Now get some sleep. Dawn comes early on the coast!”

******

Bartholomew was soon asleep and snoring loudly—gurgling, snorting, and bubbling peacefully as he slept. Feeling the effects of wine, myself, I was sound asleep, too, within moments after lying down. The next morning found us in poor shape for a confrontation with more Jews. I had experience with Gentiles and had, in fact, once visited the town of Ecdippa in my travels. The pagan Syrian, Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians had hundreds of gods and didn’t mind one more. Though I never told anyone, I would take a carefree Gentile over a quarrelsome Jew any day of the week. With this heresy in my heart, I forced myself into action that morning. Not only did I have to get the hung over Bartholomew in shape to travel, I had to lead the mule to the stream for water and let him browse awhile in the nearby field, before getting Bartholomew back on his mule. Already, I sorely missed his cart. My head pounded like a Syrian gong after drinking so much wine. I could imagine how Bartholomew, who nearly emptied the wineskin, felt. It had been foolish and even deceitful of me to hide the wine in my knapsack. I wonder if the other disciples had done the same. I regretted this action greatly that morning.

After a meager breakfast of goats cheese and stale bread, washed down sparingly with our well water since I didn’t trust the stream, off we went. Bartholomew reassured me that the stream ran clear. I hoped he was correct. All we needed now was a sick mule. A young man now leading an old man on a mule was hardly an inspiring pair to preach at such a large town. I wished those moments, as we entered this seaside community, that we had found a much smaller town, but unfortunately, roadside hamlets were hardly villages at all and the sign posts always pointed to major towns.

We must have been somewhat of a spectacle as we entered Ecdippa. We immediately attracted an assembly of fair haired citizens, either Greek men and women, who often died their hair, or possibly Germans, similar to ones I once traveled with on the road.

“Well, those are certainly Gentiles,” Bartholomew motioned. “You can’t get much more Gentile than that!”

“Don’t point,” I chided amiably. “They don’t like that. Jews don’t either. Smile at them and wave your hand. We’ll go to the synagogue and find a rabbi. Remember what Jesus said about unfriendly folks.” “If they reject us,” I said, snapping my fingers, “phtt! We’re gone!”

“Yes, I remember his words.” Bartholomew brightened. “‘Shake the dust off our sandals.’”

“Right.” I nodded, reaching up to pat the mule. “When I can, I’m going to find some oats for him. He can’t keep eating grass and roots.” “I hope we find a patron soon,” I chattered wearily, “someone to feed us and give us shelter. Don’t say anything stupid, Bartholomew. Let me do the talking.”

“Which way is the synagogue?” I called to a swarthy fellow by the road.

“Humph!” He frowned. “There’s three in town: two Jewish synagogues and one Greek-speaking synagogue. Which one?”

“Greek speaking?” I looked at him in disbelief. “Here in Ecdippa?”

“Yes,” he nodded, pointing his finger. “Right over there—that big white building, but be careful, stranger. You’re dressed like a Jew. There’s been trouble here between Greeks and Jews. One fellow got himself stoned.”

“Isn’t the trouble between Jews and Gentiles?” I gave him a troubled look. “Surely not against Greek-speaking Jews.”

“I can’t tell them apart” He shrugged. “They all look and talk the same. What’s that old saying? If it looks like a sheep and baas like a sheep, it’s a sheep!”

“Well,” I said, after considering our prospects, “ I can speak Greek, but I don’t look like a Greek. Maybe I have an advantage.”

“Looking like a sheep is worse than sounding like one,” he drawled.

Realizing I had broken the first rule when meeting strangers, I belatedly introduced Bartholomew and myself. The man, whose name was Artemidorus, a very Greek-sounding name, laughed at his little joke. It turned out that his father was Greek, but his mother was Jewish, which gave him his physical appearance and still made him a Jew. Leading us to the Greek-speaking synagogue, he told us to wait outside until he found the rabbi. Fortunately for us that morning, the rabbi happened to be inside praying. Appearing suddenly on the street, clean-shaven, in toga and sash, he struck me almost as Roman in his mannerism and dress. Momentarily taken back, I stifled a smile.

“I’m Nestor, rabbi of the Macedonian synagogue,” he announced in Aramaic.

We thought you were Greek?” Bartholomew blinked stupidly.

“Macedonians?” I blurted, caught off guard. “Oh yes, Macedonians. I remember: they’re also Greeks.”

“Macedonians are Greeks?” Nestor said indignantly. “Who, by Jove, are you?”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, slapping my forehead. “I’m Jude and this is Bartholomew. We’ve traveled far to reach your fine city. I meant no offense. I admire Greek culture. If you heard Artemidorus and me, you’d know I even speak Greek.”

“All right.” He sighed. “It’s a common mistake.” “Enough small talk,” he said irritably. “Something not right about you, young man. Tell me, Judah. Why are you visiting our synagogue? You’re not a Greek-speaking Jew. By your dress you’re a Galilean.”

“I wish to speak in your synagogue,” I came straight to the point.

“Why?” Nestor now glared with open hostility at me. “State your business in our synagogue, Judah. Are you one of those Galilean troublemakers following that heretic preacher?”

I had been caught off guard by his mere appearance. Now I was totally unprepared to respond to his question. Jesus reputation had preceded us. There were no other troublemakers from Galilee I knew of? Nestor had heard about Jesus heretical message and standing as a miracle worker. This fellow wouldn’t even say my name right. How could I reason with such a man?

“Let’s go,” Bartholomew found his voice. “Come on Jude. Remember what Jesus said, ‘Shake the dust off our feet!’”

“So.” Nestor searched my perspiring face. “You don’t deny it. You’re one of the Baptists followers!”

“Yes, uh I mean no,” I jerked back my head. “You mean John, the Baptist, that fellow who lost his head?” “No, no, absolutely not,” I spat on the ground. “We’re simply spreading the good news already found in scripture. There’s nothing heretical in our words.”

“Well,” Nestor conceded reluctantly, “it’s our custom to allow anyone to speak, as long as he doesn’t blaspheme or pervert the Torah.”

“When, when,” I sounded over-eager. “We have much to say.”

The truth was I had no idea what I was going to say. Already I had lied to the rabbi. Not only had I withheld the name of Jesus, our sponsor, and maligned the name of John the Baptist, I had lied about the message. It wasn’t scriptural and was, in fact, by definition heretical. How could I honey coat my words enough to prevent Bartholomew and me from being attacked?

******

To my surprise and dismay, Nestor gave me little time to prepare. Our sermon at the front of the Greek-speaking congregation was set for tomorrow morning. When the rabbi departed, I was left wondering how God could ever lead a sinner like me. As we returned to our encampment outside of town to await our moment of destiny, I was filled with misgivings.

“What have you done?” Bartholomew groaned, as I led his mule out of town. “Our best bet is to shake off the dust, as Jesus told us, and move on. The well’s poisoned in Ecdippa!”

“I’ll pray on it!” I muttered numbly. “Jesus said everything can be solved with prayer. I just hope God’s forgiving. I’ll need a lot of it. After what I told that man, I can use all the guidance I can get!”

After my foolishness, I would have to spend an entire day and evening listening to Bartholomew’s recriminations. It seemed like just retribution for my sins. Outside of town, we appeared to be safe from my folly. An ancient slab of rock centered in a grove of olive, myrtle, and oak trees shielded us from the road. What the rock couldn’t shield me from was my doubts and misgivings. I had the grim satisfaction of recalling the Roman and Greek method of punishment: flogging or decapitation. Because Ecdippa was a large town controlled by Roman magistrates, the angriest Jews could probably get for miscreants was a sound whipping. Alas, I consoled Bartholomew, if worse came to worse, beheading was better than public stoning.

After we made camp by the rock, I led the mule to the stream winding through town. On top of everything else, I forgot to fill our water skins in town. There were sheep and goats in the fields and I still wasn’t sure it was safe enough even for the mule to drink. It hadn’t seemed to make him sick. Greatly tempted to chance contaminated water, myself, I watched the beast drank his fill then wander off to the nearby grasses to graze. After noticing how rapidly the stream danced over the rocks, a thought came to me. Looking back on this incident, I wanted to believe that God guided my steps. Running back to camp, I grabbed our wine skins. Bartholomew was napping in the shade of an oak tree, his fingers intertwined peacefully on his chest. Only moments ago he was scolding me again for placing our lives in danger. Keeping a wary eye on the mule munching in the field, I followed the babbling brook up a ways to a spring bubbling out of a second outcrop of rock.

“Thank you Lord!” I cried.

Filling the skins to the brim, I capped them, stuck my face down and slurped the cool water, then paused by the spring to make my peace with God.

“Lord of heaven and earth,” I began grandly, “I’m a fool but your fool. I stretched the truth to the breaking point, and I’m sorry, but Nestor wouldn’t have let me through the door if there were the merest trace of heresy. And yet tomorrow morning I must skirt that fine line between heresy and doctrine or place our lives in jeopardy. I know the Romans have forbidden our people to stone heretics, but it’s happened before. At the very least they will rough Bartholomew and I up and throw us out of town. I don’t know how more the old man can take. Such action might kill him.” “This is all my fault,” I wrung my hands. “Let them punish me, as Jesus warned. Throw me in prison or flog me. But Bartholomew shouldn’t suffer from my folly.” “I know what!” I began chatting with God. “I’ll leave him here in our camp for you to watch over. That’s what I’ll do. Those Greek-speaking Jews don’t need both of us.” “Thank you, Lord,” I bowed before turning on my heels.

With the water skins slung over my shoulder and the harness in one hand, I lead our mule back to camp, feeling a strange peace. It may sound like an exaggeration, but it was as if God touched me with an invisible hand. I decided to let Bartholomew sleep, while I made a fire. Our meager food supply didn’t require a fire, but it made me feel closer to God. Glancing over at my sleeping friend, I was reminded of the burning bush that talked to Moses.

That moment, as I sat there enjoying the campfire I had created, I grew concerned. I didn’t recall Bartholomew sleeping without snoring, a series of grunt, snorts, and whistles, which often kept me awake. Now he was deathly silent. Jumping up in a panic I ran over to the tree he propped himself against, shook him, then, remembering the method the Romans used to check for vital signs, I felt his pulse, listened to his chest, opened his eyelids…. There was no pulse…. No heart beat…. His pupils were fixed and dilated…. And there was no breath!

“No-o-o-o!” I screamed, shaking my fist. “This is my fault. I killed him. Plea-ease give him back the signs!”

Checking his vital signs that my friend Decius once showed me, I confirmed my worst fear: the old man was dead. Drawing back in grief, for the first time in years I wept bitter tears. I had brought this calamity upon poor Bartholomew. The final strain had been too much for him. Recalling an old custom, I tore my tunic, throwing a handful of dirt and leaves in place of ashes on my head.

“Why Lord? Why?” I rocked back and forth. “This was a righteous man. He turned his life around, led a good, quiet life. He just wanted his patch of shade. You let him die here in the middle of nowhere—for what? So I could preach in a Greek synagogue and get us both flogged. He didn’t want this. This was my idea. Please Lord give him back his heartbeat and pulse. Let him breath. Open his eyes!”

I socked myself in the forehead, pounded my temples, and held my hand briefly over the fire—primitive reactions I had seen some Gentiles do. Pulling my hand away that instance, I realized what I was doing was pagan. According to Jesus, the reaction to fear shown by rustic Jews to ward off the evil eye was borrowed from the surrounding Gentiles. Here I was trying to bash my brains out and burn my hand, a ritual that even civilized Gentiles thought was primitive. Looking around the camp, glad that no one had seen this ungodly display, I stood up in resignation, dusted myself off, and looked down at my friend.

Once more I chatted with God. “Lord.” I said, looking up through the branches. “That was inexcusable. Forgive my lapse. I saw that while traveling with Gentiles.” “Let’s try this again,” I composed myself. “… Lord, if it be your well, let Bartholomew wake up. Give him life as you once gave life to Jairus’ daughter. So far, as a disciple of Jesus, I’ve been a tourist. I tried to make an interesting game out of this. Now I shall take responsibility for whom I am—my purpose, my destiny. I pledge my life to you, Lord. If that means flogging, imprisonment, beheading, even stoning, so be it. But please, awaken Bartholomew. Jesus chose him as one of the twelve, too. Let him live!”

As I droned on repetitiously, I dropped reverently to my knees and wrung my hands. Suddenly, as I paused to gather my thoughts, I heard a gravely voice. At first, I thought it must be my imagination. I had picked a secluded spot for our encampment. Was it the voice of God? Perhaps one of the shepherds had found us. The desert nomads had strict laws about water rights. Jolted back to reality, I looked around self-consciously again, wondering what it was.

Then I heard the voice more clearly. “Why are you carrying on like that?” Bartholomew muttered querulously. “Can’t a man take a nap?”

Looking down at the old man, who looked no worse than before, I felt light-headed and out of breath. My praying and the pounding I had given my body had taken its toll. I blacked out momentarily, just long enough for Bartholomew to amble over to where I lay. Looking down at me—the reverse of what it was before, he asked me what happened. Why had I fainted? Why had I been praying over him? Why was my tunic torn and why was there dirt and leaves in my hair?

I didn’t want to tell him the truth; that would frighten him, but I didn’t want to lie either, not after the promises I made to God. How could I explain something this incredible without being factual. The answer came into my mind almost immediately: I couldn’t.

“Bartholomew,” I began carefully, “you were asleep, just like Tabitha.”

“Nah,” he waved. “Jairus daughter was dead. I was asleep—period. In fact, I had a real nice dream. I saw my mother, long-dead brother, my favorite uncle, and friends I haven’t seen in years. I wished you would’ve let me finish it. It was so peaceful there—just like heaven might be—”

“Bartholomew!” I interrupted, clamoring to my feet. “Think about what you just said. You saw your family and friends. You felt peaceful and happy. It was heaven. You were dead!”

“Uh-uh.” The old man shook his head. “I’d know it if I was dead. You’ve always had crazy thoughts, Jude. Your imagination runs wild. When it’s my time, I’ll know it. I don’t need you to tell me when I’m dead.”

“All right, you stubborn old fool.” I stomped my foot. “How do you explain the signs? You had no pulse, no heartbeat, your pupils were fixed like a dead man, and you weren’t breathing—all proofs of death. Are you calling me a liar? Jesus told us we could heal people and even raise them from the dead. You proved this to me, Bartholomew. I’m not afraid of anything now. Greek-speaking Jews, get ready: Jude and Bartholomew are in town!”

I hadn’t convinced Bartholomew yet; that would come with time, but I didn’t care. For the remainder of the day, I put away any notion of proving to him that the Lord had raised him from the dead. In stead of this failing effort, I tried bolstering his flagging courage. By my example, as I strutted around practicing my pitch for the synagogue, I displayed my resolve and newfound courage, and, after hours of talking to him that only ended when we fell asleep, I saw a growing change in his attitude. I was going to give him the choice of staying here in the camp or coming with me until the miracle I performed. Now, certain I had felt illumination those moments during our discussion, I talked him into becoming an active participant. “The Lord will give us the words,” I kept telling him. This time, unlike yesterday as I floundered in my faith, I believed it. My only concern was Bartholomew’s frame of mind. Silently, as I fell asleep, I asked God to make him believe me. Whether, he would see it that way or not, this knowledge was like a warm blanket on my soul.

******

The next morning, Bartholomew appeared to have forgotten my pep talk last night. He remained fearful of our potential reception in Nestor’s synagogue. I couldn’t blame him. I was afraid too. Bartholomew, like me, was tired of eating moldy cheese and stale bread. He needed something to bolster his spirits. As we arrived in town, I found a bakery open at this hour, and, from my limited funds, purchased warm bread and fresh pastries. He was, in spite of his misadventures in life, a simple man. The fact was his state of mind that morning was still much better than it had been in the past few days. After eating half a loaf of bread and much of the pastries, his spirits rose dramatically. I continued to remind him that God would put words into his mouth up to the very point we entered the synagogue.

Nestor opened the service with a prayer. When he introduced us to the congregation, Bartholomew was escorted to a nearby seat of honor, next to the rabbi. This made him perfectly happy. For just one moment, I almost panicked when I looked out at all those unfriendly faces…. Then, as Jesus promised, the words came.

“Citizens of Ecdippa and God’s Chosen,” I began carefully in my best Greek. “For centuries our people have waited for a savior, who is called by different names: Redeemer, Promised one, or Deliverer. Regardless of what we call him, what the prophets have foretold is finally here. Isaiah has given us two separate versions of who this man will be: a conquering hero, who liberate us from our oppressors or a suffering servant—a savior, who’ll liberate our souls. Which do you prefer: paradise on earth at the Sadducees want or paradise in heaven as the Pharisees and common people desire?”

Because of the controversy that might be generated, I had refrained from calling Jesus the Messiah. Jesus never denied this fact and a few times practically admitted it, but he would approve of my caution. Despite my carefully worded question, though, and treading lightly in front of the congregation, my question went unanswered. As I waited for a response, I wondered if I might have insulted them. The stern faced graybeards, frowning elders, and sneering young men seemed to sit in judgment of me. Moses beard! I thought hysterically, glancing at Bartholomew. This isn’t a classroom. What was I thinking? Bartholomew clasped his forehead in dismay and Rabbi Nestor shook his head. But then, as I began to perspire, several hands sprouted up in the room.

“You there, sir.” I pointed to a prominent-looking member.

“What kind’ve question is that?” The Pharisee glared fiercely at me. “You lecture to us on the scriptures? I thought you were giving us a sermon.”

“Oh, I’m going to make a point,” I explained quickly. “I was, as the fishermen would say, tossing in my line.” Dear Father Abraham, I mentally groaned. That made it worse.

A second man, a mere youth with barely a beard, stood up without being called, announcing his name: “Sporus bar Minos,” he chimed. “I would answer your question this way: God rewards righteous men in this life and the next, though there is only one heaven, which comes, after death.”

“Ah but there is no death,” I jumped on his words, “there is either life everlasting in heaven or hell. Our entire lives are a testing ground. Are we worthy of salvation or not? What good is all your wealth if you lose your soul?”

“Young man!” Nestor called out testily. “You were invited to give a sermon—a friendly talk. How dare you preach!”

“By definition,” I replied boldly. “A sermon is preaching. You were forced by synagogue etiquette to give the pulpit to a stranger, hoping I’d give a friendly chat and depart. I serve the Lord, not the rules of men. What I’m saying is no different than what Isaiah might say if he was here.”

“What?” Nestor bolted to his feet. “You’re comparing yourself to a prophet?”

“Yes, perhaps I am.” I returned his glare.

Discontent rumbled through the congregation. Bartholomew buried his face in his hands.

Remembering Jesus words and knowing I spoke God’s words, I grew reckless.

“Listen men,” I raised a finger. “You have but one life. At anytime it might be snatched from you, by disease, accident, or old age. Heaven is forever. I come here with good news: God’s messenger is out there now. He’s my brother, I serve him, and now he’s sent my friend and me out on our own. The message is so simple, you can embrace it immediately without ritual or ceremony. All you have to do is believe what the Messenger brings to you: a simple formula of repentance, forgiveness, acceptance, and baptism into a new life.”

“We Jews are already forgiven!” The Pharisee sprang up like a Syrian puppet. “We’re the chosen people. Our redeemer will sweep away the Roman oppressors. I’m successful in this life because I follow the law and traditions of our people. I’ve heard about that Baptist fellow. His religion is for sinners and misfits. We Pharisees are faithful to the Torah. Most of the Baptist’s followers can scarcely read.”

“There you have it!” I pointed accusingly him. “You have a religion that bars the uneducated and poor. What I bring is for everybody, not merely Pharisees, scribes, rich merchants, and rabbis. Do you think heaven is filled only with yourselves? No, Jesus told us that if you don’t have the faith of little children you won’t enter the Kingdom of God. Education, money, and power are stumbling blocks, but they don’t have to be. The good news Jesus offers is simple: believe, repent, and wait for your reward. Whether you live a few years longer or a long life makes no difference. Compared to paradise you lifespan is but a blink in God’s eye.”

The hands I had ignored emerged now as men stood angrily shaking their fists.

“This man would change the law of Moses!” The Pharisee cried.

“Serpent! False prophet,” shouted the youth. “The law can’t be replaced by honey-coated words.”

A second, third, fourth, and fifth Pharisee joined the chorus of protesters. So far, I hadn’t heard those dreadful words, “Stone him! Stone him!” but it was time to follow Jesus’ admonition and shake the dust off our sandals.

“Thank you for letting me speak,” I called to Nestor. “Bartholomew,” I beckoned my companion, “I said my piece!”

As we scurried out of the synagogue, I could hear men shout, “Heretic and libertine! You don’t speak for Israel! Go back to your Baptist—stay in the desert where you belong!”

Turning to those nearest the door, I informed them, “The Baptist is dead. There’s a new voice in the land!”

******

Safely on the street and sitting on his mule, Bartholomew exclaimed, “That was a disaster, Jude. You’re lucky we didn’t get stoned!”

“On the contrary,” I grinned up at him, out breath. “I hit a nerve. Whoa, did I ever! One thing I learned with my Gentile friends, is how to read people. That young man in there, Sporus what’s-his-face, was in denial. I saw it immediately. Tradition, not the Torah, was holding him back. The Jews are a stiff necked people. I could see doubt and misgivings in many of those men, but like always the Pharisees, particularly those graybeards, hold them back. In many ways age not merely money, at least with the educated, is a barrier. I wonder if that’s not why Jesus picked you, Bartholomew. He needed a representative from that age group.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Bartholomew made a face. “I might be old but I’m hardly educated. I learned everything on the road. Don’t forget I was a bandit much of my life.”

“Hey!” I made a cutting motion with my hands. “Have you forgotten what I told you? No one needs to know about that, Bartholomew. Mums the word!”

“All right, fine,” he complied, “mums the word. But look at you. You’re all puffed up like a rooster. I never heard you talk like this before. You have to tone it down, Jude. You’re gonna get us stoned!”

“We’re not gonna get stoned,” I reassured him, “not in this town. I’m only saying what Jesus would say. He’s said some pretty controversial things! Don’t your remember what he said in the temple? We didn’t get stoned then!”

“Jesus has special powers,” he reminded me. “You don’t. He walked right through those men in Nazareth—like a ghost or phantom. You can’t do that, Jude. Jesus warned us not to tempt the Lord.”

“Bartholomew!” I stomped my foot. “Where’s your faith? I have special powers too. So do you. Whether you believe me or not, Jesus told us we could work miracles when we went out. And don’t forget, God shields the righteous. You were dead and now you’re alive. Why can’t you believe that?”

“I was asleep.” Bartholomew folded his arms. “I’m heavy sleeper. I wasn’t dead!”

“Very well.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Call it what you will. I’ll have to prove it you when your conscious. But we’re not leaving this town. Those men back at the Greek synagogue didn’t come after us. Stop worrying about being stoned. This isn’t a backwater town like Nazareth or Cana. The worst that can happen here in Ecdippa is for us to get roughed up a little, maybe flogged.”

“Flogged?” Bartholomew’s eyebrows up. “That would kill me!”

“Well, it’s not going to happen.” I waved impatiently. “We’re going to avoid those high and mighty types. Unfortunately, Nestor is typical of religious leaders” “I’ve decided something, Bartholomew.” I looked thoughtfully into the distance “… For now on, we’ll concentrate on simple folks. It might be cordial to visit synagogues, but Jesus had his greatest success with little people. Lets find a central location: a well or even an amphitheatre. There’s plenty of them in Caesaria, Sidon, and Tyre. We’ll attract mostly the poor and uneducated. No more synagogues for us!”

“Do we have to baptize them?” Bartholomew gave me a worried look. “Most of those people back in Capernaum didn’t get baptized.”

“That’s true,” I stroked my beard. “Jesus did mention the ritual, but he stressed more than anything else spreading the word. You remember that parable about the sower. It’s like planting a seed and letting it grow on its own.” “Let’s play it by ear, Bartholomew,” I added, patting the mule. “Jesus is always saying it: let the Lord be our guide. All that stuff I spouted back there came right into my mind. I didn’t plan it. It was planted in my head!”

“Okay.” Bartholomew looked down with resignation. “What now?”

I drew in a breath of sea air, excited by the prospects ahead. Throwing my arms wide to embrace the day, I cried, “Preach! That’s the most important thing we can do. First we must find an audience. The formula is simple, Bartholomew: pick a likely spot, open our mouths, then speak!”

******

Looking back at those heady days, I can’t blame Bartholomew for having doubts. I wasn’t a Jesus, Elijah, or John the Baptist. After the exhilarating feeling I had when Bartholomew returned to the living, I grew overconfident, even reckless. As we walked through the main street of Ecdippa, I paused once in awhile to preach to passers-by: old people, young, men and women, and children—anyone standing by the road or coming our way. Bartholomew had wanted to follow Jesus admonition to shake the dust off our sandals and make our exit, but the truth was, we were only rejected by one congregation of Greek-speaking Jews. I heard only a few jeers, as we searched for a gathering place: a fat merchant, graybeard, and loud-mouthed youth, who appeared to be deranged.

When the young man waved his hands and screamed unintelligibly at us, however, I grew alarmed. We had made it safely through town to a communal well, a place Jesus had frequently chosen when a lake or river wasn’t available. With the Mare Nostrum so close, I had no such excuse, but we had already attracted a crowd, so I stopped to preach the word. Now, however, we had our first serious challenge, more serious even than Rabbi Nestor’s congregation.

I told Bartholomew to stay on his mule, while I looked over the heads of the mob for an avenue of escape.

“He’s not just mad at us,” observed Bartholomew, “he’s insane!”

“Yes,” I agreed, holding fast to his reins, “he’s acting too angry. I’m afraid he’s possessed!”

“Stone them! They’re blasphemers. Kill-kill-kill!” he ranted. Repeating this refrain over and over and shaking his fists, he lunged at us and spit. That last action was all it took. Fearful we had another biter, I acted quickly. I don’t remember doing it, but I must have prayed. Almost as soon as I shouted for him to be quiet, he stopped in his tracks, rolled his eyes, and fainted dead away onto the ground.

“Sorcerer!” the old crone who had been following us cried.

“No, Tamara. “ An elder stepped forth, “Agabus has the twitching disease.”

“Twitching disease?” I looked down in horror. “I thought he might be mad.”

“No,” nodded the elder, giving him a kick. “Tamara’s the one who’s mad. I’ve seen Agabus do this before. He should come to. You have to shoo Tamara away.”

“I’m telling you.” The crone pointed a gnarled finger at me. “He has the evil eye. I know his kind. Sorcerer! Sorcerer!”

Looking squarely at the woman, now the greatest distraction in the crowd, I said simply, “Be gone!”

Blinking at me, her toothless jaws working crazily as though she were chewing cud, she pivoted slowly and, in a crotchety motion, ambled back through the crowd. I could hear several people gasp and marvel in wonder. Bartholomew reached down and gave me a congratulatory pat.

“Whoa!” The elder’s mouth dropped. “That was impressive.”

“What about him?” A young woman, shuffled over and looked down with concern. “Agabus might lie there for a while. Last time he did this, a dog peed on him. The boys in town throw dung on him at times.”

Feeling great compassion for Agabus, I bent down, said a quick prayer, snapped my fingers, and told him to rise. For a few moments, as he continued to twitch, I thought I had misfired or overplayed my hand. The elder gave me a studied look, as elders often do. The audience inched closer and closer. Bartholomew groaned. Then, to my renewed astonishment, Agabus’ body stopped twitching. He lie motionless on the ground. It was as if only half the miracle had worked.

“You killed him!” the young woman cried.

“No,” I reassured her, “that’s not how it works.”

I knelt down beside him and checked his pulse then pried open his eyes. He was alive, but just barely it seemed. When I tried to waken him, there was no response. A young boy ran up, giggled, and gave him a playful kick.

“He looks dead to me!” he informed me.

“No-no, he’s alive!” I wrung my hands. “Dear Lord,” I prayed aloud this time, “bring Agabus back from the dark sleep.” Through cupped hands, as though I was calling down a long, dark tunnel, I shouted, “Agabus, wake up!”

Bartholomew began climbing off the mule. “Maybe he’s asleep,” he suggested, “like I was.”

“By the infernal spirits, Bartholomew. You were dead!” I growled under my breath.

At that point, as if this pagan oath I heard from Roman friend summoned him back to life, Agabus eyes finally opened, he rolled onto his back, and he began struggling to his feet.

A collective gasp arose from my audience. While I grabbed one of his arms, the elder grabbed the other, mumbling his astonishment. That moment, on wobbly legs, Agabus joined an elderly couple, likely his parents, who muttered their thanks then ushered him quickly away. As the remainder of the crowd hung back as spectators, the elder, a young man and woman, and small child stood there in awe. Because of this miracle, we were close to making our first converts. Judging by their looks of wonderment, others would step forth.

“My name’s Jude.” I said to the elder. “This man here is my friend and associate, Bartholomew.”

“I’m Joash.” The elder reached out to clasp my hand. “This is my son Abner, his wife Ruth, and son Joshua. I know miracles when I see them. You have the gift.”

“It’s not a gift sir,” I corrected gently. “It’s a blessing Jesus bestowed upon his disciples. He has been sent with the good news. It’s so simple. All you have to do is repent, follow the commandments, and live righteously in the love of God and you’ll have everlasting life.” “And oh yes,” I added quickly, “as an outward sign of inward grace be baptized in the spirit.”

“Preacher,” a man called from the audience, “this is something that crazy Baptist was doing in Judea. We heard Herod cut off his head.”

There was a mocking edge to the man’s tone, but I used the question to clarify who I was.

“I’m not a follower of John,” I corrected him. “I’m a servant of God and disciple of Jesus, whom he sent to spread the good news. John was a good man. He called himself a voice in the wilderness, preparing the way for the Savior. I am one of the voices now, taking up his call to repent, live righteously, and accept the good news.”

I continued in this way for several moments. Later, Bartholomew would tell me that I had been repetitious and excessive but I scarcely remembered what I said. I can barely describe the giddy feeling I had, as I spoke God’s words and performed His wonders. I didn’t simply repeat what He wanted me to say. From the Lord’s end it was wordless as it entered my head, and yet the message was transferred almost effortlessly to my audience, colored only by my style of speaking. I was, in fact, no longer in control of my mind, but guided by the Holy Spirit rather than my own skill or wit. To please Bartholomew, who didn’t want to do baptism in the first place, I would rather have used the well for the more simplified ritual of sprinkling water on the head, but I had opened my big mouth and mentioned the ritual of baptism. Because of my success as a preacher, the number of potential converts grew, until there simply no room to perform the rite at the well.

Though I was filled with sudden misgivings, it was, considering the crowd’s size, an amazing feat. Helping Bartholomew back onto his mule, I led him and the multitude to the seashore for what promised to be a mass emersion.

“What have you done?” Bartholomew muttered unhappily.

“I was listening to God,” I explained to him.

“Oh really,” snapped Bartholomew. “Did he explain to you how much more difficult this will be than baptizing in a river or lake? I heard about Phoenicia’s shoreline, Jude. It’s rocky, kelp-ridden, with waves crashing on the surf. It will be a real miracle to pull this one off!”

******

Though I was bolstered by the miracles I performed and success gathering such a crowd, Bartholomew was right. I let Joash lead me to the best stretch of coastline—a slight cove, where there was some sand and fewer rocks, but it was a far cry from the River Jordan or Lake Gennesaret. It was a good thing that most of them wore sandals on their feet. While there was a sandy shelf out a ways, the shoreline was dotted with volcanic rocks and broken shells. The children present had to be carried by their parents. Knowing how impossible the task would be if it was done conventionally, I would do something that even Jesus had not thought of.

“Bartholomew,” I ordered, helping him off the mule, “I need your help. I’ll give them the words then assist you in directing them into the water, but you must start now. Ask someone to watch the beast while you point the way. Stand by the surf and help them to form ten lines.”

“Ten lines?” Bartholomew grabbed his forehead. “Are you mad?”

“Please Bartholomew,” I growled, “just do it. I’ll make the introduction and tell them what to do. These people were impressed by what happened in town, but that sheen wears off. I’ve seen it happen at the lake and river. As I heard a Roman soldier once say, ‘For maximum effect you must strike quickly!’”

Certain, perhaps incorrectly this time, that God told me what to do, I stood on a convenient slab of rock near the water, calling out in my loudest and best voice, “Men, women, and children of Ecdippa, if you accept the simple promise of everlasting life, follow the commandments given by Moses, and live righteously from this moment on, your baptism will seal your covenant with God. The first chapter of your new life as members of the Way will begin. Please, as my associate instructs you, form ten lines. Bartholomew and I are few in numbers and you are many, so please be patient.” “Over here,” I began directing them, “and there…. Now over hear!”

Bartholomew was moving up and down the beach, as I spoke. Forming ten long lines that stretched to the seaside edge of town, the people appeared to be following our instructions. Without his cane, Bartholomew was steadfast in his task. I had told him I would assist him. My plan was to give a short speech, then move with Bartholomew from one line to the next, saying the words. Worried that he might pass out after such an effort and I might not be up to the task, myself, however, I decided to have the citizens, in effect, baptize themselves.

“Jude,” Bartholomew called to me, “what do you want me to do?”

“Keep those lines moving,” I called back. “Follow my lead.”

“One-by-one,” I shouted to the crowd, “as you march into the waves, listen to my voice: “…. Are you repentant and do you promise to lead a righteous life, in God’s commandments. If you wish to eternal life, answer together, ‘yes.’”

I thought I heard a collective yes, but the waves were pounding and the wind had risen. I could barely hear my own voice. Yet quickly, not trusting my good fortune, I called out the formula: “Go worth into the sea, each of you, and cleanse away your old life. Repeat these words when it’s your turn, ‘In the name of the Father and Holy Spirit, I’m baptized with water to celebrate my new life. In this rite, my sins are wiped away, and I’m reborn.’ Then, after this, go forth to your family, friends, and neighbors to spread the word, each of you a vessel of the Lord!”

My speech finished, I scanned with great expectation, the multitude. In what I saw as one more miracle of much greater magnitude than the others, there was not one ounce of protest here. I expected to see horsemen swooping down upon and dispersing the crowd, but the lines held for a brief while after my pitch. Then they began to bunch up. I heard laughter and, alas, a few hecklers. One fellow asked me if I would part the sea like Moses. A graybeard, who wandered down to the beach, threatened to notify the magistrates. At this point, I thought it might turn into a free-for-all as the lines merged and people crowded into the surf, but, like children playing in the water—something I had only seen at the lake, they splashed and cavorted as if it was nothing but a game. I would never know how many did the rite properly, but I watched several dozen converts saying the words, baptizing themselves, and emerging happily from the surf. Bartholomew staggered toward me afterwards, winded and ready to collapse.

“Is it over?” his voice came out thinly.

“It’s finished,” I replied in resignation, taking his arm. “We can do no more.”

Joash approached us that moment, a frown playing on his face. “Is that how the Baptist did it?”

“There weren’t as many at the river,” I dodged the question. “We follow a different master.”

“All right.” He appraised me. “What about this Jesus-fellow, the one who sent you out? Would he have folks baptize themselves?”

“The Spirit moved me,” I was again evasive. “Jesus has twelve disciples. We’re only two.”

“I’ve never in my fifty years seen a stranger sight.” He broke into a smile. “Truly, Jude, only with God’s help could someone pull that off.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Serpent In The Garden

Before Bartholomew and I returned to Capernaum, I did something else Jesus might consider unorthodox even by his standards: without consulting him, I designated the elder Joash, an unproven member of the Way, as Jesus’ representative in Ecdippa. Bartholomew thought it was a good idea, but then Bartholomew was greatly impressed with our mass baptism, too. It saved what precious energy he had left for the trip home. Unfortunately, I had been on shaky ground producing such an event, and I knew it at the time, but I could think of nothing else to do.

Joash insisted that we stay the night at his home. Bartholomew and I joined Joash, his wife Mora, son Abner, daughter-in-law Ruth, grandson Joshua, and his friends for a fine feast. If we hadn’t planned on getting on the road so soon, we might have stayed a few more days. Several of Joash’s friends, who I don’t recall being in the baptism lines, joined he and his family in seeing us off. A large number of other townsfolk I remembered seeing on the beach, also cheered us as we departed. I knew that he and his family had performed the ritual, but I had no idea how many others conducted the rite. At our send-off, the unidentified graybeard who threatened to notify the magistrates also showed up with his cohorts, but they were drowned out by hisses from the crowd. It was at that point that another critic, a scribe who identified himself as Esdras, appeared, accusing of us of baptizing Gentiles. Joash had said nothing about Gentiles being in the crowd, and Bartholomew admitted there could have been a few Greeks or Syrians in line but wasn’t sure. I had no idea then how important Gentiles would one day be for the Way, but I secretly hoped a few had slipped through. Jesus had baptized a few Romans, himself, and the prophet Isaiah had even spoken of the Messiah as being a light to the Gentiles. Despite these facts and the provision Jesus allowed for accepting this group along with Jews, we decided to keep this to ourselves.

Back on the road, with Ecdippa receding in the distance, I felt more confident than ever before.

“Wait till Jesus hears that we baptized an entire town!” I cried jubilantly.

“That’s an exaggeration,” Bartholomew wheezed. “It was a lot—maybe a thousand, not the whole town.”

“Well,” I reached up and patted the mule, “it was our first mass baptism. This fellow has earned a rest. After today, so have you! I’m proud of you, Bartholomew. You pitched in when I needed you. You did just fine!”

“All I did was wave my hands and point,” he grumbled testily. “You’re lucky I didn’t drop dead!”

“Ho-ho, Bartholomew,” I replied cheerily. “You’ll live to be a hundred. That cure I gave you must’ve given you extra strength!”

“I got news for you, Jude,” He joined in my mirth, “I’m close to a hundred now—at least I feel like it. I still don’t know why Jesus picked me. I’m too old and out of step. If I had my way, he would use his power and” “zap!” he twittered his fingers, “make them all believe!”

“Nah” I grinned and shook my head. “That wouldn’t be any fun. Once I asked Jesus why God didn’t just make people behave themselves and be good. He reminded me of the Garden of Eden, where Adam and Eve were given freewill but gave way to temptation. If we’re predestined to do good, we’re no better than puppets. Everyone has the same chance, Bartholomew. When the word is spread and people hear it, they’ll have much less reason to sin. Without hearing the message, people live in the shadow of God. They don’t have the guidelines of those who believe. God is patient with them. Those living in His light have no such excuse. The old religion is, by its ritual and airs, distant from most people. Many of those I’ve come in contact with, barely understand the Ten Commandments and nature of God. What we bring them is so simple and straightforward children can understand it. Did Jesus not tell us that children are closest to God?”

“I remember that.” Bartholomew replied thoughtfully. “Those other words, though. Are those Jesus words? I don’t remember him saying that.”

“…No,” I stopped in my tracks. “Those parts of about Adam and Eve and the children were,… not the rest. Is that what’s called divine illumination?”

“I dunno,” he said, scratching his head, “you’ve been pretty illuminated. Just wait till Jesus hears our report!”

******

To our surprise, we were the last pair to return from our missions. We arrived at Peter’s house just in time for the evening meal. No one said a word to us yet about the success or failures of their own ventures, but I could tell by many of their expressions that they preferred keeping it to themselves. Bartholomew and I couldn’t wait to tell them about our exploits, but we had to wait as we listened to them in order. The other disciples had arrived a few days before us, and yet Jesus insisted waiting until everyone had returned before hearing our reports. Most of them tried to color their missions favorably, though their eyes shifted around and they hemmed and hawed. Jesus wasn’t fooled. It seemed plan to me that what we did was, in fact, as Jesus told me before, a testing ground. That we were bolder and more innovative than the others he confessed was true, but I had been reckless and arrogant too. How did we even know that the conversions took? Other than Bartholomew and my adventure in Ecdippa, which Jesus criticized more heavily in private, only John and his brother James’ humble account was not seen as flawed. After being invited into the home of a rich merchant and, through his efforts, preaching in a synagogue without a serious problems, the elders appeared to be satisfied, when, in fact, we learned that the merchant was actually a friend of their father Thaddeus, which gave John and James an unfair advantage in this test. Philip and Matthew had tried the synagogue route also, but like Bartholomew and myself were forced out of the building. Whereas, Bartholomew and I went on to turn defeat into victory, though, Matthew talked Philip into dusting off their sandals and choosing a small fishing village to spread the word. This is basically what Peter and Andrew and James and Thomas did, when they were asked by magistrates, to leave town. Peter, in fact, was pelted with rotten fruit, he and Andrew’s greatest success being the conversion of fellow fishermen who helped them escape from town.

When Jesus questioned my mass conversion, he did it with a twinkle in his eye. Against the pounding surf and logistical problems of such a feat, a large volume of people could scarcely hear the words, he suggested. Without the personal touch of the baptizer, the rites might loose their meaning. Despite what he said, however, he appreciated my Herculean effort and was also proud of Bartholomew for giving it his all. What struck all of us as outrageous was the claims made by Judas that he and Simon converted Roman soldiers on the march, after fleeing their town. Jesus had expressly told us to go the Children of Israel, implying that we include Gentiles only as a last resort, and yet right after leaving their town, Judas and Simon avoided any more of the Jewish settlements the other disciples settled on. In what everyone had to admit was a bold move, Judas ingratiated themselves with an encampment of legionnaires. Rather than tell the Romans that Jesus was the Messiah and spreading the word as they were taught, however, Judas took a different tact. Simon, not Judas, admitted later in a private session, such as the one I had with Jesus for a proper scolding, that Judas told the Roman captain that Jesus was a new god, who would forgive them if they accepted the ‘holy words,’ baptism, and accepted our faith. He said nothing about circumcision, which James reminded him, was required to be a Jew. More importantly, he seemed, through ignorance or deliberate stubbornness, to have missed the point entirely. Ironically, though it was undoubtedly the worst thing he had done, Judas’ claim that Jesus was a new god, came closer to the truth than any of us had come.

We thought surely, Jesus would kick Judas out of the twelve and replace him with Justus, Barnabas, Matthias, or one of the other followers more worthy to be a disciple, but Jesus gave him one more chance. He didn’t actually say, “Judas, I’m giving you another chance.” What he did say wasn’t understood by the other disciples but sounded ominous to James and I: “Judas must fulfill God’s plan.” Since we were all fulfilling God’s plan, this sounded reasonable to the others. Only Simon, among the disciples, also knew differently. Around their Roman hosts, he had seen how Judas operated without supervision. He was, he told James and I, cunning, devious, and without conscience—certainly not qualified to be Jesus’ representative. The one miracle he performed, a conjurer’s trick Judas claimed he learned in Joppa, but one Simon couldn’t explain, greatly impressed the soldiers. Somehow, after waving his hands in the air, he caused a funnel of dust to appear for their benefit. It was similar to but much smaller than the ones Jesus summoned, Simon explained perplexedly, and yet Judas hadn’t prayed, which made him wonder if Judas was not working for the devil instead of God. Despite the seriousness of this matter, when James and I brought Simon to Jesus with his story, he ordered us to drop the matter entirely and trust in God…. The fact is, however, Judas had, by his actions, not merely committed heresy but blasphemy as well.

******

Later in the day, out of earshot of Judas, Simon reminded us of what happened to Adam and Eve when a serpent entered the garden. As an eye-witness to his actions, Simon was, more than James and I, troubled by what he did. Though he would try to put on a good face for Jesus’ benefit, he would never trust Judas again. Judas had made his first enemy among the twelve.

Now that the twelve had returned, Jesus let us rest awhile at Peter’s house. During those two days, I noticed a rift between Esther and Dinah and Mary. Peter’s wife and mother-in-law had accepted Mary Magdalene as an addition to the household but little more. Upon close inspection, I could understand why. At every opportunity Mary hung on Jesus’ words. This didn’t bother the easy-going Bernice, who had befriended Mary in spite of her past, but it irked Esther and Dinah, who resented her neglecting her chores. When we were finally back on the road, Mary once again attempted to join our troop but was politely rebuffed. It was seen as unseemly by Dinah and caused a spark of jealousy in Peter’s wife. I could understand Peter’s mother-in-law resenting Mary intrusion in their life, and sympathized with Esther after the way Mary pranced around her house, but the fishermen’s resentment was, as I look back, less justified. They scoffed at the notion of a woman being a disciple, and, I must confess, it sounded farfetched to me too. In spite of her loveliness and alluring disposition, she was, after all, admitted John, one of her chief admirers, still a women. Yet I sensed something about Mary that belied her silly, flirty nature: a strength and purpose I think Jesus must have seen. This young woman, who had almost been stoned as a prostitute, managed to have a high opinion of herself. Despite her dreadful ordeal in Magdala, she acted as if the incident never happened. Child-like and carefree, she always wore white and let her hair flow freely instead of wearing a veil, a characteristics that couldn’t help but offend and irritate respectable Jews.

Jesus had been very patient with Mary’s pretensions. That day, as we left Peter’s house for a round of visitations, she irritated everyone, including him. She had tried to be a part of us when Jesus preached to the multitude and followed us a second time when Jesus preached on the lake; now, suddenly, she wanted to tag along on our visitations—a notion that struck everyone, except Judas, as insane.

“Listen to that wench.” James cupped his ear. “What’s she trying to prove?”

“She wants to join us.” Matthew frowned scornfully. “Only Mary would talk to him that way.”

“That woman has spirit!” Judas exclaimed.

“But she’s making a fool of herself.” I looked back in dismay.

In the near distance, we heard them arguing. Mary’s arms were folded stubbornly, and Jesus was pointing to the house. Playfully, Judas beckoned her to come along. I could hear the fishermen grumble amongst themselves. In the background, Esther, Dinah, and Bernice tried to coax her back to the house.

“This is so unfair!” she cried, stomping her foot.

“No, Mary, it’s not.” Jesus shook his head. “Peter’s family isn’t coming along. Your place is with them.”

“Oh, if I was born a man,” she cried, kicking up dirt. “I would make you proud. If only you’d give me a chance!”

“I said go!” He pointed once more to the house. “The road’s dangerous. You have a home in Peter’s house. Please, woman, stop arguing. We’ll be back soon!”

“Come here at once, you willful girl!” Dinah shouted through cupped hands.

“Why is it that only men can preach the word and perform miracles?” she wailed, pivoting on her heel.

Jesus motioned for to us to continue. With bowed head, Mary traipsed back to the house. We could hear Bernice giggling at Mary’s antics, the other women bawling her out, and the door slamming shut. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

“She actually thought he’d make her a disciple,” Bartholomew muttered in disbelief.

“I think it’s a great idea!” replied Judas.

“You would!” Simon snarled.

Though Peter’s household and the twelve disciples were central to the Way, attitudes changed slowly. One day Mary would make her mark for Jesus but that was in the future. Now the idea was unacceptable, even to Jesus, who, because of the dangers out there and attitude of Jews, had deliberately picked men. Though most of us agreed on this fact, the twelve disciples remained divided in spirit. Though James and I were Jesus’ brothers, the fishermen thought of themselves as Jesus’ favorites. James and I were, along with Bartholomew, Thomas, Matthew, Simon, and Judas, outsiders. For awhile, Mary was an outsider too. It had been, since the beginning, us and them. Matthew, though he tried to ingratiate himself with the fishermen, felt more comfortable around our group. James and I found the division in our ranks intolerable at times, but the remainder of the outsiders had seemed satisfied to be in their own circle, until we went on our missions. Now, after the disciples saw the worst side of each other, the divisions appeared to be worse. It wasn’t just fishermen versus outsiders. Matching Peter and John with their brothers seemed unfair to everyone else, and yet Andrew and James resented Peter’s and John’s bossiness. With exception of Bartholomew and me, no one had been happy with their companions. Philip took issue with Matthew’s timid response. Even though, he hadn’t visited the coastal towns, the ex-publican feared disclosure to onetime enemies. James, for that matter, complained of Thomas’ inability to get the ritual right. The fact that Thomas tried very hard only made him more stupid in James’ eyes.

No one liked Judas, of course, except Jesus. After Judas’ performance in the field, everyone, especially Simon, had turned against him, so that he became a virtual castaway from both groups. Inexplicably, Jesus had remained complacent with this state of affairs, until matters reached a head. Looking back, it seemed as though his episode with Mary had been the spark. Not only were his disciples at odds with each other, but Mary had fallen out with Peter’s mother-in-law and wife. That day, as we set out for the small communities of Galilee, Jesus took me aside finally and asked me to do a strange, troubling thing.

“Mary’s a good woman,” he began thoughtfully.

“Yes,” I nodded, “but a little mad.”

“Alas.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It would be a better world if attitudes were different, but they’re not. We have enough trouble with the Pharisees without adding a woman to our number.”

“That would make thirteen disciples.” I gave him a curious look. “You chose twelve disciples for a reason, Jesus. We’d have to get rid of someone to fit her in.”

A thought entered my head. I dare not say it, but let Jesus follow the direction of my gaze.

“We need Judas,” he announced curtly.

“Why do we need Judas?” I turned the question on its head.

“Judas will leave our group unless he’s treated better,” Jesus answered hesitantly. “…I need him. I told you that.”

“You still haven’t explained why you need that man.” I said boldly. “No one likes him. Simon called him a serpent. Mary sees him as a wolf among sheep.”

Jesus placed an arm on my shoulder. “If I asked you to treat Judas with more respect, why would that be so hard?”

“No, I guess not.” I looked at the ground.

“Then stop treating him as an outsider,” his tone hardened. “You and James don’t like being treated that way. In fact, I’ll talk to the fishermen about their attitude. On Mary’s behalf, I’ll ask Peter to reason with his mother-in-law and wife. All of you must see each other as equals. This includes Judas Iscariot, too.”

As the words left his mouth, Jesus heaved a sigh of resignation. He hadn’t asked James, our brother, or Peter to treat Judas better. He had asked me. That moment I was reminded of his esteem and how much he depended upon me. I should have been moved. Such affection might have made James and Peter jealous. This time, however, I wasn’t completely pleased. The prospect of warming up to Judas made my skin crawl. I wish I hadn’t listened to Simon. The mental picture he painted of Judas after our missions, greatly influenced everyone’s opinions of him, including myself. Nevertheless, Jesus had given me a special task: make Judas more comfortable in the group before he quits and goes his own way. Like Bartholomew, I wondered why Jesus didn’t just use his power to make people do what he wanted them to do.

During our trek around the lake, the fishermen meandered into a nearby field, casually picking heads of grain and eating them. The remainder of us looked on with curiosity. We had eaten our morning meal barely more than hour ago, and yet they grazed like cattle in the field. Because it was the Sabbath, James took issue with their actions, but the rest of us merely thought it was peculiar.

“That’s really stupid,” Simon shook his head.

“Don’t those fishermen know what day it is?” James grumbled

“Evidently not,” Jesus cocked an eyebrow. “Peter,” he called to our self-appointed leader, “didn’t you get enough breakfast?”

Peter had been chatting with Andrew and apparently hadn’t heard Jesus’ call. Unfortunately, before Jesus could repeat his question, two Pharisees, who had been dogging our trail, caught up with us on the road.

“Rabbi!” the graybeard pointed angrily. “Look what your men are doing. It is unlawful to pick grain on the Sabbath!”

James groaned. Simon, who was also familiar with points of the law, shook his head.

“Are you familiar with King David?” Jesus asked calmly.

“Of course,” exclaimed the younger Pharisee, “we are the caretakers of the law.”

Jesus reached down and picked a wheat stalk. “Maybe you should read it again,” he said, appraising its head. “David and his friends were hungry and ate consecrated bread, which is even more unlawful than simply breaking the Sabbath. Don’t priests desecrate the Sabbath by eating the bread, and yet, like my disciples, they are innocent too. Something at issue here is greater than the temple. Do you remember the Prophet Hosea’s words, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ If you knew your scripture, would you condemn the innocent? The Sabbath was made for men. Men weren’t made for the Sabbath!”

“You speak honeyed words,” cried the graybeard, “yet you pervert the law!”

“Blasphemer! Heretic!” the younger Pharisee shrieked.

The two men hollered insults and accusations at Jesus until their faces turned scarlet and they lost their breath, but Jesus had the last words as they slinked away: “When men don’t have truth on their sides, they shake their fists and say hateful words. Who are you to brandish the law? You barely know it. One doesn’t need to know the law to be righteous. You’re hollow vessels; be careful you don’t shatter. My men are skins filled with the finest wine!”

******YYYY

Despite his defense of the fishermen, I heard Jesus scold Peter for his foolishness. This action, which followed similar discussions, indicated that Jesus accepted Peter as our leader when he wasn’t around, but it in no way gave him and the other fishermen license to break Jewish law. Though Jesus had defended the fishermen’s action in order to make a point, he nevertheless wanted us to respect the Torah and tradition. It was tempting, as we passed orchards and vineyards, to pick fruit, but even this action on normal days was unlawful, unless we had the owner’s permission. This clarification pleased James but struck the free-thinking Judas as unnecessary. As Bartholomew sat his mule listening, he shared his thoughts with me.

“Jesus has great power,” he remarked, “he can make his own rules.”

“No,” I disagreed. “He never wanted us to break our laws”

“But this is a new religion,” Judas objected.

“It is new,” I explained patiently. “Peter and his friends didn’t know any better, but, if we’re going to convert Jews, we have to respect our laws.”

“If he’s the Messiah, he can make his own laws!” Judas insisted stubbornly.

“He never claimed to be the Messiah.” I sighed. “That was thrust on him. When I was preaching I avoided labeling him. Most of us have been thinking of him as simply God’s Messenger, and yet I think he’s much more.”

“What could be more than the Deliverer of Israel?” Judas frowned.

“Alas,” Bartholomew joined our conversation, “Judas doesn’t a clue. I have some thoughts on the subject. James told me a thing or two about labels. It’s all Isaiah’s fault, he believes. In Isaiah’s scrolls, the prophet gives two separate pictures of the Messiah: one like King David who will physically deliver us from foreign bondage and a man who’ll save our souls.”

“Yes, very good Bartholomew.” I nodded with approval. “I’ve read those passages. I could never make sense out of this. Why would our greatest prophet make two claims?”

“I dunno.” Bartholomew chuckled. “Maybe he was drunk.”

“It’s the first prophecy—the conquering Messiah—that counts,” Judas raised a finger. “That one cancels out the second. Everyone in Israel knows that.”

I don’t understand why Jesus hadn’t heard this outrageous statement. Perhaps, as he implied earlier, Judas was important to his ministry, but at that point I couldn’t see why. As Bartholomew looked at him in shock, James and Simon appeared in our midst.

“In the first place,” James said crossly, “there is no physical Israel. I’m aware of the hopes of our people to restore Israel to its former state. This future deliverer, if he can be taken literally, is a warrior, not a prophet or preacher. I’ve been trained as scribe, Judas. My mind is filled with points of the law. But even I know that Jesus isn’t that man. The scales on my eyes, blinding me to the truth fell off months ago. Yet you, a free-thinking vagabond, are still blind.”

“I’m not blind!” Judas huffed, clinching his fist. “I know Jesus’ true potential. Your brother could throw off the Romans just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “He could make us a great nation if he wished instead of suffering those fickle crowds. He’s just biding his time!”

“Oh, you think so,” Simon stepped forth then. “I find this very strange, Judas. You speak of a Messiah who’ll shake off the Roman yoke, yet I saw you cozy up to Roman soldiers, telling them that Jesus was a new god. I, who was once a temple spy, more than anyone here, should prefer a deliverer for Israel, but I don’t—not anymore. What good is a warrior who can’t save souls?

“My eyes were opened, too,” Matthew suddenly appeared. “There’s times when I wished Jesus would turn those Pharisees to flaming torches and cleanse the hecklers from the crowds, but that wouldn’t be Jesus. In my line of work, I’ve seen all manner of savagery from both Gentile and Jew. It’s all brutal and bad. Did you expect that Jesus would wave his hands and—poof!—there would no more Romans in our land? I’m familiar with our people’s expectations too. A conquering messiah would, like the Romans and Greeks before them, first drench our land in blood. He would be, after all, a warrior, not a man of peace. Jesus brings peace to the world, not war. If you don’t understand this, Judas, you’re in the wrong place!”

“All right,” Judas said, folding his arms, “you surprise me Matthew. Those are fine words, but I’ve never seen anyone with Jesus’ powers. He has to be the Messiah. Why don’t we ask him if this isn’t true.”

“No, you’ll do no such thing!” I stood in front of him.

“Why not?” he snarled. “You once told us that Jesus can’t lie. James told me Jesus was following scripture. Do you really believe he’ll dodge the most important passages in Isaiah that point to him?”

“I won’t let you put him to the test.” I glared at him. “He works on revelation. Who are you to tip his hand?’

For a moment, as I faced him down, I thought he might hit me. Jesus had told me to be nice to Judas, and here I was giving him his greatest challenge. Not for one moment did I think I could whip this fellow. He was a head taller than me and probably twice as heavy. When Simon lurched forward and took my place, Judas’ angry expression changed suddenly to fear. Simon was afraid of no one.

“You’re not going to test Jesus,” he said menacingly. “He’ll make his move when he’s good and ready.”

“That goes for me!” James seconded

“Me too!” echoed Matthew and Bartholomew, joining our ranks

That moment as Judas jaws slackened and he stepped away from Simon, I felt relieved. I think he got the point, yet I was still very concerned. It was obvious that he had, through stubbornness or just plain stupidity, failed to understood who Jesus was, but then, as Judas fell to the back of the procession, I thought about Simon’s words, “He’ll make his move when he’s good and ready,” and wondered if he might harbor, in spite of his earlier statement, the same hope as Judas: that Jesus would wipe away our oppressors. During the first weeks of Jesus ministry I had heard the fishermen talk about this same issue. They were profoundly ignorant of the Torah. Now that I thought about it, I recalled some of the silly things Thomas had said. Troubled by my doubts, I was tempted to ask Jesus, myself, what he had in mind down the road, then shuddered at the thought… I didn’t want to know!

Remembering the assignment Jesus had given me, I straightened my shoulders and joined Judas at the back of the procession. He had a cowed, downcast look. Any moment, as Jesus feared, he might turn on his heels, and flee. My best move, I was certain, would be to change the subject if possible. No one was going to change Judas’ mind.

I raised my arm woodenly and forced a smile. “Hey Judas!” I called cheerily. “No hard feelings?”

“Go away!” he said, doubling his fist.

“Come, Jude,” I tried reasoning with him, “Jesus wants us to get along. Sometimes it’s better not to blab your thoughts. I should know; I’m always saying dumb things!”

“You don’t like me, Jude.” He waved me off. “Don’t pretend like you do.”

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” I explained lamely. “It’s that I don’t know what to expect from you. You’re a lot like my brother Joseph. I didn’t understand him either.”

“You have another brother?” He sneered. “How many do you have?”

“Four,” I piped, “and two twin sisters.”

“Well, I’m an orphan,” he said glumly. “My father was a drunk. My mother was a Syrian whore.” “Ho-ho,” he uttered a crazed laugh, “that makes me half Gentile. No wonder I’m messed up!”

“Are you serious, Judas?” I searched his face. It was difficult to tell whether or not he was telling the truth.

“Yes.” He stepped back in surprise. “You think I’m lying?”

“No.” I replied hesitantly. “…. That would explain you red hair and beard, green eyes, and freckles. You do realize that Jewishness is measured through the mother.”

“Hah!” He tossed his head. “If that’s not bad enough I have a Greek name.”

“That’s all right.” I shrugged my shoulders. “My name’s Jude, a Roman name. We should really be called Judah.”

“Yeah.” Judas tossed his head. “The strangest part is that my Jewish father, who named me, was a Greek-speaking Jew. That makes me even less of a Jew!”

“Keep that to yourself,” I advised him. “ Those men don’t need to know that. You’re enough of an outsider without telling them that!”

Judas told me a ribald tale of his childhood in a brothel, and I sensed by his furtive eyes and facial ticks he was telling the truth. Suddenly, I felt sorry for him. He must have had a hard life. My first concern, though, was to talk sense into him. He couldn’t go on like this. I studied him a moment, as he carried on, searching for the right words.

“Judas,” I interrupted gently, “I didn’t want to revisit our argument earlier. My best advice to you, as a friend, is to hold your tongue. If you don’t say something controversial and keep it inside your head no one will be the wiser. My brother Joseph was outspoken. That’s why we never got along. When you return to our group, try not to say outrageous things. Half the time, I think your joking. The other half makes me wonder where you got such foolish thoughts. Those men back there aren’t amused with your cleverness. They see it as craftiness and deceit.” “Just give my advice a try.” I reached out to grip his shoulder.
Bristling at my touch, he looked at me fiercely, then turned away, as if a battle was underway in his mind. I had always thought possessed men and women were merely crazy or, more rarely, bitten by bats or dogs, but Judas’ green eyes rolled in his head that moment, he socked his forehead, and, after keeping his back to me a moment, whirled around with a grin on his freckly face.

“Put it there, friend.” He stuck out his hand. “You’ve made me see the light!”

“Really.” I recoiled as he gripped my forearm in the Roman manner. “…That’s great, Judas. Just don’t try so hard. Jesus accepted us just like we are. Look at Mary Magdalene, Matthew, Simon, and Thomas.”

“Yeah.” Judas giggled light-headedly. “Look at me!”

******

I was half-convinced that Judas was either mad or demon-possessed. The way he broke into spontaneous giggles at times supported such conclusions, and yet my other half, which could have been revelation, saw him as part of Jesus’ plan. When there were so many worthy candidates for discipleship, divine intervention must have decided his selection. How else could one explain it? Did God, in his infinite and unknowable wisdom, want Jesus to be tested? The Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents tested him. Was Judas sent to test him too? Was he part of God’s plan? Despite the implications of having a madmen or demoniac in our presence, I would rather Judas was insane or possessed than be a dark, unknown force in Jesus’ ministry.

Now, of course, I know what he was, but back then, as I suffered the friendship of Judas forced upon me by Jesus, I wasn’t sure. My first impulse was to go immediately to Jesus at the head of our procession and tell him what I think…. Unfortunately, I didn’t know exactly what I thought or even how to put it into words.

When I hastened back to our group, I expected Judas to be close behind. As I looked back, however, he was still lagging at the rear.

“Let him go,” Simon snarled. “He’s no damn good!”

“Yes, Jude” Thomas frowned. “We’re better off without him!”

I nodded faintly. Bartholomew looked sympathetically down from his mule. “Are you all right? You look upset. What did that man say to you?”

“It’s not just what he says,” I tried explaining. “… It’s how he acts…There’s something seriously wrong with Judas.”

“What do you mean?” asked James. “Do you think he’s crazy? Why is he kicking against the goad?”

One day, Luke would relate, the risen Christ would ask Paul that question. It was also appropriate that moment. Of all the disciples only James would understand my mind.

“Listen,” I said, taking him aside, “our brother has given me the task of keeping Judas in our group. Let the others think he’s mad, deranged, or possessed by demons. I’m not so sure. How is it possible, after everything he’s seen and heard, that he could harbor such thoughts?”

He studied my expression. “You think it’s something else?”

“Judas is looking for the wrong Messiah,” I answered obliquely. “He wants a deliverer, not a savior. I think he’d like to force Jesus hand—”

“Force his hand?” James lurched forward. “What do you mean? Is Judas a spy?”

“I don’t know what he is,” I replied, looking back at the road, “but clearly he’s not in step with Jesus.” “It’s as if,” I added, searching for the word, “he has an agenda.”

“Agenda?” James mulled the word over. “What sort of agenda?”

“Who knows…. He could be another revolutionary like my our namesake Judas of Galilee. Or it could just be a personal goal. Whether or not he’s an agent for the temple, as Simon once was, a lunatic insurrectionist, or merely a stubborn fool, I’m certain of one thing: he wants Jesus for power, not healing.” “The problem is, James,” Jesus wants me to be Judas’ friend. He’s left it up to me to keep Judas in our group.”

“It’s his decision then.” James motioned with disgust. “If he’s tempted to leave, let him go!”

“Yes!” I patted James shoulder. “That would solve everything. We would be doing Judas a favor, wouldn’t we? Moments ago, I saw a battle in his green, serpent eyes. I actually feel sorry for him, James. It’s as if he can’t help himself. That’s why I think he might be possessed or insane.”

James shrugged his shoulders, weary of this subject. I was alarmed to discover how far Judas was lagging behind. Shielding his eyes from the sun, James laughed wryly. “Look,” he cried, pointing to the distant figure. “If he drops any further back, he’ll disappear in the horizon…. As I said, let him go!”

******

After watching Judas disappear entirely from view, I was sorely tempted: should I go look for him or let fate take its course? What decided the issue for me, as I fretted, was the sudden appearance of Judas in our midst. Despite Jesus’ admonition not to pick unpaid for fruit, he was eating a pear he picked on the way back. We said nothing to him as he fell in step. It was just one more of his little games. I was just glad I wouldn’t have to explain his absence to Jesus.

Finally, that hour, we found ourselves in the middle of Hazor, a dusty little town north of Capernaum. To our dismay, Jesus had stopped in front of the local synagogue. One would think, after our experience in Nazareth, he would avoid visiting such a place. After all, we pointed out, the town of Hazor was small, like Nazareth, and Nazareth had once tried to stone him. Large towns like Jerusalem were more sophisticated and open to discontent, as witnessed by the restraint Pharisees, priests, and scribes showed us during their opposition. Jews in the larger towns were under the control of Gentile and enlightened Jewish leaders, but small towns, such as Nazareth and Hazor, were parochial in their views and more likely to take the law into their own hands.

“You miraculously slipped through the mob in Nazareth.” Peter summed it up. “Next time, you might not be so lucky!”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Jesus chided him. “Where’s your faith?”

“I agree with him,” I said boldly.

“Me too!” James stepped forth.

“We all do,” Andrew nodded vehemently. “We took a vote. Didn’t you once say, ‘You shall not tempt the Lord?’

Jesus raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “You were at the river, Andrew. I used those words during my trek into the wilderness. They were directed at Satan.”

Staring fiercely at all of us, he received our silence if not our unqualified obedience. All twelve disciples were united on this issue, but Jesus’ mind was set. As soon as we entered this unfriendly town, we had caught the glares and snarls of townsfolk strolling passed us. Now, as James alluded to scripture, he remarked, “Jesus was walking again into the lion’s den!” All it would take, I wanted to tell Jesus, would be one errant stone and—zap—no more Messiah. After everything Jesus had proven to us, we feared for him. Visiting synagogues was the most unfruitful of Jesus’ methods of spreading the word. So why did he bother? Why did he wish to antagonize the powers that be? Everyone, except the confrontational Simon and loud-mouthed Judas were frightened now. Then, as we prepared to enter, a few of us suddenly got reprieves.

“Jude, James, Bartholomew, Simon, and Judas” he called curtly. “There’s a packed room in there. You’ll wait for us in the town square.”

“Yes, of course,” I sputtered, “if you say so…Where’s the town square?”

“Like always,” he said impatiently, “look for the communal well.”

Simon gave him a wounded reply, “Why can’t we go?” In a fit of anger, Judas stomped his foot and kicked up dust, crying, “This isn’t fair! What can those graybeards do?”

“You’ll do what I say,” Jesus wrung a finger. “Go with Jude. Wait for us by the well.”

When Simon and Judas continued to grumble, Jesus walked quickly back to our group and took me aside for a private conference.

“Keep an eye on those two,” he instructed sternly, “especially Judas. Don’t let them return to the synagogue. Simon might try to protect me as before, and Judas would probably interfere. When I quote Isaiah, as I did in Nazareth, Judas will bring up Isaiah’s other passage.”

I was right, I thought, my heart sinking in my chest. “You mean the conquering Messiah?” I looked back scornfully at him.

“Stop frowning!” He wagged a finger. “You think I want this?” “I listened to God,” he reminded me testily. “Everything is part of His plan. That includes Judas Iscariot.”

“Be careful, my brother,” I reached out to grip his wrist. “This isn’t Jerusalem or Capernaum.”

“No more talking.” Jesus ordered everyone, as he strode up to the door, “When I enter the synagogue, you men stay at the back of the room!” “Go, Jude,” he called back at me, “take them to the square.”

I didn’t blame the others for resenting our special treatment. Already the fishermen resented Jesus esteem for James and I as his brothers. In a way, considering times like this when Jesus talked privately to me, I shared a leadership role with Peter, if only as a confident or advisor. James might have been resentful of this, too, but like Bartholomew was quite happy to be excluded. Matthew and Thomas had only heard about the incident in Nazareth and were less afraid, but the fisherman, like James and I, were in the synagogue when Jesus was attacked. It was unfair to them that Simon and Judas wanted to go, and were nevertheless given a reprieve. As they departed from us, and walked toward the synagogue, I could hear grumbling from the fishermen. To his credit, Peter scolded them for their doubts and lack of enthusiasm, but not with much enthusiasm. We all knew what to expect.

For a moment, feeling a twinge of guilt, I stopped to watch them approach the synagogue.

“Don’t those fishermen remember Nazareth?” asked Judas. “Without a scratch, Jesus passed right through that crowd!”

“It’s true!” I nodded. “Like a ghost!”

“So tell me.” He curled his lip. “With Jesus’ power, why’re they so afraid?”

“I don’t know.” I said reflectively. “I was there, as they ran like lambs. I saw the whole thing. The townsmen nearly threw him off a cliff!”

“Why can’t he trust me?” Simon turned to me. “I want to go! It’s Judas he shouldn’t trust, not me!”

“Enough!” James held up my hand. “With your hot temper, you’d just make things worse!”

When the door shut behind him. I heaved a sigh, trying not scowl at Judas. Without further comment, I led our small band through town. Simon reassured me that he wasn’t afraid for himself, just for Jesus. This might be true; he had certainly tried to protect Jesus before, but, as we strolled though Hazor, he begrudgingly accepted Jesus decision as Judas grumbled fitfully under his breath. Because this was Galilee and Simon had been an agent for the temple, he must surely be nervous. Upon entering the temple, Judas would have created the worst scene. I was convinced more than ever, especially after hearing Jesus say as much, he might have forced his hand. Whereas Bartholomew, who depended on his mule, had a good reason for not accompanying Jesus, and Simon and Judas were not to be trusted, my only reason for staying behind was to keep an eye on the others, especially Judas. Unlike Simon and Judas, I was, like James and Bartholomew, greatly relieved.

“You’re happy you didn’t have to go in!” Judas spat.

“Shut up, you piece of dung!” Simon stepped in front of me.

“You don’t frighten me,” Judas poked a finger into his chest. “Without your sword, you’re nothing. Get out of my face!”

That moment something dreadful happened. Like a wild animal, Judas attacked Simon, a stream of foul words I’ve heard my Gentile spew, flowing out of his mouth. Without prodding, Bartholomew clamored off his mule, as I grabbed Judas back. Though Simon had frightened him off before, Judas appeared to have caught him off guard. Before Bartholomew and I could break them apart, Judas had bloodied Simon’s lip and blackened his eye, but this wasn’t the end of it. As James, Bartholomew, and I tried pulling Judas away, the red-haired demon, continued pounding poor Simon, until, suddenly Simon landed a punch that knocked his adversary out.

“Whoa, he’s out cold!” Bartholomew laughed hysterically.

“Let me check his pulse.” I bent down frantically and felt around.

“What have I done?” Simon grabbed his mouth.

“You defended yourself.” James gave him a pat.

“Good for you!” Bartholomew looked down with approval. “I would’ve used my cane!”

“Did I kill him?” Simon wrung his hands. “Is he dead?”

I felt his wrist, his neck, and then his temple. There was nothing. “…. Oh no…Oh no,” I mumbled, re-checking the veins shown to me by my Roman friends.

“He almost beat me senseless.” Simon slapped his forehead. “I just hit him once!”

“Look!” Bartholomew pointed with his cane.

“Yes, I see it,” I gasped.

“…Of all the luck.” James whistled under his breath. “A rock in the middle of the road!”

I drew back, muttering in fear, my mind reeling with the implications of this event. Jesus had entrusted me with Judas’ welfare, and now he was dead. Simon hit him, but I felt responsible. I should have acted more quickly when Simon angered Judas. When Jesus and the others found us in town, he would be lying there as proof I had failed. I wanted to comfort Simon. This wasn’t his fault, but, according Greek logic, he had set it into motion—the prime cause. The rock cracking his skull was only the secondary cause. If he hadn’t of hit Judas, however, it might very well have been him on the ground. Nevertheless, I couldn’t lie to Simon. In the eyes of the law this was no different than any other form of manslaughter. Then, as I sat down next to Judas on the ground, it dawned on me what I had to do.

“Lord,” I murmured, peering at the sky, “please, if it be your will, undo this act. Judas caused this, not Simon. For Simon’s sake, if not Judas, bring him back. Bring him back from the dark sleep.”

I phrased my prayer modestly in case he was merely unconscious, but how could he not have a pulse and still be alive? Bartholomew, who still didn’t believe I had brought him back to life, cupped his ear in order to hear. Now, after staring numbly into space, Simon looked at me in utter disbelief.

“What’re you doing?” He shook me soundly. “His head’s cracked—like an egg. He’s dead!”

“Back away, Simon!” I shrugged him off. “Judas!” I shouted down at him, “Rise up and join the living!”

For a full moment, he remained motionless. Townsfolk had gathered around us, certain they were witnesses to some sort of crime. A women singled out Simon, setting accusations into motion. “I saw that fellow hit him.” she cried. “It’s that dark haired, beady-eyed man!”

“I saw him! I saw him!” A child screamed.

“Yes, he’s the one,” replied an old man.

“It was an accident!” Simon screamed. “He hit his head on a rock!”

“Has someone summed the magistrates?” A Pharisee stepped forth. “Let them decide.”

“Get up, damn you!” I jumped up and gave Judas a kick.

As the crowd discussed this dreadful deed, Simon turned on his heel and ran. Bartholomew shouted at him, as did members of the crowd, some of whom hollered, “Murderer! Murderer!” Believing that my prayer had failed, I did the next best thing and charged after Simon. I had been a fairly good runner as a youth, but Simon had a head start on me. My greatest fear now was that he would vanish forever, dropping the number of Jesus’ disciples to only ten. After racing up the road a ways, though, something happened that filled me with mixed emotions. A pair of burly men, I assumed magistrates, had grabbed Simon, which meant he wouldn’t disappear but would face justice. It would be up to Jesus to get him out of this mess. Poor Simon was in shock. I felt great pity for him, but he should never have antagonized that unbalanced man.

Outside of the time I was captured by desert bandits, this was the darkest moment of my life. The two men hauled Simon toward the scene of the crime, brushing me aside. As I looked back, all I could see were townsfolk hovering around the corpse, but then Bartholomew alongside of his mule, moved toward me from the crowd. He was grinning and laughing. I could hear voices shouting, “He’s alive! He’s alive!”

When the men approached with their supposed felon, the crowd parted. The words Judas—a live! echoed in my mind. Filled with great joy, my heart pounding loudly in my chest, I elbowed through the crowd, until I was standing there, gazing down at him. A man, who introduced himself as Luke, a physician, sat beside Judas, looking quizzically up at me. With the presence of mind to introduce myself, James, Bartholomew, and the man lying on the ground, I lowered myself light-headedly onto the ground.

“Are you a sorcerer?” Luke asked quietly.

“No, of course not,” I frowned. “I prayed to God. This was His doing, not mine.”

It wasn’t an accusation. I wasn’t even sure he was serious. The important thing was that no one appeared to have heard him. Kneeling down on the other side of Judas, I could see that his eyes were open. Bartholomew, mule in tow again, reappeared, the shadow of the beast stretching across the ground.

“I don’t believe in the gods,” the physician informed me calmly. “This man was probably unconscious, in what you Jews call the dark sleep. I gave him some smelling salts. That might have helped.”

“I don’t care what it’s called,” my voice trembled. “He had no pulse. He looked quite dead. If my prayer awakened him or you awakened, I’m satisfied.”

The two burly men I thought were magistrates were replaced by two older men, who really were. With shiny turbans, fancy robes, and sashes, they looked out of place in the crowd.

“What is wrong with that fellow?” the first magistrate inquired.

“That fellow hit him!” A youth pointed accusingly at Simon. “He fell down dead. Then that Greek fellow came, waved something under his nose, and brought him to.”

“No,” the Pharisee shook his head. “I saw that man on the ground blink before the Greek arrived.”

“So you’re the culprit,” the second magistrate said to Simon.

“It was an accident!” came Simon’s refrain. “He attacked me, and I fought back.”

“Is that true?” Luke asked Judas.

Bending over to hear his reply, Judas murmured weakly, “yes,…it’s my fault!”

“What did he say?” The first magistrate waddled over and looked down.

“I attacked him,” Judas managed to say. “I would’ve killed him if he hadn’t knocked me down!”

“Then maybe we should arrest you!” the second magistrate exclaimed.

“Are you serious?” Luke frowned him. “This was an altercation between two men.” “Tell me.” He turned to the crowd. “Who should be punished: the man who hit him or the one who provoked the fight. There is no crime here!”

“There is no crime! There is no crime!” members of the crowd chanted.

Several other men and women joined in the dissent, as Judas struggled to his feet. By now, it seemed as though half of the town had arrived.

“You should lay back down,” Luke cautioned. “You’re brain suffered a concussion.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Judas tried to smile, “but I have an awful headache!”

“Take some of this,” Luke handed him a small black bag. “I treated my friend with these plants. Chew it up slowly. When you leave here, lie down, and get some rest.”

“Thank you,” Judas muttered, reaching in to extract an herb.

Simon took one arm and I gripped the other. Bartholomew offered to let him ride the mule, but it seemed better to keep him on firm ground. Though, I doubted that Luke had brought Judas back to consciousness, I didn’t care at this point. All that mattered was that he was alive.

“You’re a Gentile, aren’t you?” I said discreetly. “What are you doing in this little town?”

“I treated a friend, one of the Greek-speaking Jews,” he answered, looking nervously around at the crowd. “I’m not sure who they believe, it might be your god who saved this man, but some of those don’t appear to be sure.”

After listening to our conversation, the Pharisee lurched forward as we retreated, shaking his fist.” “This is unnatural.” He pointed accusingly. “It must be sorcery. No one comes back from the dead!”

“Go now, my friends,” prodded Luke. “Perhaps, the gods willing, our paths will cross again!”

No sooner had Simon, James, and I led Judas passed the edge of the crowd, with Bartholomew trailing behind, than Luke, the physician, make his exit. He had seemed nervous when he talked to me. There were, after all, probably few pagans in this town. One day, in a distant city, we would meet again, but for now, as I looked back into the crowd, he seemed to vanish forever from my life.

“I’m not sure about what you did for him,” Bartholomew confessed, “but that Pharisee saw it: Judas was dead.”

“He also thought you were a sorcerer,” Judas said with awe. “Jude, you have great power!”

“No, God has great power,” I corrected him. “Luke, fearful of the charge of sorcery, downplayed what happened. Unfortunately, that Pharisee knew better. You never know how this rustics are going to take something like this. This could’ve generated a round of baptisms or been an excuse for a stoning.”

“Yes,” James agreed, “you just never know!”

‘Luke was a pagan,” Judas frowned. “Maybe he thought you were a god!”

“You still don’t get it.” Bartholomew looked at him with disgust. “Did that knock affect your brain!”

“I think it did.” Simon gave him a worried look. “What’s Jesus going to say about this?”

“It was my fault,” Judas said in a more serious tone. “I won’t let you take the blame!”

“Are you turning over a new leaf?” Simon studied him. “I thought you hated my guts!”

“No…” Judas said dully, his body slackening, “… I hate myself!”

After collapsing in our arms, Judas was brought to by water from Bartholomew’s water skin. Pouring it down on him, as he sat on his mule, he uttered a sour laugh when Judas came to.

“Come on, Judas,” I coaxed, “just a little further until we find the others. The important thing is that you’re all right.”

Suddenly, just when I began to worry again, we looked down the road and saw Jesus. His face broke through the dusty images around him like a mirage. There was a trace of alarm in his expression. He had a habit of smiling and frowning at the same time.

“It’s all my fault!” Judas took the initiative. “I attacked Simon. He defended himself. If it hadn’t been for Jude and Luke, I’d be dead!”

Perhaps Jesus had gazed into the future. Upon hearing Luke’s name, he nodded and then, walking quickly forward, embraced the three of us, reaching up afterwards, in acknowledgment of Bartholomew, to pat his mule.

“You can explain later,” he said, glancing around at the town, “for now let us return to our camp. Tomorrow, after shaking the dust of this town off our sandals, we shall, as the Psalmist once said, find greener pastures.”

******

We were able to escort Judas to our camp without incident. Though a little wobbly-legged, he insisted on walking on his own, chatting nonsensically about matters, a grin fixed on his face. Nevertheless, I was worried about the cure. How could he have hit that rock, shown no signs of life, and be this fit now? There was no blood issuing from the wound, only a large bump. Other than this, he had only a headache to show for his accident. Though the other disciples were ignorant of the medical term concussion, I had heard about this from the Romans, who understood Greek medicine. A concussion rattled the brain, often causing death. Luke had indicated to me that Jude should have been dead. Fearful that his cure might be short lived, I prayed quietly to myself.

Jesus gave Judas a curious look as we walked, but said nothing. For awhile the red-haired disciple lapsed into silence, as if he might be intimidated by Jesus’ stare. The other disciples wanted to know about the altercation between Simon and Judas, but Jesus let the subject simmer in their minds.

Around the campfire, he briefly told those of us who has missed it about the reaction he received in Hazor’s synagogue. He made no mention of what he said. I would learn later that he did, in fact, point to a passage in Isaiah, as he had in Nazareth, telling the congregation that prophecy had been fulfilled. The only reason he and the others weren’t stoned was because of a sudden blast of wind through the doors. Jesus downplayed this miracle, but I believe, even though I hadn’t personally seen it, that it was a significant event in his ministry. He had kept his promise. The divine wind, as Peter called, clearly showed all of us that nothing would happen to us in his presence. When I explained to Jesus what happened to Judas, Simon, Bartholomew, and I back in town, Matthew and Thomas seemed impressed, but I heard an impatient sigh from the fishermen, who found this miracle, like my previous miracles, hard to believe.

“It was the dark sleep,” John concluded. “Why would God raise Judas from the dead?”

That summed up most of their opinions. I remembered my own healing of Bartholomew, which he likewise discounted. Jesus, himself, who performed this miracle more than once, downplayed such an event. Despite the graybeard’s opinion that it was sorcery, even he believed that I, not Luke, had brought about the cure, and yet once again there was doubt shown about this type of miracle. What was reassuring to me as I related the events from the confrontation between Judas and Simon up until what the Pharisee said, was the faint nod Jesus gave me, which implied acceptance.

He scolded Judas for attacking Simon and also Simon for provoking the fight, but it was clear to him who was mostly to blame. During his scolding, which sounded somewhat naïve, he summarized the cause to effect nature of anger and violence.

“It begins up here.” He pointed to his head. “Then, if one is not careful,” he said, pointing to his mouth, “it comes out here.” “But it doesn’t,” he added, raising a fist, “have to end with this! When someone speaks ill of you, think before you act. Keep evil thoughts inside your skull. Ask yourself this question: why is this person upset? Did I wrong him in some way? Make peace with him. Your temper will undo you one day, unless you take hold of yourself!”

What he just said was spoken essentially to Judas but meant for everyone in our group. That evening, as everyone else settled on their pallets, Jesus took me aside for a brotherly chat.

“So tell me Jude,” he asked in a muted voice, “was it a miracle or something Luke did to that man?”

“Luke never claimed that he healed Judas.” I explained frankly. “All he did was give him a bag of herbs for his headache. He seemed worried I would be labeled a sorcerer. That’s why he took credit for the cure.”

He studied me in the moonlight. “So you prayed and God returned Jude’s life.”

“I believe so,” I sighed. “I checked Jude’s pulse…. I think he was dead.

“And Bartholomew?” he pressed. “Was he dead too?”

“You already know the answer,” I said, gripping his shoulder. “Until I began following you, I was a doubter and cynic. Why would God give me such a gift? Why not Peter, James, or John?”

“Why does God want Judas to remain a disciple?” Jesus answered indirectly. “Everything we are doing is part of His plan. You, Jude, are part of His plan. None of the other disciples have done such a deed, little brother…. And you have done it twice!”

*****

I was again charged with watching over Judas. Jesus didn’t have to tell me this time, but I saw it in his eyes when we were on the road. My brother James and the other disciples thought Judas was a lost cause, but, after investing my faith and energy into this young man, I must, as herder, if not a shepherd in my own right, lead this lost sheep back into the flock. Judas, like Ecdippa, was another test for me. He had shown remorse and taken the blame for his altercation with Simon. He hadn’t said a cross word or shown a trace of malice for many miles, trying his best to prove he was a changed man.

When I shared my optimism with Bartholomew out of earshot of the others he laughed at me. Simon, who Judas was attempting to make peace with, could see nothing funny about Judas’ frame of mind. James had told me all along that Judas was addled in the head. For him, this sudden contrition and appearance of normality didn’t prove a thing.

“Some of the fishermen think he’s possessed,” he looked around cagily. “They think it’s a demon staring at them, not person. After today, I’m certain he’s crazy. That knock on the head probably made it worse!”

“I’m not so sure.” Matthew shook his head. “He’s got all the symptoms of a demoniac—his expression and quirky behavior. How else can you explain his moods?”

“What if he’s just evil?” asked Thomas.

“Or just plain ornery and mean?” Bartholomew frowned.

“No.” I shook my head. “He might be crazy—that would explain his actions, but he’s not deliberately mean. Our people blame the Devil for everything. Some men have evil souls. James is right: Judas’ problem’s in his head, not his soul.”

That moment during our conversation, as the other disciples sat around discussing today’s events, Judas sat alone on the other side of the campfire, unmoving, staring into the flames.

“Look at him.” Simon pointed derisively. “He’s in one of his moods. Have any of you noticed his eyes and the expressions on his face? He’s not normal. One moment, like today, he’s chattering or laughing like a hyena, another moment he withdraws into himself or suddenly he flies into a rage.”

“Yeah.” Matthew studied him. “…. I’ve seen demoniacs act like that. He has all the signs.”

“He’s dangerous.” Simon shuddered. “If I hadn’t knocked him down, he might’ve killed me.”

“Is it possible,” Matthew posed the question, “that Judas is both crazy and possessed? …. Look at him sitting there. What’s going on inside his skull?…. While gathering taxes, I learned how to read people. We got all kinds. If you see him as demon-possessed or mad, you might think, by his changing moods, that he’s easy to read. It’s hard to tell crazy people and demoniacs apart. If, however, you agree with Thomas that he’s merely evil, perhaps all those moods are reflections of a tortured soul.”

“No…. It’s deeper than that,” I tried explaining my thoughts. “…. Jesus implied that he’s part of a plan. Judas appears to have his own plan. I wonder if he isn’t driven by a darker purpose.”

“What purpose?” James raised an eyebrow. with concern. “… You mean against Jesus?”

“What else?” I asked, struggling for an answer. “That’s what I don’t understand. Jesus doesn’t trust Judas, and yet he wants me to watch over him and make sure he doesn’t leave our group…. For some reason, he needs him.”

The other men now shook their heads, their reaction unanimous. Matthew, whose wisdom on this subject impressed me, summed up their views: “That doesn’t make sense. Jesus is a complicated man. He’s also very compassionate. Perhaps he believes he can rehabilitate this lost soul. Who knows? What is plain to us, is that he can’t be trusted. What did Simon call him?…. A serpent. Everything was fine, until he arrived. Jesus uses colorful speech to describe what we’re doing. We’re herdsmen, gathering his sheep, we’re fishermen, fishing for converts, and farmers harvesting souls. As one of his parables showed us, what we can also be likened to a garden, which must be tended after being grown…. To many of us, a serpent came into our garden when Judas arrived. The best thing for us would be for him to leave. He’s no good!”

That hour, after I listened to Matthew’s views and then, when we retired for the night, heard James and Bartholomew say much the same thing, I was tempted, despite Jesus’ expectations of me as Judas’ caretaker, to take everyone’s advice and encourage Judas to leave. When Judas was in one of his moods and fell back on the road, it would be best if he disappeared forever from our lives.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Feeding The Four Thousand

The following morning we learned of our destination almost off-handedly when we were back on the road. Jesus’ spirits were high, as he led us toward Decapolis, a province, he claimed, was ripe for the picking. As I told James, it could very well be that it was a spur of the moment revelation that his father gave him, but it didn’t matter. Nothing could be much worse than Hazor, our last town. Our destination was a much larger town with a mixed population of Jews and Greeks. Now, Jesus announced amiably, we would minister in an orchard, as pickers, harvesting both Gentiles and Jews. This was good news for us for two reasons: large towns and cities had a Roman presence, which meant that Jewish hotheads couldn’t stone us or injure at will; and Gentiles in general were not hostile to our faith. Already, Jesus had, as a few of us, made converts of Romans, Greeks, and Syrians for the Way.

This time, when we entered Hippo, the northernmost city in Decapolis, Jesus avoided entering a synagogue. I know it wasn’t a cowardly action. Perhaps he had given up using Isaiah to prove who he was or finally accepted our criticism that it was a waste of time, but he did stop in front of the Greek-speaking synagogue to heal a man suffering from a stroke. As he steadied himself with a cane, a young boy held the elderly man’s free hand, which hung limply by his side. He walked with great difficulty, and yet he tried to smile and utter a greeting to Jesus as he approached. The right side of his face was normal. As he called out shalom aleichem to Jesus, though, the left side of his face remained rigid. Typical of stroke victims, his left eye, which was glassy and unmoving, was, as the left side of his body, useless. Considering where we were, it wasn’t a good place to perform a healing. The man and boy had paused in front of the synagogue as if they intended to enter.

“Hey, Jesus,” Peter called nervously. “I thought you decided to avoid synagogues.”

“I’m not going in,” he explained briefly.

“Then what’s he doing?” James turned to me.

“Listen!” I placed my finger before my lips.

“Sir,” the boy ran up to him, “are you Jesus, the prophet from Nazareth?”

“Well, my name’s Jesus.” He looked down and patted his head. “What’s your name?”

“Aesop,” the boy replied. “This is my father, Natalis. He can’t talk very well. Because of his accident, he can’t even work. We know about you Jesus. My uncle saw you in Capernaum. He said you did wonders and spoke for God.” “Please, Jesus,” he pleaded tearfully, “make him better. My father’s a good man.”

As his disciples surrounded them, Jesus reached for the water skin slung around Peter’s neck. “If you have heard of me,” he said, looking into Natalis’ good eye, “you know that God also cures the spirit. Do you repent your sins, believe in eternal life, and promise to live a righteous life?”

“Yes,” Natalis tried to say.

“And what about you, Aesop?” He looked down at the boy.

“Yes, Jesus!” Aesop cried.

“Then by the power given to me by my Father, I baptize you with water and give you the blessing of God!”

After sprinkling water over both their heads, he gripped Natalis shoulders, adding in a louder voice, “In the name of the Father and the Holy Spirit, I make you whole. From this day forward, Natalis, you must serve God!” “You Aesop,” he added light-heartedly, “will one day serve him too!”

The deadpan expression on the left side of Natalis’ face was the first sign that he was, in fact, whole. A smile spread over his face. He blinked several times, his blind eye filled with animation. Raising his once-dead arm and flexing his fingers and then testing his left leg, he cried out in a clear voice, “Jesus of Nazareth, you have saved me! I am a new man!”

Only a moment before, three Pharisees and several other members exited the synagogue in time to catch sight of this event. It was a replay of other such encounters: Jesus versus the Pharisees. This time, judging by their dress, there were scribes in this group. Considering the size of this bunch, it almost seemed like an ambush. Before they verbally attacked him, Jesus sent the man and child away with his blessing. Turning to us, he warned us to stand back and be quiet. This wasn’t an ordinary encounter with adversaries. Among the scribes there was, Simon pointed out discreetly, a temple agent, who would look for ways to bring charges against him.

The Pharisees were muttering amongst themselves: “He’s a sorcerer and blasphemer!” but the scribes, who considered Jesus more of an insurrectionist and heretic, tried to restrain them. Clearly they were now in control. “Sorcerer or blasphemer? You can’t have both,” we heard one of them argue. “Sweeping accusations and calling names doesn’t work. You must stick to points of the law. This man is no ordinary sorcerer or blasphemer. He’s attacking the foundation of our faith!”

A ferret-faced scribe, who Simon believed was a temple agent, stepped forth. “Tell me, rabbi,” he called to Jesus, “is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?”

As a shepherd, Jesus answered with a question. “If any of you has a sheep and it falls into a pit on the Sabbath, will you not take hold of it and lift it out?

“That isn’t the issue,” replied the scribe. “I’m aware of your clever tongue. I asked you if it was lawful to heal on the Sabbath.”

“Yes,” Jesus answered promptly, “it’s lawful to do good on the Sabbath. How much more valuable is a person than a sheep.”

“So you admit it,” the scribe said, jotting something on his tablet. “You are above the law. According to a witnesses, you’ve broken the Sabbath many times. Once you violated the temple by overturning the money tables. You think we’re blind and deaf, Jesus? Your movements have been watched from the beginning. So far you’ve escaped retribution. I see you even corrupted one of our men.”

Simon, once again fearless, charged forward, grinding his teeth, but was restrained by Matthew and myself. “I recognize him now,” he whispered heatedly. “That’s Pelias, a chief scribe of the temple. This is serious. He’s using Jesus words against him.”

“Only the other day,” Pelias continued, “your men were seen picking corn on the Sabbath. This appears to be a habit. What do you say to that Jesus?”

“Let me put it this way,” Jesus rephrased it. “The Sabbath was made for men. Men weren’t made for the Sabbath.”

“What?” his mouth flew open. “So, it’s true what the people are saying. You’re bringing them a new religion not of Abraham, Jacob, and Isaac. You are the worst form of heretic Jesus. Do you think you’ll replace the temple and our faith?”

“Yes,” Jesus replied calmly, “it’s a new religion, but no I’m not replacing our faith.”

“If you don’t observe our laws!” a second scribe shouted. “You’re replacing our faith!”

“No” Jesus shook his head. “God makes the laws. Man doesn’t make them. Where in the commandments does it forbid mercy and kindness?”

“This man perverts our scriptures,” a Pharisee now stepped forth. “You scribes play with the law. We Pharisees act on them. Before he does anymore damage this man should be stoned.”

“No Archimedes,” Pelias reminded him, “you know we can’t do that. This is Hippos, not a backwoods town. We shall conduct this according to our laws, but I shall present my report to Caiaphas. I have gathered enough on this malefactor for him to proceed!”

Jesus waved him off as he would a gnat, but said nothing. As a troop of Roman cavalry appeared in the distance, Pelias, T Engammon he temple agent, and his cohorts slipped quickly back into the synagogue, reminiscent of retreating jackals.

“You have nothing, you piece of dung!” Simon called after them. “If you were going to nab Jesus, you’d of done it a long time ago. Go back to Caiaphas, that pompous lackey and lickspittle of our Roman oppressors. He doesn’t represent our religion. Jesus does!”

“That’s enough, Simon,” Jesus chided. “You’re only making matters worse!”

“Yeah, Simon,” Peter looked at him in disbelief. “You poked a hornet’s nest!”

“Well, he got the point, didn’t he?” Judas looked around for approval.

“Simon’s right. What can they do?” Matthew gave his vote of approval.
“Listen, I told you men to let me handle this,” Jesus reproved them. “Because of Simon’s outburst, he brought attention to himself. Pelias recognized him.”

“What about what you said?” James asked fretfully. “That man wrote down everything you said!”

“Don’t worry, James.” Jesus reassured him. “He shouldn’t have said it, but Simon’s half right: if they were going to get me, they would’ve done it by now.”

“What about the other half?” John gave him a worried look.

“Yes Jesus.” I gave him a worried look. “This time you don’t sound so sure!”

“Enough said!” Jesus silenced us. Though Simon, Judas, and Matthew remained confident, the rest of us voiced our concern as we followed him down Hippo’s main street. The Roman troop passed by us without incident. What struck me as significant was how few townsmen remained to watch Jesus’ argument with Pelias, the scribes, and Pharisees. Despite this fact, the threat Pelias made to Jesus had placed a shadow on our path.

“Shouldn’t we be leaving?” muttered Thomas. “We’re going the wrong way. The entrance is back there!”

“Yes, Jesus.” Bartholomew looked down from his mule. “Remember what you said in Hazor? It’s time to shake off the dust!”

“No, men.” Jesus shook his head. “We just got here. It’s not my time. Hippo’s a large town. The Romans are in control here, not the Jews.” “No more outbursts!” he added, looking back at Simon.

Judas was trying his best to act normally. Had he been his old self, it might have been him calling out to the scribes and Pharisees. Nevertheless, he grew jittery, under our scrutiny, as if he was trapped within himself. We hadn’t been a large city since our trip to Jerusalem. Though it was a Gentile as well as a Jewish city, Jesus was excited about this town.

Raising his arms, he shouted exuberantly, “Behold: a fruitful garden, ready for the picking!”

“So,” Philip grumbled to Andrew, “we’re no longer fishermen and harvesters; we’re gardeners!”

“That seems fitting,” Andrew said glibly. “It start in a garden.”

“Yeah,” replied John, “and you know what happened in the Garden of Eden!”

“Adam and Eve got the boot!” Matthew snickered.

“That wasn’t an auspicious beginning,” observed James. Half-seriously, he began quoting a psalm: “Yea thou I walk through the Valley Shadow of the Death…”

“Stop it!” Thomas stuck his fingers in his ears. “That’s not funny.”

Perhaps unfamiliar with that psalm, the fishermen, turned to glare at him. Judas, however, thought it was amusing. “That’s my favorite psalm,” he announced blithely. “Don’t forget the part, ‘Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…’”

“Jesus is more than a rod or staff,” replied Simon. “He’s a club!”

“Jesus doesn’t need a club,” Judas interrupted himself. “All he has to do is wave his hands and poof, no more Pharisees and no more scribes!”

“Someone shut him up!” John’s brother James growled.

After the ominous warning given to Jesus, nervous chatter continued between the disciples. Why Jesus put up with this nonsense I’ll never know. It appeared that, in addition to Judas, who remained unstable despite his effort at being contrite, Simon was still an outspoken hothead in our group. While Jesus chatted with Peter about the journey ahead, the topic remained Pelias, chief temple scribe. Nothing that had been said by Pharisees or scribes in the past was nearly as bad as him telling Jesus that he would report to the high priest.”

“What if it’s imminent?” James dared utter the words. Could this town become a trap?”

“It could be a trap for all of us!” Thomas gave us a frightened look.

“Stop it, you two.” I scolded. “You worry too much. You think Jesus would lead us into a trap?”

“I dunno,” Thomas pursed his lips, “he might do it accidentally.”

“Well, I’m not worried,” Simon replied haughtily. “Let them try to take him. I have my sword!”

“And I have a knife!” Judas waved it in the air.

“Put that away!” I cried. “You’re talking like fools, both of you.”

“There it is.” Matthew said, inspecting Simon’s pack. “Jesus told him to leave that in the house!”

“You brought your sword along?” Bartholomew peered down from his mule. “You’re both morons!”

“Shut up!” Peter looked back irritably. “No more of that talk. Let’s get along!”

******

Jesus’ words, “It’s not my time,” appeared to have gone unnoticed by the others. He had said something like this before, but this time, connected as it was to Pelias threat, it carried a more ominous ring. In spite of my dread, I kept my alarm to myself. A sense of inevitability seemed to overtake me as we continued on our way, fading gradually as I listened to Jesus’ speak confidently of the mission ahead. There was much to do in the garden of the Lord, he reassured us constantly. As always, his enthusiasm was contagious if not logically convincing. None of seriously believed the Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents would go away.

Today would, in fact, turn out to be a great success. The synagogue where we encountered the Pharisees and scribes had been on the edge of town, as were many Gentile-speaking congregations. Now as we descended into the center of Hippos, a remarkable thing happened. It had happened before but not as dramatically nor in such immediate volume. Suddenly there were people on each side of us, many of them staring in awe at the white robed figure leading his disciples. Here in this cosmopolitan city Jesus’ reputation evidently preceded him. Though there were those familiar snarls and looks of reproach on some of their faces, some of them called out Jesus’ name. To our dismay there were several misshapen souls on crutches or staring blindly from the crowd, but Jesus continued our march through town to a place where he could looked out, as he had in Capernaum, and begin preaching the word.

The people cried out, “There he is!… That’s the miracle worker!… Look, it’s Jesus of Nazareth…. He’s healed the blind, the deaf, and the maimed!”

“Where you leading us?” asked Peter. “This isn’t Capernaum. Where can you accommodate such a crowd?”

“Near Lake Gennesaret,” announced Jesus, “it’s eastern shore. There’s hills overlooking the lake, just like in Capernaum—a perfect place to preach and save souls.”

“Moses Beard!” Bartholomew groaned.

Andrew looked around at the people lining the street. “Does this mean we baptize again?”

“No.” Jesus sighed. “Like that multitude in Capernaum, the crowd’s too large. Those requesting the rite and those healed are an exception. I’ll tell them the good news, but that’s all.”

“Aren’t you worried about those Roman soldiers.” Peter scratched his beard nervously. “Jews aren’t allowed to assemble. Have you forgotten that?”

“Don’t fret,” Jesus slapped his back. “The Romans allow other religions to practice peacefully. Contrary to what those scribes believe, I’m not a trouble-maker or insurrectionist. The Romans aren’t the problem!”

Sure enough, we heard hoof beats, the crowd momentarily dispersed, and they appeared: a contingent of legionnaires even larger than before. A Roman centurion, who reminded me of Longinus, sat in his saddle before us, surrounded by his men, a stern look on his chiseled face. A memory flashed into my mind of the time when, as a small child, I met a Roman officer on a bridge in Nazareth. This time, like that time in Nazareth, the man and the horse were one great shadow blocking the sun. In that one image, so reminiscent of the last, was symbolized the might of Rome.

Jesus walked toward him to get a better look at the man.

“Greetings sir,” he shielded his eyes from the sun. “I’m Jesus, from Nazareth, a preacher who wishes to share the good news with your town. These men are my disciples. We ask your permission to have a religious assembly in the hills. My words are for spiritual salvation, not revolution. We come in peace!”

“Well, Jesus of Nazareth,” the man shifted in his saddle. “I am Massala, First Centurion of the Garrison in Decapolis. My men detected dissent among your fellow Jews. They were told by an eyewitness that those men threatened you.”

“Yes, it’s true,” Jesus smiled faintly. “Many men fear the truth more than the sword.”

“Is that what you bring—truth?” Massala asked wryly.

“It is.” Jesus nodded. “I come with a simple message: believe in God, repent, and accept everlasting life.”

“You preach to me?” Massala laughed sourly. “We Romans have many gods. I don’t need one more.”

“Very well,” Jesus gazed up at horseman. “I’ll pray for you nonetheless.”

Massala gave Jesus a nod. “As long as you keep the peace you can pray all you want. My men will make sure you’re not bothered. If you see one of those shifty-eyed fellows again, let one of them know. I have no use for your holy men. All they do is stir up trouble.”

Greatly relieved by this news, our burden was lightened. We didn’t have to worry about Pharisees and scribes or the fickleness of the crowd. We had protection from Massala, centurion of the provincial garrison.

******

Aside from its Greek name, four factors proved that Hippos wasn’t a typical Jewish town. To begin with, the townsfolk who followed us to the lake were a mixture dark haired and fair-headed men and women, many of whom had blue eyes like Jesus. Then there was the babble of languages, including Aramaic, Greek, Latin, and Syrian and clothing that ranged from homespun tunics to Roman togas. Thirdly and fourthly, there were Roman and Greek temples throughout the city and Roman legionnaires guarding the town. When Jesus ascended the hill near the shoreline of the lake, we therefore knew this was a special event. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—who wrote the gospels failed to mention the fact that the multitude who listened to Jesus that day were heavily populated with Gentiles. Jesus admonition that we preach to the Jews had been clarified to mean Jews first and Gentiles second, but now in Hippos they were all mixed together. Almost from the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, Gentiles had become members of the Way. Today, the ratio of non-Jews was still much greater, but the number of Gentiles, which included Greeks, Syrian, and other peoples, was significantly larger than in the past. Isaiah’s prophecy was proving to be true. ‘I will also make you a light for the Gentiles, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth’ was proving to be true.
With the specter of this mixed multitude in mind, Jesus began his sermon by quoting from Isaiah:

“Listen to me, you islands and hear this, you distant nations. Before I was born the Lord called me. From my mother’s womb he spoke my name. He made my mouth like a sharpened sword. In the shadow of his hand he hid me. Making me into a polished arrow, he concealed me in his quiver. ‘You are my servant in whom I will display my splendor!’ the Lord said to me. ‘I have labored in vain,’ I said to him. I have spent my strength for nothing at all. Yet what is due me in the Lord’s hand and my reward is with my God. He formed me in the womb to be his servant to bring Jacob back to him and gather Israel to himself. I am honored in the eyes of the Lord and he has been my strength. Not only will you be my servant to restore the tribes of Jacob and bring back those of Israel I have kept; I will also make you a light unto the Gentiles that my salvation may reach the ends of the earth—the Redeemer and Holy One of Israel, to him who was despised and abhorred by the nations, to the servant of rulers. When seeing you, Kings will stand up, princes will bow down, because the Lord has chosen you…”

Though most listeners in the crowd might not understand the meaning of his words, it seemed clear that Jesus was reaching out to the Gentiles as well as providing justification for the Jews why Gentiles must be included too. Also in this introduction was a reference to the suffering servant, who would be mistreated by his people before being recognized one day as who he was. This was, to an educated listener, a conflicting verse, considering his passages in the same scroll promising a redeemer, a figure that kings and princes would bow down to and revere and would restore Israel to greatness again. This prophesized leader is unrelated to the suffering servant. Added to this mystery for those who have studied Isaiah’s work was a later scroll that directly refutes the image of such a man. Though verses would lead up to the suffering servant’s triumph over his persecutors, the lines ‘He was despised and forsaken of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief’ and ‘the Lord has caused the iniquity of us all to fall on him’ offer unequivocal proof of this. This was a different messiah, if, in fact, that title even applies. As he spoke, it struck me that he was hinting at his identity but, purposefully or not, leaving it open for his audience to decide. For those who have studied this prophet, however—the priests, Pharisees, scribes, and rabbis, the meaning was plain: Israel’s Messiah would deliver us from our oppressors. They had, throughout the centuries, ignored the other man mentioned by Isaiah, and to their less educated neighbors, family members, friends, and congregation, kept such a hope alive. And yet it represented an unsolvable conflict in Isaiah’s prophecy of the Messiah. It was so obvious, I told myself that moment: there couldn’t be two separate redeemers. Was it possible that Isaiah changed his mind later in his life? What justification did religious leaders and doctors of the law have for ignoring this scroll?

These questions consumed me during his sermon. The question of his identity was even murkier now, and though it seemed to be a logical tactic, I wished he had begun with a less controversial introduction. His intention had apparently been to show a scriptural basis for accepting Gentiles in the Way. Even without a full understanding of Isaiah, it should have been clear by this introduction that his message wasn’t merely for Jews, and yet I could see surprise and even dismay on the faces of listeners and even his own men.

As he went on to give a sermon similar to the one he delivered in Capernaum, my attention was divided between his speech and the grumbling I heard from Judas, Simon, and my brother James. I could understand how difficult it might be for James, who had studied to be a scribe, to accept Gentiles into the Way and Simon, after all, was once a Temple spy, but I didn’t understand Judas’ outlook.

“James,” I whispered to him, “why are you so worried about Gentiles being uncircumcised? The early Jews weren’t circumcised and they were children of God.”

“It goes against everything I’ve been taught,” he murmured. “We’re the chosen people. What do those words now mean?”

“We’re still the chosen,” I replied discreetly. “Its up to us to spread the word!”

Simon, who sat close by, was frowning severely. After hearing the reaction from a few listeners on the hill, he was worried that Jesus might offend Jews, but Judas was downright confused.

“How can there be a Messiah for both Gentiles and Jews?” he muttered aloud.

“Shut your face!” hissed Peter.

The other disciples, including Simon, James, and myself, also shushed him. Fortunately, because Jesus’ voice was so loud, he didn’t hear us. Aside from the Pharisees, scribes, spies, and malcontents in the audience, the attention of the audience seemed even greater than at Capernaum. Picking out captivated faces in the audience—a blond haired woman, clutching her child, a dark turbaned man in a multicolored robe, and an old man with his staff resting in his lap, I was reminded of how universal Jesus message might be perceived. The introduction he gave from Isaiah, despite its controversy, had captured their attention. What followed was, like his sermon to the five thousand, much easier to understand. Because of its tone and nuggets of wisdom, I hoped it wiped away the controversial elements in Jesus’ introduction. Throughout his sermon, in fact, were sayings meant for all peoples. I know now that he spoke for the ages. That day, as he finished up with the prayer he taught us in Capernaum, I felt re-energized. Most of the other disciples felt the same.

Though Jesus repeated many of the sayings spoken in Capernaum, he had added new material—none of which was covered in the gospels. Because of my concern for dissention in our ranks, I missed some of his sermon. My consolation was that it was heard by the multitude. Perhaps someone other than the disciples recorded his sermon in Hippos. Reminded of the significance of this audience, I once again scanned the crowd, picking out an Ethiopian, stola and palla-clad woman, and a soldier sitting on the grass. “Now this is a harvest!” I whispered to James.

When Jesus was finished with his closing prayer, he pivoted and motioned for us to stand ready: the healings were about to begin. In spite of Jesus intentions to avoid the rite of baptism when it wasn’t practical, he not only baptized those individuals that were healed, as he planned to do, but several other Jews and Gentiles who requested the rite. He just didn’t know how to say no. After seeing the faces of several Pharisees and scribes in the multitude and men, whom Simon pointed out as spies, we were anxious for him to wrap it up quickly. Perhaps sensing our concern, Jesus moved swiftly with the words and, instead of emersion, sprinkled droplets from a water skin hastily retrieved from Peter’s pack. I never saw him do it so expeditiously. The Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents were watching us from afar. Retreating from the hill, we expected Jesus to take the initiative and lead us back into town. Despite his apparent haste, however, Jesus looked out at the restless multitude, most of whom were still sitting on the grass or mulling by the lake in anticipation of more of his illustrious words, and motioned for us to stop.

“Master.” Peter frowned. “Why are you stopping?”

“We should feed them as we did in Capernaum,” he replied matter-of-factly. “They look hungry and thirsty. Many of those people come from the surrounding countryside. It was a spur of the moment for them to follow us to this hill, but others have traveled from afar. I’m certain most of the pilgrims didn’t bring food.”

“What?” Andrew slapped his forehead. “Where are we going to find enough food to feed this crowd? There’s too many of them!”

“I estimated four thousand,” replied Simon.

“Find me a lunch like you did last time!” Jesus waved dismissively.

“Where?” John looked at him disbelief.

“Yes, master.” Peter looked back nervously at the crowd. “All we have are dried fish and stale goats cheese. We can’t feed them that.”

Dumbfounded, we looked at each other. Jesus, in his infinite wisdom, had oversimplified matters. Any moment, those Pharisees, scribes, and spies, who had been biding their time, would descend upon him like vultures. It was a mystery to me why they waited this long. But Jesus couldn’t be rushed. Pointing to a man and woman not far away, he cried with delight, “There’s a couple who brought their lunch!” “Go fetch them, Peter.” He snapped his fingers. “You go with him, Jude. You have a silver tongue!”

“Huh?” I started to protest.

“Hurry!” Jesus clapped his hands.

“Moses Beard!” Peter grumbled, shaking head. “This isn’t Capernaum. They look like Gentiles. What if they refuse?”

The blond haired man and woman had the same coloring as Germans I once rode with. None of us had stopped to consider how a mixed audience of Jews and Gentiles understood Jesus sermon. Though I was certain Jesus could spoke many different tongues, I assumed, he would speak Aramaic language, which is spoken by most people throughout Galilee, Judea, and Decapolis. When I lapsed into Greek, though, the couple replied in this language fluently, making me wonder if my assumption was true. What if Jesus was understood by everyone, regardless of the language they knew? Was this another miracle undetected and unrecorded by the apostles?

“Excuse me,” I asked politely, “have you heard about Jesus miracle in Capernaum?”

“No,” the young woman batted her blue eyes, “but we saw him heal those people. This Jesus has great power—greater than even Zeus.”

“Ah yes, Zeus,” I twittered my fingers, —a mere demigod. Jesus is an agent of the true God—Yahweh. At Capernaum, with a meal brought by a small child, he fed five thousand people.”

“Five thousand?” the young man’s mouth dropped. “He is more than a demigod. He too must be a god!”

Peter gave me a nudge. “What are you saying to them? Are they going to hand it over. Hurry up Jude!”

“My friends,” I exclaimed, ignoring Peter’s question. “You can witness this miracle here in Hippos by sharing your lunch. What do you say?”

“Here.” The young woman handed it up to me. “We want to worship you god!”

When we brought their lunch to Jesus, he made a quick inventory. “Seven small loaves, two fish, and a handful of sweetmeats.”

“They’re pagans,” I interrupted, “but think you’re greater than Zeus. They want to join the Way.”

“I’m delighted, Jude,” he handed me a skin of water. “While the others distribute the food, you take care of this for me. All right?”

“They’re pagans!” protested James.

“Not anymore,” Jesus motioned to me.

Taking the seven loaves, fish, and sweetmeats in the small basket, Jesus blessed them quietly, said a short prayer and, after breaking each of the seven loaves in half, dividing the fish as well as the sweetmeats into fragments, he handed these portions to Peter, Andrew, John and his brother, Philip, Matthew, and James. Bartholomew returned to his mule at the foot of the hill, while Thomas, Simon, and Judas stood idly by, making me wonder if they weren’t trusted with this task. Perhaps unfairly, Thomas was thought by Peter and Andrew to be too clumsy for physical tasks. Simon, being a hothead, might have an unpleasant encounter with one of the Pharisees, agents, or scribes, and no one knew what Judas might say or do, which left me with performing the rite. As the miracle unfolded, I heard oohs, awes, and gasps. The disciples beginning the distribution likewise uttered shouts of wonder, Peter exclaiming, “He did it again!” After receiving their portions, individual passed half of their portions to the next person, a process starting with each of the seven disciples and continuing down the line, until ultimately reaching all members of the four thousand, with a surplus left over that could be taken home or given to beggars or the poor.

“I am Jude, disciple of Jesus of Nazareth,” I introduced myself to the couple.

“My name’s Hector,” the young man announced, “this is Penelope, my wife.”

“Are you married?” I thought to ask.

“Uh-uh,” Hector raised his eyebrows. “Is that a requirement?”

“No,” I blurted, “unless you’re living in sin.”

As Thomas, Simon, and Judas were drawn to the scene, Penelope smiled shyly. “We love each other. Does that matter?”

“What’s wrong?” Judas frowned.

“They’re living in sin,” I confessed.

“So?” Judas shrugged. “Many pagans allow a trial period for couples. Half of the Gentile population is living in sin.”

“You don’t know that!” Thomas interjected.

“It’s true,” Penelope nodded.

“I know lots of pagans.” Judas grinned lecherously at her.

“That doesn’t condone it,” Simon now butted in.

“Jude,” I growled. “This doesn’t concern you. Go away!”

At this point, I looked down the hill just in time to see the Pharisees, scribes, and agents make their move. Jesus normal round of miracles of healing were one thing for the religious leaders and spies, but the ‘miracle of the loaves,’ as this event would be called later by believers, was too great an act of sorcery to overlook. Finished with their tasks, the disciples returned to the crest of the hill, alarmed by the advancing troop. Jesus, who had been conversing that very moment with a graybeard, was more concerned with my progress with the rite.

“What’s the problem?” he called to me.

“Uh, nothing.” I muttered, feeling trapped.

“They’re living in sin, Jesus,” Thomas announced. “You were very clear about that.”

“We’re not sinners.” Penelope wept. “Come, Hector. I told you this was a bad idea.”

“Do you wish to be united under God?” Jesus put his hand on each of their shoulders.

“Yes, I guess so,” Hector pursed his lips.

“Do you or don’t you!” Jesus replied irritably. “If you do, it’s for life. Love binds but faith is the glue!”

“Yes,” they chimed.

“Let us begin this way,” Jesus raised two fingers. “Hector and Penelope. You have heard my message and the promise of eternal life. You know how important it is to give up your old life. You can’t worship false gods or live immoral lives and become members of the Way. There is but one God, my children. The pagan gods are false as our many of the values of pagan life.” “Answer yes or no,” he added after a pause. “Do you accept the good news, repent your sins and promise to live righteously in order to have everlasting life?”

“Yes,” they chimed again.

“If this is so,” Jesus instructed, “join hands and receive this sacrament as man and wife, bound by God’s laws.”

When Hector and Penelope joined hands, I quickly handed Jesus my water skin. “Bow your heads, my children,” he said gently, “receive the gift of eternal life. I baptize you with water. Feel my Father’s spirit enter your hearts. You are one with each other. You are one with God!”

“Can he do that?” Simon turned to me.

I giggled light-headedly. “He just did!”

“Jesus?” James tapped his shoulder. “Did you just marry that couple?”

Ignoring his question, Jesus took both Hector and Penelope’s hands. “Rise up and begin your new life,” he intoned. “Go back to your family and friends and spread the word!”

“Well, that’s a first,” Thomas whistled under his breath.

“Jesus is full of firsts!” muttered James.

Bartholomew arrived on the crest, leading his mule. “Did I miss something.” He looked at me. “What’s going on?”

I could scarcely explain what I just witnessed. That very moment, at the worst possible time, Jesus adversaries appeared en masse, Pelias, the chief scribe leading the way. On top of sorcery, they now had a charge of heresy, even blasphemy to lodge.

Pelias pointed at Hector and Penelope. “What is this?” his voice shrilled. “You baptize pagans into your heathen rite and join them as man and wife. What perversion of our laws is this?”

“You would rather they live in sin?” Jesus countered. “By your logic, pagans stay pagans. God decides who are his children.”

“I would rather you desist altogether your heresy, blasphemy, and sorcery,” he exclaimed heatedly. “You have led thousands of souls to perdition with your words. Now you’re bringing Gentiles into our religion, unchaste, painted women and uncircumcised men who eat pork.”

“I bring them the manna of truth,” Jesus said boldly. “What you offer is stale bread.”

“Listen Jesus.” A young Pharisee stepped forth. “I’m Ananiah, whose daughter has been bewitched by your words. I found her in the crowd, eating your bread, fish, and sweetmeats—food profaned by Gentile hands.”

“What profanes is not without but within,” Jesus countered. “You Pharisees, scribes, and spies kick against the goads. You represent loaves without yeast and lamb without spice.” “Your daughter isn’t bewitched,” he directed his voice at Ananiah. “You’re bewitched by the influence of the law and Torah, whom you worship more than God.”

A third Pharisee, this one a graybeard, who hobbled on a cane, introduced himself as Mordecai, cackled, and stroked his beard. “Ananiah is right to worry about his daughter being bewitched,” he informed Jesus. “Your heresy is not the most important issue, Jesus. It’s your sorcery. God wouldn’t give the gift of healing to a unwashed preacher. I watched you, your followers, and the crowd devour that food—all of it done with unwashed hands—”

“Just one moment, sir,” Jesus interrupted. “Whatever enters the mouth goes into the stomach and then out of the body, but that which comes out of a person’s mouth from the heart, is what defiles him. For out of the heart come evil thoughts: murder, adultery, theft, sexual immorality, lies, slander, and many such sins. These are what defiles a person, not what he excretes. Eating with unwashed hands does not defile him, as do impure words and deeds.”

“What?” Mordecai was taken back. “You imply we’re evil? We see you as a lawbreaker, Jesus. The Torah is very plain on cleanliness, but what that is mere heresy. The important matter here is your sorcery. It’s come to my attention that you’ve cured a demoniac. There are eyewitnesses who saw this. Only Beelzebub, prince of demons, can drive out demons. And as for you healing of the blind, deaf, and maimed, this could be your doing too… But this business with the food, if it’s true, requires much greater sorcery—by the hand of Satan, himself.”

“Excuse me, Mordecai,” an unnamed scribe spoke. “There is another matter here: this claim we’ve been hearing.” “They say you’re the Messiah—the Promised One?” he addressed Jesus. “Is this true, rabbi. Did you make such a claim?”

“You have said it.” Jesus folded his arms.

A collective gasp arose from his accusers. This unexpected accusation was the most serious threat to Jesus, and yet he had answered it plainly, without blinking an eye. This time, however, unlike other times when he gave such answer, it was unclear whether this was a yes or no. As he had done for the four thousand, he left the question of his identity up to the scribe. What he said after this had greater meaning than even who was the Messiah. The Promised One, after all, was, according to our scriptures, merely a man.

“Every kingdom divided against itself will be ruined,” he said, looking out at the crowd. “Every city or household divided against itself will not stand. If Satan drives out Satan, he is divided against himself. How then can his kingdom stand? And if I drive out demons by Beelzebub, as Mordecai says, by whom do your people drive them out? So then, they will be your judges. But if it is by the Spirit of God that I drive out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you. Another question is, ‘How can anyone enter a strong man’s house and carry off his possessions unless he first ties up this man in order to plunder his house?’” “Listen, you hypocrites,” he scolded his accusers. “Whoever is not with me is against me. There is only one truth under God…. If a tree is good, its fruit will be good. You brood of vipers, how can you who are evil say anything good? For the mouth speaks what the heart feels. A good man brings good things out of the good stored in him, and the evil man brings evil brings evil things out of the evil stored up in him.” ^“Remember this.” Jesus pointed at each of the men. “Everyone will have to give account on the Day of Judgment for every empty word they have spoken. For by your words you will be acquitted, and by your words you will be condemned!”

Ananiah, the young Pharisee shook his head and departed, as did his friends, but Mordecai and Pelias stood their ground. From out of nowhere it seemed, a darkly clad, turbaned fellow appeared, whom Simon recognized as Ishmael, chief agent of the high priest. Jesus motioned for Simon to be silent as the man approached. Rubbing his hands together, his small dark eyes sparkled mirth “Your honeyed words won’t save you.” He snarled. “Everything you’ve done and said can be explained away as heresy, blasphemy, or sorcery, but your claim that you’re the Messiah is a direct affront to God. Our deliverer will come in glory, in a chariot of gold, leading an army of warriors who will wipe our land clean? You, who work on behalf of the Devil, lead a band of unwashed vagabonds, aimlessly about performing sorcery and proclaiming blasphemous things.”

“Have your read Isaiah, Ishmael?” Jesus called him out. “Isaiah gives us two messiahs: one a conqueror and one a man of the people. Why is it so easy to accept a man of war over a man of peace? What has war done for our people but break them apart and divide them into quarreling groups: Pharisees, Sadducees, scribes, rabbis, and sundry factions? A warrior prince can’t bring peace, only division….You hypocrites—all of you! Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you: ‘These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are merely human rules.”

With these final words, Jesus retired from the hill.

“I have much to tell Caiaphas about,” Pelias spoke aloud for Jesus’ benefit.

“Indeed!” agreed Mordecai. “This heretic blasphemer, and sorcerer must be stopped!”

On this note, Jesus accusers retreated. I followed after them a ways, listening to what they said, ducking down beside folks still gathered on the hill and trying not to be seen. Mordecai and Pelias were confident that the high priest would be interested it what they told him. Their words were chilling, but Ishmael dismissed their optimism with a bejeweled hand.

“Nonsense.” He twittered his fingers. “You can do nothing to Jesus, especially in Decapolis. There’s too many Roman soldiers and magistrates here. He’s not a revolutionary like Judah, the Galilean. Rome doesn’t see him as a threat. I talked to a centurion about this troublemaker; Massala was his name. To capture this clever fellow, he told me, you’ll need Rome’s support. The Romans are pagans. In their eyes, this is just another religion. To them, Jesus is just another prophet roving the land.” “….No,” his voice trailed off in the distance, “Caiaphas hasn’t seen or heard Jesus. He has no idea how to deal with this man. I’ve never seen anyone capture such an audience. I must admit, I’m impressed. He’s a preacher, though, not a revolutionary, and his words don’t incite revolt. Say what you want about him, but unless, Jesus threatens the peace, Rome will leave him alone!”

Thanking God I took the initiative to spy on those men, I ran back with the news.

“Jesus! Jesus!” I yelled out of breath. “I overheard Ishmael say the most extraordinary thing!”

I repeated almost word-for-word what he told Mordecai and Pelias. Everyone was greatly relieved when they heard my report. Jesus who took the news graciously, however, wasn’t surprised, admitting that he suspected as much.

“It’s important to read people’s faces,” he explained, as he led us toward the lake. “What I read in Pelias and Mordecai was purest deceit and hate but, judging by their expressions, nothing yet to fear. Ishmael, Caiaphas’ agent, though loyal to his master, is a paid professional, not a reckless zealot like that Pharisee and scribe. His spiteful words belie his character. With a different paymaster, he would be on our side. If I wasn’t here to protect you, the greatest threat would be the local malcontents, who act on their own. Those men, who came from Jerusalem, are forced to follow Roman, not Hebrew, law.”

“That’s so strange,” Thomas muttered. “The Gentiles, not your own people, are protecting you Jesus, with Roman law!”

“So, you’re not afraid?” Peter looked for more reassurance. “One way or another, they’re out to get you Jesus. They follow you everywhere now. We’ve seen men like Pelias and Ishmael before.”

“Yeah.” Andrew snapped his fingers. “I remember Mordecai, too.”

Jesus replied with a short parable: “Every plant that my heavenly Father hasn’t planted will be pulled up by the roots. Don’t worry about them; they’re blind guides. If the blind lead the blind, both will fall into a pit.”

“In deed!” Peter declared. “All those Pharisees, scribes, and priests are going straight to hell!”

“Not quite,” Jesus chuckled. “They’re not all bad.”

“Just most of them!” Philip exclaimed.

******

It seemed strange that Jesus was walking away from and not to the town. Peter and Andrew asked him about this, but he remained silent, as if he was gathering his thoughts. Evening was near. Unless the moon broke through the clouds, darkness would be upon us. Now, after the crowds had begun dispersing, two figures were seen on the shore, walking toward us. The forms were slight, as they would be for a woman and small child. When the woman was within shouting distance, she cried out, “Jesus, have mercy on me! My daughter is demon-possessed and suffering terribly.”

“Ugh! Not another one,” Judas muttered. “How many demoniacs does that make?”

The child she was clutching was jittering about and gnashing her teeth as if she had the biting disease. I could tell by their expressions that the other disciples also wanted to send her away. Jesus said something very strange that moment that could only mean he wanted to make a point: “I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel!”

“That’s not true,” Judas whispered in my ear. “He baptized Gentiles too!”

“Shut up!” James hissed.

While trying to restrain her daughter, the woman knelt before Jesus. “Please,” she begged, “help her!”

Jesus replied, ”It is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.”

“Really, master?” She frowned. “Even dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

It was almost a parable. Jesus said to her, “Woman, you have great faith! Your request is granted.” Without even touching her, the woman’s daughter was healed that very moment.

Though trembling with fatigue, Jesus gave the mother and daughter the rite, this time sprinkling water from the lapping shore onto their heads. During the rite, we learned that the mother and daughter, whose names were Haifa and Jamna, respectively, were Syrian pagans.

“So much for the Lost Children of Israel!” whispered Judas.

Instructing us to watch over Haifa and Jamna now that night descended, Jesus told us that he wanted to be alone.

Peter looked around at this desolate spot, muttering, “Alone? Out here in the middle of nowhere. Where will you go?”

“That’s for my Father to decide!” he drawled. “Go—all of you. I shall meet up with you by the lake in Capernaum.”

I understood something about Jesus that the other disciples, even James, our brother, didn’t know. When Jesus walked many miles and gave sermons to crowds, he became weary, requiring human rest; but when he healed or performed any other miracle, such as the feeding of the thousands in Capernaum and Hippo, there was a more serious draining that required spiritual rest. It was one reason why he had to go out on his own to pray and be alone with God. Though Peter, Andrew, and the others argued with him about this, it might as well have fallen on deaf ears. A sudden gale blew off the lake startling all of us, and when we looked around Jesus was gone—poof!

“Where did he go?” John gripped his forehead. “Is this some kind of test? It’s like he vanished into thin air!”“

“Well,” Peter shrugged, “he said he wanted to be alone. Why couldn’t he wait until we got back to town?”

“He’s a fast runner,” Matthew suggested, “he could’ve ran around the hill.’

“Or maybe behind those trees!” Thomas pointed. “That’s not very far.

I shook my head at this droll moment. “That’s silly, Matthew and Thomas. Why would Jesus do that? He’s not playing hide and go seek!”

“Your master is a great wizard!” Haifa marveled.

“He’s greater than Baal or Zeus!” her daughter clapped her small hands.

“What!?” all twelve disciples exclaimed at once

“Are you two serious?” James asked in disbelief. “You were just baptized into the Way.”

“What is the way?” the little girl looked up at her mother.

“A new god is upon the land,” her mother explained with great conviction. “His name is Jesus. No longer will I give incense to the old gods. We will pray only to him.”

Dumbfounded by this response, we muttered amongst ourselves as we walked back to town. The implications of this, when we considered how many Gentiles must have heard Jesus message and how many might have been converted to the Way, weighed heavily upon us. Despite her general ignorance of what Jesus wanted Haifa and her daughter to believe, the woman was at least half correct: a new god (in her mind) replaced Baal and Zeus. As I write this down, of course, I can see that she wasn’t wrong about Jesus’ divinity, but she didn’t know that. Jesus hadn’t admitted this yet.

When we reached Hippo in time to escape the crash of night, Haifa directed us to her carriage and slaves waiting on the outskirts of town. I turned out that she was, by her own admission, the daughter of Ishbaalot, a rich merchant from Damascus. She and her daughter had been cloaked in simple robes, perhaps to hide the silken linen beneath. As they climbed aboard the carriage, I was reminded of Jesus onetime friend Joseph of Arimathea whom he traveled with to distant lands. A sudden longing filled me to escape this ragged band and venture out on my own.

The disciples shook their heads with disgust, appalled by this subterfuge.

“Why are you so surprised men?” James chided them. “They were pagans. They’re still pagans. To them Jesus is merely a more powerful god!”

“No, James,” I sighed resignedly, “Gentiles don’t understand the refinements we understand about our faith, but I think Haifa and her daughter know the most important thing. In the rite, Jesus promised them everlasting life if they repented and believed in the one true God. It might go very hard on Haifa if she tried converting her father. Jesus doesn’t want us to be impatient with converts, be they Gentile or Jew…. As in the case of Haifa and Jamna, the important thing is that he planted the seed!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Miracle On The Lake

The next episode in the life of Jesus and his disciples has been reported reverently but confusingly by Matthew, Mark, and John. Those were heady days, of course. Truth is often obscured by the mists of history. This was true for the fictional accounts Kings had written for themselves to cover their sins. In the case of the Apostles, who wrote their gospels long after Jesus death, the chronological and exacting method that has made our ancestors famous as historians seems to have been forgotten altogether. For example, when writing their historical accounts, where emotion overwhelms perspective, they failed to make clear the details in a train of events or even explain to the reader where Jesus was at a given time. One of the most confusing accounts is when, after returning from Hippos to Capernaum (according to Matthew, Mark, and John), we saw Jesus moving toward us from the far side of the lake. Where were the disciples when he began his miraculous walk on water? More importantly where was he? What side on this immense lake was Jesus on when he stepped onto the water. And why, in the first place, since we were looking for our shepherd, were we in one of Peter’s boats. As one might easily see how Jesus wound up one side of Lake Gennesaret while we were on the other as a great mystery. It was really very simple, however. When the historical sequence and setting are put into place, there is no mystery at all.

To begin with this was a difficult time for Jesus’ disciples, especially James and me, his brothers. Though it was a leap of faith, we had expected to return to Peter’s house and find him waiting for us, but when we arrived we could find him nowhere in town or in the hills near the lake. I am ashamed to admit it but, after all the wondrous things Jesus had done, we expected the worst. Either the agents of the temple had finally arrested him or he had been stoned by rabble and left dead in some remote spot. It had been late afternoon when we arrived at Peter’s house. Night would soon fall on the lake, but fortunately there was a full moon to light our way. With a lantern in his hand, after we searched high and low for our shepherd—the town, the hills, and shores of the lake, Peter led us to the small inlet were he moored their boats.

As we approached the southern part of the inlet, on the eastern shore near Capernaum, we looked across the small bay and saw a fire burning on its north side. It could have been anybody—a vagrant, poacher, or criminal hiding from capture, but my first instinct was that it Jesus.

“You think so, Jude?” Peter sighed wearily. “Why would he pick such a desolate place?”

“Jesus is theatrical,” I reminded him. “You remember how he calmed the storm?”

“Why would he play games with us?” Judas asked peevishly. “He never speaks plainly. It seems like he’s always trying to make a point.”

“What if he’s testing us?” I asked thoughtfully. “Like he did that day during the storm?”

“I agree with Peter,” Philip shook his head. “This doesn’t make sense. When he departed from us in Hippo, he said he wanted to be alone with God. Why would he pick that Godforsaken place?”

“The weather’s good enough for nighttime fishing,” Andrew suggested. “It could be someone poaching our fishing grounds.”

“What if its a gang of bandits, like Barabbas?” Thomas gave us a frightened look.

“There’s only one way to find out.” Peter set his jaw. “Let’s go find out!”

In one of Peter’s larger boats, a craft with a mainsail similar to the boat when Jesus silenced the storm, we set out that night. There was barely a breeze, so we would have to man the oars to reach our goal. Bartholomew tied the reins of his mule to the dock before we took our places. Hanging the lantern on the mainsail hook, Peter instructed us to row, while he sat the stern scanning the distant shore and Bartholomew sat near the mainsail post, suffering the ordeal.

“Come on, men,” he commanded, “put your muscle into it!”

“Is he like this when your fishing?” I asked John.

“Sometimes,” he replied. “Normally we can use the sail.”

“Don’t forget,” Judas grumbled, “this is a test!”

“It’s not a test,” Andrew huffed. “You really think Jesus plays games?”

“Man your oars!” snapped Peter. “We have to find him!”

For several moments, as I listened to the oars slosh, I wondered again what I was doing among these rude men. James, the most educated of us, must have missed Jerusalem and its comforts, and poor Bartholomew, who had sat peacefully in retirement, had been robbed of his rest. Matthew, Simon, and Thomas had also given up wages to live as vagabonds, and the fisherman, who had a steady livelihood, had given up security and family to become fishers of men. Who was I—an aimless wanderer—to complain. I had no wife and responsibilities other than myself. Except for working around the house in Capernaum, I had never held a permanent job…. Of all the people on this boat, Peter, who owned a fishing business, had given up the most. Once when we were around the fire and Jesus was off in the night praying to God, I heard him complain about his plight. “When this is over,” he concluded stubbornly, “I’ll return to my business. My men can watch the business. It’s just a matter of time.” Andrew, however, who had been with Jesus since the beginning, replied words that gave me comfort that hour: “No, Peter, you’ll never return—not really, none of us will. This is a one way trip. Where it leads we don’t know. The people wait to hear the good news…. We are the first to know!”

From the day Jesus began looking at Peter as his second-in-command, Peter’s attitude began to change. He became a leader and example for us. I may not have liked him very much at times, particularly those moments on the lake, but something happened that hour that reinforced my respect for him.

As the boat approached the north side of the inlet, the distant blaze grew and grew, until we could make out a figure standing by the fire. Because it was too indistinct at first to discern, our fears of who it might be increased. Why would anyone be out there unless they were outcasts or criminals? Thomas and Bartholomew were even fearful it might be Barabbas, the bandit leader. But, if this was so, where were his cohorts? If it wasn’t Jesus, why could it just be a poacher or itinerant tramp? Why would Jesus pick this desolate place?

“What if it’s a leper?” Philip thought to ask.

“It’s possible,” Bartholomew nodded. “I saw a few by the lake.”

“Hah!” Judas scowled. “All this for a leper. Wouldn’t that just be our luck?”

“Wait a minute!” Peter rose up suddenly, rocking the boat. “Look! Do you men see that?”

“Sit down Peter,” cried Andrew, “you’re going to tip us over!”

“I see it!” I pointed excitedly

“Me too!” Matthew, Simon, and Thomas exclaimed.

Peter sat back down, narrating the event: “The man left the fire….He’s walking down the river bank…He’s stepping into the water…”

“It’s a ghost!” Andrew gasped. “He moves like a phantom.”

“By the infernal spirits,” Philip cried, “he’s walking on water!”

“Stop rowing!” John shouted. “Pull in your oars!”

“No!” Peter stood up recklessly again. “It’s not a ghost, phantom or evil spirit—its our master.”

“Fear not men,” Jesus called across the lake. “It’s me Jesus. Don’t be afraid!”

With sudden inspiration, Peter began stepping out of the boat. “Lord,” he cried, “I’ll meet you on the water.”

“Come on, Peter.” Jesus laughed with delight. “I’m waiting!”

“Does he know how to swim?” asked Simon.

“Yes,” replied Andrew, “all fishermen can.”

“He doesn’t look too sure.” Judas snickered. “I bet he sinks like a rock!”

Cynical as his words were, Judas had uttered prophecy. After a few unsteady steps, which caused us to cheer him on, Peter began to sink. Though he could swim, it was, he later explained shamefacedly, like sinking into quicksand. The sensation caught him off guard, making him fearful for his life.

“Lord save me!” he shrieked.

“Ho-ho!” Judas giggled. “I told you he’d sink!”

Jesus lilted over the water toward us. “Relax,” he instructed. “Flutter your arms and legs. Swim back to the boat.”

Struggling into the boat with our help, Peter returned to the stern, laughing hysterically at his antics. Only Judas had dared to make fun of him. James and I were impressed by his effort to walk on water. Most of all, however, we were impressed by Jesus latest miracle. Standing like a vision on the lake, Jesus gently scolded him. “Why’d you doubt yourself? You almost did it!” “For shame, men” he added, walking toward the shore. “With strong enough faith you could move mountains. At least Peter tried!”

“I was showing off!” Peter muttered. “I’m sorry I let you down.”

“You didn’t let me down.” Jesus called over his shoulder. “All of you men are learning. It just takes time. Come join me by my fire!”

******

As we rowed to the shore, Peter berated himself under his breath. To make him feel better, Thomas admitted he couldn’t swim and would probably have drowned. With good-humored banter, the fishermen poked fun at him. Matthew, Simon, Thomas, Bartholomew, James, and I agreed it was a worthy effort, whereas Judas continued giggling with mirth. After we exited the boat and pulled it ashore, we found Jesus sitting before a bonfire, several fishes roasting on a spit, jugs of water or wine and loaves of bread on the ground. Because we were famished, we sat down immediately around the fire, waiting for Jesus to say the blessing. No sooner had he finished his prayer, than he began portioning out on leaves, a fish and loaf of bread for each of us. After this he distributed one-by-one the mugs after filling them to the brim. To our delight it was, in fact, wine.

With little chatter as we finished our meal, we watched him rise suddenly and glance around the group.

“Who do the people say I am?” he asked, taking a sip of wine.

“You are a great prophet!” Andrew exclaimed. “Some say your Elijah returned in the flesh!”

“More than that!” I jumped up. “Isaiah foretold of a savior. You are that man!”

“What about you?” He looked down at Peter.

Peter stood up, cup in hand, and bellowed. “You’re more than merely the Messiah, Jesus; you’re the Son of God!”

This was a mental thunderbolt. We were dumbfounded. Everyone, except Jesus, gasped and Judas actually spat out his wine, but Jesus, his face radiant with joy, clutched Peter’s shoulders, exclaiming, “Blessed are you Peter among all men. This wasn’t revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my Father in heaven.” “On this rock,” he presented him to us, “I’ll build my church, and the gates of Hell shall not overcome it. To you Peter I give the keys of the kingdom of heaven. Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will loosed in heaven.”

“Whoa!” Andrew’s mouth dropped. “I wasn’t expecting that!”

“Are you serious?” James blurted. “You claim to be the Son of God?”

“I am.” He stared back into the fire. “You know this, James. You and Jude sensed it from the beginning.”

“Yes.” I looked at him in wonder. “… ever sense you healed that bird.”

“Even our mother didn’t know this.” James gazed up at him, as if he was seeing Jesus for the first time. “Our brother… the Son of God!”

“How can there be such a thing?” Judas protested. “Where is this written in scripture? Is everything we’ve been taught a lie?”

“I don’t remember hearing about this.” Philip mumbled.

“Me neither,” John agreed.

“It’s one thing to claim to be the Messiah,” Judas said, shaking his head, “but this is too much!”

“Don’t spoil this moment!” Peter gave him a threatening look. “You too, Philip and John!” Turning back to Jesus, tears glistening in his eyes. “My parents never taught this to me,” he said looking around the group. “I never learned this in a scroll. I heard it in my head as clear as thunder.” “Jesus is not merely the Messiah,” he repeated, gripping his shoulder, “he’s the Son of God!”

Simon scratched his head. “That’s like saying there’s two gods, isn’t it?”

Before Peter could scold him, Jesus reached over to pat Simon’s head. “Someday, Simon,” he prophesized, “they’ll call you the Zealot because of your faith. In spite of your past, there’s already a kernel in you. This won’t be easy for any of you to understand.”

Simon’s voice constricted, “… Those priests, Pharisees, and scribes really had it wrong. I might not understand this, but I believe you Jesus,” he decided finally. “It would take a god to do what you’ve done!”

“That’s true,” Thomas looked around for agreement, “he’s proven it. Hasn’t he men?”

“Yes, he certainly has,” admitted James.

“Hundreds of times!” I slapped my knee.

Jesus looked squarely at Thomas that moment. “More blessed are those who believe because of my words. Someday, when I’m gone, it will be the Word, not the deeds, that will live on.”

“Master!” Peter gave him a frightened look. “What do you mean ‘when your gone?’”

“Yes, Jesus!” My heart leaped in my chest. “Is there something you’re not telling us now?”

All twelve disciples were standing around Jesus now as he gave us his dreadful prediction:

“The time draws closer,” he began, looking at each one of us. “Soon I must go the Jerusalem and suffer many things from the Pharisees, priests, and scribes. I’ll be delivered to them and killed, but on the third day afterwards I shall be resurrected—all of which is necessary to fulfill Isaiah’s prophecy, which is God’s will.”

“Wait, wait?” Peter held up his hand. “Killed? Resurrected? What does all this mean?”

“I didn’t speak in parables this time,” Jesus replied solemnly. “You know exactly what I mean!”

“But you’re the Son of God.” I stared at him in disbelief. “No one can touch you!”

“He’s right,” James reached out pleadingly, “say it isn’t so!”

“I’m sorry, my brothers,” he said consolingly, “but you, more than anyone, must understand!”

“Understand they’re going to kill you?” I stared at him blankly. “This is madness, Jesus. Something written long ago by that eccentric prophet must be obeyed? He couldn’t even get the story straight: first he prophesizes a warrior king and then a man who will be killed? I can’t believe God would want this, Jesus. You always told me he’s a merciful God.”

“That’s not helping anything,” Peter gave me a sympathetic look. “We have to sort this out!”

“There’s nothing to sort.” Jesus sighed deeply. “I spoke clearly. I repeat: it’s the will of God.”

“This makes no sense at all!” Judas held his head. “It’s all a bad dream. Not only is he not a deliverer, he’s mad!”

“Shut up, you fool!” Peter cried in a strangled voice. “Can’t you see who this man is?”

Jesus took Peter aside then. I followed behind them, even though Jesus made scooting motions with his hands.

“Why is even here?” I asked him discreetly. “You told me to befriend Judas, but he’s not one of us. He’ll never be one of us!”

“Remember what I told you about Judas having a purpose?” Jesus asked me crossly. “This is very hard for everyone to understand, even for you and Peter, but you must trust me, Jude.”

“I agree with Jude.” Peter looked back at Judas with a scowl. “But Judas is right about one thing: this doesn’t make sense. This will never happen to you. I won’t let you die!”

Jesus’ eyes bore into Peter and he said, ”Get behind me, Satan! You’ve become a stumbling block to me if you persist. You’re not thinking God’s concerns, Peter, only human concerns, if you tempt me now.”

Peter was crestfallen, as was I. Jesus had spoke loudly enough for everyone within earshot to hear.

“Uh, I’m sorry,” Peter hung his head.

“I guess what you said goes for me too.” I looked down at the ground.

He returned to the group and gave us a brief but vital sermon. “This goes for all you!” He raised his arms. “Whomever wants to be my disciple must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whomever wants to save his lifewill lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it. What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul? Or what can anyone give in exchange for his soul? For the Son of Man is going to come in his father’s glory with his angels, and then he will reward each person according to what they’ve done.”

Looking at John that moment, he seemed to single him out. “Truly I tell you, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.”

John didn’t understand what Jesus meant. None of us did. We were still grappling with the fact that Jesus was the Son of God.

******

Nothing was the same after that day. Jesus ordered us not to tell anyone that he was the Son of God or to divulge what would happen to him one dark, terrible day. But there was no way to hide this information from all his followers nor his family and friends.

That night, when we returned to Peter’s house, Jesus tried to be cheerful despite giving us that dreadful news. No one wanted to believe it. Everyone hoped that he was just being glum. He reminded us before we entered the house not to burden the women with the news. His true identity that he revealed had been hard enough to explain but his fate at the hands of the priests would make it seem like a cruel joke. For this reason, the two-sided story, about Jesus identity and his fate, would be kept from the women. Jesus wanted this secret to remain within the twelve. When we arrived, however, Mary Magdalene and Peter’s family greeted us at the door. Esther, Dinah, and Bernice knew that we had been hunting for Jesus and were just glad he was all right, but Mary, who was very intuitive, knew immediately that something was wrong. Since everyone knew Jesus couldn’t lie we closed ranks around him immediately. It didn’t matter if he tried not to answer, his facial expressions might give him away. In the scribe’s parlance, he was an open scroll.

“Mary,” Peter made shooing motion, “leave Jesus alone!”

“Why can’t he talk to me?” She puckered his lip. “You’re being so unfair!”

“Jesus is just tired,” I explained patiently. “Let him rest. He’ll talk in the morning after he gets some sleep.”

“Hah!” She tossed her head. “I know when something’s wrong. I can see it in his eyes.”

“Go away, woman!” Philip pointed to the kitchen.

“You heard him,” Andrew gave her a push. “Go-a-way!”

“No.” Mary folded her arms. “You men are bullies. Why won’t you tell us what happened? It’s something awful. I just know it!”

“Mary,” I grew irritated, “why are you making a scene? He’ll talk about this in the morning!”

Jesus was no longer smiling. “She knows,” I heard him whisper faintly. Peering through our bodies at Jesus, she tried to get his attention. “Jesus,” she said tearfully, “you look so sad!”

“Mary,” Dinah called shrilly from the kitchen, “stop this at once!”

Backing away dejectedly, Mary was grabbed bodily by Esther and Bernice and dragged across the room. I would learn later from Esther, by her observations, that Mary fancied herself some sort of mystic. Before we went to sleep that night, I heard Dinah complain to Peter about Mary’s laziness. Esther, Bernice, and Dinah cleaned the house, cooked, and did the gardening, while young Mary wandered in a daze through the hills. In a muted tone, I overheard Jesus voice his concern about this. Sooner or later someone would let it slip, but it was too soon for the secret to get out. Peter suggested discreetly that we send her away, perhaps to his mother’s house, but, after the hostility shown toward him in Nazareth, Jesus wanted to avoid that town. Mary’s eccentric behavior would clash with townsmen there and he was certain she would get on our mother’s nerves, too. “No,” Jesus was heard saying to Peter, “Dinah and Esther must somehow learn to control her. There is simply no other place for Mary to go.”

While I settled down that evening and listened to idle chatter in the room, I heard much criticism of Mary Magdalene, some of which she deserved. She was either slightly mad or had a gift for reading people that Jesus, himself, possessed. Regardless of what caused her rudeness and overbearing nature, I felt sorry for her. She had led a dreadful life until meeting Jesus. Now she appeared to be torn with visions of his doom.

“Poor Mary,” I said to James. “She won’t give up.”

“Humph!” he grumbled. “Poor nothing. Listen to that wench. Esther’s going to have to knock her out!”

“She can’t help it.” I tried explaining. “…. Somehow she figured it out. She knows and Jesus knows that she knows. Not having all the details like us, it must be awful.”

“She’s addled.” James sneered. “Judas thinks she’s still possessed.”

“It takes one to know one,” I said in a singsong voice, “but the thought occurred to me too.”

Soon James was snoring softly on his pallet. Bartholomew and most of the disciples had already fallen asleep. In spite of her peculiarities, I still found Mary charming and attractive. I hadn’t made love to a woman for such a long time. As I lie there in the shadowy room, staring up through the hole in the roof at the stars, my mind drifted from Mary to Jesus thunderous revelations and then to what this meant to my life. Not only was I Jesus brother now, I was brother to the Son of God… Had I not been prepared somewhat for this news, this thought might driven me insane.

Part Three

Road to Golgotha

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Turning Point

Jesus had begun his ministry with what John the Baptist called the “Good News”— a simple message of salvation with himself as merely a messenger as had been John. Now Jesus was no longer the messenger or even just the Messiah, he was God’s son, born of a virgin. Suddenly our mother was like a demigod. Our family was sacred for the prodigy it spawned. What did this really mean? How could Jesus explain this fact and the revised plan of salvation? This was brand new territory. For the most enlightened religious leader or philosopher of our day the answer to this question would confound and befuddle the mind. One could imagine would it did to his disciples, family, and friends. And yet he couldn’t wait for Golgotha. He had to prepare the ground today…. Jesus, we sensed, was running out of time.

As he returned to his role as preacher, he would first have to make us understand this complex issue and then, with a similar explanation, tell others the news. From the beginning, Jesus had worried about telling the whole story. Before we left Peter’s house, we had been forced to withhold it from his family and everyone else except the twelve. To tell the first portion of the story—that he was the Son of God and then try to explain what this meant to believers would require telling them of the shadowy finale, which Jesus admitted was the most important part. Even when he tried to explain the formula for salvation, we knew it was incomplete. When Jesus approached the River Jordan and John cried out in the wilderness, “Behold the Lamb of God!”, it made little sense to Andrew, Philip, Amos, and me. It was difficult to digest this enigmatic claim. What troubled us was his prediction of his death—a notion too great to bear. The next morning, as we trekked south, we were filled with questions about Jesus claims. This discussion displayed just how ignorant most of the disciples were.

In his ignorance, Peter asked, “How could the Son of God he killed?”

“Yes, master.” John’s eyes widened with concern. “The Father is immortal. Are you not immortal, too?”

“Immortality is offered to all,” replied Jesus, “not just the Son.”

“I’m confused, too.” Thomas scratched his head. “You have god-like powers. Why would you allow yourself to be killed?”

“He won’t. He just can’t,” Matthew exclaimed, “you’ll never feel the sting of death. You can’t kill a god!”

“That’s paganism!” cried Judas. “There’s only one God!”

“What did he say?” Jesus’ eyes widened with disbelief.

“That you must be a demigod,” piped Matthew, “and you can’t kill a God!”

Jesus whirled around and shouted at Matthew and Judas, “I never claimed I was a demigod or God.” “And the rest of you,” he spoke to us all. “Immortality isn’t stopped by physical death. You understand what heaven and salvation are now, so why do you doubt the resurrection of the Son.”

“What does resurrection mean?” Thomas wrinkled his nose.

“It means,” Jesus drew in a breath, “…raised from the dead.”

This caused everyone to gasp. Jesus had said the key words. We understood that moment what he meant. After all, Jesus had raised people from the dead. Silence descended upon us, as we thought about this. Pausing by the side of the road, Jesus gathered us together.

“Listen to me, my children,” he said wearily. “I can only tell you what my Father has revealed to me. Don’t ask me about my death, only what follows—”

“What follows?” John lurched forward impulsively.

“Dear beloved John,” he said patting his head. “Don’t fret so. It’s too early for that. What is important, children, is why this happens. You are familiar with our people’s sacrifice of animals in the temple?”

“Yes,” Peter nodded attentively.

“It’s disgusting.” I made a face.

“This has been our tradition,” he said, wagging a finger. “It has all been aimed at one end: the Lamb of God.”

“I don’t understand,” Thomas made a face.

“You never understand!” Philip frowned

“Let me explain.” He stared into space. “It’s not easy. Ignorant Jews and Gentiles will find this especially hard to understand. Even those familiar with the Torah and Prophets will find it difficult to grasp. It will be up to you after I’m gone to make this clear. For now, without seeing the conclusion, it might be difficult for you to comprehend, but here goes: God, the Creator, caused my mother to conceive His Son. Most of you are familiar with my childhood. I heard Jude telling the story. In order to come to the point, though, I’ll gloss over my birth in the manger in Bethlehem. I explained what happened there during our visit. You’ll recall the reception we got in that town; it was almost as bad as our treatment in Nazareth where I grew up. You can see how correct Isaiah’s later passages were. To be rejected and despised by my neighbors and then the place of my birth was only the beginning. I was an outcast among the children of Nazareth, even among my own brothers and sisters. Though I could never fit in or live a normal life, my parents tried making it so. They tried to keep me a child for as long as possible, until one day, when I brought that dead bird back to life, the realization hit us like a thunderclap. After years of denial, they were forced to accept my future, ill-defined as it was, then try to explain my brothers and sisters who I was. But that wasn’t the full story. I was much more than a prodigy. Aside from Simeon’s prophecy, nothing, except those passages from Isaiah about the suffering servant, pointed to my death. No one appeared (or wanted) to make the connection. It was thought by my family that I might be a great teacher, even a prophet in my own right. Who could have conceived of a carpenter’s son being the Son of God? Who could have believed he would bring a new religion to the world and meet such a fate?

“Then Amos arrived with a message from John the Baptist: it was time to begin my ministry. From that day at the River Jordan, I became the Lamb of God, not the Messiah (which my cousin never claimed). I knew the Lord had plains for me, but this revelation shook me greatly. I understood immediately what he meant, and yet that wasn’t the full picture. It was just the beginning. What I shared with you, my disciples, was told to me by God, my father, not John. The Lord gave me the dreadful details. My mother, because of her virgin birth and what the angel Gabriel told her, should have understood who I was, but she and my father appeared to be ignorant of this truth. They believed that I would do great things, but neither of them suspected what came next. What you know now was never made clear to them. This ultimate truth will hit my mother very hard. As Simeon once told her, ‘a sword shall pierce your soul!’

From the day when the sparrow flew from my hands, I understood who I was and was haunted by Isaiah’s prophecy. After traveling with Joseph of Arimathea, a rich Pharisee, I learned about the world I must save. Even then I knew portions of my destiny and tried to postpone it as much as I could, but to no avail. When Amos, John’s courier, arrived one day at my house, my time as a carpenter was over. John the Baptist, the Forerunner, was at the River Jordan, exclaiming the good news. As Amos, Jude, and I approached the river, he called out “Behold the Lamb of God.” “I am that sacrifice, who replaces the temple offering.” Jesus announced solemnly. “It’s a destiny I can’t escape!”

Everyone, including Andrew, Philip, and I, who heard John’s announcement first hand, were left speechless after hearing what it meant. To those who didn’t know Jesus, John’s exclamation might have sounded like heresy, but the explanation provided by Jesus would be considered utter blasphemy. Though not at this level of outrage, the disciples, especially James, were visibly shocked. Judas Iscariot, more than even James, was, in fact, enraged.

“… Now we come to the heart of the matter.” Jesus raised two fingers and a thumb. “Why is the sacrifice necessary? You ask. Why kill the Lamb? Before this time, our people’s faith was based upon the priests as intermediaries between the supplicant and God, by killing the sacrificial lambs and doves as offerings to God through ritual and law. Ritual and law were more important to the Jews than prayer. More significantly was the fact that the Sadducee priests didn’t believe in an afterlife. What purpose then did people have for sacrifice or, for that matter, ritual and law?” “Enter the Pharisees, scribes, and rabbis,” he laughed sourly, “men who thought they had the answer. They placed themselves above everyone else, for, unlike the priests, they felt they had the secret to eternal life, yet entry into heaven was filtered through the same rituals and laws. With the cloudy vision of salvation and eternity explained in synagogues, the sinner still strives, unable to follow the growing list of rituals and laws. As you can see, neither priest nor the doctors of the law have clearly answered the questions asked by those facing death: what comes next and how can they be saved?…. Now that the lamb is here, the priests will be responsible one final sacrifice. Through the blood of the lamb, all who believe in him are saved. Though they were dead, they shall live. What follows repentance, acceptance, and a contrite heart is eternal life!”

Finished with his momentous announcement, Jesus waited for our response. I gave Jesus a nod and smile to let him know I understood. Andrew and Philip, who had been somewhat predisposed by John’s exclamation, also gave him nods. The next to show his acceptance, though I doubt he completely understood, was Peter, who was after all designated the Rock by Jesus, and John, who must have felt special after being singled out. James, though once a scribe and student of Nicodemus, sighed heavily and smiled, indicating his acceptance, as did John’s brother James, who appeared, by his agreeable expression, to have taken a leap of faith too. It was left to Thomas, the doubter, to ask the first question.

“Jesus, as a matter of clarification,” he began judiciously, “if your cousin called you the Lamb of God, why wasn’t he sure before his death?”

“John is human,” Jesus answered calmly. “Just like you Thomas, he wanted to make sure. You, however, have the benefit of what you have seen and heard since joining up. What is your excuse?”

“Uh-uh,” he stammered, “… I dunno.”

“The question should be,” Judas interrupted. “What would John say? Would he believe you’re the Son of God?”

“What do you believe?” Jesus studied him that moment. “…. You, more than anyone here, want me to use my powers, and yet you have a problem with my claim.”

“You have the power,” Judas declared unflinchingly. “No one in this world and no one since God created the heavens and earth has had such power. Unlike Thomas, I don’t doubt you. I may not know how all the Galileans think, but my fellow Judeans will never accept such a claim.”

“How do you know that?” Simon stepped forth. “I admit I was shaken by this news, but I trust Jesus. If God told him this, it must be true. What that mob believes out there is another matter.” “You said the word, Judas, ‘world.’ From everything I’ve seen and heard and after what Jesus told us today, I know that he’s not just here for Galileans or Judeans. His message is for the world!”
Bartholomew, who had been silent, embraced the little man, as did Peter and John. Coming forward with arms outstretched arms, Jesus hugged him before giving him his new name. “Henceforth,” he exclaimed, gripping his shoulders, “Let it be known: Peter is my rock, and you shall be known as Simon, the Zealot. From a temple spy you have risen, Simon. Your rise was greater than even Matthew, the publican. You were one of them—our adversaries, now you’re one of us. In deed, after I’m gone, the message will go to Gentile and Jew, to the far corners of the earth. Against everything the temple has taught you, you believe the unbelievable, and you accepted the unacceptable. For this leap of faith, Simon the Zealot, you, more than the others, are truly blessed!

******

Simon, as Peter and John, had been singled out. Now Peter was the Rock, John was the Beloved Disciple, and Simon had been nicknamed the Zealot. Regardless of these important christenings, it was Judas that concerned me. Once again, as we followed the Shepherd, I managed to take Jesus aside on the road, and spoke what was in all of our minds.

“Jesus,” I said, glancing back at the group, “Judas is looking for a different messiah: a warrior, who will return Israel to its previous glory. His view is shallow and restricted to Jews. Despite your admonishment to go to Israelites first, you expected us to reach Gentiles as well as Jews. Your message is intended for the world. Simon, a onetime agent of Caiaphas, saw this. I have a bad feeling about that Judean. I’ve given this much thought, Jesus. Judas’ mind is bent on a conquering messiah, not a savior, so his motives are suspect. You can’t trust that man!”

“When the time comes,” he replied enigmatically, “you’ll understand. For now, remember what I’ve told you all along: I follow God’s will. Judas is following his will too.”

“What?” I clasped my forehead. “Judas is following God’s will? That doesn’t make sense. Are you saying that God’s telling Judas to behave badly and call you a liar? Wouldn’t He want Judas to march in step?”

Jesus frowned severely at me. “Do you question my Father?” He wagged his finger. “Who are you, Jude, to question God?”

After rephrasing his question, I understood the importance of his rebuke. He was telling me once and for all that the subject was closed. I was to accept God’s will and, on the matter of Judas Iscariot, keep my mouth shut. When I returned to the end of the procession to join my friends, I was bitter and in no mood for Judas’ sarcasm. Since Judas was in our company, how could I tell James, Simon, Matthew, Thomas, or Bartholomew what Jesus and I talked about without causing another quarrel? The first person to question me was Judas, himself, who insisted on knowing what Jesus said.

“It was a private conversation,” I replied irritably, “and none of you business.”

“Listen, Jude.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “I know your brother’s upset, but it’s true. Most of those rustics out there expect to see what Isaiah predicted: someone who’ll restore our people to their proper place. They don’t want a demigod. They want a great leader! As a Jew, don’t you want this too?”

“No!” I spat, folding my arms. “Those days are long gone. You simply don’t understand Jesus at all. You’ve forgotten Isaiah’s second prophecy: the suffering servant. Jesus is that servant, Judas. As much as it bothers me—all of us, I know that’s him!”

“Humph! I don’t agree,” Judas said stubbornly. “Our people have waited for the Deliverer. Jesus has to be that man. How could are holy scrolls be wrong?”

The words flashed into my head; “Who do you believe, Judas: the Torah or the Living Word?” I must have uttered it too loudly, because Jesus turned around and gave me a searching look. Judas muttered, “Nonsense—all of it!” under his breath, then fell back behind the procession lost in his thoughts.

“I don’t care what Jesus said.” I stomped my foot. “I don’t trust that man. He has an agenda. He must have!”

“What sort of agenda?” James looked at me with concern. “What exactly did Jesus say?”

Looking back as Judas’ distant figure, I heaved a sigh. “We were talking about him,” I pointed accusingly, “the serpent in the garden. When I took Jesus aside, I lodged a complaint. I warned him about Judas. Judas is expecting a different messiah. Most troubling is the fact he doesn’t believe Jesus is the Son of God.”

“What does Judas want?” James pressed. “You think he’s a threat?”

“Yes, I do.” I answered, glancing back. “… I can’t explain it. I just feel it like an ill wind.”

For a brief moment, as Matthew came up alongside of us, the subject changed.

“What did you mean by Living Word?” he asked quizzically. “I’ve heard Jesus say that before. Does it replace the Torah?”

“The Living Words are his revelations from God.” I felt sudden illumination. “Jesus is the Lamb of God, the Word incarnate, and the fulfillment of our scrolls”

“I get it,” Matthew’s eyes widened with understanding. “…. The Word, the sacrifice, and Son of God are the same. Why can’t Judas understand that?”

“He doesn’t want to understand,” I explained with conviction. “He never will. He has his own agenda…. He had his own conception of who Jesus is, and it’s not a savior but a conqueror like King David or Judas Maccabeus.”

James, Simon, and Matthew, who were knowledgeable in scripture, nodded in agreement.

“We mustn’t let Judas bother us,” Bartholomew said thoughtfully, looking down from his mule, “his mind’s made up. Jesus keeps him around to stir things up, maybe to test us.”

“He’s no damn good!” Simon snarled.

“He’s addled in the head,” offered Matthew. “No one’s that stubborn. I still think he’s possessed!”

“I’m no better than Judas.” Thomas scolded himself. “There’s a reason for his doubts. I have no such excuse.”

“All right Thomas,” Simon taunted, “after everything the master has shown us, why do you doubt?”

“I dunno.” He scratched his head. “Things just get sort of jumbled in my head. Maybe I’m addled too.”

“Not so!” I gave him a playful nudge, “Jesus keeps you around, too, for a reason. We all have a purpose. Your purpose is to keep him on his toes. It takes solid proof for you to believe anything. You must’ve driven your parents insane. When you believes something, it must be true!”

Everyone laughed. Perhaps seeing the truth in it, Thomas joined in our mirth. Not long after our discussion, I grew concerned for Judas whereabouts and fell back in the procession. In the distance, he appeared through the dust, still following after lagging far behind. Out of nowhere, as was his habit, Jesus appeared, startling me half out of my wits.

“Whoa,” I gasped, “don’t sneak up like that!”

“You’ve been arguing with Judas again?” he came straight to the point.

“He wanted to know what you said,” I explained quickly. “I thought our conversation was private, so I told him to mind his own business.”

“Is that all?” He gave me a questioning look.

“No,” I shuddered, “he said some things which I disagreed with.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” He raised a hand. “I know his mind…. He’ll return to us, Jude. It’s his destiny.” “I’m proud of you, little brother.” He tousled my hair. “In spite of your own stubbornness, your heart is pure. Though it’s more subtle, you have the gift…. It’s true what you said to Matthew: I am all those things. What Judas believes is no different than most Jews. It will be up to us to change their minds!”

“Yes, of course,” I tried to sound confident. “It just takes time.”

******

Jesus had much more confidence than me. Though I understood his message was for the world, I was, like the other disciples, more concerned with what happened now in Palestine, rather than what happened in the future when his message spread throughout the world. At times as he preached, when I looked out at the multitudes, I saw an unpredictable rabble, many of which attended his sermons for entertainment more than enlightenment. His reputation as a speaker and miracle worker drew in the crowds, but those people actually joining the Way, though increasing in numbers, had proved to be disappointing at times. Most of them would not commit themselves. In many cases, for those that stepped forth, we weren’t even sure that the rite had taken hold. More than anything else lately, it has been Jesus miracles that have drawn the crowds. How many converts would prove to be fair-weather followers in the future would be heartbreaking, but we couldn’t have imagined this then. During this time, we saw, as Paul would describe his own ignorance, through glass darkly. Jesus, whose vision was infinite, saw everything clearly. He saw the future and what it would hold. I understand now what Jesus meant by ‘planting the seed.’ It was up to us to plant the seeds, and up to others, who followed our example, to continue planting, harvesting, and tending the garden. Even, without this hindsight, I sensed once again that day that all of this—spreading the good news, creating pockets of converts here and there, and accepting the sacrifice Jesus prophesized—was intended for the ages.

After that fateful hour, when Jesus true identity was unveiled and he gave us his dark prediction, we were filled with misgivings. Judging by their attempts at normalcy, even levity, the other men were in denial. I made such an attempt myself. No one wanted to believe Jesus’ prophecy. As he had shown us, he had the power over nature. He could calm storms to protect us and summon the wind against our enemies. Surely his vision had to be wrong, we agreed…. But, of course, I reminded James, Jesus didn’t lie. If he said something, it was so. Just this once, I hoped it wasn’t true.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Bethabara

At a small hamlet near the eastern shore of Lake Gennesaret, we stopped to fill our water skins. As was his custom, Jesus took this opportunity to preach to villagers at the well. After he said the words and sprinkled water on an old man and a young girl, he sent them away with his blessing. In my frame of mind, it seemed hardly worth the effort. When we found a small grove of trees afterwards where we ate snacks provided by Peter’s wife, then rested in the shade. Jesus was not the same now. He was filled with an awful purpose. By now Judas had caught up with us yet sat away from the group brooding on his plight. As Jesus confided to me, Judas was part of God’s plan. I felt this strongly now. Everyone else just thought he was unhinged or possessed. Was I the only one to see the threat in this man?

That same hour, by all appearances refreshed and ready for the harvest, we entered Perea, a region of mixed Greek and Jewish cities, similar to Decapolis. Our introduction to this province had been encouraging. Hippos, in fact, where Jesus feed four thousand people had been especially fruitful. Between Hippos and the border of Perea, however, much less seed was planted. The harvest proved to be poor.

This hour, a short ways into Perea, we arrived in Bethabara, a city on the River Jordan that had a large Jewish population that John the Baptist had preached to and where he first confronted the Pharisees and agents of the priests. In spite of the fact that Jesus was baptized by John in the Jordan River not far from this province and fasted in the wilderness of Judea nearby, it would contain, Jesus warned us, dissention, similar to some of the Galilean and Judean towns.

Sure enough, just as we approached the city limits, we were confronted with what seemed like an army of Pharisees, scribes, and, as Simon pointed out fearfully, agents of the temple. Where had they come from? We asked ourselves. How could one single city have that many religious leaders? Peter’s first instinct in order to protect Jesus was to discourage him from entering this town, but Jesus was undaunted and, in fact, downright belligerent. The Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents were nothing more than a nameless rabble.

Shouts rang out—a myriad of accusations, insults and threats: “There he is—that blasphemer and perverter of the law!” “You rabble-rouser—stay away out of our town!” “Beelzebub!” “Spawn of Satan!” “How dare you challenge out faith!”, and many more foul and redundant outcries momentarily stunned us. Only Jesus kept his head.

“No, Jesus,” Peter insisted, “this is one of those occasions where we dust off our sandals.’

“Be brave!” he instructed us. “Ignore this rabble!” Looking out at his adversaries, he exclaimed loudly for the benefit of the mob. “White sepulchers full of dead men’s bones. They don’t represent this town. They have a dark agenda, their own warped sense of justice. By attacking the Lamb, they serve Satan, not God.” “Don’t worry men.” He looked back at our frightened faces. “There’s a Roman presence in this town. They dare not harm us. Follow behind me, say nothing, and brace yourselves for the breath of God!”

Recalling the gust of wind that swept away Barabbas and his men, I elbowed James.

“Watch this!” I snickered. “This is going to be good!”

“He’s gonna give it to them,” James replied fearfully, “just like he did with Barabbas gang!”

Suddenly, as it had before near Bethlehem, the space between Jesus antagonists and us was filled with a swirling column of dust, that grew and grew until it was many cubits high. While we were left untouched by the choking mix of dirt and sand, the cloud virtually swept the Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents off the road. Blown to each side by the column, they coughed, hacked, and gagged. Their robes were disheveled, faces were blackened, and they were momentarily blinded by the dust. Following obediently behind Jesus through a corridor of enraged and terrified men, we were once again reminded of Jesus’ power. There could be no question in any of our minds, with exception of Judas, that he was the Son of God.

Almost immediately, we saw two familiar sights typical for a city such as Bethabara: a detail of Romans soldiers rode passed us and then, after a short while, spectators began gathering on the side of the road, drawn to the arrival of strangers in their town. Because John the Baptist had preached to the townsfolk here and, as the Forerunner, prepared them for the arrival of the Promised One, many of the local citizens must have guessed who Jesus was, for quite suddenly the trickle of spectators grew to a sizable crowd. In times past this meant to his disciples that we would be rolling up our sleeves for a round of baptisms. After all, as Jesus might say, ‘the pickings were good,’ and we were near a body of water. But Jesus stuck to his recent decision not to attempt the rite on such a large volume of people. As at Capernaum and Hippo, the exceptions would include those healed or those insisting on experiencing the rite.

As it turned out, he was forced to heal people on the spot. At first there was a blind man, a woman with sores on her face, a deaf girl, and a boy with a withered arm. Because Jesus was leading the crowd to a hill overlooking the river, this stop created a jam of bodies as we exited the town.

“What’s the hold up?” a man shouted from the rear of the crowd.

“He’s going to heal them!” a woman squealed. “There’s Samuel. He’s been blind since birth!”

“He’s lining them up at the side of the road,” reported an elder to his friend. “Four… five… now six in line. This man is a sorcerer; why can’t the people see that?”

It was an awkward hour, especially for Bartholomew, who stood out conspicuously on his mule. The sick and lame had forced Jesus hand, leaving his disciples to face another mob.

Judas was beside himself with irritation. “I thought he did this at the end of the sermon,” he complained. “This can really get out of hand!”

“Well,” muttered Simon, “he can’t very well say no.”

“I wished he could,” whined Thomas. “I gotta pee!”

“There’s an alley,” Peter said sympathetically. “…Make it quick!”

Not knowing when the opportunity would arise again, Andrew, Philip, James, and I followed Thomas’ example. When we were back in the crowd, the other disciples took their turns. (Strangely enough, I don’t remember Jesus ever relieving himself.) I looked over that moment at the line.

“I counted ten people,” I tallied. “I hope that’s all and he doesn’t get mobbed.”

“He’s already mobbed!” Matthew groaned. “Here comes some more!”

At least a dozen people with various maladies, including a demoniac spouting

Blasphemies joined Jesus column of patients. In later years a believer would refer to Jesus as the Great Physician. I’m certain some of the Gentiles in the crowd probably thought he was a god. Standing closest to the healer, Peter looked around protectively for malcontents, especially graybeards lurking in the crowd.

“Poor Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. “Sick folks come streaming up everywhere he goes with all kinds of ailments, from leprosy to being stone cold dead.”

“He has to learn to say no!” grumbled Judas. “By the time he’s finished here, he’ll be too tired to preach!”

I thought he was very insensitive, but this time Judas was speaking many of our minds. As I stood there stewing in my thoughts, an old woman tapped my arm.

“You’re one of the preacher’s men, aren’t you?” she cackled. “I was there at the river. Remember my face?”

“Why yes,” I beamed, “you’re Anna. I’m Jude. We baptized you, Deborah, Barnabas, and Marcus at the river. Do you live here in Bethabara?”

She grinned almost toothlessly. “Yes, I live here.” She wheezed. “This is my town. It was also the Baptist’s town.” “Too bad about John,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I saw him arrested. I heard his last sermon. He told us the Promised One would come, and here he is!”

“Are you all right?” I reached out to steady her. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m not,” she sighed raggedly. “I wanted to hear Jesus one more time. I wish he could do his healing later. My legs might give out.”

“Go stand in line, Anna.” I pointed eagerly. “Let him heal you too. You should be at the head of the line. You’re one of the first members of the Way.”

“No, Jude.” She shook her head. “I’m just old. My time’s almost up. Just to hear him again is enough!”

“Anna,” I insisted, “he can heal you. I saw him heal dead people. There’s no one he can’t heal!”

“Uh-uh.” She held up a gnarled hand. “I’m tired, just plain worn out… I’ve had my life… I’m ready for that heaven Jesus promised…. Would you rob me of that?”

“Are you sure?” I said, feeling helpless and sad. “If Jesus can bring dead people back to life, he can restore you!”

“Go to your master.” She pushed gently. “I’ll be just fine!”

“All right, Anna,” I shrugged. “You have great faith. I hope I see you again.”

“Someday, in His kingdom.” She waved farewell.

That very moment, as I backed away, there was a surge of bodies, as the crowd continued to grow. I would never see Ann again in this life. Her final words ‘Someday, in His kingdom,’ made me wonder if she already knew whom Jesus really was. How was it possible, without being told, that a believer knew he was the Son of God?

******

By the time the last person was healed and we had ushered Jesus away, the crowd had grown impatient and dwindled in numbers. The vast majority of the lingering multitude was still eager to hear Jesus speak, but there were also hecklers and critics in the crowd. So far, we heard their voices in the distance and, thanks to other townsfolk, they were shouted down. Unruffled, Jesus found the desired place to give his sermon: a hill, similar to the one in Hippo, facing a field near the River Jordan. Fearful he would loose his mule, Bartholomew rode up the hill on his beast before dismounting. As Jesus prayed and then gathered his thoughts, all twelve disciples encircled him. At one point, on the crest, however, just as the circle broke and we settled down to hear Jesus speak, an unstable youth ran up and spit in the Jesus’ face. With great fury, Simon hit the man squarely in the mouth and then, with malicious delight Judas broke his nose. Afterwards, Peter, Andrew, and Philip stomped on the half-unconscious man. I was so incensed by the youths action I gave him a kick myself, as did everyone else, even Bartholomew who smacked him with his cane. After wiping off his face, Jesus looked on in shock. Rebuking us for our retaliation, he bent down to the broken and bruised body, and healed him on the spot.

“Go and remember this day!” He pointed down the hill.

“You heard him!” Peter gave him a shove.

Though we apologized for our lapse of judgment, none of us were truly contrite. Judas, in fact, had thought this was great fun. Those townsfolk closest to the scene had witnessed another healing. If Jesus hadn’t come to his rescue, the man might very well have died. A current of emotion and murmurs traveled down the hill on all sides, now that the people witnessed more proof of Jesus’ power.

A moment more passed before Jesus spoke, and then he asked the audience three questions: “Have you lived a good life? Are you ready to die? When you leave this earth, where will you go?”

The multitude stirred. I studied the faces of those in the crowd closest to me. I saw surprise and dismay. Jesus had caught them off guard.

When he continued, the message became clear: “These are the questions you ask yourself when you contemplate death if you’re unprepared to die. But if you’re prepared—saved by God’s grace, death is welcomed, for you’ll be in paradise. Don’t be fearful of death; death is the gate to paradise—the beginning. The plan for your salvation is so simple: believe in the Father through the Son, repent of your sins, and live righteously until that day of comes.”

Jesus had avoided pointing himself out as the Son of God, and yet he implanted a revision of his earlier message in the audience’s minds. Now God had a son, an intermediary like the priests—the Lamb foretold by John. Anything more might have caused confusion and outrage among the crowd. After his introduction, he gave what began like a variation of his Sermon on the Mount, as he had in Hippo, but with parables sprinkled in here and there. As I began listening to the sum of his thoughts, something happened that distracted me. I looked out passed the crowd nearest me and saw a darkly clad, hooded figure sitting below us on the hill. I knew at once, when its eyes flashed, who it was. The specter we saw in Bethlehem had transformed into various forms. This time, however, it remained in a shadowy disguise and just sat there gazing up at Jesus, the face inside the hood dark except for two glowing coals. Filled with great dread, I elbowed James and Matthew on each side of me.

“Look!” I whispered excitedly.

Following my trembling finger, James and Matthew gasped. Apparently spooked, himself, by the specter, the mule snorted and whinnied. Rising up awkwardly to restrain the beast, Bartholomew gripped its reins and led him down the hill, unaware of the figure. Before the other disciples were awakened to my discovery, Jesus paused momentarily, bent down discreetly and said “Shut up!”

“But it’s here,” replied Matthew, “Satan!”

“I’ll deal with it shortly!” He waved irritably. “Don’t alarm Simon and the others.”

More fearful that the hothead Simon might rush down incite the others to violence as he had with the youth who spit in his face, he had singled him out. So far, I noted as I glanced around at the faces of the other disciples, only James and Matthew had seen what I had seen. From that point on, my heart beat so loudly I could scarcely hear the remainder of Jesus’ sermon.

After a prayer and benediction, Jesus stood there staring at the thing. Unlike the last two sermons, portions of the crowd took the cue when it was finished, rose up on their legs, and began to depart, while others lounged on the grass as if waiting for something more. No one approached Jesus to ask questions, yet they looked on with curiosity. Where they puzzled or dissatisfied? I wondered. Though their tepid response was unfortunate, ironically the fact that they departed slowly or remained on the grass at least indicated that Jesus’ sermon had made an impact on them and, coupled with the last miracle, made them want more. Now, after the recent incident, the lingering crowd waited expectantly, unaware of the visitor. As Jesus stood motionless, focused on the intruder, James, Matthew, and I looked on anxiously with bated breath. Below us, less than a stone’s throw away, the darkly clad stranger sat unnoticed by everyone except us, and yet Jesus’ greatest adversary was about to challenge him, this time in front of hundreds of witnesses. So far, none of the other disciples were aware of its presence. We knew this creature would provide a greater spectacle than our encounter with the berserk young man. As we waited for Jesus response, a few spectators turned to stare at the intruder in their midst.

That moment, as we studied the stranger, Jesus just stood there staring at his foe. Competing with Jesus attention those moments were the whispered comments of the other disciples. It was the first time that his disciples had criticized his words. Looking back at them, he said crisply, “Speak up. Don’t talk behind my back!”

“Well,” John frowned with concern, “they’re more subdued this time. Last time they hung on your every word.”

“It was those words about the Son,” his brother suggested. “John the Baptist never mentioned this. You’ve spoken only of God—not the Son—in the past.”

“And your introduction,” Philip offered gently. “This seemed to upset some of them. The people of Bethabara heard enough preaching from John.”

If I hadn’t been so focused on that creature, I might have taken issue with their criticism. The audience’s reaction was more basic than this. Most residents of Palestine had heard of Jesus and expected a message of salvation, and, as far as James comment was concerned, Jesus had said many strange things. Perhaps John the Baptist, who preached in Bethabara, had soured their mood or made them indifferent to preaching. I believe that most of them, however, were idlers, here for Jesus’ miracles, more than his message. We had seen this reaction before. With the exception of our welcoming committee of Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents, our reception was, compared to Nazareth and Bethlehem, really not so bad. Despite this lack of enthusiasm so far, a new milestone in Jesus ministry was about to occur.

Standing motionless, his mind focused on the intruder, Jesus shook his head faintly in response to the criticism. “Sermons and parables don’t replace the message,” he replied in a deadpan voice. “When seeds are planted, some will die, some will live, and some are carried in the wind.”

“Ah yes, the harvest.” Peter placed his hand on Jesus’ shoulder. “Capernaum was our best crowd, but this might not be fertile soil.”

“Well,” exclaimed Thomas, “at least you don’t have to feed them.”

“Wait and see!” Jesus said to Peter.

Crooking a finger, he beckoned it to come forth. Once again, a dark, misbegotten creature in black, with a hump on his back, two glowing red eyes inside its hood, and clawed hands, approached. When he was close enough, the hump became two folded wings—the trademark of a fallen angel, the only part remaining after his war with God. The scaly skin visible on his arms and hands, like polished bronze, glistened lizard-like in the sun. As before, we shrank back momentarily in terror. Several women and small children screamed. Those people that had caught sight of it fled hysterically down the hill. Having been introduced to this creature in Bethlehem, though, we quickly got a hold of ourselves and presented a united front beside Jesus. We had seen this hideous thing and were prepared for the worst, but just when Jesus was ready to denounce him in front to the remaining crowd, the creature withdrew into its black robe and, dropping the hood, emerged afterwards as one our twin sisters.

“Look!” James pointed, “It looks like our sister Abigail!”

“It could be Martha,” I shrugged. “What next?”

“It’s a shape-shifter,” Jesus reminded us, “it’s just warming up.” “State your business, Satan,” he shouted through cupped hands.

The fair-headed Abigail/Martha-look-a-like shouted in a lilting voice, “This is my brother, Jesus, who calls himself the Son of God. Our mother disowned him for his blasphemy. Everywhere he goes he spreads heresy and lies against our Lord. He’s a sorcerer, masquerading as a demigod. His power comes from his real Lord, Satan, from whom comes his power to heal.”

His blue eyes flashing with righteous anger, Jesus wasted no time in returning insults: “Behold!” he pointed to the architect of evil. “This is your enemy. Since his fall, he has masqueraded in many disguises. It matters not. The world knows him as the Tempter, the Devil, Satan, Prince of Darkness, and as a corruptor of souls, but I know him as a onetime servant of God, who rebelled with his minions who now serve him as demons on earth and in Hell. Now, after failing to tempt me and turn me from my task, he come to attack my very name.” “Be gone, hermit!” he cried, raising his hands and twirling his fingers. “Go back to tempting the innocent, you wretched fellow. You have no power here!”

Spewing a stream of blasphemies worse than any Syrian mule trader, Satan rose up several cubits from the ground, sporting cloven hoof, horns, cat-like eyes, and pointed beard. Almost clearing the hills of the remaining spectators, he sent them fleeing into town to tell this tale. We knew that it would come out sooner or later. Jesus had implied that he had a special time in mind for disclosing his full identity to the multitude. It appeared to me that this audience, compared to friendlier crowds in places such as Capernaum, was the worst time for such a disclosure. That it came from Jesus’ great adversary made it all the worse.

To our great surprise, however, Jesus laughed heartily, at this parody of evil. “Come now, hermit,” he mocked Satan, “that is a Greek and Roman god, not a Hebrew god. The body of a fallen angel is much more believable. After all, that’s what you once were. You never got over that loss, have you? How pitiful it is that your one and only job is to tempt and corrupt sinners. God, my Father, let you live to test men and women, nothing more!”

Perhaps in infernal anger the hermit swelled up even higher off the ground, this time sporting great, outstretched wings, its devilish eyes rolling crazily in its warty head. Without further delay then, he flapped his wings, rose up off the ground, and, spewing more blasphemies, flew away.

No sooner than it had taken flight than Jesus barked, “Let’s go!” and off we tramped down the hill. There would be no dallying today. Because hundreds of people had ran down to shores of the river to watch safely from afar, as well as a few brave souls who stayed put listening to this exchange, we knew the story of Jesus confrontation with Satan would spread throughout Bethabara, along with the claim that he was the Son of God. Strangely enough, perhaps due to shock, fear, or awe of Jesus, no one asked him questions or commented on the event. For that matter, not one detractor stepped forth this time.

For a few minutes, no one spoke. All of us were shaken and emotionally drained. As usual, Judas was the first to break the silence.

“Well, Pandora’s box is open!” he remarked giddily.

“What did you say?” Peter looked back with a frown. “Pandora? What box is that?”

“The box she opened—big mistake,” he explained airily. “I heard it from a Greek merchant. Can’t shut the lid now!”

“You knowing nothing of Greek mythology,” I corrected scornfully. “Pandora’s box was filled with evil, not good. Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because he’s a moron!” said Peter.

“No.” Simon glanced back disdainfully. “He’s stupid, just crazy!”

Judas grinned foolishly. “All I meant was that the news is out. Those Pharisees, scribes, and agents will have more ammunition when hear his claim.” “I’m worried about Jesus,” he added defensively. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re worried about Judas!” James spat.

“Don’t worry about me,” Jesus called back from the procession, “worry about yourself. You must decide once and for all what you believe in, Judas: the old or the new.”

“I believe in you!” Judas replied quickly.

“What version do you believe,” Jesus asked challenging, “the old version or the new?”

Matthew scratched his beard thoughtfully, as we followed Jesus. “Most of those listening were simple people,” he said thoughtfully. “After seeing what they saw here today, what do you think they’re going to run home and tell their family and friends: that Jesus is the Son of God or that Jesus put Satan in his place?”

“It could be both,” replied John. “They might just say, ‘the Son of God put Satan in his place.”

“I don’t think so,” his brother made a sour face. “Matthew’s right. I remember us discussing those words once. Aren’t we all, in a sense, sons of God?”

“James has a point,” Jesus admitted, “even the prophets used that definition. I wasn’t ready for it to come out. The picture is unclear and unfinished, but we mustn’t be ashamed of what it really means.”

“Jesus!” I scampered up to him. “What did you mean ‘the picture is unclear and unfinished’?”

“Yeah, master,” Peter turned anxiously to him. “Why do you have to talk like that? We know better. No one’s going to trifle with you!”

“You think so, Peter?” Jesus scolded gently. “My Father is constantly speaking to me, guiding my steps, and you know better? Please Peter, Jude—all of you, trust in the Father… and trust His Son!”

******

As we passed through Bethabara, a graybeard, who had apparently heard the commotion, stopped Jesus. As we expected there were countless other people appearing, this time, after coming to their senses, asking question about that verbal duel between Jesus and Satan. Only the graybeard was interested in the substance of the exchange.

“Is it true,” he began in a crackling voice. “Do you claim to be the Son of God?”

Jesus eyes narrowed to slits. “You have said it!” he answered with forced calm.

“I’ve heard all about you, Jesus.” The man waved dismissively. “Some of these people believe your claim. All this nonsense about you arguing with the Devil—hah! I think you bewitched them. You’re certainly not our Messiah. Look at you and those vagabonds trailing behind you. Where is your army Jesus? Where is your flaming sword? Our Deliverer comes in glory not at the head of a ragged band!” “If you’re who you say you are, give us a real sign—wipe our land of foreigners and pagan. Make us a great people again!”

Jesus gave him an enigmatic answer, later recorded by Matthew, “When evening comes, you say, ‘It will be fair weather, for the sky is red,’ and in the morning, ‘Today it will be stormy, for the sky is red and overcast.’ You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times. A wicked and adulterous generation looks for a sign, but none will be given it except the sign of Jonah.”

None of us understood why he referred to Jonah. Now, after returning to the writings of the prophets, I recall that Jonah was in the belly of the whale for three days…. Jesus, of course, after the crucifixion, was in the tomb for three days. Like Jonah, who came out whole and alive afterwards, Jesus was resurrected. It was a blessing for us, his disciples, that we failed to comprehend. Inexplicable clouds of denial filled our heads until those terrible days. Our only concern that trying day was to find our camp, eat some of the snacks Esther prepared for us, and sleep until dawn.

Chapter Forty

The Transfiguration

Everywhere we went, whether it was a small town or city, there had been a familiar pattern. Now that we were in the province of Perea, after the unsettling event in Bethabara and the tepid response of the its citizenry, we understood Jesus’ concern. Even travelers on the road gave us mixed reactions. While some of them treated Jesus with awe and respect, they also seemed afraid of him. It appeared as though growing bands of Pharisee, scribes, and temple agents were alerting townsfolk of the great heretic and blasphemer in our land. Though they should have known better than question this notion Jesus shared with us, Peter and Andrew tried allaying his fears.

“Master, you worry too much,” Peter said with a wave of his hand. “They have no power over you. With one breath, you blew them away!”

“It’s true!” Andrew slapped his shoulder. “After your success, they’re afraid of you. What can anyone do against the Son of God?”

“You still don’t understand—none of you!” Jesus replied with great weariness. “Let’s take a break in this grove of trees.”

As we gathered under a massive oak tree, we made an upsetting discovery. Our snacks prepared by Esther were almost gone. There were only a few crusts of bread and a handful of moldy cheese left of our provisions. After checking our own packs for more food, Peter walked over to Jesus, who sat on the opposite side of the tree brooding, informing him of our dilemma.

Addressing all twelve of us, Jesus spoke strangely then. “You of little faith,” he appeared to scold us, “why are you worried about having no bread? Do you still not comprehend? Don’t you remember the five loaves for the five thousand and how many basketfuls you gathered? Or the seven loaves for the four thousand, and how many basketfuls you gathered?”

“We are greatly impressed by those feats!” Peter said defensively. “No one questions that, but the fact is, master, we’re hungry!”

“Yes, master.” Philip rubbed his stomach to make his point. “We have a long journey again!”

“Ho-ho,” Jesus face broke into mirth. “Peter, Andrew, Philip—I wasn’t talking about bread that you eat, but food for thought. Don’t underestimate the yeast of those Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents. The yeast, which poisons the bread, can turn the people against us.” “If you say something over and over again,” he tried a different tact, “many people will believe it. Why do you think Satan is afoot? He has willing allies and unsuspecting cohorts, who serve his ends.”

The overwhelming strain of his ministry was taking its toll. For the first time I could remember, Jesus was beset by fear. We understood the crux of his words now (‘don’t underestimate our enemies’), but, after the way he had handled them so far, we had become, in Jesus’ eyes, overly confident and too complacent.

After his short lecture, Jesus asked Peter to gather together the remnants of our food. We knew what was coming next and quickly presented him with a pack half filled with pieces of bread and scraps of cheese.

“No,” he waved impatiently, “give me all the packs. Line them in a row under that big tree.”

“What about the first pack?” Peter gave him a dumbfounded look.

“Sprinkle its contents into each of the remaining twelve packs and set it at the end.” Jesus instructed.

Having done this chore, Peter backed away, and we stood there facing the oak. Jesus, who must have said a quiet prayer or at least ‘thought’ one in his mind, stood there staring into space. Soon, to our renewed astonishment, the thirteen packs were puffed up with food, almost bursting at the seams. This time we actually saw them grow fatter as we watched. Running to each of our packs, we opened them and found warm bread, fresh cheese, and even a few boiled fish. After thanking our provider profusely, we began gobbling up our provisions. As if it was part of the same miracle, we discovered a spring bubbling from a nearby rock. Slacking our thirst, we filled our water skins and returned to the business of eating, until by late morning, we lie beneath the great tree surfeited, chatting about this marvelous event.

Jesus was still standing in the shade plunged into thought. Seldom have I seen him stand so still. He hadn’t touched the food in his pack nor slacked his thirst. A stream of light from the alms above him cast an eerie patter on his head and clothes.

“What’s he doing now?” Judas scowled.

“He’s listening to God,” I looked up in disbelief. “What else?”

“Jesus doesn’t need to pray,” he replied, shaking his head. “I’ve watched him. He just says the word and it happens!”

“Judas,” Peter took him to task, “you can’t be serious! Jesus isn’t like that. That’s not how it works. Does a son not listen to his father? Get it through your thick skull: he’s God’s Son!”

“You knows better than this,” accused James. “Jesus isn’t a sorcerer. If he causes something to happen without praying it’s no better than magic. He doesn’t use magic. Everything he does is guided by God.”

Jesus opened his eyes and turned to Peter and James. “That was very good. Both of you understand the importance of prayer. Of course I pray for things, but when my Father tells me to do something, it will happen regardless of whether I pray or not.”

“See?” Judas grinned at them. “What did I tell you?”

Jesus gave him a sad smile. “This time, Judas, your half right. It’s true God performs miracles without prayer. Witness the parting of the Red Sea, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and countless acts in our scrolls of divine intervention. It’s also true that I pray for each miracle, however small. So, for our purposes, Peter and James are more correct. Prayer can be long and windy and sometimes only a few words inside the head, but without it we don’t have God’s ear.”

“God’s ear?” Matthew muttered reflectively. “There’s a poetry to that. Are we also not all motes in God’s eye?”

On this occasion, Judas was only reporting what he had seen. Several times I found it difficult to see Jesus lips move the moment before a miracle was performed. Jesus had explained the benefits of praying inside one’s head to his brothers and sisters when he was just a youth. I assumed that the other disciples had figured that out by now. Despite the fact that Judas heart was in the right place most of the time, it was his mind that worried us now. Whether he was mentally addled or, as some of the men suggested, possessed, Jude wasn’t right in the head. I wanted to trust Jesus judgment about keeping him in our group, but I found myself once more questioning his decision. The temptation grew in me again to let him wander off if the occasion arose. He seemed to drift further and further back at times, as if a voice in him was trying to detour his path…. Another important question was ‘what voice was Judas listening to’— God or Satan?

******

Something happened on the road to Jericho that made me question Jesus again. This time most of the disciples joined me in my concern. As we approached a mountain in Perea, Jesus halted and, in accord with his growing pattern of eccentricity, stood there motionless as if not sure whether to proceed.

“Are you all right, Jesus?” I called from the rear of the procession.

“He’s doing it again,” remarked Judas. “He’s listening to God.”

“Master?” John reached out. “What is God saying?”

“He’s saying,” Jesus responded as if in a trance, “Peter, James, and John shall go with me to the mountain.”

“What mountain?” asked our brother. “…. Which James do you mean?”

“That mountain up ahead,” Jesus moved like a sleepwalker. “James son of Thaddeus

will go!”

“Which James?” I muttered in disbelief. “Why only them?”

“God has spoken!” replied Jesus.

“But we are twelve, not three,” James protested. “Why can’t we all go? Are you certain you have God’s ear!”

“You mustn’t question my Father,” Jesus chided us, “I know you feel left out, my brothers, but this is what He said!”

“It doesn’t make sense!” I grumbled. “Why are they chosen? You’ve always been partial to them. I just don’t understand!”

“Calm down, my friends, keep your heads,” Bartholomew said, climbing off his mule. “Blame God if you dare, not Jesus. We don’t know his mind.”

“Yes,” Simon heaved a sigh. “Andrew and Philip are fishermen and they were left out,

too.”

I found Bartholomew’s sudden piety irritating. Andrew and Philip, who must also have felt slighted, stood in stony silence. Matthew, Thomas, and Judas, who had accepted their role as outsiders better than James, Simon, or myself, however, shrugged it off as one more detour off the road. That moment Jesus led Peter, James, and John—his innermost circle—up the rocky peak. We would learn later exactly what happened. Peter tried being humble about his experience, but, after that day, James and John would be puffed up by the event. The very nature of the experience inspired them to nickname themselves the Sons of Thunder. In deed, as the remainder of us looked up at the peak, we saw lightning flashes and heard the rumble of God’s breath. Jesus wouldn’t talk about it and, I would learn later, instructed the three witnesses not to talk about it until he was raised from the dead. According to Peter, after the resurrection, Jesus was transfigured before the three witnesses (a concept difficult for him to describe). Jesus’ face shone like the sun and his clothes became white as light. When he faced the witnesses, Moses and Elijah appeared. Though they chatted with Jesus, what they said to him wasn’t heard by Peter, James, and John. The three witnesses saw a bright cloud over Jesus, Moses, and Elijah, and heard a booming voice, saying, “This is my Son, whom I love, and I’m well pleased! Startled, the witnesses fell facedown on the ground, until Jesus touched them and told them not to be afraid. Peter recalled looking up and seeing only Jesus, as he was before. As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus instructed them not to tell anyone, even the other disciples, about what they had seen, until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead. I could make no sense out of some of the things Peter said following those dark times, until years later when I began writing down my thoughts. During the remainder of Jesus’ ministry, I resented the exclusiveness of Peter, James’, and John’s position. They had seen a mind-boggling event. The awesome truth they witnessed made them seem like a sleepwalkers, awakening from a dream. Though Peter tried being humble, James and John were filled with self-importance after that day.

For the remainder of us, however, what happened on the mountain remained a secret. As a result of Peter, John, and James witnessing Jesus transfiguration, a third division occurred among Jesus’ disciples. Now it seemed to the majority of us that there was an innermost circle, followed by the remaining fishermen, and then, last in line, the outsiders: Matthew, Simon, Bartholomew, Thomas, James, and me. As we drew closer to the finale, this would change, of course, but that day, out of earshot of Jesus, I discussed this disparity with my group and found unanimous agreement. Questions plagued us: Why had Jesus picked only Peter, John, and his brother? …. Why would God play favorites? …. Why didn’t he choose all of the twelve? We should all have been invited to the summit, and yet not even Jesus own brothers were allowed to attend, and to add insult to injury, the three witnesses were forbidden to even tell us about the event. Just what had happened up there that made Peter, John, and his brother so special? All of this would one day be explained to us, but until that day came, our resentment would linger.

Despite my own feelings, this whole matter was harder on James. Already his sensitivities had made him cringe at the implications of Jesus’ godhood, and now, with this new, secret dimension of Jesus added to the picture, it definitely appeared as though there were two gods. Judas, of course, given his perception of the Messiah, ridiculed the whole business. This wasn’t what he had in mind at all. Matthew, Simon, Thomas, and Bartholomew had always felt like outsiders, but it wasn’t quite the same for James and me. Jesus was our brother, and we had known him all our lives. Like James and I, Andrew and Philip, who were among Jesus first disciples, should have expected preferential treatment, but, like the rest of us, felt like outsiders, too. Dropping back on the road, as Jesus and the three witnesses walked on ahead, Andrew and Philip joined the discussion in progress. That very moment, we were listening to Judas rant about the unfairness of it all. He was the least deserving to be in the innermost circle, and yet his views mirrored our own.

It was, as usual, Judas’ tone that seemed imprudent, considering the importance of the event. As Jesus had instructed all of us when we went out on our own missions, it was not just what you said but how you said it. Instead of just being concerned like the rest of us, Judas sounded angry, glaring fiercely at Jesus and the three witnesses. As I write this down, I still wonder why Judas was so intractable. I won’t discuss this here. I’ll save it until the end of my chronicle. It’s enough to say that for him Jesus’ transfiguration was the final straw. That hour, though, as we listened to him rant, we were certain he was just unbalanced. All the signs were there: frowning or giggling at inappropriate times, constantly misspeaking, and holding preposterous views. How could we fathom the dark spirit indwelling in his mind?

Chapter Forty-One

Zacchaeus

That very hour on the road to Jericho, a man approached us with his demon-possessed son. To test his disciples, Jesus turned the demoniac boy over to John and his brother James, who had been acting high and mighty. Peter, trying to hide his smugness, then tried his hand at it. When the three men failed and asked Jesus why, he rebuked them: “Because you have so little faith. Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.” Though Jesus didn’t say so, it was, I believe, a lesson in humility. The rest of us, particularly Judas, had to stifle our mirth.

Not long after this episode, during the late afternoon, we approached the walled city of Jericho. Recalling the story of Joshua, I tried to picture its one time glory before Joshua’s army breached its walls and laid waste to its inhabitants. According to Moses, the conquest was made possible by the information the harlot Rehab supplied Moses’ spies. With this information, Joshua was able to conquer Jericho and put it to the torch. I’ve often wondered why our ancestors had to kill all nonbelievers. Every man, woman, child, and animal was slaughtered in Jericho, among the first Canaanite city in his sights. Why is it that a lowly harlot, who betrayed her people and is responsibility for their extermination, is honored by the prophets? With these thoughts in my head, I was happy to see its ‘resurrection’ into the great and lavish city (second only to Jerusalem) it now was. Unlike our entrance into Bethabara, where we were greeted by proportionately larger groups of Jews, we found ourselves surrounded by a mixture of Gentile and Jewish citizens similar to the cities of Decapolis, who paid us little mind. As we appeared on the main thoroughfare, we were just one more dusty band of travelers passing through Jericho’s east gate.

There was, as in Hippo, Roman architecture in all quarters of the city, but on a greater and more numerous scale. According to my own knowledge, which I shared with them, King Herod built his summer palace here during the reign of Emperor Augustus. There were villas for rich merchants, both Gentile and Jew, scattered throughout the city, as well as temples to Roman and Greek gods. Why Jesus would want to visit this city, none of us dared ask. Added to its pagan artwork and shrines, which offended most of us, was the unfriendly attitude of its citizens we had encountered so far. They weren’t actually rude, as Jesus pointed out. They just didn’t care.

As Jesus led us down the street, Peter exclaimed, “Master, this city is too big. How are we going to manage this busy town?”

“We managed Jerusalem.” Jesus shrugged. “We can manage Jericho as well.”

“What is your plan?” asked the Rock.

“Plan?” Jesus raised an eyebrow. “There you go again Peter, thinking like a Pharisee. I have no plan, only God’s words in my head.”

“Oh yes, I forgot.” He heaved a sigh. “Constant revelation.”

“But master,” John ventured this time, “were shall we sleep tonight. When shall we eat?”

“You of little faith,” Jesus replied irritably. “Jericho is on the way to Judea. We’re just passing through. Like the wayfarer passing through an orchard—the fruit will be at hand. What we glean here will come easily. There will be no multitude or idling crowds.”

“Uh Jesus,” Judas mumbled, tapping his shoulder, “what about food?”

“Your packs are filled with bread and cheese,” he waved dismissively. “Tonight you shall have a proper feast.”

“We will?” Philip wrinkled his nose. “Where? We have little money. Who will feed strangers in this town?”

“Philip,” Jesus raised a finger. “Remember the mustard seed. Have faith!”

By the way he looked around now, it appeared as if Jesus was looking for someone. It was encouraging to hear that we would eat well tonight, but where in this crowded, bustling town were we going to be fed?

******

The disciples followed Jesus protectively—behind him and on each side of him in a half-circle, as he wandered among the people. Then suddenly, when were about midway through town, Jesus was accosted by another batch of Pharisees and scribes. Twelve groans, including my own, were uttered that moment. Not one of the towns we had visited was free of these self-righteous men. Just when we expected another unpleasant series of insults from our adversaries, however, these religious men gave Jesus a friendly greeting, the friendliest reception we had receive so far in this town. Jesus returned the greeting of peace.

A young Pharisee from the crowd stepped forth and asked him a soul-jarring question: “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

There had been sarcasm in the Pharisee’s voice, but nothing like some of Jesus’ antagonists before. Jesus turned to the speaker, pausing only a moment as he thought of a reply. “In our scriptures,” he asked the Pharisee, “what is the essence of our belief. Though a man of the law, how would you read this?”

“Do not sin. Obey the commandments,” the Pharisee answered quickly.

“Wrong.” Jesus shook his head.

“Love God and shun evil,” the Pharisee tried again.

“Wrong again.” He laughed softly.

“Your question is too general,” complained the Pharisee. “I could recite our laws and traditions. I have even remembered scriptures word for word. Teacher, what exactly do you mean? What does this have to do with eternal life?”

Forbearingly Jesus replied, “It has everything to do with it. Look around at your people, whom you serve. Think about your loved ones. What are your feelings toward God? Your thoughts are lost in the law. One word escapes you. The answer is written in your heart, not in the law.”

The audience that had gathered, which had been mumbling amongst themselves, became deathly silent as the Pharisee responded. His cynical tone had vanished entirely. “I remember now,” his voice was filled with emotion. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind.”

“And what else?” the preacher shot back. “What is the second half?”

Without hesitation, the Pharisee declared, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

“You have answered correctly,” Jesus said with great conviction. ”Do this and you will have eternal life!”

The Pharisee stepped back, with bowed head as if in thought. In his place, recognized by his clothes, a scribe asked in a mocking tone, “Who is my neighbor? We have many races in Jericho: Jews, Greeks, Syrians, Egyptians, and Romans.”

“All men and women are your neighbors,” Jesus explained, looking out at the crowd. “All people are children of God.”

That very moment after this statement, which caused a collective gasp, he seemed to look over the heads of the listeners directly at someone in a tree. I saw the little man immediately and silently pointed him out to Bartholomew, as he stood there by his mule. How he climbed up that large oak I couldn’t imagine. It was several cubits from the ground to the first large limb where he sat. Looking back at the spectators gathering in the town square, I had shared my fellow disciples’ misgivings about this latest encounter with Pharisees and scribes, but now, after a brief introduction of preaching, he was doing what he did best: telling stories. He was, I believe, a master story teller as well as preacher, and sometimes, as it happened now, the parable worked better than lecturing to such a crowd.

Instead of preaching the good news to the crowd this time, Jesus gave them a parable, one of the greatest given by our Lord.

Glancing up at the man in the tree again, he walked among the people, toward the oak, speaking to the crowd in a light-hearted conversational tone:

“A man was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was attacked by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him, and then went away, thinking he was dead. A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. And yet a Samaritan, whom the Jews considered unclean, happened to be traveling that way, arriving at the location where the man was. Unlike the priest and Levite, who, like the victim, were Jews, the Samaritan took pity upon him when he saw him, and he went immediately to him, bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and left him in the care of the innkeeper. The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Continue to look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’”

Turning to the scribe now, he asked, “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” The scribe remained silent, pondering the meaning of his story but said nothing. The young Pharisee, however, looked up and said, in a solemn voice, “The one who had mercy on him—the Samarian.”

Reaching out to grip his shoulders, Jesus replied in a loud voice, “Go and do likewise!”

******

As he paused below the tree, we followed his gaze up to the first limb. The little man sat up there, staring with illumination at the preacher. At times, I noted, it was as if Jesus was speaking directly to him, not merely the Pharisee and scribe. What made it directly and suddenly personal was when Jesus called up in a loud voice, “Zacchaeus, come down!”

“Teacher.” Zacchaeus broke into tears. “I’m a sinner—a publican. What do you want of me?”

“You are rich man, Zacchaeus,” Jesus said, raising his arms as though he might just pluck him from his precarious position. “The Spirit of the Lord brought you here. My disciples are weary. I am weary. Would you give us supper and lodging tonight?

“Yes, Teacher, I am honored,” Zacchaeus sputtered. “My house is your house. I’m your servant. I shall run home and alert my cook, who’ll make you a fine feast!”

The Pharisees and scribes in the crowd reacted as we expected. At this point, many other people in the audience, who had been silent, were also outraged. It had been the same reaction Jesus received for singling out Matthew. The very thought that a Jew, let alone a religious teacher, would eat in the house of a tax collector, caused them to grumble and shake their heads. Zacchaeus knew very well what this meant, but it didn’t matter to him. The first Pharisee and first scribe we encountered had disappeared into the crowd, but there were many other men in religious raiment, including, for the first time, priests, who pushed forward to protest and shake their fists.

“This Jesus is supposed to be a righteous man, and yet he will be the guest of a sinner!” exclaimed a priest.

“This man isn’t righteous,” a portly Pharisee shouted. “He consorts with Zacchaeus, a bloodsucking tax collector—an agent of Rome!”

“All people are sinners,” Jesus began preaching again. “All fall short as Adam. They who rejected the Samaritan, are not righteous. No one is saved by the law!”

This last insult to the old order rankled the Pharisees, scribes, and priests the most. Zacchaeus must have been fearful of leaving the safety of his tree. To make matters worse for us, Simon pointed out two temple agents standing in the background. Right at that moment many of the disciples, including myself, wished we could join Zacchaeus on his limb. Would they stone Jesus now? We asked each other. Once again Jesus had hit a religious nerve.

“You dare challenge our laws!” a third Pharisees cried out in a wounded voice. “All of you heard it; he claims that no one is saved by the law. That’s heresy and blasphemy. You arrive off the desert with your unwashed band as if you’re a prophet and great teacher. No prophet of our faith would say such a thing!”

The accusation having shifted from Jesus association with sinners to his attitude on the law, several other men shouted similar charges. One man, we identified as a priest, even tore his raiment and shook his fists. The disciples, as poor Zacchaeus, were encircled now by the crowd. Most people in the crowd appeared to be simple folk—a mixed crowd of Jews and Gentiles of all ages, including young children.

Rising above the dissenters in the crowd, Jesus deep, resonant voice now drowned out the loudest critic.

“I haven’t come to abolish the Law or the Prophets,” he argued. ”I’ve come to fulfill them. Until heaven and earth disappear, not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen, will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished. Anyone who breaks one of the least of these commandments and teaches others to do the same will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever practices and teaches these commands will be called great in the kingdom of heaven.”

This rebuttal by Jesus seemed somewhat conciliatory, and yet it had little effect on the hardliners in the crowd. Inspired by his tone, a second scribe called out spitefully, “You can’t fool us, teacher. Your honeyed words belie your intent to corrupt these good people. Who are you to speak for God?”

“It’s doublespeak—that’s what it is!” A finely dressed merchant stepped forth. “In one breath he tears down our law and in the next, to regain our trust, he raises it up, but this can’t fool our people. We love our tradition and the faith of our fathers. In time, the people will see through this rogue!”

Today wasn’t the day Jesus would chastise the Pharisees and scribes. Ignoring the last outbursts, he turned to the crowds and asked them what they thought.

“I agree with you, rabbi,” an old woman shouted, “you’re indeed a prophet.”

“Yes,” a young man agreed, “and one of us!”

“I’ve heard of this fellow,” an elder came forward, “this is Jesus, the miracle worker from Nazareth, who restored sight and hearing, made bodies whole, and raised up the dead. But he’s more than a preacher, prophet or healer. He’s the spokesman of our God!”

“Yes, he’s God’s voice,” a young woman nodded enthusiastically, “and none but the Messiah could speak such words!”

Jesus’ supporters silenced the hardliners. The number of critics here in Jericho was small for a city of this size. Our fears for Jesus safety was replaced with joy. Hands reached out to touch him and a few people stopped briefly to express their approval of him, but most passed by quietly with looks of respect and awe. Finally, as the crowd dispersed, Peter and Andrew, with Jesus coaxing, reached up to Zacchaeus, who beamed down with relief.

“I’m Peter, a disciple of Jesus,” said the Rock. “We’re Jesus’ disciples. Step on my shoulders and Andrew will left you down.

Lowering himself down, clutching adjoining branches, trembling with expectation and fatigue, he stepped down upon Peter’s shoulders, and then found his small frame cradled in the arms of Andrew, who spoke gently to him, as if he was a child, “Come, join us. We’re on our way to Jerusalem. Don’t be afraid, Zacchaeus, we were all frightened once. Jesus is guarded by the Most High…He’s the Messiah and Son of God!”

******

That evening in the home of Zacchaeus, Jesus and his twelve disciples sat around a sumptuous table of lamb, lentils, savory soup, and sweet meats. Looking around the table after the Shema had been spoken and the food blessed, Jesus focused upon his host, speaking to all, “Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, Zacchaeus, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”

I listened to Zacchaeus tell his story that night. After following the trade of his father, he had grown rich as a publican but he had never felt close to God. Tax collectors, by the definition of our people, were outside the fold—lost sheep beyond redemption. So Zacchaeus lived like a Gentile, most of whom cared little for their gods. Now he knew his life would never be the same, and yet he didn’t know what to make of the strange man at his table. I understand his wonder. Many converts, including myself, had found it hard to accept. How could any mortal be the Messiah, let alone the Son of God? How could anyone be God’s son?

As Jesus and his disciples slept in Zacchaeus’ house, I had trouble falling asleep. Rising up from my pallet, I walked into Zacchaeus’ verdant garden and saw him staring up at the sky

Turning to me, he asked the question we all had asked. “Where will Jesus lead me now?”

“Jesus is going to pick seventy more followers,” I quickly suggested. “I’m certain he’ll pick you. Like his disciples, he plans to send them out to spread the word. Your life will never be the same!”

“I know one thing for certain.” He looked up at me. “I must follow him. His words gave me peace and a new purpose. The magistrates in Jericho will have to find someone else to fleece the citizens. In the morning I’ll ask Glaucus, the local centurion, to dismiss my guards. I’ll sell my house and goods and give a bag of gold to Jesus for the disciples and the poor. This should please Jesus and help make up for all those years I served Rome.”

In the morning, as his guests rested up and Jesus chatted with a friendly delegation of townsmen, Zacchaeus excused himself quietly and left to take care of his affairs. I would learn later from him that the prefect in Perea was quite upset with his decision to quit his post. As Zacchaeus explained afterward while accompanying us on the road to Jerusalem, he told Glaucus that he must leave Jericho and return to Alexandria to care for his ailing mother. It was, of course, an outright lie, he admitted, but he wouldn’t dare tell the prefect the truth. Satisfied with himself, as he joined our procession, he looked back once more at Jericho, at the long checkered road leading to his role as publican, heaved a sigh, and stepped on the path to a new life.

******

That evening, after we set up camp, ate a snack, and sat in reflection around the fire, Jesus spoke about his death again: “The Son of Man is going to be delivered into the hands of men, who will kill him, but on the third day he will be raised from the dead.”

Peter, the first disciple to jump to his feet, questioned these dreadful words “Master,” he cried out, “why tell us this? How could God’s son be killed by mortal men? Do you think we’ll standby and let that happen?”

“You have no control over this,” explained Jesus gloomily, “neither do I?”

“Will I can’t believe it!” Judas sneered. “You’re tired and worn down Jesus. You mustn’t let those Pharisees, scribes, and priests get you down.”

Judas, having spoken our minds, was nevertheless rebuked by Jesus. “What would you have me do?” He waved irritably. “Turn from God? You and the others who counsel retreat don’t understand the Lamb of God.” “I-have-no-choice!” he added succinctly.

“Jesus!” I cried out. “What do you mean ‘you have no choice?’ We were given free choice by God. Why would He let you be killed?”

“Enough!” Jesus held up his hand.

Rising angrily to his feet, he stormed away from the campfire and disappeared into the night. The impression left upon us was that Jesus was being forced to do something he didn’t want to do. We understood his desire to follow scripture. Isaiah’s suffering servant appeared to be his model. That it was God’s will made no difference to us that moment. All that mattered was Jesus’ frame of mind. With each passing day, his mood worsened. Two questions remained unanswered. Why would a merciful God want his son killed? More specifically, why did Jesus think He wanted him killed? It made no sense to any of us. We hadn’t fully grasped the significance of the two halves of our religion: the old faith where animals were sacrificed in the temple and the new faith where the Lamb of God would be sacrificed for our sins. The notion of such a blood sacrifice was almost too barbaric to imagine.

“It reminds me of those pagan Canaanites who sacrificed their children,” I said reflectively.

“Not quite,” James frowned. “They burned them alive to satisfy the whim of their gods.”

“Oh that’s dreadful!” Zacchaeus groaned.

“I know its not the same,” I replied, “but it’s still a form of sacrifice. How else can you explain the fact that he’s the Lamb of God?”

“The whole thing is barbaric,” Bartholomew made a face. “I avoided that slaughterhouse of a temple all my life.”

“I never liked it,” I snarled. “That’s what makes this all the worse.”

“Well, we can’t change his mind,” Peter shrugged. “He seems dead set on it.”

“Yes, dead is the key word,” James nodded, “but I don’t agree. There has to be someway we can stop him.”

“How?” asked Philip. “We’ve never been able to stop him before!”

“That’s true,” John grumbled, “he just gets angry. “What did he say to Peter, when you tried to stop him?”

“Get thee behind me Satan!” said Peter. “That upset me very much. It’s no use trying to change his mind. When you do, you’re tempting him. In his mind, you’re doing the work of Satan.”

“He doesn’t like that.” John’s brother shook his head.

“His course is set,” Andrew concluded, “right into a storm!”

“Yeah.” Simon looked thoughtfully into the dark. “He’s bound and determined. I’ve been around the priests and their Levite agents. They’re constantly on the lookout for heresy. In their minds’ eye Jesus is the biggest heretic of them all.”

“They had it in for him from the very beginning,” observed Thomas. “Everywhere we go they’re waiting for him—those graybeards and scribes. Why does he have to confront them at every turn?”

“He does it on purpose,” I said, staring into the flames. “I’ve never seen him so reckless. You had it right, Andrew. It’s as if he’s deliberately sailing into a storm. Much of it is his own making.”

Peter looked around the group. “We mustn’t forget whose sailing the boat. As much as we don’t like it, Jesus mind is set. In his thinking, if we try to stop him, we’re defying God.”

******

Though it was blackest night so far for us, no one left the camp to find Jesus. We were tempted to go after him, but Peter’s memory of Jesus’ admonition stopped us cold. No one wanted to be a tool of Satan. Jesus had slipped away like this before, Peter reminded us. Usually, however, the moon was out to light his path. Tonight there was only cold, distant starlight. Along with all of his other gifts, Jesus must have bee able to see in the dark.

Finally, after lying on my pallet between James and Bartholomew pondering on Jesus’ fate, I fell into a troubled sleep. In the past I usually had silly, meaningless dreams, but every once in awhile, I was beset by nightmares, some too hideous to describe. After such black contemplation, tonight was one of those times. I found myself in a lonely barren place. The sky was strangely tranquil. A full moon peeked through the clouds, allowing subdued light on the scene below. I had dreamed something similar to this before when Jesus and I were youths but Jesus had downplayed this nightmare. Now, as I recalled the earlier dream, I was filled with great dread. In the distance there were three shadowy crosses. Below them, a handful of people stood vigil beneath the middle cross. The dark outlines of men hung from the cross-beams. Romans stood by looking up at the middle cross. One of the soldiers, who turned to face me, had a familiar face. It was Longinus…. I knew at once who the middle man was.

“No,” I cried out, “this can’t be! They can’t crucify the Son of God!”

Shaken awake by James, I lie there staring up into the face of Jesus.

“That-that was awful!” I stammered

Upon hearing those terrible words, James eyes were wide with shock.

“Did you hear that, Jesus?” he sputtered. “Why would he say such a thing?”

“Shush!” Jesus clamped both of our mouths. “Jude dreamed this before. It’s a forewarning. Only God will decide my fate.”

Jerking away from his hand, I asked, “Can a forewarning be changed? You can’t lie Jesus. Why would I dream this again?”

“Again?” James mumbled. “What did you dream?”

“You dreamed this because you’re worried,” Jesus explained calmly. “How many times in our lives have we seen men hanging from crosses? Too many. Nightmares, as is their nature, bring out our worst fears.”

“Why me?” I groaned. “Why can’t I dream normal nightmares of monsters and fiends? I’ve worried about you so much, Jesus. Now I have this in my head.”

“You must stop worrying,” Jesus insisted. “I’m just glad you didn’t shout this out. Fortunately, Bartholomew sleeps like the dead. I’m sorry you dreamed that, Jude, and you heard those words James, but I don’t want the others alarmed. They’ll see it as a bad omen. They have enough on their minds.” “Promise me, both of you.” He placed his hands on both of our heads. “You mustn’t bring this subject up on the road—anywhere. Discuss with it with each other, but keep this to yourselves!”

When Jesus slipped away again, James and I broke into excited murmurs.

“What did Jesus mean by ‘hanging on crosses’?” he shook my arm. “Tell me about your nightmare,” he demanded. “I have a right to know!”

“What you heard was nothing,” I shuddered. “It gets much worse.”

James listened intently, whistling under his breath and shaking his head. After sharing my nightmare with him, he lie there silently a moment.

“…We must trust Jesus,” he whispered hesitantly. “…. It’s obvious why we have to keep this to ourselves. Let’s hope and pray that Jesus’ fears have been unfounded and your nightmare is a forewarning, not prophecy.”

“… What if it is prophecy?” I murmured fretfully. “What if he will be killed? Jesus appears to deliberately provoke his enemies. It’s as if he’s encouraging and inviting his destruction!”

James repeated his refrain, “We must trust Jesus,” and, like Jesus tried to downplay my dream, but nothing could wipe away the thoughts in my mind…. I had the same dream twice: once as a child and once as an adult. If this was merely a warning, then I must do everything in my power to prevent it from happening. How I might do this alone, I couldn’t yet imagine, but I must try!

******

Though I would obey Jesus demand that I keep my nightmare secret, I decided to enlist the support of three men, I knew would agree with my decision to prevent his death: Bartholomew, Matthew, and Simon. Judas would join such a pact, but he was too unstable and might run amuck. My notion sounded insane to Bartholomew and Matthew, but Simon immediately agreed.

“How do you plan on stopping Jesus?” challenged Bartholomew. “He’ll interpret this as mutiny, an attempt to spoil his purpose on earth!”

“I don’t care,” I said, folding my arms, “Jesus is following the prophecy of Isaiah, not God. I read that scroll. God doesn’t want his son dead. I never liked Isaiah’s passages about the suffering servant. It’s gloomy and unreasonable. Isaiah’s was contradictory in giving us two separate Messiahs. It’s because of his prophecy about the conquering Messiah, in fact, that Jesus has so many enemies. I blame this entire mess on him, not God. God is merciful. He wouldn’t allow him to be killed!”

“You’ve convinced me,” Simon nodded. “At first I thought it exciting to hear him attack the Pharisees, scribes, and priests. Now, I think he’s going too far. We were lucky that the people sided with us in Jericho. If we go to Jerusalem, as he plans on doing, he might not be so fortunate.’

“How are you going to stop Jesus?” Matthew raised an eyebrow. “Unless, we physically restrain him, which is impossible with those fishermen at his side, we have to change his mind.”

“He said he wanted to see Capernaum one more time.” I suddenly recalled. “That was a week ago. I didn’t like the sound of ‘one more time,’ but I’ll remind him of that goal. The problem is we’re on the Jerusalem road.”

“Is he really thinking of going back to the holy city?” muttered Simon. “With all those priests in Jerusalem, that’s crazy!”

“Wait a minute!” I snapped my fingers. “We have relatives on the way—in Bethany: Lazarus, Martha, and Mary. That might be his destination this time. If we can forestall his plans to revisit Jerusalem long enough and get him back to Galilee where he had so much success, maybe he’ll see his folly.”

“Hah!” Matthew tossed his head. “You sound desperate, Jude. You really think you can change Jesus’ mind?”

With that awful nightmare branded in my mind, I nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. I have to try!”

Chapter Forty-Two

The House of Lazarus

Without screwing my face up too much and being obvious, I prayed very hard that day. At one point, I almost walked into a prickly cactus. It was simple but fervent praying. I asked God in plain, unembellished language over and over to change Jesus’ mind. I refused to believe that He wanted him to be sacrificed like lamb. This revolting prospect was unacceptable. In the first place, I never liked the notion of animal sacrifice. Though my dislike would be thought heretical by Pharisees, scribes, and priests, it went against my basic sensitivities. Jesus had taught me to love all of God’s creatures and treat them with compassion. That he supposedly replaced the sacrificial lamb of bloodthirsty priests was therefore especially repugnant. Afterwards, on the road to Jerusalem, Simon and I approached him during a rest stop. For the first time in hours, he wasn’t surrounded by the fishermen, who now lounged drowsily beneath a tree. Matthew and Bartholomew thought I was foolish for trying to change Jesus’ course, but hung in the background offering tepid support. Looking up that moment, he grinned with mirth

“You men have serious looks on your faces,” he acknowledged. “You seek to change my mind.”

“Oh, why do you do that?” I rolled my eyes. “Our thoughts aren’t are own. You know everything!”

“No.” Jesus chuckled. “God knows everything. Your thoughts are your own, but they also belong to Him.”

“I get it!” I threw up my hands. “And your God’s son, right?”

“Right…I listen to him.” He sighed.

“Which means,” reasoned Simon, “you know everything!”

“Jesus,” I replied carefully. “Simon and I were wondering…. Are you planning on visiting our cousins in Bethany? Is that why we’re on this road?”

“Why yes,” he answered with a frown, “that was my plan.”
“And after this?” I came straight to the point.

“I had a long talk with my Father,” he answered thoughtfully. “There is much left to do. In Capernaum, I’ll counsel the seventy followers selected as preachers. After I send them out to spread the word, as my disciples have done, I’ll wait for their return. What they accomplish is vital for the Way. Jerusalem is our last stop. After that, the faithful are left in the disciples’ and seventy’s hands.”

I had silently rejoiced in my mind, thinking that God had answered my prayers, until he spoke that last sentences. Now my breath left me. “… What do you mean ‘your last stop?’” I stared a him in disbelief.

“Yes, Jesus!” Simon lurched forward. “That can mean only one thing!”

“Enough!” Jesus raised his hand. “From that point, it’s up to God. It’s always up to Him.”

“So, you won’t be killed?” Simon blurted. “Promise us this Jesus: you won’t die!”

“Simon the Zealot.” Jesus reached up to pat his arm. “From a temple spy, you’ve become one of my protectors. If God can make you a warrior for the truth, he can do anything he wishes—even change His mind.”

This ambiguous answer would have to suffice. Jesus rose up suddenly and rejoined the fisherman under the tree. Simon shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Feeling alone with my secret knowledge, I clung to Jesus’ words. They were like a life line thrown to a drowning man. I had, in fact, been drowning in my doubt. Though I was losing my faith in the outcome of his mission, I would have faith in Jesus. This decision would save my sanity, if not Jesus’ life.

******

Not long after Jesus tried dispelling Simon’s and my concern, we entered the small village of Bethany. This would prove to another occasion for Jesus to make a spiritual point. Considering his work ahead, there was no logical reason to make this stopover. Zacchaeus, who was destined to join the Seventy, tagged along at the rear of our procession, silently a part of our group. Though he spoke little during our journey, he seemed at peace with himself and his new life, often smiling for apparent no reason, looking heavenward as if he was in communication with God.

“I’ve never seen such tranquility,” observed James.

“Look at him.” Matthew pointed with esteem. “He gave away his house and life’s savings. Now he’s totally happy. That’s what I call faith!”

“Yes,” Judas replied sarcastically, “he’s a true believer or insane!”

Looking back at Zacchaeus, I could see what James meant. Matthew was right. After Jesus had given Zacchaeus the rite, he was transformed into a new man. Judas opinion, on the other hand, was tactless, so typical of his way of thinking.

As we entered Cousin Lazarus’ house, the smell of healing herbs assailed our nostrils. Lazarus was obviously very sick. Why Jesus didn’t cure him on the spot mystified us. He had cured all manner of people, including lowlives and wrongdoers. So why didn’t he heal his own cousin? No one dared ask Jesus this question. The answer would prove to be a defining moment in Jesus life, but for now it was troubling to say the least.

Lazarus spent much of his time in a chair in his yard or in the corner of the main room that night wrapped in a blanket. His two younger sisters had greeted Jesus warmly, casting a worried looks at his sweaty, travel worn band. As Martha, the oldest sister, heated water for us to wash in, prepared our evening meal, and then served our evening meal, Mary, her sibling, frittered away her time listening to Jesus recount our travels. Distracted by her chores, Martha was unable to join the conversation. Eavesdropping on this drama, I heard her complain to Mary about her laziness. Then later, James and I listened to her bring her grievance to Jesus’ ears. That moment, reminiscent of Mary Magdalene’s fawning affection, Martha’s sister sat at Jesus’ feet, an adoring expression on her pretty face.

“Jesus,” Martha said, casting Mary a jaundiced look, “am I not a caring host? Can’t you see that she’s left me to serve alone?”

“Martha, Martha,” Jesus scolded gently, “you’re worried and troubled about many things. But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which won’t be taken.”

Martha stormed away understandably upset. Jesus continued chatting with Mary as if it had been a trifling matter, leaving all twelve disciples confused and dismayed.

“I don’t understand him,” Andrew shook his head. “That poor woman’s waiting on us hand and foot and he says that?”

“It’s Mary Magdalene all over again,” Philip threw up his hands. “All that little maiden does is sit at his feet and listen, and she has the better part? Doesn’t diligence and service count? I never heard him say that to Esther and Dinah?”

“Jesus is making some kind of point,” I searched for meaning. “It’s as if he’s saying, ‘don’t worry about our physical needs—the matters of this world; it’s our spiritual needs that count.’”

This is how many people interpret Jesus’ words now, but not one of the other disciples agreed with me then. In spite of my effort at defending his action, I didn’t either.

“Maybe someday he’ll explain it,” Peter said lamely. “Right now I just don’t understand.”

“Jude might be right.” James sighed. “Mary has wormed her way into Jesus’ heart.

“You have to admit,” Judas grinned. “she’s a pretty young thing!”

“That has nothing to do with it,” John frowned at him. “You would say something like that.”

“Let’s go find Martha,” suggested Thomas. “She needs cheering up.”

Though Jesus wouldn’t agree with such a suggestion, we went in search of our host. Martha wasn’t in the house or front yard. Lazarus, who sat medicated in a daze, told us she tending to Bartholomew’s mule. We found her in back of Lazarus’ house, the very picture of domesticity. A pale of water in front of the beast’s snout, as he grazed in the field. Unlike Mary, Martha was plain and slightly overweight, but there was gentleness in her face as she stroked the mule.

The first to express his thoughts was Bartholomew, who was visibly moved by this scene.

“Martha,” he said quietly, “you have a good part, too. We, his disciples, see that. It’s hard to understand the master. He has his reasons. We’re sorry he hurt your feelings, but he’s trifled with our feelings before.”

“Yeah, tell me about it!” Judas scowled.

“He says the strangest most confounded things!” Philip said in wonder. “He won’t tell us where he’s going or explain the road ahead. As we follow our shepherd, it’s as if we march in a fog.”

“He doesn’t think like mortal men,” Matthew decided. “What we think is right, he often thinks is wrong.”

“So he thinks I was wrong?” Martha wrinkled her forehead.

“No, he didn’t meant that.” John shook his head. “How do I explain it, Martha? He doesn’t like anyone questioning his motives or his destination. After all, he gets his orders from God.”

“He won’t even let us protect him,” exclaimed Peter. “When I tried, he said to me, ‘Get thee behind me Satan.’ How more hurtful is that?”

“Look at me.” Judas pointed to himself. “I’m always getting scolded!”

“Hah!” Simon mumbled under his breath. “You’re lucky he hasn’t gotten the boot!”

“Martha,” I took my turn. “Jesus’ main concern is getting out the message. Everything else—food, bodily comfort, even wine—is secondary. Sometimes, I wonder if he even sleeps.”

“I’ve never seen him relieve himself,” offered Thomas. “That proves he’s divine.”

Everyone broke into laughter that moment. Perplexed by these implications, Martha looked around at the group. “So it’s true what I’ve heard… Jesus is the Messiah.”

“Oh, he’s more than that,” James stepped forth to clasp her hands.

Remembering Jesus admonition to be discreet about his identity, James stopped short of telling her Jesus was the Son of God. That very moment, as if he overheard this last exchange, Jesus appeared in our midst. Embracing Martha tenderly, he whispered something into her ear, which seemed to make everything right. What it was no one will ever know. Perhaps, as John’s brother James suggested, he explained to her what he had meant. If that was the case, it remained a secret between them. Matthew suggested Jesus might have told her a joke. In deed Martha laughed softly to herself, but no one seriously entertained this possibility. I’ve heard Jesus be humorous, but he’s never told a joke. It was Peter’s notion that Jesus had complimented her on her hospitality seemed to be the most logical reasonable. Jesus was honest. He was never cruel or deliberately thoughtless. Of the two sisters, Martha will be remembered the most for what he would one day say to her.

That day, as we ate a sumptuous feast and drank Lazarus wine, Mary sat one side of Jesus and Martha on the other. Jesus gave the Shema and an added blessing to our hosts. Lazarus, who had been in torpor before, finally spoke as we commenced eating. “To our honored guest!” he toasted, raising his mug in the air, “our Jesus, who shall save the world!”

******

Our destination, as Jesus had been forced to admit when asked, was Galilee. We set out that morning with our packs on the road to Jerusalem, detouring north to Galilee, happy to be putting Judea behind us. With the exception of Bethany where Jesus’ cousins lived, the memory of our reception in Bethlehem, the birth place of Jesus, soured our attitude toward this province. Ironically, with the exception of Lazarus and his sisters, the citizens of Bethany weren’t very receptive either. Of course, greater effort had been made to preach the good news in Galilee, Decapolis, Samaria, and Perea. Now, our ultimate destination was Jesus most successful area of preaching and sermonizing: Capernaum.

Before this destination, to our disappointment, he stopped at an important city that had been missed during Jesus’ preaching in Samaria. Considering his desire to gather the Seventy and send them out on their own, as he had his disciples, this seemed strange at first, but then Jesus must follow God’s plan. Whatever his father wanted him to do, he did without hesitation, however illogical or reckless it seemed. As he pointed out many times, we didn’t know the mind of God…. Jesus, after all, was the Shepherd and we were merely the sheep.

One benefit of this detour, I had thought, would be the absence of Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents who wouldn’t contaminate themselves in this ‘accursed’ land. Of course, we no longer felt contaminated. Our success in a few Samaritan towns had changed our attitudes completely about these people. Jesus parable about the Good Samaritan summed up his affection for them. Despite the great reception we received from small groups in villages and travelers, however, Jesus’ goal wasn’t to stop here and there on the way as he had before. There wasn’t enough time, he explained. What he wanted was a large audience, as he had in Galilee and Decapolis, who, after hearing his sermon, would spread the word, themselves. The method of spreading the word, using sermons and storytelling, had almost replaced our original efforts at conversion. The exceptions were those individuals requesting baptism. To be cured by Jesus, of course, included healing the spirit as well as the body, which was followed by baptism into the Way.

On the day we entered Sebaste, Samaria’s largest city, our eyes were both dazzled and offended by what we saw, for this was, judging by appearances, a pagan city. Temples to Roman and Greek gods as well as the statues of the deified Emperor Augustus were seen everywhere. There were, Jesus announced, God-fearing people here. In fact they greatly outnumbered the Gentiles. Unfortunately, many of the Samaritans here were dressed like Romans and Greeks, so it was sometimes difficult to pick them out. News of Jesus, the Great Physician, had preceded him, because almost immediately groups of men and women gathered by the road. Our greatest fear was that he would be forced to heal a stream of citizens, who would also have to be baptized into the Way. As it turned out, however, Jesus was single-minded this time. Though we didn’t have a clue, he knew exactly where he would begin preaching.

As in most of Samaria and elsewhere in our land there always seemed to be a hill nearby for Jesus to preach his message. Without such a place, we would be limited to the town squares, which were too small for large crowds. Close to the northern limit of the town there was in fact such a prominence, but also the ruins of the previous city on which Augustus had Sebaste built. Already James had been scandalized by the excessive amount of pagan art and statuary. Now finally, as Jesus hopped lithely atop the crumpling feet of a long lost god, he found his voice.

“Jesus, look at where you are,” he cried. “Consider the symbolism here: Jesus, the famous preacher, preaching at a pagan temple. What will the God-fearers think? The Pharisees, scribes, and priest are already heated up. If word of this gets out, it will fan the fire!”

It was, even to my liberal mind, a sound argument. Who knows, as Simon pointed out, whether or not agents of the temple have followed us here. Go to the adjacent hill, Peter suggested. It was shorter but clear of taint. Everyone, in fact, agreed with James and Peter. Judas, who was nonconformist himself, was the only one not questioning this move. Meanwhile, as the people arrived below the crest where the ruins sat, there didn’t seem to be much protest. This encouraged Jesus to remain perched on the highest of the two hills. After all, as Judas pointed out, it was difficult to tell just exactly what Jesus was standing on. It appeared, upon close scrutiny, to be two giant feet, but there was nothing else in the ruins to indicate that it was a pagan shrine. Therefore, as he gathered his thoughts, Jesus stood boldly on Samaria’s ancient past speaking to men and women representing its future. To add to this strange setting was Bartholomew alongside his trusty mule, trudging with staff-in-hand, like an ancient patriarch up to the summit. Settling around the speaker on portions of the platform on which the giant feet sat, we felt conspicuous. Below my very feet, half-camouflaged by grass, was the head of god or goddess, clear evidence of a pagan shrine. What the other disciples and probably many of Samaritan’s citizens didn’t know about this city was that paganism had existed here long before the Kingdom of Israel and the repopulating of Samaria with foreigners after its fall. I remember reading an obscure passage about the Israelite King Omri, who allowed pagan Syrians to live in Samaria, which explained the giant feet and remnant of a statue.

With this contrast as a backdrop, Jesus gave the Samaritans of Sebaste, an important sermon.

“Citizens of Samaria,” he shouted at last. “You are despised by Jews but love by God. What does it matter what the Pharisees, scribes, and Jerusalem priest say about you? They represent a tired order who judge everyone on the letter of the law. I speak to you of the spirit of the law, which is defined by your personal relationship to God. You don’t need a temple in a great city. You have your own sacred mount. Even so, all things built by men are temporary. Faith is everlasting. The Jews are looking for a messiah, who will sweep away the Romans and, alas, the Samaritans as well. I come to share a secret with you: that Messiah is already here. But he brings you salvation, not the sword, for what use is power, riches, and kingdoms that, as the temple on which I stand, crumble and vanish with time!”

Upon this introduction, which tactfully brought up the subject, Jesus clearly implied who he was, and yet said nothing about being the Son of God. (That would be going too far with this bunch.) What he also succeeded on doing was to preach the word and sermonize at the same time. Weaving the good news into several of his favorite parables and repeating portions of his message to the Five Thousand in Galilee, he ended his sermon with the prayer he taught his disciples. Though not as receptive as the Galileans, the Samaritans had shown great interest. As expected there was a small assembly requesting conversion, and also a line of sick, lame, blind, and addled people expecting cures. Jesus was forced to perform the rite with our assistance. Fortunately for us, the number of supplicants remained relatively small, but the line for healing grew perceptibly as Jesus worked his miracles. This meant, of course, more baptismal rites. Because there was no body of water near our hill, we had to improvise. The water from all our water skins and those of the participants finally ran out, so that, for the last few people healed that day, we had to search for skins of water among the departing audience.

When it was all over, we were, once again, spent. Some of us could barely make it down the hill. Jesus required Peter and Andrew to assist him down the hill and Bartholomew had to be lifted bodily onto his mule.

******

That night, as we made camp on the pagan shrine, I heard Peter scolding Jesus again. This time, as we sat around the fire, everyone was in complete agreement: Jesus was being taken advantage of. He could only do so much. As Judas had said earlier, he was wearing himself out.

“Master,” Peter lectured him boldly, “I know you’re the Son of God, but here on earth you’re also a man. Like I said before, you can’t keep this up. There’ll always be sick, blind, and crazy folks. You can’t cure them all. Lazarus didn’t ask to be cured. Some of those people in line weren’t nearly as sick as him. A man has spots on his skin and—zap—he has leprosy. I have spots on my skin. Who, at my age, doesn’t? That old woman they brought you, who they said was mad, was laughing like jackal. She wasn’t possessed; she was old and addled in the head. That’s what happens when people get old. The youth with the headache caused by a fall, that fellow with the broken arm that turned out to be a sprain, the man with the spots, and boy with the sore on his nose. Jesus, you can’t heal every cut, scratch, spot, or sore you see. It’s bad enough that ever blind men, demoniacs, or deaf mutes in our land seeks you out. Many of those people have traveled from afar to be healed. Of course, after you cure them, they’ll accept conversion, but does it take?”

Jesus answered with a question: “How would it be if a physician shunned certain patients or the shepherd turned away his sheep?”

“I thought we were your sheep.” Thomas blinked stupidly.

“Why do you worry about my health?” Jesus looked squarely at Peter. “You think my Father will let me wither away? I think it’s you who is weary of all these healings.” “This is true for all of you.” He looked around at the group. “No one said the road would be easy…. Just you wait, men. When I’m gone, it will be even harder. You must toughen up. Be like Bartholomew’s mule. Do you hear him complain?”

Following this comparison, a smattering of laughter followed in our ranks, but Jesus use of a physician and a shepherd to support his argument struck us as absurd. It hadn’t addressed Peter’s concern at all, and yet Jesus had made his point. That night, after everyone found their pallet and James, Bartholomew, and I looked up at the stars, we listened to the disciples chatter idly amongst themselves. Obviously, Jesus was out of earshot or they wouldn’t have said what they did. It seemed strange, almost blasphemous to speak ill of Jesus now, but I’m certain he was privy to it all.

“He claims to be the Messiah and the Son of God,” grumbled Judas, “but he’s not a man of reason. A reasonable man would see through some of those folks. Half of those people in line were dressed like Gentiles. After he cured them, I bet they went right back to their pagan gods.”

“Some of those people were in a bad way,” Matthew replied thoughtfully, “but many of them had injuries—not illnesses. You can’t cure clumsiness. What about that old lady, who looked like she was a hundred years old. You can’t cure old age either. There’s always going to be sick people everywhere you go. Plagues wipe out whole populations. People are murdered or drown at sea. Can Jesus cure that?”

“Jesus has a different way of seeing things,” conceded Peter. “He’s not like us—”

“We know that,” Philip interrupted. “Everyone knows that. That explains nothing. You were right the first time, Peter. Jesus can’t cure them all!”

“Let’s talk about the real issue here,” Simon cut in suddenly, “Jesus’ safety. I agree with Jude. Somehow we have to make him see reason. He keeps talking about his death. His role as physician isn’t the problem; it’s his role as a preacher. Pharisees, rabbis, and now priests are dogging his trail. There’s spies everywhere. I even spotted a few in today’s crowd.”
“What” I called out. “Are you certain? Even here in Samaria?”

“Yes,” chimed Simon, “don’t forget I was a spy too!”

“Moses beard!” I cursed. “And you say that they’re following us—they’re on our trail?”

“Uh huh,” Simon replied. “Graybeards are easy to spot. I can also pick the ones in disguise. The scribes sometime dress like Greeks.”

“Whoa!” Bartholomew jerked awake.

“Wait just a minute,” James sat up. “That’s ridiculous, Simon. If they’re dressed like Greeks, how would you know?”

“By their shifty eyes,” he said with conviction, “and the fact the write things down.”

Peter stood up that moment his voice trembling with concern. “Simon—you moron. Why didn’t you tell us? You saw them on our trail?”

“Calm down Peter,” a voice called from the darkness. “Simon told me, but I’ve known all along.”

“Really?” Peter mumbled. “I knew they were out there…but dogging our trail…It’s like they’re closing in.”

“Why do you act so surprised?” Jesus emerged with a torch in his hand. “One of them was a scribe we met in Galilee. He was dressed like an ordinary Jew. Many of them are in disguise. Only the Pharisees are consistent. They never wear disguises. You won’t see them in Samaria, but it’s them you should fear the most.”

“There are enemies everywhere!” I shuddered.

“Those spies sent out by Caiaphas merely write down information, and the scribes are like swarms of gnats, but the Pharisees in other provinces stir up discontent. There will always be scribes, but the Pharisees, like the priests, days are numbered

“Oh,” quipped John. “Is this more prophecy? I hope the priests don’t hear that.”

“All of this,” Peter’s arms spread wide, “the constant stops, healings, and whatnot are fine Jesus. It’s what you’re here for and are supposed to do. But sooner or later those jackals will corner you when Rome isn’t watching. They tried it in Nazareth, your hometown. What’s to stop them at one of those little villages in Galilee without a Roman presence. In Capernaum you were safe. Even here in Samaria, you’re safer than everywhere else. Everyone loves you there. That should be your home base for now on!”

I heard several men say “I agree,” including James, Bartholomew, and myself. If only Jesus could have stayed in our beloved town. He would still be alive. But Jesus was the Lamb. Considering that he was also the Shepherd, this is still hard to digest. Though the most powerful man on earth, as Judas rightly saw, Jesus was still the sacrifice. That night, among the ruins, he remained our shepherd, and we were like frightened lambs. After tossing his torch onto the fire, Jesus sat down on the shoulder piece of a Syrian god, staring into the flames, his mindset on the future.

“Go to sleep, men,” he commanded gently. “We have a long trip ahead. Capernaum will be our last stop!”

******

Despite Jesus troubling concession that Capernaum would he his last stop, we looked forward to arriving in this friendly town. It was not merely our home base, it was where it all began for Jesus and his earliest disciples. In Peter’s small house we would be greeted by his family and lovely Mary Magdalene. For that brief time, we would share each other’s fellowship unencumbered with other people—the sick, lame, curious, or cynical, and for a brief time be simply men, not disciples of the Messiah and Son of God.

Chapter Forty-Three

What To Do With Mary

During our first day back in Capernaum, Mary was her usual opinionated self, saying foolish things to Jesus and hanging on his every word. Esther, Peter’s wife, and his mother-in-law Dinah had given up trying to make her a reliable helper. Like her namesake, Lazarus’ sister, she felt she had taken the better part, as Jesus told the other Mary. For this Mary, however, Jesus had much higher expectations. Though I saw intelligence in this woman at times, I didn’t fully realize how important she would become. What I heard from her that day, though, reinforced my opinion of her, for she was not only able to understand Jesus’ words, she remembered almost everything he said. For the first time since I’ve known her, I had a chance to talk to her alone. It turned out, in fact, that she had, like myself, almost perfect recall.

Jesus had just scolded her for making Bernice do her chores. It was just the opposite of what happened with Lazarus’s sisters, when Martha was chided by him for criticizing her sister for being lazy. Considering this disparity, I might have sympathized with her at first had she not told me Jesus exact words, which amounted to a proverb.

“Well, out with it Mary.” I gently elbowed her. “What did Jesus say?”

“It was silly,” she frowned. “…The most important thing was, ‘The wise must also labor. Wisdom is no excuse for sloth.’”

“Why that’s a compliment,” I gave her a pat. “Jesus said you were wise!”

“You really think so?” She wrinkled her nose.

“Mary,” I answered thoughtfully, “do you really understand all that stuff Jesus says? Even James, Matthew, Simon, and I who are more educated than the fishermen, don’t always understand.”

“…Most of it.” She thought a moment. “I know all of his parables now. He also told me where you men have been.”

“Wait a minute.” I held up my hand. “Are you telling me you memorized all of his parables? Did Jesus really tell you everywhere we went?”

“Yes and yes,” she answered both questions. “Women have brains too.”

“All right, Mary.” I cocked an eyebrow. “I want to believe you, but that’s quite a boast. Prove it to me.”

“You don’t believe me?” She asked indignantly.

“No.” I shrugged my shoulders. “…. It’s just hard to swallow!”

“Well, I never!” she gave a wounded cry. “Why doesn’t anyone take me seriously?”

I regretted immediately insulting Mary’s truthfulness. For a few seconds, I was tempted to apologize. Mary might be one of those people who never forgives a slight. After jumping up from the riverbank and running toward the house, however, she halted midway, turned and, to my amazement, began reciting all of the parables Jesus has said so far. Among the most memorable, as I watched her small mouth wrap around Jesus words, was the Good Samaritan. Like the other parables Jesus has given, she appeared to understand it perfectly. What astonished me the most, however, was her account of Jesus’ and his disciples’ travels, from our beginning in Capernaum until our return, including stops in between these high points, such episodes as the Sermon on the Mount, feeding of the five, feeding the four thousand, and the many important miracles Jesus performed. Before she had completed, in an expeditious manner, her mental chronicle of what Jesus and said and done, she had attracted an audience of children who had been dawdling by the shore. They quietly marveled at this strange lady but said nothing as they scampered on their way. Unfortunately, there were no adults within earshot of her incredible narrative.

Her entire performance took about an hour. In the distance, Esther, Dinah, Bernice, and a few disciples looked out from the door. John, who had taken an interest earlier in Mary, as he had the convert Deborah, had been jealous of my attention toward her. As I stood there gazing at this remarkable young woman, my onetime lust for her was heavily counterbalanced by admiration and respect.

While we returned to the house, I complimented her effort. “Whoa, Mary, God has given you a wonderful gift. I thought I had a good memory, but that was incredible!”

“Thanks.” She smiled faintly. “You appreciate me.” “It won’t change my station,” she added with bitterness. “Because I’m not man, I’m supposed to cook, clean floors, and become someone’s wife. Jesus won’t let me go with him. He knows I have this gift, but it makes no difference. I’m a woman, and that’s that!”

Unknowingly, just as we re-entered the house, I spoke prophecy: “Someday, Mary, you’ll make your mark. Be patient, and hold your tongue. It’s just a matter of time!”

******

When I told James and Bartholomew what Mary had done, they were greatly impressed, but I could see doubt in both of their eyes. Since Mary had not told me to keep this a secret I also told the other disciples. The reaction I received shouldn’t have surprised me. Most Jewish men had little respect for a woman’s minds. There were many exceptions, including my father who had deferred to his wife many times, but judging by Peter’s lordship over his household, women were intended to be the servants of men. It irked me very much when the fishermen, especially Peter, scoffed at my claim. What bothered me almost as much, was the mixed reaction I got from the remaining men. Matthew and Thomas, like James and Bartholomew, wanted to believe, but admitted it was farfetched, and Simon, who had always thought Mary a striking creature, said it made no deference. “She’s a woman,” he replied carelessly, “What use is that in her head?” Only Judas gave credence to my report, but then suggested half-seriously that, because Mary was a flighty-headed girl, she must be possessed. No one but me took her seriously. Even Jesus, who thought her boasts unseemly, had put her in her place.

“Let another praise you,” he scolded her, “ not from your own mouth. Better a stranger extol your virtues than have it come from your lips!”
That was another criticism that cut her to the quick. Jesus was trying to make Mary humble and not show her gifts for their own stake. Begrudgingly perhaps, I understood this, but there seemed to be no excuse for the other disciple’s attitude toward Mary Magdalene. One day they would know better, but during this time they were in denial. It was, I told Mary later, like the ignorant villager who saw a peacock and told his friend such a bird couldn’t possibly exist. She was, for a time being, that strutting peacock in more ways than one. Her problem wasn’t her intelligence and what she knew, but how to behave around others with humility and tact. I didn’t realize then, but not only did I respect and want to protect Mary Magdalene, I had fallen in love with her. I might never tell her this or ask her how she felt about me. I was just happy to be her confidant and friend.

Though Bernice’s disposition didn’t include petty jealousy and cynicism, her mother Esther and grandmother Dinah had grown to resent Mary more than even the fishermen. Nevertheless, that day, against the normal resentment of men for women smarter than themselves, Mary had made an impact. No one, except me, would admit it yet, but clearly this was an extraordinary woman. Fortuitously on the third day of our rest period, a large band of followers arrived, led by Azrael and his wife. In seventy of the most ardent converts (the number Jesus had decided upon), there were, in a addition to Yoshabel, Azrael’s wife, several other wives accompanying their husbands, including single women Mary’s age. A precedent had been set for spouses and their families to be converted together. After these members of the Seventy, other men and women, many with their children, who would stay behind with relatives or friends, also arrived on the scene. Since Jesus had relied on Azrael’s good judgment and those selected were at his doorstep, how could he make Mary an exception? What came out of his mouth, before I lost my courage, was a challenge and a request: “Jesus, there are many women in that bunch. Mary is the most intelligent and able woman I’ve ever known. Please let her serve the Lord like the others.”

“You love this woman,” he said, smiling faintly. “I know your mind, Jude; it questions often, but your heart is pure. You must have given this great thought. Did she say she wanted to join the Seventy?”

“No,” I admitted, “but I know she wants to contribute to the cause.”

“Cause?” Jesus frowned. “This is more than just a cause. You and the others are more than soldiers for God. You don’t merely preach, you are ambassadors, who represent the Way. During that first time you and the disciples went out to spread the word, there were incidents that brought discredit on the message and the Way. Some of the pairs I sent out before didn’t get along well. This must not happen again. Though I’m aware of her potential, Mary is immature, self-absorbed, and stubborn. Like all of you she is growing in spirit and resolve, but, like my disciples, she will need a partner when I send the Seventy out in twos. There are exactly thirty-five pairs. In order to send her out, a man must accompany her. It’s dangerous out there.”

“We’ll find her someone,” I replied quickly. “A strong mature fellow, who’ll rein her in.”

“But they must get-a-long with Mary,” Jesus said succinctly. “That’s important!”

“I’ll ask Azrael if knows such a person,” I suggested. “He might have some ideas.”

Jesus was just humoring me. Deep down inside, I knew this was hopeless. Looking out at the assembly I recognized many other familiar faces: Barnabas, one of the first converts to the Way, Cleopas, and Matthias, who were there in Capernaum in the beginning, Justin, the onetime leper, several other men and women I recall enthusiastically joining up, and, in a few more cases, those persons healed after Jesus sermons in Galilee and Decapolis. Also present, after leaving Jericho, was Zacchaeus, now in the company of his wife Rhea and servants, who followed him into poverty. Though it was unreasonable to expect her here, I was disappointed not see Deborah in this group. The two Roman converts and, of course, the old woman weren’t here either. In most cases, Jesus wanted the converts to return to their towns and share the good news with their family and friends. This was, in fact, Jesus expectation for the towns and villages throughout the land and the multitudes who attended his sermons in Galilee, Decapolis, and Perea.

Today, the men and women gathered here together to spread the word, were an exception to the master plan. There were several men and women like Zacchaeus and his wife who had impoverished themselves to follow the master. Would he really change their number from seventy to seventy-two just for Mary’s sake, even if I found another preacher? James didn’t think so. Jesus had asked Azrael to select seventy, he reminded me. He had deliberately picked this number. He never changed his mind or revised a plan, however nebulous it appeared in the beginning. Why would he include Mary and be forced to admit yet another person into the group and upset his plan?

Yet Jesus would not bless his team and send them on their way without considering my request. Very quickly that hour when I took Azrael aside, though, I realized the folly of my request. Mary, who accompanied me, her face radiating with eagerness, heard the elder dismiss my appeal outright.

“No, Jude,” he waved irritably, “it took a lot of trouble to sort out this bunch. There simply aren’t anymore people. Seventy, including myself, came to Capernaum. Seventy will go out and spread the word.

“There are no others who’d like to go?” I asked hopefully.

“No, I’m very sorry.” He looked over at Mary. “As you can see, I have nothing against women serving god. My wife’s here. There’s many women in our group. The Torah is filled with great women. I pray that you’ll find your mission, Mary, but there’s no more room.”

I had built up her expectations just to watch them crash to the ground. With the exception of James and Bartholomew, who at least supported my efforts, the other disciples had little genuine sympathy for Mary.

“Bad luck, Mary,” Peter reached out insincerely. “You’d be a great warrior for the Lord.”

“Yeah,” piped Philip, “it’s not your fault.”

“Better luck next time!” Matthew waved.

The other disciples offered similar condolences. Mary, who saw right through their efforts, frowned with scorn. Beside myself, none of their words, even John’s words, sounded genuine. Rather than join in their efforts at sympathy, I gave her shoulder a pat yet held my peace. The very notion of adding to the Seventy against Jesus’ wishes was, in fact, silly. It had been utterly presumptuous of me to offer this suggestion. What a fool I was? I scolded myself. How could I have been so rash? It had been a hopeless prospect for Mary. Then suddenly, during their offerings of sympathy, a solution flashed into my head.

“I got it!” I exclaimed, snapping my fingers. “Why not let her preach to the locals? Those other fishermen would like to see a pretty face.”

“Aren’t all of them converts?” Andrew frowned. “Is there anyone around here not saved?”

“Yes, I think so.” Peter scratched his head. “There’s lots of boats on the lake. Some of those men are set in their ways. I have a few doubters in my own crew.”

“There’s a lot of people in this town who are doubters,” Jesus clarified, “not just fishermen.”

“Mary will need an escort,” suggested Simon, “pared off with a man. Like us and the Seventy, they’ll work as a team.”

“I’ll volunteer,” Judas raised his hand. “I’m not afraid of these locals!”

“No, way,” I jumped in. “It’s my idea. If anyone goes with her, it’s me!”

“Wait a minute!” Peter stared at Jesus. “You’re really going to allow this!”

“Yes,” Jesus replied with resignation. “Her contribution to the Way lies in the future, but, like all of you, Mary wants to be a part of this and test her resolve. Until the Seventy returns from their missions, Jude will go with Mary. Let’s give them a chance in Capernaum to spread the good news. After Mary has her chance to preach, she must be a helpmate in Peter’s house.”

“Yes-yes,” Mary clapped her hands excitedly, “it’s a deal!”

“Ho-ho,” Jesus broke into laughter, “this isn’t a deal, Mary. This will be a test. You must do your part for Esther and Dinah nonetheless.”

“All right,” she nodded enthusiastically. “When can Jude and I start?”

Jesus pursed his lips. “Why not today?”

“Good grief!” groaned Andrew.

As Jesus stood in front of the Seventy to bless them, he made scooting motion with his hand, “Go,” he snapped, “I have business now!”

I could scarcely express my joy that moment. While the Seventy prepared to depart for places unknown, Mary and I knew exactly where we would start our preaching. Our first stop would be by Lake Gennesaret. Jesus sent word by Thomas that we were not to baptize, only preach. There were many men, even woman, who might resent a woman preaching to them, and this would a big enough challenge. Baptism, to my relief, was out of the question. There was no question that Mary would not be baptizing if it was allowed, but even having her stand there and watch me perform the rite would be too much for initiates, especially the men. Thomas also added Jesus’ advice that we shouldn’t attempt any miracles. Since it was Mary’s first time, keep it simple, advised Thomas. All we had to do, I exclaimed happily to her, was preach the word. What could be so hard about that?

******

Hand in hand, which made it seem as if two lovers were prancing along the shore, we set out in the late morning unconcerned about that ‘other’ group of preachers. Looking back on this venture, I’m somewhat embarrassed. It must have looked bad to the other disciples. John, who had no room to talk, would later scold me for my behavior. Forgetting entirely that Mary was once a street prostitute possessed by a demon, he feared for her innocence and thought I might corrupt her with my worldly ways. I know John hadn’t lost his memory. His jealousy had evidently addled his brain. Mary, though rehabilitated and a new woman, was anything but innocent and unaware of the world. What was so incredible about her was how she bounced back after Jesus drove out her demon and was transformed into the woman she was now.

Anyone looking at this rosy cheeked, raven-haired girl would think she was the picture of blamelessness and virtue, which was, thanks to Jesus, partly true. Mary, however, was also mischievous and headstrong. The first thing she wanted to do was ignore Jesus advice and try out her powers. I wish Jesus had made it a command that she not attempt this. Now, as she argued, it had really been left up to her.

“After all,” she said, batting her eyelashes, “I am a disciple, aren’t I? Jesus said we could move mountains if we have faith. All I want to do is cure one person. What’s so wrong about that?”

“Because,” I tried reasoning with her, “you’re not a disciple. Jesus never said that. He agreed to let you preach, not heal. If you fail, Mary, it’ll just upset you. You’ll anger Jesus. The disciples will have that much more reason to dislike you. Please stick to our plan. We’ll find a few small groups and preach to them—nothing grand today.”

“Oh, pooh,” She pouted. “Why doesn’t anyone trust me. I cured a dog once; why not a person?”

“A dog?” I looked at her in disbelief. “You cured a dog?”

“Well, he was in pretty bad shape,” she equivocated, “Esther and Dina had given up on him, but I fed him and nursed him back to health.” “Bernice said I have the gift,” she added resolutely. “Now Elijah is as good as new!”

I shook my head. “The dog’s named Elijah? I didn’t know Peter had a dog.”

She gave me a hurt look. “It’s the neighbor’s dog. You don’t believe me, do you? That dog was almost dead!”

“It doesn’t matter.” I folded my arms. “That’s a cure, not a miracle. Did you pray first and ask God to cure the beast?”

“Well…no,” her voice faltered. “…I guess I didn’t.”

“Then it wouldn’t count anyhow, would it?” I asked, watching her squirm. “If you cured a dog or a person automatically, it would be magic, not a miracle. That would be considered sorcery, wouldn’t it.”

“No.” She stomped her foot. “I love animals. When I cured that dog, I didn’t use magic. When I sold doves, I had the gift. I could always bring the sickly ones back to health.”

“Listen, Mary,” I grew frustrated. “I thought you understood what we’re doing. Curing dogs and birds makes you a clever girl, but trying to heal a person requires prayer and purpose. Jesus taught us that healings are done for spiritual as well as physical cures. You heard what he told Thomas. We mustn’t go to extremes. I’m doing this for you, Mary, not myself. So help me, if you attempt such a thing, this is will all stop dead in its tracks.”

With her lower lip extended and frown playing on her face, Mary nodded reluctantly as we walked toward men standing by the shore. I didn’t know then that they were critics of Jesus. They didn’t look like fishermen or any of the villagers I had seen near Peter’s house. What should have been a warning sign was the way they were scrutinizing us from afar. The closer we came to them, the more I suspected hostility in the foursome… And then I realized who they were.

“Stop, Mary!” I whispered from the corner of my mouth. “Turn around, face the opposite direction, walk as fast as you can toward the dock.”

“But why? They look friendly enough?” She protested as I pulled her along.

“Keep walking.” I demanded. “I think they’re temple spies. I saw two of them during Jesus’ sermon. We’ll circle around and head into town.”

Through an orchard, passed a farm, and down the western path into town, I led her by her small hand into Capernaum. My heart swelled with pride. At that point, I could care less about preaching or spreading the word. Like a new colt, I had tamed Mary. I would teach her to be a proper disciple if that’s what she wanted. It didn’t matter whether she joined our group or not. One day, with her personality and mind, she would be a great tool for the Lord… just not today.

“Here’s how you do it,” I bent over and whispered into her ear.

In the center of town, at a meeting place where Jesus preached many times, we found three woman fetching water from the well.

“Hello!” I called cheerily. “I’m Jude and this is my friend Mary. We’re followers of Jesus, the Chosen One. Have you heard the good news?”

“What news is this?” One of them asked.

“That salvation and everlasting life is offered to all, who repent their sins to God and live righteously from now on.”

“My father is a Sadducee.” She replied. “We live. We die. We rot in the grave.”

“You don’t believe that!” Mary looked at her in horror.

“Oh yes I do.” She frowned. “As do my sisters. Father is a Levite, servant of the temple.”

“Levites are agents of Caiaphas,” I whispered to Mary. “I bet her father was one of those men!”

“Who are you to preach to us?” The spokeswoman wrung her finger. “You’re one of Jesus’ men. My father called him a blasphemer and heretic.”

“Do you even know what those words mean?” Mary said with contempt. “You don’t even know Jesus? Have you no mind of your own?”

“I’ve heard all about him.” She snarled. “I don’t need to hear him attack the temple and set himself above God. Father told me all about him.”

“What about you?” I looked at her sisters. “Do you want to die and rot in your grave in eternal darkness?”

“No,” replied a second woman, with wide unblinking eyes. “…We don’t think about it much.”

“Well, you should.” Mary came forward and took her pail. “Jesus offers you eternal life simply by accepting his message.”

“Don’t do it Mary,” I whispered. “No baptisms. Give her back her pail.”

Handing her back her pail, Mary spoke with great eloquence: “Jesus taught us that there is no spiritual death. The priests tell you that there is no afterlife, but there is: heaven or hell. For you, who are responsible for your sins, there’s only two choices: salvation and paradise through Jesus message or eternal darkness, where the soul also lives on. This isn’t something a priest would tell you, because he doesn’t believe in eternal life. But the Lord will punish the Levites priests for leading the people astray. This includes their wives, who refuse to believe.”

“Our priests don’t lie.” A third woman frowned severely. “Our father is a good man, who offers sacrifice in the temple and keeps the law. “ “Come, Rebecca,” she called to he sister, “Father says Jesus works for the devil. He’s bewitched the people and led them astray.”

“No,” Rebecca jerked away. “I’ve heard about Jesus from our neighbors, Hosea and Rhoda. They say he healed a girl who had been blind since birth. They told me that his words brought them peace of mind, and no longer did they worry about death. I didn’t believe them. But our neighbors never told me about two deaths. I can accept ‘not being,’ as Father calls it, but I can’t accept living in darkness—forever!”

“Come, Rebecca,” her older sister demanded.

“No.” She jerked away again. “I must hear more about this Jesus.” “Do you know where he is?” She looked pleadingly at Mary. “I want to have peace like my neighbors. I want eternal life!”

“Why, of course,” Mary clapped her hands in delight, “and you shall have it! Jesus will be at home this evening. Come and see him then.”

After we left Rebecca at the well, we could hear the first sister who had spoken berate her: “You foolish girl! Father told us he was a sorcerer. He will bewitch you and turn you from our faith!”

“Jesus isn’t evil,” cried Rebecca. “Hosea and his wife believe he’s the Messiah. Our neighbors wouldn’t lie!”

As their voices faded in the distance, the second sister joined in the scolding.

“Listen that,” I shook my head. “The way they’re carrying on, you’d think she committed a terrible crime. The older sisters represent the old faith. The younger sister represents the new.”

“Will her Father punish her very much?” Mary looked back with concern.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “He might give her a beating. I hope not.”

“Jesus told me we would suffer in his name,” she said reflectively. “I just hope Rebecca can slip away.”

“Well, it was good practice,” I replied cheerily. “She hardly counts as a convert. At least you got her thinking.”

“You think so?” She looked at me for approval. “I did good, didn’t I? That part about eternal darkness really shook her up.”

“Very good, Mary.” I grinned, patting her head. “You’re a natural preacher. You’ve learned a lot from Jesus. You understand human nature, too.”

“Really?” She beamed happily. “A natural preacher? You really think I understand people?”

“Yes.” I nodded, suppressing a smile. “I’m proud of you, Mary. That was a good start.”

“What next?” she piped, tugging my sleeve.

“Come on!” I grabbed her hand. “Let’s find more people for you to practice on!”

“Yes, yes!” She skipped ahead briskly. “Lots of them!”

“We can’t stay away too long,” I reminded her. “I think Jesus expects us back soon. He’s sending off the Seventy today. Let’s look for friendly faces—no more sour pusses or grouches!”

******

Almost immediately, after that statement, a couple appeared on the road. Like a freshly broken colt, Mary bolted ahead. Restraining her by gripping her wrist, I counseled caution: “Careful, Mary, wait until we see their expressions.” When they were close enough, we were encouraged by what we saw.

“Two old people smiling,” Mary called out, shielding her eyes from the sun. “…. The old man is waving to us…. His wife is waving too.”

“They seem friendly enough,” I acknowledged, “but don’t come on too strong. That might no work this time. Just ask them, ‘Have you heard the news?’ That’s a good opener.”

“Good idea!” she said excitedly.

Closer and closer the couple came. When they were in front of us, Mary popped the question, “Have you heard the news?”

“Yes-yes.” The old man bobbed his head.

“What news?” The old woman scowled. “You talking ‘bout that preacher fellow?”

“Yes, Jesus of Nazareth.” She smiled warmly. “All you have to do is repent your sins, accept his loving Father, and live righteously from that point on.”

“That’s a tall order,” replied the old woman querulously. “No one’s righteous, misses. The Torah tells us this. You forget that tale about Adam and Eve?”

Caught off guard, Mary was momentarily speechless. Though she was a good listener, I doubted very much if she had read our scrolls.

“Jesus is righteous,” I stepped in quickly. “If you heard him speak and saw his miracles, you would see this. Following conversion, all men and women must strive for righteousness. That’s what Jesus means.”

“Humph!” The old woman’s expression softened again. “What about the law those rabbis and Pharisees pander and all that stuff in the temple? We don’t need any of that?”

“None of it,” I made a sweeping motion. “Jesus good news has replaced that.”

I had almost blurted, ‘Jesus, the Lamb of God, takes the place of the temple sacrifice,’ but bit my tongue. Even I still found this difficult to digest. Instead, I carefully explained why it was necessary to replace the old religion.

“It’s like this,” explained searching my memory. “…. The priests have made the temple a slaughterhouse, filled with money lenders and hapless doves and lambs; the Pharisees and scribes have burdened the people with laws they can scarcely understand or keep; and the rabbis in the land, have failed as shepherds by passing on this burden to their congregations. The Messiah that religious leaders stress—a warrior king who sweeps away our Roman oppressors, doesn’t offer salvation in the next life. All men and women die, are buried, and rot in the grave as the Sadducees and priests believe. For those who want a mere deliverer, this would be enough, but for those who seek life ever after in paradise, the spiritual Messiah Jesus offers is what they want.”

It was my finest moment, for I had summed up in a nutshell who Jesus was. I had taken the glory from Mary, though, which isn’t what I wanted. Turning to her then, as the old man and woman stared at me, I whispered, “Finish this. Tell them what they must do.”

“Oh, yes.” She blinked. “Come to the house of Pete tonight. It’s at the end of town, near the lake. Jesus will baptize you into the Way. You’re lives will never be the same!”

“Well, what do you say Abner?” she turned to her husband.

“Yes-yes.” He bobbed his head again.

“He’s not right in the head anymore,” the old woman explained, yanking his beard.

“Don’t worry,” Mary said brightly. “If you wish, Jesus will cure him.”

“Cure him of what?” she cackled. “He’s touched. Old folks get that way.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I reached out and gently gripped their shoulders. “Jesus has made people see again, cured demoniacs, and raised people from the dead. He can surely restore your husband’s wits!”

As we departed, I felt a measure of guilt. The old woman hadn’t expected Jesus to fix her husband. Yet I was sending an old man to Jesus who was senile and touched in the head. Mary didn’t appear to know any better, but I shouldn’t have promised the woman such a thing. Hopefully, neither that poor woman with the Sadducee father or the senile old man would stay at home. I didn’t want the Sadducee’s daughter to be abused because she visited Jesus nor did I fancy sending that senile old man to Jesus either. With this apprehension in my mind, I wanted to get back to Peter’s house as soon as possible. So far, unless our spiritual contacts did, in fact, visit Jesus, we could tell Jesus with a clear conscious that Mary had done comparatively well, which was true. After all, it was her first time. This logic was acceptable to Mary, who had enough of preaching today. Unfortunately, as we began exiting town, a man approached us, holding out his hand.

“It’s a beggar,” I said from the corner of my mouth, “Smile nicely but ignore him. I don’t have any coins.”

“Alms, Alms for the poor!” he cried out.
“I’m sorry,” I held up my hands, “I’m poor too.”

Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the man was shaking badly as if he had palsy or some other condition. Without thinking clearly, I said, “I haven’t money, but I know a man who can change your life. Jesus offers eternal life if you repent your sins. He will heal both your body and your soul!”

“Huh?” the man muttered with a gaping mouth. “….Where?”

“The house of Peter, the fisherman.” I answered, reaching out to steady the man.

At that point, I could detected the sour odor of wine radiating from the man and understood the gravity of my mistake. Unfortunately, the die was cast. I couldn’t very well detract my offer of salvation and healing.

“Mary,” I said, running my hand through my hair, “that man was just drunk. Not only have we referred a senile old man to Jesus but, I just sent a drunkard to Peter’s house. Let’s pray none of them show up.”

“Yes, Jude,” Mary squeezed my hand, “let’s go home.”

******

We arrived back in Peter’s house late in the afternoon. According to James, the Seventy had departed shortly after Mary and I scampered away. Jesus and his handpicked fishermen were nowhere in sight. Their absence deflected from my lapse of judgment with Mary, since the other disciples, especially Andrew and Philip, resented their special treatment. Soon after we departed, however, James had heard criticisms from Peter’s family and the remaining men.

“It didn’t look good,” he scolded me. “Everyone thought you might have an infatuation for Mary. Now they’re certain!”

“Huh?” I gasped. “Certain of what?”

“What do you think?” James glanced at Mary.

“What did Jesus say?” Mary’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“Nothing,” James’ expression softened. “If Jesus is angry, it’s with Jude. I know for certain everyone else is upset after what they saw today.”

“What did they see?” I went on the defense. “Two of Jesus’ followers harvesting souls? What’s so bad about that?”

“Hah!” spat James. “You’re a disciple Jude, not merely a follower. You held her hand like some moon sick lover!”

“That’s ridiculous.” I waved irritably. “It’s no such thing!”

“Yes,” Mary wiped her eyes. “You men are just jealous of Jude. He held my hand to guide and protect me. We’re just friends.”

“No.” James shook his head. “It’s not jealousy Mary. Most of us thought it looked bad.”

“Who? Tell me who!” I demanded, as the other disciples walked up to the scene.

“I did.” Andrew frowned severely.

“Me too.” Philip folded his arms.

“We all know Mary’s background,” Thomas said disapprovingly. “You’re leading her back into temptation. We saw how she looks at you!”

“Really?” I glanced at Mary. “Like how?”

“Like this.” Philip tried imitating Mary

“The important thing,” James reminded us, “is how it looks.”

I looked across the room at Matthew, Simon, Bartholomew, and Judas. “What about you fellows? Do you agree with James?”

“Well…no.” Matthew smiled sympathetically. “It seems innocent enough. What’s the big deal?”

“It’s not a big deal!” Simon stepped forth. “You don’t speak for us, James. Peter, who has great influence over the fishermen, thinks he’s better than us. He’s never got over Mary’s past. John wants Mary to himself!”

“Hold on a minute, Simon!” James raised his hand. “Let’s not slander John behind his back. Jude’s not after Mary either.”

“Right!” I jumped in. “Like she said: we’re just friends.”

“That’s not how it looks to me,” Andrew grumbled

“Yeah,” snarled Philip. “Why was he holding her hand?”

“Ho-ho!” Judas snickered. “Why do you think? Don’t blame Jude, men. Mary’s a looker—a real tease.”

Stifling the urge to hit him, I stared at him in disbelief. What was wrong with this man? I wondered that moment. Is he possessed or just addled in the head? Before I could think of a rebuke Thomas stepped in. “That wasn’t very nice, Judas,” he scolded him. “James’s right. It’s how it looks.” “Just remember.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “All eyes are watching us now. Out there you represent Jesus, not just yourself.”

“Well spoken.” James gave him a nod. “No one has a right to judge Mary or Jude.”

James had toned down his rebuke in order to keep the peace. Of all the disciples, he had the strongest sense of basic right and wrong—a trait that would one day earn him the nickname ‘James, the Just.’ Bartholomew, the best natured member of our group, stepped forward a pace to grip James and my shoulder, muttering for the sake of the two brothers, “Shalom!” Matthew and Simon flashed us supportive smiles, and even Judas, who made light of the discussion, agreed with James.

“I trust my brother,” James concluded, looking around the group. “We’re not talking about Jude’s and Mary’s intent. They’re good people. I personally don’t believe either of them would sully their reputations or bring ill-repute on the Way. I repeat: it’s what people out there think!”

“Thank you,” Mary replied dubiously.

“The important thing,” I said for her benefit, “is what Jesus thinks. I could care less what any of you believe!”

******

Contrary to what James led us to believe at first, only the fishermen were really upset with Mary and me. I couldn’t believe that Andrew and Philip resented me as much as the other fishermen who had been elevated about themselves. Neither of them expounded on their grievances. In fact, I think both of them, like John, were jealous of her affection toward me. That day, however, as the remaining disciples waited for Jesus and his innermost circle to return, I realized how much more this issue played on their minds. In this we were all united. The question remained, ‘why did Jesus show favoritism toward that threesome?’ Though it still seemed unfair, all of us knew the answer to that question.

“I don’t like questioning God,” Andrew said glumly, “but it doesn’t make sense. Philip and me were there in the beginning when the Baptist called Jesus the Lamb. I can understand Jesus picking Peter—he’s the Rock, but John and his grumpy brother? Why would God pick them over us. We were his first disciples?”

“All Peter did was say ‘You’re the Son of God.’ Everyone knew that!” I scowled.

“I didn’t know it,” murmured Mary.

“Neither did I,” Bartholomew confessed.

“The point is,” Philip waved dismissively, “Jesus shouldn’t have favorites. What do they have that makes them so special?”

“Nothing!” Simon folded his arms.

“The truth is,” I shook my head. “Peter’s not that bright.”

“You’d think he’d go by seniority,” Andrew said querulously. “I was the one who introduced him to my brother.”

“I still don’t know why he picked me,” Thomas scratched his head.

“And me!” Judas laughed at himself.

“What about Jude and I?” James blurted. “We’re his brothers. I prayed about this a lot. We have to accept Jesus revelations from God and Peter’s selection as the chief disciple, but Andrew’s right. There has to be a good reason why God decided upon those other two.”

“I can’t see any,” Mary said petulantly.

“Nor I.” Matthew heaved a sigh.

That moment, after eavesdropping on our conversation, Esther and Dinah, who cared less about John and his brother, rushed like a storm to Peter’s defense.

“How dare any of you speak ill of him!” Dinah shook her fist. “This is Peter’s house. Because of this nonsense, we now have a hole in our roof. Our lives are forever changed. We feed you, let you drink our wine, give you shelter, yet you turn on my son!”

“You shameless little tart!” Esther singled Mary out. “We know what’s on your mind. How dare someone like you judge my husband!”

“For shame!” Bernice wrung her finger violently. “Jesus picked you up from the sewer, and this is the thanks my father gets!”

Mary broke into sobs and lunged for the door. Even Bernice, who had once looked up to Mary, had turned on her. Lunging toward her, hands outstretched as if they might harm her, Esther, Dinah, and Bernice continued to berate her. Not caring what anyone thought, I took Mary in my arms. I was reminded that moment how much I loved her. To protect her from physical abuse, I reeled around showing my back to her attackers. The other men seemed frozen in shock.

“Wait just an infernal minute!” I shouted over my shoulder. “You have no right to talk that way to her. Don’t you dare touch her. Jesus loves Mary. He sees a great purpose in this woman and what he sees is God’s vision. Jesus has his father’s ear and speaks with His voice. Careful, Esther, Dinah, and Bernice that you don’t defy God!”

On that thunderous note, the other disciples snapped to action. It was as if evil spirits possessed the women. To diffuse the situation, as I shielded Mary, the men pulled them to the far side of the room. I could never have imagined that Peter’s family would react this way. The small house echoed with accusations and screams of rage.

“Stop it! This is dreadful!” James scolded in the background. “You obviously weren’t listening to our conversation. The disciples spoke ill of Peter. Mary merely agreed. Why are you attacking her?”

“You honey-tongued, smart-mouthed, snot-nosed deceiver!” shouted Esther, trying to break free.

With two or three men gripping each of the women, it should have been an easy task, but the women were bereft of their senses. Thomas and Bartholomew were feint hearted. Simon and Judas simply didn’t have enough strength. Using their greater strength, Andrew lifted Peter’s wife straight up and deposited her in the kitchen then stood there staring at her menacingly, his jaw set. With less trouble, Philip dragged the older woman over to her daughter-in-law, while Simon and Judas managed finally to deposit Bernice in the kitchen too.

While I comforted Mary, James stood staring in horror at this episode. It must have sounded awful to townsfolk passing by. Fortunately for us, Jesus and the others hadn’t yet returned. As the disciples stood united between the kitchen and master room, Esther hissed, “Keep your hands off me! This is our house!”; Bernice shrieked “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”; and Dinah spat like a cat: “I want you people out! You’re ruining our lives. Jesus brings tax collectors, temple spies, and lowlifes like that Judas into this house. I’ll be cursed if I allow that prostitute to live in this house!”

“You have no choice,” Andrew replied boldly. “This is Peter’s house. Peter obeys Jesus, and Jesus obeys God.”

“Like I said.” I glared back at the women. “You’ll be defying God!”

******

When Jesus returned that evening, giving no explanation of where they had gone, I expected that Peter’s family would tattle on Mary and me. As he entered the house, to avoid exacerbating the situation, Mary and I slipped out the back door. For appearances sake, James and Bartholomew escorted us a ways up the shoreline, and, together we waited on Peter’s dock for the shouting to begin. Though James and Bartholomew told us not to worry, Mary and I were frightened. This was another storm Jesus would quieten, James reassured us. Jesus had power over both people and nature. After a few words he had silenced the waves, just as he had silenced his critics and also used his power over the winds to blow away Barabbas’ and his gang. James words had a calming affect on us those moments…Then the shouting began.

“Listen to that!” Bartholomew shushed us. “Those women sound possessed!”

“Abraham’s ghost!” I groaned. “I have a good mind to leave the twelve. Mary and I can return to Nazareth until this blows over. Jesus was afraid she would rub our mother wrong, but could it be any worse than this?”

“I don’t know.” James shrugged. “I mean no offense Mary.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “But our mother won’t approve of you. I don’t think our sisters will either, and I know for certain that our brother Joseph won’t. You are a spirited young maiden, but you must hold your tongue and watch your step. It may not seem right, but you’re a Jewish, not a Gentile, woman, who have higher standards than the outspoken Greek and Roman matrons, and are expected to behave accordingly.”

I bristled somewhat at his words but both Mary and I realized he was right. Despite the poor reception James predicted if I brought Mary home, he also implied that a change in Mary’s behavior might make a difference. We couldn’t hear exactly what the women were telling Jesus but we were certain that things would never be the same. When Jesus came out of the house, alone, with a grim look on his face, our fears seemed confirmed.

“Jude,” he came straight to the point, “innocently or not, you and Mary have created a problem in Peter’s house. I’ve had a long talk with Esther, Dinah, and Bernice. There’s no excuse for their treatment of Mary, but the fact is they want her out. Matthew and Simon suggested I use my powers to make them behave, but the three women are reacting no differently than our mother would react. It is left to Mary to be accountable for her actions, rather than my casting a spell over her adversaries, as Matthew and Simon wanted me to do.”

“I don’t understand.” I gave him a troubled look. “Mary and I went off on our own to preach—that’s all we did, and they want to kick her out? That’s stupid, and it’s unfair! Mary’s smart and spirited. She has an almost perfect memory. You should’ve seen her out there, Jesus. We need her in the Way!”

“Her talent isn’t in question.” Jesus shook his head. “It’s Mary’s disrespect for others and her ignorance of the mindset of Jewish women and men. The problem didn’t start today, either; it began the day she set foot in Peter’s house. Deliberate or not, Mary’s unwillingness to be a helpmate in Peter’s house and disrespect for his mother-in-law and wife, have predisposed them to judge her more harshly when they saw her scampering hand-in-hand unescorted with Jude along the shore.

“This is all my fault,” Mary announced with a quivering voice. “I started on the wrong foot. I have to change.”

“You have said it.” Jesus bent forward and kissed her cheek. “Your heart’s in the right place, Mary, but save that spirit for the day I call you. Your time will come!”

“Really?” she brightened.

“Yes, I told you this before.” He gave her a hug.

James and Bartholomew’s heads jerked back in surprise. Mary’s face was illuminated, as if a lamp burned inside her head. My heart swelled in my chest at this change. From an apparent outcast to a chosen vessel, Mary had transformed. Now, more clearly than ever before, I knew that Jesus favored Mary above other women. From that day forward, thanks to what Jesus would tell his disciples and my own promotion, her esteem would grow in the group. This hour, however, we had to decide what to do with Mary.

******

Before returning to the house, as we walked slowly to the house, Jesus wasted no time in hatching a plan. There was no question that Mary’s return to the house alongside of Jesus would signal to the women that he had given in to her. This sounded irrational to us, but Jesus explained in one sentence the root of human intolerance: ‘people believed what they wanted.’

“You will live with Hosea, Rhoda, and their family,” he announced with resolution. “When the Seventy return, you can accompany Cleopas, a most faithful follower, to his home in Emmaus. If Peter’s family doesn’t have a change of heart, Cleopas’ household will remain a safe and secure place for you to live.”

Knowing that Jerusalem was our ultimate destination, I found this solution less acceptable than her staying with Hosea’s family, but that was, Jesus pointed out, too close to Peter’s house. I would rather have her stay in Bethany with Lazarus and his sisters, where Jesus planned to stop once more before entering the holy city, which meant she could accompany us on our trip, but this wasn’t much better than Mary staying with our mother or remaining where she was. As if reading my mind, he reminded me of how self-willed the other Mary was too. Cleopas and Tirzah, his wife, were easy-going folks, and, as opposed to Peter’s household, would provide her with a stable, uncomplicated place to sit out the criticism ignited by our actions today. If not Bethany or Hosea’s house, therefore, my best hope was that Peter’s family would have a change of heart.

Jesus was blunt with criticism and gave compliments only when they were deserved. He had prophesized a great future for Mary but now that she was an outcast, he sent her into exile to meditate upon her sins. Though he didn’t say this exactly, and, in fact, tried making it seem like her stay with Hosea’s family and then, if necessary, Barnabas and Tirzah, was a positive step, he wanted Mary to mature and behave responsibly, so she could one day play her part.

Chapter Forty-Four

The Raising Of Lazarus

Mary’s stay in the house of Hosea and his wife was difficult for her. While we waited for the Seventy to return, she had to restrain herself. Her service to the Lord, Jesus reassured her, would come in due time. She must, as a guest in Hosea’s household, do her part. She must, James added to the list, grow up and not scamper about like a teenage maiden, looking for a mate. As if it was a form of punishment or training for her, she not only had to help Rhoda around the house, but watch and take care of her children. Jesus checked up on her each day, allowing me brief visits once in awhile, but for all practical purposes my special friendship with Mary Magdalene was at an end.

Despite the cloud still hanging over Peter’s house with me as a resident, most of the disciples appeared to have forgiven me for my lapse. Even Andrew and Philip began talking to me again, Thomas, Simon, Matthew, and Judas had never really wavered, and now that Mary was off limits to us and, as James saw it, no longer an object of temptation, John saw himself as my kindred spirit. John’s brother James, like Peter, however, was another matter. Though John’s attitude had changed after Jesus’ coaxing, it would take awhile of proving to Peter and James that I was in step with the goals of Jesus’ ministry. I had no illusions that Esther and Dinah would warm up to me again, but Bernice was ordered by Peter to be polite and courteous and, after a while, seemed genuinely gracious. In time, I hoped Esther and Dinah would also forgive me, but, as Jesus once told me, spiteful people have long memories. Thanks to Peter’s family, I had learned a lesson about human perception: it isn’t what you do but what you appear to do. Appearances, however innocent, mattered. Because of Jesus’ influence, it didn’t take long for my relationship with Mary to be forgotten by everyone or at least pardoned. Jesus also made a great effort to heal the division between some of the disciples. When John and his brother James bragged about their elevation to Peter, Jesus reprimanded them for their attitude. “In my Kingdom,” he said aloud for our benefit, “the last shall be first and the first shall be last.” That hour when he spoke these words, only a few days after the incident in Peters’ house, we appeared united again. Of all the guests in this crowded house, however, Bartholomew, Matthew, Simon, Judas, and our brother James remained my closest friends.

Then, during the last few days before the Seventy returned with success stories about their preaching and conversions to the Way, three things occurred that almost put me on the outs with the others again. Elam, Rebecca’s father, stormed up to Peter’s door demanding to see Jesus.

“You dare corrupt my youngest daughter with your abominations!” he shouted.

Since I had completely forgotten to warn Jesus about the people Mary and I attempted to convert, this shocked everyone in the house. Calmly, though, Jesus said to the scarlet-faced man, “Elam, your daughter was invited to join, but she never came forth. Yet she will be saved. Your tyranny won’t prevent her from having eternal life. One day, she will be born again.”

“What nonsense is this?” Elam snarled. “You play with words, preacher? You think I’m a fool?” Using different words than Nicodemus once used, he rolled the words around in his mouth, “Born again?… Born again?… Is this a riddle, preacher? Like the moth Rebecca will shed her old life and start anew.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Jesus smiled. “Please come in, Elam. Don’t stand there in the sun.”

“I don’t want that man in my house!” Esther screamed.

“Esther,” Peter growled, “shut up!”

Seeing Elam shake his head now, Jesus stepped outside to chat with the man. We will never know exactly what he said to him. He most certainly gave him his message of salvation. They walked along the shore of Lake Gennesaret in deep conversation for several moments, until they disappeared from sight. When Jesus returned, he exclaimed, “Praise my Father, the Most High! Elam’s one of us now!” After Elam’s angry introduction into our lives, Rebecca was brought over with her sisters, Jael and Atarah. All three followed their father’s example and were given the ritual and baptized. Considering how it began, this was a remarkable series of events that day. Unfortunately, the remainder of the afternoon was marred by the appearance of two of the other people arriving at Peter’s house that Mary referred to Jesus: the old woman, who said Mary promised Jesus could cure her husband of his senility and then, an hour later, the drunk, whom we had mistakenly thought was addled in the head. I watched from the sidelines with the others as Jesus talked to the supplicants. Because I was responsible for what Mary said and did out there, I took the blame for forcing Jesus’ hand. Though, as he said later in private with me, it was against God’s plan to alter the natural stages of aging and ludicrous to attempt to cure a drunk of his addiction for wine, what else could he do? Matthew, Simon, Bartholomew, and Judas thought it was funny, but Thomas and the fishermen were united in their disapproval of me for placing Jesus in such a position. It seemed obvious to me that Jesus was given his fathers blessing to unscramble the old man’s mind, which was necessary for him to understand the rite, but he was greatly conflicted with dealing with the drunk. A look of enlightenment came over the old man’s face as he listened to Jesus say the words and then perform the rite of baptism, which he repeated with his wife. When the drunk arrived later, however, he turned and frowned at me.

“Uh oh,” Bartholomew murmured.

“Jesus,” Peter called from the background, “let him sober up first. He can barely talk.”

As if to test the man for how inebriated he was, Jesus asked him a few questions.

“Sir, what is your name?” He smiled tolerantly.

His jaw slack and eyes drooping, the man’s mouth tried forming the word, “Jer-jer…”

“Jeremiah?” offered Jesus.

“Uh huh.” He bobbed his head.

“Do you live in Capernaum?” Jesus persisted.

“…Ju-shal-lem,” Jeremiah tried saying the word.

“You’re from Jerusalem,” Jesus clarified. “Where do you live now?”

The man thought a moment, scratching his matted hair. “…No home,” he managed to say. “…Live in field… on street.”

As expected compassion beamed on Jesus’ face. That moment, as the man stood on wobbly legs in the doorway, Esther hissed, “Don’t let him in. He smells!” Peter shushed her testily. Jesus turned around at the audience of critics and scolded them severely. “For shame. Have you forgotten why I’m here? Can you not see that this man is sick—no less so than the blind or deaf man. His ears are stopped up by the effects of wine and he is blind from drink.”

At this point, Jesus performed one of his great cures, for he was not only forced to cure the body from the ravages of wine but change the man’s behavior as well. As in the case of the old man, he couldn’t even perform the rite until Jeremiah’s mind was cleared. The first step in making Jeremiah spiritually as well as physically whole, therefore, was to cure his drunkenness and the damage done to his brain.

“In the name of my Father,” he began, “for the sake of your soul, I banish the demon wine.” “It’s a demon of your own making,” he made it clear. “Unlike those poor souls, who are blind, deaf, and diseased by chance or birth, you, Jeremiah, have done this to yourself. Therefore, you must, on your own account, live by your pledge to God…. Do you Jeremiah bar Hemmon accept the saving grace of God and, in order to have life everlasting, repent of your sins, which are many, and pledge to sin no more?”

Blinking his eyes during his cure, he looked out in a daze as would a man awakening from a deep sleep. “Yes, Jesus,” he answered clearly. “I promise.”

“Kneel,” Jesus murmured, motioning for a skin of water.

Obligingly, Bernice scurried forward with a pitcher.

Jesus intoned the formula with no less passion than when he raised Jairus’ daughter from the dead, sprinkling water liberally on his bowed head: “In the name of the Father and holy spirit upon you, I baptize you with water as a symbol of your rebirth. Rise Jeremiah, and begin your new life. Go find work: pick fruit or wheat, sweep floors, become an apprentice to a blacksmith or tanner—do what you must to stay sober, but, more than anything else, pray. Pray when you awaken, pray for your morning, afternoon, and evening meals. Pray before you fall asleep. Prayer to the Father is balm for the soul and medicine for the body and spirit. It heals all wounds, physically and mentally. More than anything, however it protects you against yourself. For the rest of your life, it will be your shield against sloth and temptation!” “Prayer is your greatest weapon against Satan!” concluded Jesus. “Without it, you’ll fall back into sin!”

“I will, master.” Jeremiah gave him a nod. “But what if I can’t find work?”

“Try very hard,” Jesus counseled him. “Clean yourself up. We’ll give you clean clothes. If you somehow fail, find Azrael, leader of the Seventy. He will help you find work. It’s important that you have courage and resolve, Jeremiah. Prayer will help, but God expects you to also help yourself.”

Stepping outside with the new convert, Jesus walked down the shore as he had with Rebecca’s father.

“Jesus cures drunks now?” Judas murmured half-seriously. “What next?”

“As far as miracles, he’s done about everything!” marveled Simon.

“I dunno,” Matthew shrugged, “what’s so different about curing Jeremiah than stopping Barabbas in his tracks?”

“It’s not the same,” James waved dismissively. “Jesus used nature—the wind and dust—to blow his gang away. This time he went beyond healing the body and healed the mind—the way someone thinks.”

“Jesus can do anything!” Thomas mumbled in awe.

“He read my mind,” Bartholomew offered. “That seems similar.”

“Not really,” I shook my head. “He didn’t change your mind like Jeremiah; he just read it.”

“That wouldn’t be too hard.” Judas snickered.

“It’s a miracle Bartholomew even lasted this long,” teased Judas.

“What about you?” Matthew teased. “How have you lasted this long? Now that’s a miracle!”

“Well, I think Jesus’ greatest miracle is raising folks from the dead,” exclaimed Philip. “He told us that Justus’ brother and Jairus’ daughter had been asleep, but we know they were dead!”

“No,” Andrew disagreed, “that was certainly impressive, but not his greatest. His mightiest deed was taming the storm. Like his command of the wind against Barabbas, the forces of nature were under his control. How can you beat that?”

“By walking on water!” John exclaimed. “That was fantastic. Only the Son of God could do that.”

“Have all of you forgotten?” James, his brother exclaimed. “What about his feeding the multitudes. He did that twice with handfuls of food. That has to be his greatest feat!”

“James might be right,” Peter said thoughtfully, “but let’s get passed the miracles. Jesus doesn’t want us to think everything he does is a miracle. Some of the things he did for Jeremiah were based on common sense. The most important wonder about the master is his message. Jesus made it very plain that miracles often get in the way of the message. We’ll always have the blind, deaf, lame, and diseased. These are earthly matters. The body must still die, be buried, and rot. It is the good news, matters of the soul and spirit, that offer the sinner eternal life. The soul is indestructible and will live forever in heaven or hell.”

Earlier I slandered Peter by saying that he wasn’t too bright. I realized then how much he had changed from that plodding, rustic fisherman. He was still narrow-minded about some matters. He had shown resentment against James and me for our alleged status as Jesus’ brothers and continued to treat Jesus’ controversial picks, Matthew, Simon, and especially Judas, as outsiders. But he was changing each day. He was doing his best to live up to his role as the ‘Rock.’ To prove this change most dramatically, he appeared suddenly, as I brooded in the corner, with words of encouragement.

Ignoring the other disciples, he looked down thoughtfully. “Your heart’s in the right place,” he said aloud, “so is Mary’s. She might be lazy, but what you said about her impressed me and if Jesus believes she’ll be an instrument of the Lord, that’s good enough for me. You’re a good influence on Mary, Jude. I’m sorry for the way my family abused her. You did right by defending her. Tomorrow morning I plan to visit Hosea’s house and apologize myself!”

“Thank you, Peter,” I replied, comforted by his words. “It’s good to hear your support. I just wish the others felt that way.”

“Oh, they will,” Peter promised, glancing over at John’s brother James. “For awhile, Jesus took a few of us aside, but he made it plain to us that there are no favorites in heaven and earth. He loves all of us equally, certainly his own brothers. He once told me in private how important you are. He has misgivings about some of the disciples, who quarrel amongst themselves. I plan to help heal the differences between the fishermen and the rest of you.” “Most of it has been our fault,” he added, pointing to his group. “There can’t be fishermen, publicans, scribes, agents, or adventurers in the twelve. There has to be apostles united as one mind, who serve equally the Son of God.”

After those words, which summed up the change I saw in Peter, the Rock, he walked away solemnly, deep in thought. He had been speaking to the others, as much as me. From that day forward, I record in my chronicle, the twelve grew closer, with Jesus’ shepherding and Peter’s prod.

******

Those days before he turned his back on Capernaum for the last time, Jesus had waited anxiously for the Seventy to return. They had been given up to two weeks to finish their missions, and now in the middle of the second week, they began trickling in with mixed results of their success. They had even greater problems than we had during in our missions: inept delivery of the message, squeamishness during baptisms, failure to perform miracles, and dissension among the pairs. Along with the failures, though, there were many successes in winning converts and boasts of great healings.

Despite the number of less successful ventures, Jesus was satisfied so far with the overall results. The successes outnumbered the failures. Most of those not so successful were at least honest about it and promised to do better. While he waited for the remainder of the Seventy to return, the Twelve were sent out to visit some families in town. Such visitations would one day become common during the dark times to comfort believers and shore up their faith. On that day, however, I think Jesus also had in mind to keep us busy and re-sharpen our wits. It was the easiest assignment we would ever have, since we were among grateful believers, some of whom had been healed during the rite. At two believers’ household, I was able to see Mary Magdalene, and, after visiting with Hosea and Rhoda, chat with her a spell. When I rejoined the other twelve on the way back to Peter’s house, I was buoyed by my visit with Mary, hopeless though it seemed. Everyone was in a jovial mood after the hospitality of our hosts. Andrew had just been bragging to us about the about the pastries Abram and his wife Henna had given him in appreciation for Jesus’ healing of Abram’s blindness. All of us, in fact, had received cordial treatment from the converts. Judas, though he had done little serious preaching, had even been plied with wine. But then, as we approached Peter’s home, we saw Jesus talking to someone in front of the house. Andrew immediately identified him as one of Lazarus’ neighbors and friends.

“Uh oh,” his tone changed. “That’s Oran, who lives next door to Lazarus. This can’t be good!”

“He seems angry.” I grew alarmed. “Why is he storming away?”

As we trotted up to Jesus, James ran up to him. “Jesus,” he cried, “why was Oran angry? It is bad news?”

“… Lazarus is very sick,” Jesus’ voice caught in his throat.

“We knew that.” Judas reached over to pat his back.

“No, he’s very sick!” Jesus emphasized the word. “Sick unto death, as Oran explained.”

“Well, let’s go!” Peter pointed to the road.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “So why was Oran upset?”

“Peter, Jude,” he chided gently. “I can’t leave yet. The flock isn’t complete. There’s five more pairs who haven’t returned. I have to wait.”

“But he’s your friend!” John looked at him in disbelief.

“I know,” Jesus said softly, “but the Seventy need more instruction. They will stay with converts in town until I gather them together one last time. They are, as the Greeks say, the ecclesia—the congregation of which we have begun.”

“The Seventy can wait!” Judas scowled.

“Yes,” piped James, “they’re not as important as Lazarus. The man’s dying. Let them wait!”

“I’ll pray on it,” Jesus murmured, a far-off look registering on his face.

As he walked away from us down the shore, Peter held us back rudely with his arms.

“No, stop, leave him alone,” he snapped curtly. “Jesus knows what’s best.”

“Really,” replied Philip, “this time I’m not sure.”

“Tell me something, Peter,” muttered Thomas. “I don’t understand this. Is he going to let Lazarus die?”

“I don’t know,” Peter confessed. “Right now Jesus doesn’t know. But let’s not forget: he listens to God!”

“God doesn’t want Lazarus to die!” spat Judas.

“How do you know what God wants?” Simon retorted. “Your always questioning God. Yet I’ve never seen you pray!”

“Let’s go talk to Oran.” I heard Matthew murmur to me. “Surely Jesus will change his mind.”

“That poor fellow,” I nodded. “It’s a long walk back to Bethany. By then Lazarus will probably be dead.”

Seeing Jesus walk the opposite way, I ran with Matthew, until we were in shouting distance of Oran.

“Hey, Oran,” Matthew called through cupped hands, “hold on a moment. Let’s talk!”

“What for?” he shouted back. “Jesus has made up his mind.”

Travel worn and weary, as we approached him, he looked so forlorn and pitiful we insisted that he return to Peter’s house and accompany us to Bethany when all of the Seventy had returned. Oran shook his head vehemently and backed away, insisting on returning to Lazarus’ house with the news.

“Jesus answers to God,” I said lamely. “He’s never wavered on this. At least rest and let Esther fix you a meal before you leave.”

“No.” He shook his head again. “I have friends in Cana. Jesus has made up his mind.”

“Come on, don’t be foolish!” Matthew shouted. “Cana is a long way from Capernaum. You need rest and food.”

“I’m not setting foot in that house.” He waved resolutely. “I’d rather be with friends. Jesus isn’t a friend. How could he not come to his cousins’ bedside. He’s saved hundreds from blindness, deafness, and disease, but he won’t heal his friend!”

When we returned to the house, Jesus was nowhere in sight. Peter, to his credit, had followed him down to the shore. After receiving hateful looks from Esther and Dinah, I was happy to see a friendly face on Bernice.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” she said contritely. “I just left Hosea’s house. Mary and I are friends again.’

“God bless you.” I gave her a spontaneous hug. “I know your mother and grandmother riled you up. That means a lot to me.”

“You love her, don’t you?” She looked at me slyly.

“In my own way, yes,” I said cautiously. “Jesus wants us to lover everyone!”

“That’s impossible.” Bernice sighed. “Who could love Pharisees, priests, and scribes?”

“My dear child,” I studied her with affection. “You, as I, have seen only the worst of them. Jesus won’t give up on them, either.”

Bernice confided to me that hour that Esther resented the fact that Peter chose Jesus over his family. Even after Jesus cured her of her fever, her grandmother had also been resentful of Peter’s absence. But Bernice, who would one day become a martyr for the faith, had made the decision to follow her conscience. Inspired by Mary, whom she admired very much, she decided that she, too, would become a preacher one day. I advised her, however, to talk to Jesus first. I knew he would counsel her to wait until being called. I reassured her that the Lord would do just that. After discussing her future ambitions, our conversation naturally turned to Jesus.

To my surprise Bernice thought Jesus had done the right thing. All of the Seventy hadn’t returned, she remarked, and Jesus first concern must always be for the Way. Because she was only fifteen years old, I was greatly impressed with her understanding of what was going on. I had been torn in the middle of the argument of who Jesus should chose: Lazarus or the Seventy. Now, looking into those innocent brown eyes, I was swayed back to the Seventy. Jesus had informed us recently that the Twelve would be leaders, and the Seventy would be pastors of future ecclesia in the Way. Right now there was only one congregation, he had explained, which included the Twelve, our family members, and members of the Seventy. All of the other converts would one day gather together into their own congregations, too, but right now there was only one congregation or ecclesia composed of the disciples, our family members, and members of the Way in Capernaum, our home base. I didn’t share my fear with Bernice those moments that when Jesus spoke of the future ecclesia he was talking about a time when he would no longer be alive. That would he too terrible for her young mind.

******

On the day that the last members of the Seventy finally returned, Jesus wasted no time in placing them with families of converts in town as he had done for the other preachers, and then, after sending word out to them, gathered them all together for one final blessing. On the morning of our return to Judea, he spoke to them on the same hill on which he gave his first great sermon. It seemed as though the entire town gathered on the hillside as Jesus gave them a parting speech. With few exceptions among the members, it would be the last time they heard his sterling voice.

After a very hearty breakfast, an effort on Esther’s and Dinah’s part to make up for the debacle earlier in the week, we were physically and mentally ready to travel. I slipped out while Jesus was saying his final words to the Seventy and their supporters and said goodbye to Mary. Grateful for the short time I had as her confidant, I was satisfied with how things turned out. I regretted that we had caused a dissension in Peter’s family, but, thanks to Bernice’s contrite nature, we now had the support of his daughter, if not his mother-in-law and wife.

Esther, Dinah, Bernice, Azrael, and his wife, were joined by the Seventy and converts from Capernaum, as we began our journey to Bethany. Perched on his mule, in a colorful blanket a convert had given to him, Bartholomew stood out like a Syrian merchant among the disciples. It was, in spite of the warm and tearful goodbyes cast by well-wishers, a somber occasion. There seemed little doubt that Lazarus would soon be dead or already in his grave by now. Listening to the grumbling of some of the disciples, made me realize how weak and fickle was human nature. One moment they were praising him, and the next moment they became his critics. It was the opinion of most of the disciples that Jesus should have gone to his cousin’s sick bed and made the Seventy wait. Andrew, once a disciple of John the Baptist, reminded us that Jesus had made a similar decision when a disciple of the Baptist informed Jesus of John’s fate. Not one of us, however, doubted that there was a deeper meaning to Jesus’ decision. After all, Peter reminded us again and again, Jesus answered to God. During the muted discussions on the road, the disciples grappled with the meaning in Jesus’ actions, which seemed so clear to me. I had already convinced Matthew, Simon, and Bartholomew that Jesus had done the right thing. What remained for us to understand was why Jesus insisted on going to Jerusalem after our trip to Bethany. The last time we were there he had created quite a stir turning over money tables, dispersing animals, and rebuking the temple priests. It was, I said, recalling Daniel’s scroll, like going into the lion’s den. Jesus, who was following scripture, had a death wish. No one said it, but I know it was on all of our minds.

To no one’s surprise Judas was inspired by this talk of Jesus fate to utter another criticism. He wasn’t worried about Jerusalem. After all, that is where the conquering Messiah would begin his reign. He was, he admitted bitterly, disappointed that Jesus had not fully used his powers. With Jesus’ abilities, he believed, he could sweep away the old order and make Israel great again. This notion, which was no different than most Jews’ hopes, was, of course, based upon Isaiah’s warrior Messiah. In many ways, I recalled that moment, Isaiah, who also gave us the suffering servant, was to blame for the general mindset of Jews. What Judas wanted now, however, was even more extreme. In his thinking, Jesus wouldn’t need an army to defeat the Roman oppressors, he could defeat them at a word and glance. Had he not tamed the storm and, with the breath of God, swept Barabbas and his gang away? Had he not done every imaginable miracle and held the masses spellbound by his words. He was the King of Kings—the Deliverer and Restorer. Why did he waste his time in these backwaters? Why was his vision so small? He should take the opportunity when entering Jerusalem to show who he really was. Why all this talk of doom and gloom? Why would he predict his own death?

“Never! Never!” Judas vowed, clinching his fist. “Jesus is the master of his destiny, given godlike powers to shape the world…. Why doesn’t he use them?

“Why don’t you ask him, yourself?” grumbled Simon.

Simon had been walking directly in front of Judas’ and was therefore the first person to respond to his protest. Straggling in a single file behind Jesus, we had been lulled by the heat and monotony of the road. Now, in what was a delayed response for the remainder of us, Judas outlandish statement penetrated our dulled minds after Simon’s question. Jesus couldn’t be bothered and strode ahead, as if attempting to blank out his controversial words, but the fishermen were prodded to action.

“What did he say?” Philip asked Andrew.

To avoid disturbing Jesus’ peace of mind, Andrew whispered in Philip’s ear what he heard.

“Whoa!” hooted Philip. “What an ass!”

“What?” John tapped his arm. “Tell us what he said!”

Andrew whispered into the other disciples’ ears. When he shared the information with his brother, Peter slapped his forehead in disbelief. By now, Judas had fallen back ten or more cubits behind the group.

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Peter called through cupped hands, “Judas, you numbskull. After everything you’ve seen and heard, you say such a thing? Are you serious? Are you completely mad?”

Looking back at his receding figure, I heard Judas giggle madly to himself. “What’s he laughing about?” I muttered. “Look at him carrying on!”

“Nothing,” replied Matthew. “He’s mad as a bat!”

“He’s nothing but trouble.” James shook his head.

“So why does Jesus put up with him?” asked Thomas. “Judas wants the other messiah—”

“A warrior and conqueror,” I jumped in quickly, “like King David—sword in hand, not a messiah bringing salvation to the world.” “It started with Isaiah’s dual prophecies,” I pointed out, “two different people. Our stiff-necked people picked the king!”

John and his brother James, who now thought they were the elect, shushed us.

“Keep it down, men,” cautioned John, “Jesus will hear!”

“Yes,” groused his brother, “he doesn’t need to hear that!”

“Really?” Peter laughed sourly. “That man foments mutiny and you think he doesn’t know. Jesus knows everything!”

“I know,” John said with a shrug, “but he’s trying to ignore it. Look how far he’s ahead of us! He knows Judas’ mind. Let’s keep it down until this matter with Lazarus is over.”

“It’ll never be over!” Judas called from the rear.

Suddenly he caught up with us, his face red, huffing and puffing, as he labored for breath.

“Jesus is in denial!” he shouted. “He must wake up and use his power!”

“Shut up!” Simon screamed at him. “Why can’t you just shut up?”

Matthew and Thomas restrained Simon as he went for Judas. For a moment, I confess, I was tempted to hit Judas, myself. Looking down from his mule, awakened from twilight sleep, Bartholomew mumbled incoherently, “Wha-What happened. What’s the matter?”

“Jude did it again.” I called over my shoulder. “Simon, stop it!” I cried, assisting Matthew and Thomas. “Judas isn’t right in the head!”

In long anxious strides, Peter raced back to the fracas. No damage had been done, but Judas had caused discontent once more in our group.

“Judas!” Peter wrung his finger. “Your words are poison. You upset everyone with your venom. Why can’t you hold your tongue? If you don’t approve of what we’re doing, leave. You’re no use to us the way you are!”

Shaken by his rebuke, Judas shook off Matthew’s and Thomas’ arms, and fell back again, glaring with hatred at the Rock.

“That’s it,” Peter made shooing motions, “go away. Scoot! Find some other place to spread your hate!”

A chorus of voices chanted, “Go! Go! Go!” Suddenly Jesus awakened from his torpor, scurrying anxiously to the scene. Looking squarely at Peter as if he was the ring-leader, he called order to his disciples, “What’s going on here? Why was Matthew and Thomas restraining Judas? What did he do wrong?”

“He wants that other fellow,” Peter snarled. “He thinks your wasting your power.”

“Oh yes.” Jesus gave Judas a studied look. “Our voice in the wilderness…. The voice in his head.”

Jesus, of course, already knew what was happening. Judas expression changed abruptly, as Jesus confronted him, from a dark scowl to a look of panic. “Uh… I’m sorry, Jesus,” he sputtered. “I-I just want you to seize the moment. Soon it will be too late!”

“Why will it be too late?” Jesus raised an eyebrow. “Explain to us what you mean.”

“There are Pharisees, scribes, and agents lurking everywhere,” the words poured from Judas’ mouth. “If you go to Jerusalem in your frame of mind, you’ll walk right into a trap.”

“Do you hear that men?” Jesus looked around at the group. “Judas, like some of you, is tempting me to inaction. He’s going against my Father’s will.”

“Right!” Judas nodded obligingly. “How thoughtless of me.”

The remainder of us were stunned by Judas words and Jesus’ tepid response.

“What?” Simon looked at him in disbelief. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“Going against your Father’s will?” muttered Matthew, “that was an understatement.”

“It’s purest denial.” Peter exclaimed. “Didn’t you hear him, Jesus. He wants to force your hand: make you destroy your enemies and take control. That man’s out of control!”

“He has to go!” Andrew set his jaw.

“Yes, Jesus.” I lurched forward. “Andrew’s right. I thought the very same thing—all of us did. He has to go!”

“Enough!” Jesus raised a hand. “I answer to my Father, not to men. You of all people, Jude, should understand this Jude.” “And you Peter.” He wrung a finger. “You’re my rock. Act like it. We are twelve, not eleven. You all know this. So Judas must stay. Accept God’s will.” “Don’t worry Judas,” he turned to Judas. “I will minister several days in Jerusalem. Alas, I’d rather slip in unnoticed with other pilgrims, but when I enter, you’ll have your king!”

We were all speechless, biting our tongues and fuming impotently under our breaths. Jesus had stopped just short of commanding us to accept this lunatic, and Judas stood there grinning like an ape. Despite Jesus rebuke, he knew very well that we would try to protect him. This included protection against Judas’ big mouth. Questions, I’m certain I shared with the others, swirled in my head. What if Judas spouted off at the wrong time in the temple, calling Jesus to smite his enemies and claim his throne? What if his challenge ignited them finally into action? He had gotten worse in the past few days. Peter was right: he was out of control. Had Judas interpreted Jesus suggestion that he would enter Jerusalem as its king, as complying to his wish? Why would Jesus say such a thing?

Looking with amazement at him, as we resumed our journey, I felt helpless and confused. This same look of dismay and incredulity was shown by the other men. Ironically Judas was right, I realized. Jesus appeared to be in denial, but was this really true? On everything else, Jude was dead wrong, and yet Jesus had turned our concern on its head. His allusion to entering Jerusalem as a king that seemed to compliment Judas’ outlandish words, was pure sarcasm, and yet it trivialized the main issue on our minds. What’s more it seemed to justify Judas’ belief of what he saw as Jesus’ true purpose. The grin of self-satisfaction on his freckled face seemed proof of this. Now Jesus had implied that Judas’ sin was, like Peter and my own, simply to protect him from his enemies, thereby making Judas’ warning not to enter Jerusalem the subject, not Judas’ desire that he overcome his enemies and become a warrior king. Judas was worried, like the rest of us, about Jesus’ frame of mind, but, unlike us, he wanted Jesus to take the opportunity in Jerusalem to make his stand. More questions therefore reeled in my mind. Why did Jesus continue to humor Judas? What was his purpose in keeping this thorn in his side? He must have seen through him from the beginning, so why did he not rebuke him too? I also wondered then, without sharing these questions with anyone else, whether Judas purpose was to test Jesus and sharpen his resolve. This seemed like a absurd notion, and I dispelled it from my mind…. My questions would not be answered for many days. There was a reason for Judas’ presence much darker than I had imagined. That he might spout off and make a scene in the temple was the least of our concerns.

******

As we approached Bethany our final detour before re-entering Jerusalem, I tried putting my worries away, but it was useless. I, more than the other disciples, appeared to understand the absolute danger Jesus faced. The reason for this insight is because I knew, as did our brother James, that Jesus had always been headstrong since childhood. He never wavered in his opinions or decisions. I was, despite the boasts of Andrew and Philip, there from the very beginning, long before Jesus answered John’s call, and had sensed even then something ominous about one of the titles the Baptist gave him: the Lamb of God. Was it simply my lack of faith and human doubts that made me fearful for him? Or was it a premonition of things to come? The most I could do, to comply with Jesus’ wishes, would be to keep this sense of doom to myself and counsel James to do the same.

Turning to us now, Jesus prepared us for what lie ahead. “Our friend Lazarus sleeps,” he announced suddenly. “I go that I may wake him up.”

In an effort to seem optimistic perhaps, Peter took Jesus literally. “Lord,” he exclaimed cheerfully, “Lazarus may still be alive. Is that what you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean, Peter,” Jesus shook his head. “Lazarus is dead!”

“Oh dear,” muttered Thomas, “I wonder how long.”

“For your sakes, my disciples, not just Lazarus.” Jesus looked around the group solemnly. “I bring him back. Come, men, let’s go to our friend.”

In the near distance we could hear voices. There was no one in our around Lazarus house at the edge of town, but when we entered Bethany a crowd of men, women, and children, many of whom must have been Lazarus’ friends, lined each side of the street. Several townsfolk who recognized Jesus called out rebukes:

“There he is, Lazarus’ friend and cousin!”

“Where was he when Lazarus needed him?”

“Why did he wait so long?”

“He saved hundreds. Why didn’t save him?”

“For shame, Jesus! For shame!”

“Don’t listen to them!” Peter consoled him.

Our hearts went out to Jesus. Placing an arm around Peter’s and John’s shoulders and looking back sympathetically at the remainder of us, it was Jesus who comforted us. “Don’t lose heart,” he said bravely, “this was predestined. Your every movement was meant to be.”

Following after us, the rebukes worsening with each step, it appeared as if the entire town had come out to castigate Jesus, and yet not all of the townsfolk were angry. Many of them appeared to be admirers of Jesus, touching his robe reverently in silent awe. At the opposite end of town, in the nearby hills there were countless tombs. Because Jesus had passed by the house and gone straight to this graveyard, we shuddered to think of what came next: Lazarus was obviously already in his tomb.

A second, much smaller crowd, had gathered near one of the tombs: Martha, Mary, Orin (the friend who had informed Jesus of Lazarus illness), and a handful of other women—all of the women cloaked in the dark clothing of mourning.

Martha ran to Jesus, weeping and wringing her hands. “Lord,” she said scornfully at first, “if you had been here, Lazarus would have lived!” Orin snarled at him, and Mary couldn’t look at Jesus in the face. In the next breath, however, while most of the townsfolk glared at Jesus, Martha showed great faith. “Jesus,” she said, catching her breath, “…even now I know you can save him. Whatever you ask of God, he will do.” This struck those villagers within earshot as absurd.

“He’s been in the tomb for four days!” Orin spat.

“You waited too long,” Mary cried bitterly. “He has begun to decay!”

Looking away from Mary, Jesus said to Martha, “ Your faith is the great. Your brother will rise again.”

“I know, master,” replied Martha, “on the resurrection in the Last Days.

Then Jesus summed it up for his disciples and all those standing around the tomb: “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me, though he may die, shall live. And whoever lives and believes in me shall never die.”

“Do you believe this?” he asked Martha.

“Yes, Lord,” she exclaimed boldly, “I believe you’re the Messiah, the Son of God!”

“What about you, Mary?” he looked at the younger sister. “Why do you doubt?”

“Mary,” scolded Martha, “answer Jesus!”

“I’m sorry, master,” Mary sniveled. “If you had been here, our brother wouldn’t have died.”

Jerusalem, like the rest of us, was greatly move by Martha’s acknowledgment of Jesus. No one had told her this. To Mary, however, he gave a sad, disappointed look. Suddenly, a third emotion overcame Jesus as he dropped his face into his hands and wept. The twelve disciples stood on each Jesus, moved by his sorrow. I couldn’t help comparing Lazarus’ dutiful sister, Martha, with the sister Jesus said had the better part. “Now who has the better part?” I whispered to James.

“That is where you laid him.” Jesus said, pointing to the tomb. “Remove the stone!”

“But Jesus,” Andrew gasped, “he’s going to stink!”

“Come on men,” he demanded sternly, “do it. Remove the stone!”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Thomas groaned.

“Don’t be squeamish,” snapped Peter, as we approached the stone. “We’ve been around lepers and demoniacs. What’s a little smell?”

The crowd were silent with horror. When we rolled the circular stone aside, an odor I recalled from my travels assailed my nostrils. I could just imagine how it effected the other men. Jesus closed his eyes that moment and prayed, as he had never prayed before, for the greatest miracle of them all. Afterwards, as everyone else gagged and held their noses, he moved closer to the entrance. In the dark recess of the tomb lie his cousin and friend, now wandering in the land of the dead.

In a loud, commanding voice, Jesus called out, “Lazarus, come forth!”

“This is madness!” Orin stormed from the scene.

Few people followed his example for what would be a defining moment in Jesus ministry. Despite the odor, all eyes were focused on the entrance of the tomb. Judas had turned away and vomited. Thomas almost suffocated, himself, by pinching his nose with his fingers as he tried blocking out the smell. As Bartholomew sat on his mule, the beast stirred beneath him, neighing in alarm at this unnatural event. For a few moments everyone stood still with pent-up breath. Then suddenly, when it seemed as if Jesus had asked too great a favor from God, there was a faint shuffling sound, the noise a man or woman might make dragging a lame or injured leg. A collective gasp rose in all of our throats. A figure appeared at the mouth of the tomb—Lazarus wrapped in linen, reminding me of an Egyptian mummy I had seen. The smell of herbs and death lingered for a few moments. With arms outstretched and unbinding legs, the risen man walked stiffly over the ground, toward his savior. Even the act of resurrection—the theme of this miracle—had been reinterpreted by Jesus, who, using the raising of Lazarus from the dead, once more gave the formula for salvation: belief in him results in paradise. No longer would Jesus, when spreading the good news, refer to God or my Father to suit his audience, now he was the resurrection and the life, who offered heaven as a reward for faithfulness. Martha, the greatest of Lazarus’ sisters, was the first person outside of Jesus circle to acknowledge him as the Son of God in front of a hundred or more witnesses. In so doing, she helped shape the latest image of Jesus.

The unbinding of Lazarus, as Jesus instructed, tested our faith. After what we had seen, though, none of us dared act squeamish, even Thomas who had almost passed out. Judas, to make up for getting sick, jumped in eagerly for the task. In less than a few moments, Lazarus sat on a stool, the wrappings lying pell-mell on the ground, staring vacantly into space. This climactic hour shook the disciples greatly. Like the other men, I could scarcely frame my thoughts. As James managed to say with great reverence, “Lazarus was a righteous man, but Jesus had called him from heaven.”

“Is he all there?” asked Simon. “Speak to us!” he called through cupped hands.

“At least give us a sign,” suggested Philip.

Matthew snapped his fingers in front of his face, James tapped his shoulder, and Judas playfully tickled his nose. When these actions elicited no reaction, Thomas stared into Lazarus’ eyes.

“He’s not there,” he concluded. “The trip was too much!”

“Poor Lazarus,” Matthew studied him. “It must’ve addled his brain.”

“He’ll be all right,” Peter said, tousling his hair, “at least he could walk.”

“Stop it!” Jesus waved us off. “Give him some time. He’ll come around.” “Lazarus,” he murmured, placing a hand on his head, “say something,… anything… just one word.”

“Uh…uh…” Lazarus tried forming a word.

“Uh oh,” John sighed. “He forgot how to talk.”

“My uncle had stroke and couldn’t talk,” Thomas shared with us. “It came back in stages…First he remembered his name, then he recalled members of his family…Then it all came back to him all once.”

“What happened after that?” Andrew gave him a searching look.

“He died,” confessed Thomas.

“He isn’t going to die!” Jesus yelled. “You saw me tame a storm and walk on water. What is so impossible about calling back the dead?”

“Jesus,” Judas said, shaking his head. “This time you can’t make light of it. Lazarus had been dead in the tomb for four days. He had crossed over. That void in between, called Shemayim or Heaven, has never been crossed. Is it a wonder he’s in this state?”

“Lazarus is not addled,” Jesus said shrilly. “He’s not in a state. Peter’s right: he’ll be all right.” “Martha and Mary,” he summed Lazarus’ sisters, “sit beside your brother. Please comfort him.”

By now the crowd had awakened from its trance. Several men and women wanted validation of his previous miracles, as if the resurrection of Lazarus wasn’t enough, from the most trivial act to his taming of the storm.

“Rabbi.” A woman, with a child in her arms, came forward. “Did you really change water into wine?”

“You have said it.” Jesus nodded.

“I heard you stopped a storm.” A young man raised a hand. “And you frightened Barabbas the bandit away.”

“News travels.” Jesus shrugged his shoulders.

From the most trivial acts to Jesus greatest wonders, members of the crowd plagued Jesus was questions, always followed by Jesus refrain, ‘You have said it.’ Then the skeptics stepped forth.

“Is it true?” a young man finally asked. “Are you the Son of God?”

“You have said it,” Jesus repeated wearily.

The pattern was the same. Though implying ‘yes,’ the answer was left up to the inquisitor. It always took a miracle, as Peter once put it, to soften up a crowd. This miracle really shook things up. Fortunately, this time the skeptics hadn’t yet come out in force. By his miracles, not his words, he had won over most of Bethany. After countless questions about Jesus divinity and past wonders, it was obvious what came next. For several hours, until late in the afternoon, we assisted Jesus with making converts at the communal well. It would be the last time he used this method and wouldn’t have been used at all if many of the townsfolk hadn’t requested the rite. Jesus couldn’t miss this opportunity, incorporating in the rite the words he had said to Martha. The words I am the resurrection and the life and what followed, now preceded the simple formula spoken before. On this day, as Lazarus languished in limbo, Martha, Mary, and Orin, who had a change of mind, insisted on being baptized with their neighbors and friends.

We were almost finished, when a stream of sick and lame people streamed in, which extended our performance of the rites during Jesus’ cures. This seemed anticlimactic to what he did for Lazarus, and yet Jesus treated the supplicants equally, regardless of how insignificant was their ailment. When he was done, at just about the time we completed performing our rites, he was greatly taxed. Martha and Mary had moved Lazarus into the house to prevent him from being seen as an oddity. Inside the house, as Martha prepared our meal, Mary played the doting sister, propping Lazarus up with pillows to keep him from falling to the side.

“All right,” Jesus said hoarsely, “get me a cup of wine.”

Not knowing whom he wanted to perform this task, I ran over to fetch a pitcher ahead of Mary, looked in it, and satisfied it was wine, scurried back to place it in Jesus’ hand. Mary looked at me with irritation but said nothing.

Putting the cup to his cousin’s lips, Jesus simply said, “Drink!” and Lazarus took a swig. Though wine dribbled from the corners of his mouth, he had responded to a command. Already, as Thomas included in his uncle’s awakening, Lazarus knew his name. Now Jesus asked him where he was. “Bethany,” Lazarus said almost perfectly.

“Do you remember us?” Martha’s face loomed in front of him.

“Martha and Mary,” he said clearly.

The sisters embraced their brother. The rest of us stood back in awe.

“What happened?” He blinked, looking around the room. “I was in a dark place, then there was light. I saw my parents and long lost friends.” “Oh Jesus.” He wept. “Why did you bring me back?”

“Because of your return and what Martha said,” Jesus answered obliquely, “the word is out. Your death and resurrection has defined me. For this you are blessed among all men!”

That hour, as we looked down at Lazarus, he still looked like someone who had come back from the dead, but in the days ahead, as Judeans flocked to Bethany to hear Jesus speak, his coloring came back, his appetite returned, and he became, in all of our eyes, a new man. Lazarus, who would live to be over a hundred years old, would serve as a reminder to everyone that there was nothing on earth and heaven that Jesus couldn’t do. During those heady days, Jesus was known to one all as both the Messiah and Son of God.

Chapter Forty-Five

Sermon In Bethany

One more time, this time, in Bethany, Jesus would rely on his most successful way of communicating with a crowd: the sermon. He would also, during his discussion with Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents, give his adversaries parables, one of his best methods of making a point. Such carefully crafted stories were also intended for anyone within earshot, serving the purpose to enlighten the crowd. Though parables were not always easy to understand, people often preferred them over sermons and lectures and, whether this was one reason why he chose this method or not, it was less controversial to Jesus’ critics and enemies. Today, Jesus’ skeptics—Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents—would nevertheless surface, searching for heresy and blasphemy in his words. Fortunately for him, Simon could always point out the agents, and Pharisees and scribes were easy to spot. Jesus finally had success with Judeans—an achievement in itself, but from now on he would face continual harassment from these men.

According to Elias, a merchant converted in Bethany, Caiaphas had stepped up his efforts against Jesus. The source of this information surprised us very much. Elias was told by his friend Nicodemus a few weeks ago that Jesus must steer clear of Jerusalem. The high priest had gathered his priests, Pharisees, and scribes together to decide what to do about him. Having written down the words heard from Nicodemus, he quoted to Jesus what the counsel said. With great concern, he reported the sentiment of the religious leaders. Almost unanimously, with the exception of Nicodemus, the counsel members believe Jesus was corrupting the faith of their fathers, perverting the belief of the masses, and causing concern among magistrates who feared that the Romans would step in if there was another revolt. Nicodemus had argued that Jesus wasn’t a revolutionary like the Messiah predicted by Isaiah but was, in fact, another version of the Messiah presented by this prophet: a man of peace, whose message, based upon our sacred scrolls, was for the spiritual welfare of his people. Though Jesus importance had been watered down greatly by Nicodemus, the Pharisee had attempted, with little success, to make him seem harmless. This, of course, wasn’t true. Jesus might be a man of peace, but he wasn’t harmless. His good news was a direct threat against the old system, and Caiaphas knew it. When Nicodemus appeared to convince a handful of Pharisees and scribes of Jesus harmlessness, the high priest scolded them, saying, “You know nothing at all. This man is dangerous. He must be destroyed.” When Nicodemus and the others protested, Caiaphas replied, “It is better for one man to die than our nation perish!” From that day forward, as Nicodemus had explained to Elias, Caiaphas and his minions began plotting against Jesus.

Jesus was glad that Nicodemus took his side, but Elias made it plain that his supporters were few and not very brave.

“You must stay away from Jerusalem,” he advised grimly. “They won’t dare touch you outside its walls. The Romans have little sympathy for temple business or religious squabbles. The magistrates will please the prefects before bowing to the priests.”

“Will this blow over?” Peter asked bluntly.

“I don’t know,” Elias shrugged. “Caiaphas will only be high priest for one year and then he’ll be replaced by someone new. The previous high priest didn’t have a problem with you. It only takes one assassin to kill you, Jesus. One thing I found out from Nicodemus was encouraging, though: Caiaphas and most of the Jerusalem’s counsel haven’t seen you.”

“What about those Pharisees and scribes we encountered in the past?” John frowned. “They would recognize him. And what about the temple spies.”

“The spies or temple agents are a low life element, not part of the counsel.” Elias said with contempt.

Simon bristled at this slander. “Elias,” he looked at the man with suspicion, “how do we know you’re not a spy?”

Jesus, who I’m certain, knew exactly the threat he faced, reined Simon in. I didn’t hear what he whispered to him, but Simon laughed as if Jesus just told him a joke.

“Elias.” Jesus studied the corpulent little man. “Why didn’t you tell me this the last time I was in Bethany?”

For a brief moment, Elias had a cornered look.

“Ah hah!” Simon pointed accusingly. “Just as I thought. He’s one of Caiaphas’ men!”

“Simon, shut up!” Jesus waved impatiently. “Go ahead—explain,” he directed Elias.

“… I didn’t like you then,” Elias confessed finally. “I believed what Pharisee friends told me. I still should have warned you, but I was afraid of what they might say…. Now I know you’re him— the one we have waited for.”

“And what one is that?” Jesus asked slyly. “There are two versions of that man: a man of peace, who brings salvation and man of war, who restores Israel to its previous greatness.”

Once again Elias fidgeted and looked helplessly at the ground. As he stood there surrounded by Jesus, the disciples, and several new converts who gave the merchant suspicious and hostile looks, he formed his words carefully.

“…. I don’t know that they’re not the same.” He avoided Jesus’ eyes. “From what I gather from the other converts, many of them believe they will be saved and have eternal life as you promised but they also think when you enter Jerusalem you’ll come as a conqueror.” “Frankly, master, I’m confused. Why did Isaiah promise two different Messiahs? Please explain this to me.”

That moment we were reminded that, unlike many people who joined the Way, Elias understood the problem Jesus was having with our people. Like other Jews, some converts expected a king, not a savior, while others sought both. Several converts had gathered around us. Like he had done before Lazarus’ resurrection, Jesus took this opportunity to remind them of who he was.

“Who do you think I am?” he asked, glancing at Peter.

“Once again we heard the words the disciples gave Jesus when asked that question.

“Some have said you’re a great teacher or prophet,” he answered carefully, “… Some say you’re the Messiah… Today I heard a young woman call you the Son of God.”

“But what about you, Elias?” Jesus studied him with great intensity. “Who do you say I am?”

“I know you’re man of peace,” Elias seemed to equivocate. “You’re not a man of war. That’s why I agree with Nicodemus: you’re not the conquering Messiah. That’s why I’m worried Jesus. Unless you use your powers to protect yourself, they might kill you.”

Jesus winced. Judas had said this very same thing.

“Don’t change the subject, Elias,” he pressed the merchant, “who am I?”

Looking unwaveringly into his eyes, Elias heaved a sigh and exclaimed unequivocally now: “You are him—the other Messiah—the right one. Against everything I’ve been taught, against our tradition and sound reason, I believe this, Jesus. Never have I seen and heard such things. My eyes and ears don’t lie. Though my mind was stubborn, my heart knows the truth. So it’s settled. I agree with that woman: not only are you the Promised One, you’re the Son of God!”

“Elias, you have proven your faith,” Jesus said, patted his back. “Like my disciples, however, you must understand one thing: I follow the wishes of my Father, not men. I appreciate your warning from Nicodemus, but my path is set. At the end of this week, I must enter Jerusalem. My whole life was aimed at this destination, but I will return to Bethany one more time. I’m not finished here. Nothing will happen to me that’s not predestined to happen. You, like Judas, want me to use my power to save myself, but that is up to my Father. If this is what my Father wants, I shall use it.”

“In other words, you might use it!” Judas rubbed his hands with expectation.

“Yes.” Jesus frowned at him. “If God wills it.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.” Peter placed a hand on his shoulder. “If I were you Jesus, I’d smite those Pharisees and scribes like you did Barabbas. Teach them not to fool with the Son of God!”

“Yes-yes,” John said happily. “You once explained to us about constant revelation. I feel much better now—your fate isn’t sealed. I agree with Peter, don’t take any nonsense from graybeards and priests. Give the treatment you gave Barabbas and his gang!”

The other disciples and the converts agreed wholeheartedly with Peter and John. I wanted to share their enthusiasm, but I found it ludicrous considering what Jesus had told us before. Twice now he had foretold his death. Nevertheless, as James reminded me later, Jesus obeyed his father. Perhaps, I thought hopefully, God would change his mind.

Elias, who understood the mind of the Pharisees and priests, gave Jesus a dubious smile. Jesus had warned us about his death before, but at least it would be postponed when he returned to Lazarus’ house. For a third time, after entering Jerusalem, he would warn us of his death (that time giving us the dreadful details), but now in the company of Elias and other converts, he had been deliberately vague about his fate. We were just happy to learn we would, after Jesus grand entry, return to Bethany. As he once counseled us, we must live each day at a time.

“Don’t worry about what the prophets say,” Jesus said in passing to Elias. “Believe what’s in your heart.

“If you say so, master.” The merchant shrugged his shoulders.

To end this discussion, Jesus gave us a prayer in which he asked his father to bolster our courage for the days ahead. Afterwards, he led all of us to a hill on the edge of town. Looking down on the plain below, we could see the road to Jerusalem, a reminder of our ultimate destination. In a loud voice that startled us half out of our wits, he cried, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing!”

“Whoa,” Peter laughed, “I didn’t expect that!”

“Yes, master,” John said good-naturedly, “warn us first!”

“It’s true, though,” James informed us, “our people killed most of our prophets. We’re a stiff-necked people.”

Jesus outburst of anger was replaced by mirth. Embracing James that moment, he exclaimed loudly again, “James, my younger brother—our scholar, you have come a long way!”

Turning his attention back to the multitude, Jesus stood on the summit, gathering his thoughts. Other than Elias and the disciples, the crowd was ignorant of his fate. Not even Lazarus and his sisters understood the dangers ahead, and it was clear that the disciples were denial. Today, unlike past meetings with the multitudes, the Pharisees, scribes, and agents of the temple were out in force. It was easy to pick out the Pharisees and scribes. They didn’t try to hide. For the spies in the crowd, however, Simon was our spotter. It made no difference, of course; Jesus wouldn’t be intimidated.

As in the past, the audience was spread below the crest of the hill. No one had sat down yet. Unlike Galilee, the ground was rough, strewn with gravel and bristly weeds. Jesus stood appraising the audience. Sprinkled here and there in the audience, his critics waited for their chance. Before giving the people a sermon—his favorite method of sharing the truth, Jesus was interrupted by a young man, who elbowed his way up the hillside, his servants trailing nervously behind. With glistening turban and fine raiment, he looked out of place in the multitude. Though wearing fine clothes, himself, Elias wasn’t dressed as well as even the young man’s servants. Always taking advantage of each situation, Jesus made this another defining moment in his ministry.

“Teacher,” the man called out excitedly, “what good must I do to have eternal life?”

^“Why do you ask me about what’s good?” replied Jesus. ”As a god-fearer, you know what’s good. If you want eternal life, keep the commandments.”

“Which ones?” asked the man.

Heaving a sigh, Jesus answered patiently, “You shall not murder, you shall not commit adultery, you shall not steal, you shall not give false testimony, honor your father and mother, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

“All these I’ve kept,” chimed the youth. “What else must I do?”

And then came the answer that caused Elias and all the other wealthy men in the audience great dismay: “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give them to the poor, and you’ll have treasure in heaven. Afterwards come and follow me.”

The young man groaned. “Who can do such a thing?” He looked around the crowd for understanding. “Shall I forsake the inheritance my father gave me and become a pauper?”

Naturally disdainful of rich people, most of the audience snarled or shook their heads. Several of the wealthy men on the hillside took their leave, too, as the youth departed from the crest.

Then Jesus said to the multitude and his disciples, “This is a lesson for you all: it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”

Troubled by his words, Elias stepped forth, tears glistening in his eyes. “I’m a merchant with sickly parents and a family. Everyone tries to get ahead in this world: the sellers, cooks, bakers, weavers, and farmers. By your standards, who can be saved?”

“God won’t beggar you, Elias. It is the mooring of wealth to its owner, not the gold itself, that makes people captive to their riches. That youth spoke of his inheritance. He couldn’t forsake it, even for his soul. You must understand what inheritance will guide you: men’s or God’s.” “Remember one thing—all of you,” he looked around at his disciples and the crowd, “With a man, having little faith, this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”

Peter spoke for the disciples then: “We have left everything to follow you, master. What then will there be for us?”

Speaking first to his disciples and then to the multitude, Jesus raised his arms as if to embrace the world. “Listen and watch the signs. At the End Times, when I sit on my throne, you, my disciples, will sit on twelve other thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel. And for you out there—my followers, everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life.” “But remember this,” he added, probably with John and his brother James, in mind, “many who are first will be last, and many who are last will be first… All of you, who make theses sacrifices, merit paradise, however little you own. Once, when I visited a synagogue, a widow dropped in a single mite. What she gave was equal to the rich man’s bag of gold, for it was all she had!”

The audience cheered Jesus speech, and, despite the rough ground, began settling enthusiastically on the hillside, as he continued to speak.

“Wealth isn’t evil,” he continued. “Loving wealth more than God is. One must be prepared to give it up if He wills it. You can’t serve two masters; one must win out in the end. If you do have money, use it wisely and generously. The kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard. He agreed to pay them a denariusfor the day and sent them into his vineyard. In the morning he went out and saw others standing in the marketplace doing nothing, and he told them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard, and I’ll pay you whatever is right.’ So they went away. About noon, he went out again and, in the afternoon, he did the same thing. Late in the afternoon he returned and found still more men standing around. He grew testy, asking them, ‘Why have you been standing here all day long doing nothing?’ ‘Because no one has hired us,’ they answered. He said to them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard,’ he replied to them. When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his foreman, ‘Call the workers and pay them their wages, beginning with the last ones hired and going on to the first.’ The workers who were hired late in the afternoon came and each received a denarius. So when those came who were hired first, they expected to receive more, and yet each one of them also received a denarius. When they received it, they began to grumble against the landowner. ^‘These who were hired last worked only one hour,’ they complained, ‘and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the work and the heat of the day.’ But, like my Father, the landowner answered, ‘I’m not being unfair to you. Didn’t you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I will give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you. I have the right to do what I want with my own money. Are you envious because I am generous?’” “So you see,” Jesus summed it up, “the last will be first, and the first will be last.”

Once again, Jesus was cheered. Because of his raising Lazarus from the dead and the resulting baptisms, he had an enthusiastic and inspired audience. After his first parable, however, we expected Jesus critics to begin sounding off. There were more of them in Bethany than any of towns we visited. During the pause, a finely dressed man, in turban similar to the young man’s, approached Jesus. Unlike the other rich men, who retreated from the scene, he had lingered in the foreground, listening intently to Jesus speak. At first, as he hiked up the hill, we thought he might be another critic or a temple agent, but, as he stood their listening in his fine clothes, it was plain he wasn’t a Pharisee or scribe, and to blend into the population, Simon told us, temple agents dressed like everyone else.

“Rabbi,” he said, bowing deferentially, “I am Malachi, a dealer in perfume, myrrh, and herbs. You quoted the Ten Commandments most excellently, but where in the commandments does it condemn wealth? Weren’t King Solomon and King David rich? Many great men of the Torah were rich, and yet they served God.”

“That’s true,” Jesus answered him. “The commandments given to us by Moses are right and fair, but if you remember correctly, God punished sinners for their love of gold. Did you not hear what I said to that rich young man?”

“Yes, it upset me very much,” an edge came to his tone. “I know that youth. I’ve done business with his father. They’re both good men. They give to charity, as it is required in the Torah, and are faithful servants of the Lord. What more can you ask?”

“Malachi,” Jesus raised a finger, “it isn’t enough to appear good on the outside, like the Pharisees and priests, puffed up by refinements of the law. There must be charity for the lowest in our sight, each and every day. To overlook even one is contemptible in the eyes of God.” “I will tell all of you another parable,” he looked out at the multitude:

“There was a certain rich man who was clothed in purple and fine linen and ate sumptuously every day. At his gate there was beggar full of sores, desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from that man’s table. The beggar was so bad off the dogs came and licked his sores, and then he died and was carried by the angels to heaven. Afterwards, the rich man also died and was buried. When he was in the torments of hell, he lifted up his eyes and saw Abraham faraway, and the beggar in his bosom. Crying out, he said, ‘Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and let that man, whom I spurned dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I’m tormented in this flame. Abraham replied sadly to him, ‘My son, remember that in your lifetime you received good things, and likewise this poor man received evil things. Now he is comforted and you are tormented. Between you and us there is a great gulf, which is fixed for eternity. One can’t pass from here to hell or from hell to heaven.’ ‘Very well, Father Abraham,’ replied the rich man. ‘I therefore beg of you that you would send that righteous man to my father’s house to testify to my five brothers, to prevent them from winding up here.’ ‘No,’ Abraham answered, ‘they have Moses and the prophets. Let them hear it from them.’ ‘Please Father Abraham,” the rich man implored, ‘They might not listen to the Torah. If one goes to them from the dead, they will repent.’ ‘No,’ Abraham insisted, shaking his head, ‘If your brothers didn’t hearken to Moses and the prophets on earth, neither will they be persuaded from one rising from the dead.’” “The moral of this story is plain,” Jesus added, looking squarely at Malachi. “A man’s riches can be a millstone around your neck—the passage paid to hell. At the moment you die, your riches are worthless, all the power you’ve sought is for naught, and the overtures made to show your greatness are vain exercises unworthy of the Lord.”

“You are a hard judge!” Malachi uttered a bitter laugh.

“Perhaps,” Jesus pursed his lips, “but for what I offer you, the price is cheap.”

“Poof! You wish me to give it all away?” Malachi spread his palms.

“It’s as I’ve said,” Jesus restated, “it’s not having wealth that damns you. It’s the hold riches have on your soul. Unfortunately, it’s in a rich man’s nature to love his gold.”

“Lord,” Malachi’s voice cracked. “Like many of my kind, I’m a sinful man, but unlike my peers, I’m dying. I would give you all that I have for what you offer, but I have a wife, sons, and grandchildren, who would be impoverished by such a move. What shall I do?”

“All right,” Jesus thought a moment. “…. Here’s what you can do. Go home to your estate, sign half of what you own to your family equally, and give the rest to the poor.”

A silence fell over the hill. I looked out to see the faces of the Pharisees and scribes, wondering why they hadn’t challenged Jesus by now. He had once again made light of the law. There were countless issues that could be raised by Jesus many heresies. And yet Jesus’ adversaries seemed as interested as everyone else to hear how this conversation turned out.

“Yes, master.” Malachi bowed his head. “I’ll go at once!”

“And when you return,” Jesus directed him, “bring you household and servants, so that they may be offered the same.”

“What if my sons refuse?” Malachi ventured delicately. “…. They may not want to part with their riches. I have pampered my wife and grandchildren too.”

“Each one is responsible for his actions,” Jesus quoted an old proverb. “You, Malachi, will speak on my behalf. You’ve heard the message and the reward. Remember what I told you about the rich man’s sons. Unlike him, you have a chance to make things right before you die. If your family doesn’t listen, it’s their own fault. Let no man or woman stand between you and salvation. You have but one chance!”

On that note, the Pharisees and scribes shuffled forth with a series of unrelated issues that had plagued them throughout Jesus’ ministry. This time in Bethany, unlike times before, these men had not skirted the shadows but, so close to Jerusalem, had stood in the audience boldly, strutting forth arrogantly now to challenge his words.

“Jesus,” announced a graybeard, stroking his whiskers, “I’m Jessie bar Samuel, advisor to the temple’s high priest. For a blasphemer and heretic, you’re a remarkable man. It’s one thing to ask people to give up their wealth, but one of your converts told me that you told them they must first give up their husbands and wives and even their children in order to join. Is this not destructive to the our families and way of life?”

There was a collective intake of breath among Jesus disciples and those listeners closest to the crest, for this appeared to strike at the core of our tradition. Instead of denying outright what the Pharisee implied, Jesus explained the requirement for being a disciple and follower: “To follow the Lord with your whole heart requires complete submission. However, knowing the weakness of people, my Father is merciful. The most steadfast, my disciples, have had to forsake their families. This is also true for the Seventy, but for the other converts, who return to their families and friends, there is no such requirement.”

“You speak lightly of family bonds,” Jessie tried setting a trap. “Is the family not sacred to you?”

“Yes, of course,” Jesus frowned.

“What about adultery?” Jessie grew feisty. “Ho-ho, I heard you have an adulteress in your midst.”

“That’s a lie,” cried Jesus. “Mary was a victim of abuse and neglect. She’s a changed woman!”

“So you say,” the Pharisee gave him a crafty look. “What about the law on wifely obedience? I’ve heard about that wench. Aren’t woman supposed to be silent and serve men?”

“Jessie!” Jesus waved irritably. “The Torah was written by men, prejudiced like yourself. Have you forgotten Deborah and the great woman of those scrolls? Eve was the wife of Adam, not his slave!”

“Jesus!” A second, unidentified Pharisee stepped forth. “If we followed your example, women would rule their men like Jezebel!”

Jesus shook his bead. “I never said woman shouldn’t obey their husbands, but the husband must respect his wife.”

“But what if his wife becomes like Jezebel,” he insisted. “Shall he not divorce her?”

Jesus studied the Pharisee a few seconds. “Jezebel was an evil woman,” he replied, “…. I know what you trying to do, sir. You and Jessie are trying to make a case against me. That’s what you Pharisees always do…. Listen carefully, you sly fellow: Is it not written, ‘God made them man and woman?’ For this reason, a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, so that they shall be one flesh. What God had joined together, let no man put asunder.”

A second man, a young scribe, who identified himself as Ethan, now came forward: “You ignore are holy scrolls, rabbi. Why did Moses command men to give wives a certificate of divorce and allow them to put them away?”

“Listen carefully, scribe.” Jesus gave him a look of disdain. “Because of the hardness of our people’s hearts, Moses permitted our people to divorce their wives, but in the beginning it wasn’t so. So I say to you that whoever divorces his wife, except for sexual immorality, and marries another, commits adultery; and whoever marries her who is divorced commits adultery, too!”

Andrew, who had no wife, commented in the background, “to simplify our lives, it’s better not to marry.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” said Peter, “you’re not married.”

Jesus responded for the benefit of the multitude: “As I explained to Jessie, not everyone can do such a thing. It’s difficult to have two loves: Love of the Lord and love of a woman. To place wife, family, and God in the right order is sometimes not easy for men; that’s why celibacy is still a matter of choice.”

“Did he say choice?” I asked myself. “Had I heard him correctly?” Another question popped into my head then: had Jesus just given us the okay to be men again? Just as quickly, I recalled Jesus original expectations of us, which Jessie had made an issue of. For all practical purposes, it occurred to me, we had been like eunuchs. At this point, after daydreaming that moment, I heard several other men take issue with Jesus on controversial things he said the past.

“Rabbi.” A third Pharisee waddled up. “Nicodemus, a friend of mine, said the most ridiculous thing to me the other day. According to him, you said that a person has to be born again to enter heaven. You explained to him that one must be born of the spirit, not the flesh—a spiritual rebirth, he called it. That man was never the same after you told him that, but then Nicodemus has always been soft in the head. For me, this is nonsense. You’re born once, rabbi. You have but one life to prove your worthiness to God.”

“You know the words but you don’t understand what they mean,” Jesus chided him. “If Nicodemus, my friend, can’t convince you, your mind is set. This is the problem with men like you. You’re predisposed against the truth!”

“Is it true,” a second, older scribe, called out, “that you desecrated the temple? That you turned over tables and abused the priests?”

“It’s the priests who desecrated my Father’s house,” Jesus answered boldly. Turning to the audience, who despised these nit-picking and quarrelsome men, Jesus said in a disdainful voice, “The Pharisees and scribes think they own the truth, but they don’t. They fear the truth, because it would unmask what they really are: fakes, mean-spirited, hypocrites. They believe they have the keys to the kingdom, but they don’t. For those of them who don’t repent, it’s a place they won’t even enter. Hell is filled with men who thought they had good intentions. How wrong are the Pharisees and scribes, who are trying to trap me with the truth!

A man, who Simon identified as a temple agent, now stepped forth shaking his fist “For shame, Jesus!” he snarled, “You’re telling the ignorant masses to forsake their faith for your so-called truth! We know all about you Jesus of Nazareth. You’re a sorcerer and perverter of the truth!”

That moment the remainder of Jesus adversaries lost their heads, flinging all manner of insults at him. Jesus many advocates now responded in force, dragging the fourteen men from the hillside and, with the help of the magistrate in town, now a follower of Jesus, ordered the men to leave town. Because of the heightened Roman presence so near Jerusalem, the men evidently thought it prudent to comply. Undoubtedly, as Peter believed, what these men had done was merely a formality before reporting back to the high priest. They had already made up their minds about Jesus in order to confirm Caiaphas’ original suspicions.

With his opponents removed from Bethany, Jesus gave a speech similar to his first sermon to the multitude, which included new parables and ended with his familiar prayer. I have no idea what he said after most of his sermon. While he repeated, with embellishments, his original talk, as Peter, John, and James, his innermost circle, stood guard beside him, I saw Andrew and Philip slip away and move quickly down the opposite side of the hill. Curious to see what they were up to, James and I followed discreetly behind. Back in town, as we hid behind a wall and peeked out onto the street, we heard Andrew, Philip, and four of the new members talking with a corpulent fellow, we identified as Moshe, also a convert to the way.

“I don’t have any horses,” Moshe informed Andrew. “I have only donkeys and one mule.”

“What color’s the mule?” asked Andrew.

“Gray, speckled with spots,” Moshe replied.

“What about the donkeys?” probed Philip. “Are they speckled too?”

“What difference does it make?” Moshe snorted. “My best donkey is speckled. Why don’t you use Bartholomew’s beast; he’s a solid color and sturdy-looking too.”

Andrew and Philip went into conference with the converts, who probably put them up to this. The four new members, whom James and I recognized, were the most zealous of the converts: Jehu and his wife Leah, Obid, a blacksmith, and Zadok, a man Jesus once cured of palsy.

“Bartholomew can keep his mule,” Jehu shook his head. “I’ve seen the beast; he’s worn out. He’s earned his retirement, at least a long rest. When we enter Jerusalem, Bartholomew must be on foot like everyone else. Jesus, on his beast, must be the center of attraction.”

“You said the beast must be unblemished,” Andrew argued. “That mule’s carried Bartholomew’s massive weight many Roman miles. He’s not that tired. He meets temple requirements because he has no spots.”

“I’m sorry Andrew,” replied Leah. “He just won’t do. How would that look having Jesus ride in on a mule? That’s a Roman animal—a Gentile beast. Jesus told us that story of his mother riding into Bethlehem on a donkey, so that’s what he must do.”

“There’s no such thing as a Gentile mule!” grumbled Philip.

“Yes, there is,” she insisted. “Roman horses are tainted too.”

“That’s absurd!” I whispered into James’ ear. “That makes me a heretic a hundred times over!”

“That would makes us all heretics,” James whispered back. “What would Bartholomew be without his mule?”

“Nowhere!” I frowned. “They can’t prevent him from riding in on his mule. He can barely walk!”

“So, Moshe,” Jehu said to the man, “show us your best donkeys.”

“All right.” He waved a pudgy hand. “But they’re all good. I agree with Philip, though; there’s no such thing as a Gentile mule.”

As we followed this group, it was clear to James and I that Moshe wasn’t interested in making a profit. Such was the effect of Jesus’ sermon against hoarding wealth. Though we thought the whole idea of Jesus riding into Jerusalem like a king sounded silly to us, Moshe suggestion that they use Bartholomew’s mule sounded reasonable enough. On the other hand, the other four converts were verbally bullying Andrew and Philip. Why, I wondered, were the two disciples going a long with this?

“Jesus isn’t going to like this one bit!” I muttered.

“He’s following scripture again,” James explained sarcastically. “This time it’s not Isaiah; the prophet is Zechariah.” “Rejoice greatly, Daughter Zion!” he quoted from memory. “…See, your king comes to you, righteous and victorious, lowly and riding on a donkey!”

“So that’s what this is about.” I shook my head.

“That’s the prophecy,” James nodded, “it’s not exact, but close enough.”

Looking from a copse of myrtle very close to Moshe’s stables, we watched him parade four beasts from his herd into the enclosure—all solid colors: three brown and one white donkey. Almost immediately after an intake of breath, the five men and one woman selected the white donkey.

“Oh yes,” Leah clasped her hands, “white is for purity.”

“Are you sure?” Moshe raised an eyebrow. “That brown fellow’s bigger. You picked the smallest of the four.”

“He’s perfect!” Jehu and Zadok both agreed.

“What do you think?” Obid turned to Andrew. “With Jesus’ white robe wouldn’t that suit him well?”

“Yes,” Andrew nodded. “He’s white as snow. We all know what this means, but what about the crowd? What will they think?”

“Yeah,” Philip nodded. “What kind of king rides a donkey?”

“He’s got a point,” I mumbled to James.

“Don’t worry,” Leah waved airily, “we’ll explain it to everyone. It’ll be a grand affair!”

“I wish Jesus didn’t have to follow scripture,” Andrew appeared to be having second thoughts. “Considering what Elias told us, maybe he should enter Jerusalem on the sly.”

“No,” Jehu said resolutely, “he must follow prophecy. Hasn’t that been what he’s been doing all along?”

Before there was much more discussion, James and I prudently slipped away with the intention to warn Jesus of their plans. Based upon the remarkable intuition he had always demonstrated, I suspected that he already knew. The question was, ‘Would he appreciate being kept out of the loop?’ It was as if the townsfolk, with Andrew and Philip’s collaboration, wanted to force his hand. As we made our way back to the hill, we could hear Jesus’ booming voice. There was no way we could interrupt him now. By the time, he had finished, the conspirators would have brought the donkey to him, and Jesus would feel obliged to fulfill Zechariah’s prophecy. If the prophecies about Isaiah’s second Messiah were all true, he must have dreaded this part of the story. In the scope of Jesus’ ministry on earth, it might not have been, in a historical sense, the end, but it was, we would find out, the beginning of the end.

******

When Andrew and Philip, with their cohorts standing eagerly behind them, presented Jesus with the donkey, Peter, James, and John, scolded them for not talking to Jesus first. In fact, all of the disciples, except Andrew and Philip, found the appearance of the donkey unsettling, and we resented the high-handedness of the new members. We were, of course, completely mistaken. To our great surprise, Jesus clasped his hands with delight, walked over and congratulated Andrew, Philip, and the converts. As it turned out, Jesus, though not privy to their plans, approved of their initiative.

“Ah yes,” he exclaimed, studying the beast, “Zechariah would approve. He’s perfect!”

“White as snow,” Andrew chimed.

“Yes, indeed,” Jesus stroked the beast, “a proper beast!”

Taking him by his reins, he led the donkey off a ways and stood there quietly as he munched the grass.

“When have you ever seen snow?” Philip teased Andrew

“… Not often,” he admitted. “It’s the whitest thing I can think of.”

“The donkey isn’t pure white,” I observed, as Jesus stroked him, “but it’s close enough. What I’m worried about is whether it can carry his weight. He’s awfully small. So what if he’s white? I’m aware of Zechariah’s prophecy, too, but Jesus would be better served on a horse.”

“Or a mule,” reminded James.

“This beast is pure,” Jesus replied, laying his face on its cheek. “White isn’t always pure. The priests wear white linen. Are they pure?” “Listen to the Psalmist,” he chimed airily. “Sprinkle me with hyssop and I am pure. Wash me in it and I shall be whiter than snow!”

“What is hyssop?” Philip wrinkled his nose.

“It’s what our ancestors used to wipe away sin,” explained James. “The rite of our faith, however, has replaced such superstition. Baptism is used in place of hyssop oil to symbolically cleanse people of sin.”

Jesus smiled at him with approval, “No one could have said it better!” he exclaimed.

In later years, James, in his knowledge of the Torah, would be the archivist and link to our to our past. Who but James would know that obscure passage? It now seemed to me that James, in his next sentence, had also come close to Jesus current role: he was, after all, the hyssop who would wipe away sin. No one wanted to entertain dark thoughts, especially those dreaded words ‘blood of the lamb,’ but John the Baptist had implied this sacrifice long ago when he cried, “Behold, the Lamb of God.” That hour, as we walked back to Lazarus’ house, Jesus led the donkey solemnly, his eyes looking into the future. Though James and I had been highly suspicious of Andrew, Philip, and the four converts, riding on a donkey had been Jesus’ idea. They were undoubtedly following his instructions. Despite the misgivings and apprehension that must have been swirling in Jesus’ mind, he shared in the festive mood in Lazarus’ house. There wasn’t enough room in the house for very many converts. While the other new members celebrated today in their respective homes, Jehu, Leah, Obid, and Zadok, who organized the coming event, joined Jesus, his disciples, Elias, the merchant, and Lazarus household at a sumptuous table, which included fine wine supplied by the merchant and delicacies sent over by well-wishing converts of the Way. Everyone was excited about the coming event.

As Mary resumed her pose that evening at Jesus feet, listening to every thing he said, Martha continued, with the help of a servant, to cook, serve, and clean up after our meal. In my mind, she, not Mary, had taken the best part. That night as we settled onto our pallets, I heard Jesus personally thank Martha for her dedication. “You have served us well, steadfastly, with little thanks,” I heard him say, as he took her hands. “Ages from now, your words will be spoken in quiet circles. Your fidelity will be remembered. They will know, because of your faith, that Martha was an instrument of the Lord!”
Had I not remembered Jesus promise to return tomorrow after his entry into Jerusalem, his words to Martha would have sounded like a farewell. With everything I heard and seen today weighing heavily in my mind, I lie there in the darkness staring at the ceiling. The shadows above me suited my mood. As my lifelong companions fell asleep one-by-one and I listened to the room erupt into night coughs and snores, I felt very alone. How was it that the other men accepted the dangers that Jesus faced? Despite his promise that he would return to Bethany, would our procession to Jerusalem be a one-way trip? Was I the only one who understood the ultimate meaning: death at the hands of his enemies? The upcoming event had distracted the other disciples from the dangers facing Jesus,…but not me. I could remember every prediction, clue, and subtle forewarning Jesus had given his disciples to prepare them for what lie ahead. My nearly perfect memory, which Jesus once told me was a blessing, had become a curse.

Chapter Forty-Six

Entrance of the King

The procession to Jerusalem would, of course, begin in Bethany. Over half the population of the town would be in the assembly, but the grand entry where Jesus rode on the donkey’s back, would not begin until we were only a short ways from Jerusalem’s gate. To begin with, Jesus pointed out the obvious, the beast wasn’t strong enough for a long journey. For reasons that were never made clear to any of us, Jesus insisted on riding sideways on the beast, with his legs dangling over the side. Peter said this was probably because Jesus wished to lessen the burden on the poor beast. James thought it might be because this was the method his mother used on her ride to Bethlehem. Neither of these reasons made sense to us. Judas, who had been silent for several days, thought the whole affair was stupid. “This isn’t at all how a king should enter Jerusalem!” he grumbled, lagging behind the others.

In spite of Leah’s insistence that Bartholomew not ride his mule, Jesus countermanded her order and let him ride a distance behind us. Though it wasn’t prophesized by Zechariah, the people laid palm branches on the ground in front of Jesus and his donkey and stood on each side them waving the branches as a sign of homage, a tribute James explained, reserved only for victorious kings. It was an incredible sight, both wondrous and troubling to onlookers, as the procession entered the gate and wound its way down Jerusalem’s main street. Because the appearance of him riding behind the procession on his mule might confuse the crowd, Bartholomew climbed off with my help a short ways before entering the gate and walked the rest of the way in.

All of us, except Judas, were caught up by the adulation of the crowd. Joining the original procession, were citizens inside the walls also dazzled by the parade. With Jesus astride his donkey leading his disciples, the crowd shouted his praise. The words I remember the most came from Jairus, one Jesus most enthusiastic supporters.

“Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord,” he cried. “Peace in heaven and glory to God!”

As other voices shouted “Hosanna! Hosanna!” and called out “Here comes the Messiah, King of Kings!, Jesus critics appeared in the audience. Pharisees in the crowd, called out to Jesus, “Rabbi, make them stop shouting. Who are you to be crowned Messiah and King of Kings? But Jesus answered, “If they keep quiet, the very stones will start shouting!”

Before entering the temple as he planned to do, Jesus dismounted the donkey, handing the reins to Leah, and walking on foot with the crowd. I think he might have felt foolish riding on that beast. Following the prophets, especially Isaiah, wasn’t easy. It was particularly difficult this day for Bartholomew, who did poorly on Jerusalem’s crowded street. Not wanting to spoil the effect by remounting his mule, he hobbled along as I led the beast, tapping his cane on the cobblestones as James and I steadied him on each side.

“I never liked this city,” he grumbled. “Give me Capernaum anytime!”

“You should’ve stayed in Bethany.” James said testily. “You can barely walk!”

Those moments, as Bartholomew labored for breath, with hundreds of people following behind us, Jesus strode boldly up to the temple. I was tempted to remain behind with the old man, fearful he would collapse any moment. A young woman, who watched his mule for us, had offered to stay with him during this ordeal, but Bartholomew had decided to complete his pilgrimage to the very end.

As we feared, to the great entertainment from citizens of Bethany and several spectators from town, our experience inside the temple was a repeat of what happened the last time we were here. This time Matthew, Thomas, Simon, and Judas were with us. We weren’t surprised by Jesus’ actions, but they were horrified and fearful as they watched him brandish a whip, that seemed to materialize out of thin air, and begin driving the money changers and sellers of doves through the great bronze doors.

“Out! Out! Get out!” he shouted.

“I can’t believe my eyes!” Simon cried

“Has he lost his wits?” Judas looked around at us. “This is our sacred temple.”

“I could care less about the temple,” Matthew said, gripping his forehead, “Caiaphas won’t tolerate this. They’ll stone him!”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured them light-headedly. “James had the same reaction last time. This time Jesus has a mob on his side. The priests won’t dare laying their hands on him.”

“This happened before?” Judas watched Jesus in disbelief.

Pausing, after driving the money changers out, he overturned their tables, and then turned to overturn the benches of the dove sellers, the next batch to be driven out.

“It is written,” he berated to them, “‘My house will be called a house of prayer,’but you are making it ‘a den of robbers!’”

The crowd cheered Jesus loudly. As a conquering hero, he had vanquished the money-grubbing officials of the temple. Unfortunately, as is it happens when people see money lying on the floor, many of them scooped up the moneychanger’s and dove sellers’ loot. When the great room was cleared of the offending parties, Jesus told those opportunists who filled their pockets to return the coins. Since they had found them on the floor, they threw them back onto the floor. Despite his audience’s disappointment at giving back their coins, Jesus now stepped up on a stool and ordered his disciples to sweep up the money and return it to the tables and benches. It would be up to the money changers and sellers of doves to sort out the coins.

As some of the disciples stood in the background aghast at Jesus’ actions, we, who there the first time he attacked the money changers and animal sellers, were merely annoyed. The temple was not only filled with Jesus supporters, but town idlers, curious to hear the ‘crazy prophet’ from the desert as many saw him, and then, predictably, a sudden stream of blind, lame, deaf, and diseased supplicants wanting to be cured. As always, Jesus reputation as a miracle worker was more spectacular to onlookers than his sterling voice. One-by-one he cured the supplicants, this time leaving out the message and rite of baptism. There was no water for the rite. The crowded condition of the room and the sudden appearance of Pharisees, scribes, and rabbis, not to mention priests, who had been pushed aside by the mob, also made the rite difficult to perform.

There was, of course, an even more significant reason for foregoing the rite that Jesus’ intuitive powers might have sensed. Witnesses came forth that hour during Jesus healings and told us that they had seen men herding the unfortunates into the temple. They were laughing with mirth, as if they had played a great joke. Simon believed it was disgruntled temple agents, like himself, who were not above such tricks, but we would never know who they were or who sent them, only that it had been done maliciously in order to anger the priests and religious leaders that much more.

To soften the spectacle of healing in the temple that was considered blasphemous by some of the priests was the appearance of children brought in by members of the procession as well as spectators from the town. Priests, Pharisees, and scribes had shouted protests to no avail as Jesus continued his healings. When they heard the children shouting in the temple court, “Hosanna to the Son of David,” they were especially indignant.

“Are you listening to those children?” A chief priest stepped forth. “This is blasphemy in the house of God. Stop them, rabbi. They defile our temple with this noise!

“Nonsense,” Jesus rebuked him. “From the lips of children, the Lord called forth praise!”

******

When Jesus led the crowd and his disciples out of the temple, I felt great relief. Due to lack of space inside the temple grounds, the crowd outside was much larger. With such a multitude around us, Jesus was safe from harm. He had achieved a great feat. He had cleansed the temple again and healed a stream of supplicants, which, in the minds of many priests and religious leaders, defiled the temple that much more. It was time to make his getaway, we had thought. As the crowd began to disperse homeward and back to their homes in town, however, he lingered awhile chatting with folks, as if testing the mettle of his adversaries. No sooner had Bartholomew retrieved his mule and mounted it in anticipation of leaving Jerusalem and his disciples looked longingly at the Jerusalem gate, than a committee of priests, Pharisees, and scribes, arrived on the scene. This time there was a delegation of rabbis from nearby Judean towns in their midst. How they found out that Jesus would be visiting the holy city at just this time remained a mystery. The most troubling members of these critics were the appearance, for the first time, of chief priests among their subordinates.

“Master,” Peter said, his eyes wide with fear, “you must leave while you still have supporters. The day grows old. They’re returning home. Soon we’ll be alone against those men. Why do you delay?”

“Yes, Jesus,” I said anxiously, “this is insane!”

Jesus gave both of us a withering stare, but all twelve disciples were in agreement now.

“Where is your faith?” He looked around at us. “Relax men and stop worrying. Get those frightened looks off your faces. It’s not yet time. Tonight we sup in Lazarus’ house.”

Those ominous words, ‘It’s not yet time’ confirmed our fears. Regardless of his reassurance that we would return to Bethany, the appearance of so many adversaries in this city filled us with dread. Elias had warned Jesus not to enter Jerusalem, and here he was, once again in harm’s way. We expected the same redundant questions to be asked and the same old charges of blasphemy and heresy to be leveled against Jesus, but this was a more calculating and patient group of men, probably influenced by the chief priests.

A young Pharisee stepped up first, bowing and grinning amiably. “Teacher,” he began, with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, “you once boasted to a critic that you would not change one bit of our Torah, and that you are, in spite of your heresies, true to our faith and keep God’s laws. So tell us, is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar or not”

It was a trivial point to make, but Jesus humored the man. “Hypocrite! Why do you Pharisees test me? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“It is a mere question,” he explained politely. “Just answer yes or no.”

“Very well.” Jesus snapped a finger. “Show me the tax money.”

A second, older Pharisee, handed Jesus a denarius, his lip curled up in a snarl. Jesus adversaries stood back expectantly, as if expecting to trap him by his words.

“All right.” Jesus looked at them with mirth. “Whose image and inscription is this?”

“You know very well who it is,” the older man replied, “it’s Caesar.”

Jesus said aloud for the benefit of everyone within earshot: “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”

We would have applauded him had we not felt intimidated by a group of Sadducees parting through the line of Pharisees. This group of men were represented by chief priests, whom Simon identified for James and me. That they were here today indicated how serious they took Jesus, and yet Caiaphas had not yet appeared.

“Teacher.” The oldest looking Sadducee stepped forth. “Moses said that when a man dies, having no children, his brother shall marry his wife and raise his offspring. Now there happened to be seven brothers. The first died after he had married, and having no offspring, left his wife to his brother. Likewise the second also, and the third, even to the seventh. Last of all the woman died, too. Therefore answer this question: ‘In the resurrection, whose wife of the seven will she be? For they all had her as a wife.”

Jesus answered them as a group, “Another hypocrite,” he said scornfully. “Look at him! You Sadducees don’t even believe in heaven, yet he asks such a question.” Looking directly at the graybeard then, he turned his inquiry against him:

“Obviously not knowing the Scriptures nor the power of God, you, yourself, step into a trap. For in the resurrection they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are like angels of God in heaven. But concerning the resurrection of the dead, haven’t you read what was spoken to you by God, who said to Moses, ‘I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob’? God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.’” “But what is his to you Sadducees, who don’t believe in angels or heaven?”

At this point, there was movement beyond the smaller assembly around us: a large mob of Jesus supporters had returned. Concerned by his foolishness, they took Peter aside as Jesus took questions from the group. Jesus was explaining the good news to a young scribe that moment, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Why does the master dally?” Jairus looked questioningly Peter, “He said he would return to Bethany. These men want to trap him with his words.”

“I don’t know.” Peter shrugged helplessly. “This group is tame compared to what we encountered before. Perhaps they just want to delay him. I half expect a group of temple guards to show any moment. Praise God, you came back!”

Peter was wrong about his assessment of this bunch. Though biding their time in the background, there were a larger number of priests, including chief priests, in this group. That moment, the young scribe Jesus was counseling, asked with great interest, “Teacher, which is greatest commandments of our laws?”

For the benefit of all within earshot, he replied, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the first of the great commandment. The second great commandment is ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.'” “On these two commandments,” he added, placing a hand on the young man’s head, “hangs the law and wisdom of the prophets. There is no other commandment greater than these.”

Visibly moved, the scribe said to Jesus, “Well said, Teacher. You have spoken the truth, for there is one God, and no other but He. We shall love Him with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all the strength, and we must love our neighbor as ourselves, which is more important than all the burnt offerings and sacrifices.”

“Very good!” Jesus said, clasping his hands with delight, “you answered wisely. “You’re not far from the kingdom of God.”

Smiling with illumination, the brave young man returned to his peers, who grumbled with disapproval at his actions. Clearly, after so many supporters had retraced their steps, Jesus was safe. He now had at an advocate among the scribes. With so many hostile stares aimed at them, his adversaries wouldn’t make a move on him. Knowing that this session wasn’t complete yet, I helped Bartholomew off his mule. He had looked conspicuous sitting on the beast. With the other ten disciples, we found a cool patch of shade by the wall to wait it out. Whispering back and forth excitedly, we expressed our relief that Jairus and brought his fellow citizens back. Only Judas, plunged in inexplicable gloom, was silent. Had we not been overwrought from nervous energy and the procession from Bethany, we might have viewed his moodiness as an ominous sign.

Men and women formed a half-circle around Jesus, facing his adversaries with smoldering eyes. The Pharisees and scribes muttered impotently amongst themselves. As the delegation of rabbis looked on with silent disapproval, the priesthood stood there quietly, just biding their time. After all this time, Jesus adversaries still didn’t know what to make of him. Gathering in a huddle finally, they glared with resentment at Jesus, cowed by the crowd.

“What do you think about the Messiah?” Jesus asked them finally. “Whose son is he—“David or God’s?”

Unanimously, they replied, “The son of David!”

Jesus laughed sourly. “How is then that David, speaking through the Spirit, calls him ‘Lord’? For he says, ‘The Lord God said to my Lord: ‘Sit at my right hand until I put your enemies under your feet.’ If then David calls him ‘Lord,’ how can he be his son?”

Not one of his critics could answer this question. The implications, which went over the heads of most of the listeners, including most of his disciples, was that David was referring to two divine beings, which was understood by many of his disciples and followers now as God the Father and God the Son. To dispute David’s psalm, when the meaning could be interpreted no other way, would be to go against the Torah and Israel’s greatest king. For this reason, they remained silent, as Jesus waited for more reaction.

Then, looking around authoritatively, he spoke to the crowd and his disciples, saying, “Behold, the Pharisees, scribes, and priests, who sit in Moses’ seat! The scribes, priests, and Pharisees are the official interpreters of the laws of Moses. So practice and obey whatever they tell you, but don’t follow their example. For they don’t practice what they teach. They crush people with unbearable religious demands and never lift a finger to ease the burden. Everything they do is for show. On their arms they wear extra wide prayer boxes with scripture verses inside, and they wear robes with extra long tassels. And they love to sit at the head of tables at banquets and in the seats of honor in the synagogues. They love to receive respectful greetings as they walk in the marketplaces, and to be called Pharisees, rabbis, scribes, or priests. But don’t call them teachers. You have only one teacher: the Messiah. And don’t address anyone as ‘Father,’ for only God in heaven is your spiritual Father. You are in God’s eyes equals: the greatest among you shall be your servant, whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.”

Addressing his adversaries now, he glanced at each group—Pharisees, scribes and priests—in the audience, using an opening phrase he had used before for his accusations.

“Woe to you, Pharisees, scribes, and priests—hypocrites! You shut the gates of heaven in people’s faces. You won’t go in yourselves, and yet you don’t let others enter.

“Woe to you, Pharisees, scribes, and priests—hypocrites! You cross land and sea to make one convert, then you turn that person into twice the child of hell as yourselves!

“Woe to you, Pharisees, scribes, and priests—hypocrites! You devour widows’ houses, and for a pretense make long prayers. Because of these actions you’ll receive greater condemnation.

“Woe to you, Pharisees, scribes, and priests—hypocrites! You say, ‘If anyone swears by the temple, it means nothing; but anyone who swears by the gold of the temple is bound by that oath.’ Which is greater: the gold, or the temple that makes the gold sacred? You say, ‘If anyone swears by the altar, it means nothing; but anyone who swears by the gift on the altar is bound by that oath.’ For which is more important—the gift on the altar or the altar that makes the gift sacred? When you swear ‘by the altar,’ in fact, you’re swearing by it and by everything on it. When you swear ‘by the temple,’ you are swearing by it and by God, who lives in it. And when you swear by the Kingdom of Heaven,’ you’re swearing by the throne of God and by God, who sits on the throne.

“Woe to you, Pharisees, scribes, and priests—hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cumin, but you’ve neglected the more important matters of the law: justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former. You strain at a gnat but swallow a camel. You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but the inside of the cup and dish is full of greed and self-indulgence. First clean the inside of the cup and dish and the outside also will be clean. For you are like whitewashed tombs—beautiful on the outside but filled on the inside with dead men’s bones. Outwardly you look like righteous men, but inwardly your hearts are filled with lawlessness, hypocrisy, and greed.

“Woe to you, Pharisees, scribes, and priests—hypocrites! For you build tombs for the prophets your ancestors killed, and you decorate the monuments of godly people your ancestors destroyed. Then you say, ‘If we had lived in the days of our ancestors, we would never have joined in the killing the prophets. But in saying that, you testify against yourselves that you are indeed the descendants of those who murdered the prophets. Go ahead and finish what your ancestors started. Snakes! Sons of vipers! How will you escape the judgment of hell?”

On what would have been a perfect point to end his attack, Jesus paused but then, with renewed energy, continued to chastise the Pharisees, scribes, and priests for not leading the people in righteousness instead of merely ritual and points of the law. Blaming them not only for the people’s ignorance and misguidance, he accused them of abetting in the murder of the prophets, from Isaiah to Zechariah, which in the minds of his adversaries was the most libelous of his attacks.

Had there not been so many advocates in the audience, this last charge might have gotten him stoned. Though it made us cringe with apprehension, it was a clever ending to his attack on the Pharisees, scribes, and priests. It wouldn’t have been a good idea to merely mention Isaiah being killed. Isaiah, after all, had prophesized about two different Messiahs: ann heir of David and a spiritual savior. By mentioning Zechariah, however, he reminded his adversaries of his validity as the Chosen One and Messiah, for Zechariah, more than any of the prophets, most clearly promised a savior and how he would enter through Jerusalem’s gates. How could his accusers argue with this? It must have seemed obvious even to the priests, who didn’t believe in a Messiah, that Jesus had fulfilled prophecy.

At that point, we thought he might be finished. What else could he launch at his enemies worse than what was said? But he wasn’t finished at all. For a few moments, he chastised the rabbi delegation, blaming them for being poor shepherds to their flocks, and not standing as a bulwark of faith between the Pharisees of their towns and themselves. As the Pharisees, scribes, and priests had misled the people, the rabbis, who should have been the people’s spokesmen, let it happen. They, like the other religious leaders, had no right to be called teachers. Instead of shepherds, Jesus pointed accusingly, they became empty mouthpieces, bread without yeast.

By now everyone like Bartholomew’s mule and Jesus donkey were chomping at the bit, anxious to go home and put Jerusalem behind them. And yet Jesus had something more to share; a message that many uneducated people in the audience didn’t understand. It must have been pure revelation pouring into his head. What was clear to most of his disciples as well as the religious leaders was that Jesus was speaking of the end times. As he had earlier when we visited Jerusalem, he began by predicting the destruction of the temple but this time in the context of doomsday prophecy. For the first time in his ministry, he referred to the Christ, the Greek name for the Messiah.

“Look!” he pointed at the temple. “Remember it well. Truly I say to you, not one stone of it shall be left upon another. All the stones shall be thrown down.”

“What are you saying, master?” Peter came forward excitedly. “Are you speaking of the future?”

“Yes,” Jesus turned to his disciples. “Take heed that no one deceives you. For many will come in my name, saying, ‘I am the Christ,’ and will deceive many. And you will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but don’t be troubled. All these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. And there will be famines, pestilences, and earthquakes in various places. All these are the beginning of sorrows. Then they will deliver you up to tribulation and kill you, and you will be hated by all nations for my name’s sake. And then many will be offended, will betray and hate one another, and many false prophets will rise up and deceive many. And because lawlessness will abound, the love of many will grow cold. But he who endures to the end shall be saved. And this gospel of the kingdom will be preached in all the world as a witness to all the nations, and then the end will come. Therefore when you see the ‘abomination of desolation,’ spoken of by Daniel the prophet, standing in the holy place, then let those who are in Judea flee to the mountains. Let him who is on the housetop not go down to take anything out of his house. And let him who is in the field not go back to get his clothes. But woe to those who are pregnant and to those who are nursing babies in those days! And pray that your flight may not be in winter or on the Sabbath. For then there will be great tribulation such as has not been since the beginning of the world until this time, nor ever shall be. And unless those days were shortened, no flesh would be saved; but for the elect’s sake those days will be shortened. Then if anyone says to you, ‘Look, here is the Christ!’ don’t believe it. For false christs and false prophets will rise and show great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect.

“I have warned you beforehand,” he said to the crowd. “If I say to you, ‘Look, he’s in the desert!’ don’t go out; or ‘Look, he’s in the inner rooms!’ don’t believe it. For as the lightening comes from the east and flashes to the west, so also will be the coming of the Son of Man. For wherever the carcass is, there the eagles will be gathered together. Immediately after the tribulation of those days, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light; the stars will fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then the sign of the Son of Man will appear in heaven, and then all the tribes of the earth will mourn, and they will see the Son of Man coming on the clouds of heaven with power and great glory. And he will send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they will gather together his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other. Now learn this parable from the fig tree: When its branch has already become tender and puts forth leaves, you know that summer is near. So you also, when you see all these things, know that it is near at the very gates! Verily, I say unto you, this generation will by no means pass away till all these things take place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away. But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, but my Father only. As the days of Noah were, so also will the coming of the Son of Man be. For as in the days before the flood, they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day that Noah entered the ark, and didn’t know until the flood came and took them all away, so it was also be when the Son of Man comes. Two men will be in the field: one will be taken and the other left. Two women will be grinding at the mill: one will be taken and the other left. Watch therefore, for you do not know what hour your Lord is coming. But know this, that if the master of the house had known what hour the thief would come, he would have watched and not allowed his house to be broken into. Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you don’t expect. It is like a man going to a far country, who left his house and gave authority to his servants, and to each his work, and commanded the doorkeeper to watch. Watch therefore, for you do not know when the master of the house is coming—in the evening, at midnight, at the crowing of the rooster, or in the morning—coming quickly, without warning, to find you sleeping instead of standing watch!”

This time, the religious leaders seemed puzzled, probably wondering if this message was aimed at them. This passage which Matthew, Mark, and Luke recorded was, Luke believed, meant for the world, but in the parochial minds of the Pharisees, scribes, priests, and rabbis that day, it was a peculiar blend of Daniel’s prophecies and Jesus own revelation. The only element of his speech, the destruction of the temple, which would have angered the priests especially, had been buried in the doomsday message.

“Rabbi,” one lone voice—a young priest, called out. “When will this happen: tomorrow, next week, a year, in ten years? How will we know?”

“I told you,” Jesus replied wearily, “watch for the signs!”

There was grumbling among the religious group as well as the crowd. Nevertheless, when Jesus glanced back at us, we pleaded, in shrill whispers, for him to stop. If what Jairus and some of the other followers believed was true, they wouldn’t dare touch Jesus after such an entry and display, especially with his support from the crowd, but if they were wrong, as we feared, what Jesus just said might have pushed them too far. There were, for that matter, still assassins with daggers and marksmen with bows and arrows. Jesus had never said he was impervious to death, and had, in fact, predicted it twice so far. Because of the Lord’s protection, he had been able to dodge death. He had avoided death in Nazareth and, by his God-given powers, shielded us from Barabbas gang, but he was still a flesh and blood man.

Finally consenting to our request, he led his disciples and the multitude back out the gate. This time, he guided, and didn’t ride, the donkey out of Jerusalem, with one of Bethany’s children on its back. It reminded all of us of Jesus love for little children. As the fisherman walked beside the Shepherd, Bartholomew rode his mule alongside of James, Thomas, Matthew, Simon, and I at the end of the procession. As we wound our way toward Bethany, I looked back from a rise in the road to see hundreds of men, women, and children following Jesus. I was, as we trekked home, alerted to a change in the crowd. Before, as Jesus entered the city on his donkey, the people had cheered and applauded their Messiah and king; now many of them seemed disappointed he didn’t make some kind of stand greater than what he had done. Judas, who trailed many cubits behind our small group, shared their disappointment. In his words earlier, as Jesus was speaking, “Words don’t replace actions!” Jesus could have, with his power, he believed, taken the holy city, reclaimed Israel’s glory, and swept the Romans from our land. It had been such an outrageous thing for him to whisper such discontent, but we shrugged it off. Now we could hear him grumbling aloud, “Such a waste!…. Such a waste!”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Return to Bethany

On the road again, out of earshot of Jesus and the fishermen, we spoke our minds. Judas, who was out of hearing range from us, was among the topics covered by our group.

“What was all that about?” Thomas motioned with his thumb.

“You mean the doomsday prophecy?” answered James.

“Whatever you call it.” Thomas shrugged his shoulders. “It was scary!”

“Not really.” Bartholomew looked down from his mule. “Attacking those graybeards, scribes, and priests was much worse.”

“Some of the doomsday prophecy was from Daniel,” James explained. “Much of it is revelation, when God’s in Jesus’ head. I don’t know why he calls himself the Son of Man.”

“So he’s talking about himself,” Matthew nodded. “Now that’s scary! Jesus says the strangest things!”

“He was that way as a child,” I said thoughtfully. “Sometimes it irritated our parents. All of sudden, he’d begin jabbering about something. James and I didn’t pay attention back then. We do now!”

“Yeah,” James laughed softly, “we, his siblings, thought he was addled. Our brothers and sisters still do. I still don’t think Mama has accepted who he is. How could she believe he’s the Son of God? She gave birth to him. It still boggles my mind.”

“Mine too,” I confessed.

For a short while, we walked in silence contemplating this awesome fact. Who other than God’s son would prophesize the end times? We had almost forgotten Judas’ outrageous words, until we heard him arguing with himself. It was at times as if there were two Judases: one dark and sinister and another merely quarrelsome, a nuisance always saying silly things. This afternoon, as we approached Bethany, he appeared dark and sinister.

“Hey you!” Simon called through cupped hands. “Yes, you!”

“At least one of you!” taunted Matthew.

“Who’re you talking to?” Simon sneered. “Is it that demon again?”

“Ho-ho,” muttered Thomas, “look at him carry on!”

“Simon,” Bartholomew warned, as we waited for him to catch up. “The last time you teased Judas, he attacked you. Don’t get him riled!”

“Nah!” I waved dismissively. “He’s always riled about something!”

“It’s his demons,” quipped Matthew. “He needs a cleansing!”

“Demon depart!” Thomas twittered his fingers.

“Stop it!” barked Bartholomew. “The man’s not right in the head!”

Turning his mule, the old man, trotted back to the group. As Judas approached, he dragged his feet, muttering incoherently under his breath. Looking down with pity or disgust, Bartholomew shook his head.

“Leave him alone,” he motioned disdainfully, “he’s a lost cause.”

“You’re telling me,” Matthew rolled my eyes. “He’s in another world.”

“Judas showed great disrespect back there!” James exclaimed. “He made faces, shook his head, and muttered as Jesus talked.”

“I saw him.” I frowned. “He wants a warrior prince.” “Tell me,” I looked accusingly at Judas as he approached. “What did you mean, ‘Such a waste?’ You kept saying it. Did you expect Jesus to reclaim David’s throne?”

Looking up, Judas expression changed from glum to resentful. “Why not?” He tossed his head back. “He could do both. All that talk about end times. Who cares? It’s not the future Jesus should worry about. He must seize the moment! That stuff made no sense to the crowd.”

“He’s speaking for the ages,” James said intuitively. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”

“Now that really doesn’t make sense!” Judas slapped his forehead “I can understand the others saying such things—they’re stupid, but you’re a scribe James. You know better!”

“What?” cried Simon. “You, who can’t see what’s in front of your nose, call us stupid?”

“Yes, you’re all stupid.” He waved his arms. “If Jesus is the Messiah, he can’t fail. If he’s the Son of God, he can’t be killed!”

“Well, it’s true,” Thomas looked back at us. “Jesus listens to God. God might just change his mind!”

“Fool!” spat James. “Don’t play into his argument. Neither Jesus nor God change their minds. When will you learn?”

“For shame, Judas!” I wrung my finger. “You’ve never understood him. He says many strange things. James’s right; he doesn’t have to make sense. We don’t have to understand him all the time. God works in mysterious ways, he told us. He must do what his father says, and he has been very clear about who he is and what God wants him to do. Why can’t’ you accept him for who he is: a savior, not a conqueror—a man of peace?”

“I accept for what he should be.” He gave us a defiant look. “I know exactly who he is, and I don’t believe his father wants him to be killed. Why would he give him all his powers just to be struck down? It defies all logic and common sense!”

As Judas mumbled to himself, Simon once more spoke our minds.

“Listen, Judas,” he exclaimed, pointing toward Jerusalem. “Stop complaining. If you’re so unhappy with Jesus, why don’t you leave? This is all such a torment for you, so why draw it out. You’ve never believed as we do! Go back to where you came from! Just leave!”

Judas red hair glistened like a torch over his freckled face. His crimson beard that came to a point below his chin, did, in fact, remind me of Pan—the classic Greek satyr. All that was missing were the satyr’s horns and hooves in place of feet. Catching the light of the setting sun, his green eyes once again flashed with rage at our scorn. Falling back on the road again, he remained within hearing range. We could still hear him muttering to himself. I hoped that moment, despite Jesus request of me, Judas would, as an ill wind, fall back further and further and just go away. I recalled with foreboding, when he arrived shortly after the Satan’s appearancce on the road. From the very beginning, his presence portended evil. Where did this strange man come from? I wondered that moment…. No one ever thought to ask.

“He’s deranged,” Thomas repeated, “mad as a bat!”

“Or just plain evil.” Simon sighed.

“No, it’s deeper than that,” James said thoughtfully. “Look at the way his eyes dart and nostrils flare. He reminds me of that Greek demigod with horns on his head. What was his name?”

“You’re right,” I replied with a gasp. “I saw pictures of him in my travels. He looks like Pan!”

“Yeah,” Simon agreed. “That fellow with the goat-like body and horns.”

“No,” Matthew shook his head, “it’s like I keep telling you men. We’ve seen enough of them before at Jesus’ healings. That man’s possessed!”

“Mad as a bat, he is!” repeated Thomas. “Like he has the biting disease.”

“Mad am I? Possessed? Deranged you say? You’ll see! You’ll all see!” he shrieked, spittle flying out his mouth.

For a brief moment, my mind had flashed back to my childhood, and I was tempted to make the sign to ward off the evil eye, but then, as it so happened in the past, Judas expression changed completely. In place of a maniacal stair, his face softened. The eerie sparkle in his eyes disappeared, replace by an amiable glow, and a cheery smile replaced the snarl on his lips. He was the ‘other’ Judas now.

“Whoa!” Bartholomew muttered, drawing back his reins.

“See what I mean,” Matthew whispered to us. “He’s possessed!”

“I see,” I replied light-headedly. “He’s back to normal. Whatever that is!”

******

After catching up with the multitude ahead of us, we walked in silence with Judas once again in our midst as if nothing had happened. I wanted to talk to Jesus about this, but I already knew what he would say. Though Judas behavior had actually worsened, the situation was similar to what happened before when Jesus listened patiently to my complaint then ordered me to be patient with the errant disciple. I understood that Judas was, as Jesus implied, part of the plan. I shuddered to think of what that was.

In addition to our concern for Judas duel personalities, we were worried about the mood of the crowd. Was it merely exhaustion that was causing them to grumble and groan amongst themselves or had there been a ripple of discontent growing since we left Jerusalem? Discreetly, James and discussed this on the road. Was it his final enigmatic message before the temple that disturbed them? Judas was probably correct, we agreed; it’s doubtful if very many of them understood his doomsday forecast. Or was it more basic than this? We wondered. Had most of them, like Judas expected a conquering Messiah as well as a savior?… The mood of the crowd had changed drastically from the buoyant multitude leaving Bethany. Now as we returned, the crowd dispersed quickly to their houses. Even the zealous Jairus was in a hurry to get home. Jesus, who had warned us several times about the fickleness of our people, seemed to take it stride.

Contrasting the travel worn and moody crowd, was the exuberance of Martha and Mary. Lazarus, who after returning from the dead, would never be the same, managed to greet us warmly. We washed ourselves with heated well water and replaced our soiled garments with clean tunics and pants. Despite Jesus unpretentious nature and homespun tunic and robe, there was no mistaking who sat in Lazarus house. It weighed heavily in the large room, and yet there was, aside from the Shema and prayer of thanksgiving given by Jesus before our meal, little formality in the Son of God. We were, because of the emotional as well as physical exhaustion suffered today, especially tired. The deeper meanings of it all escaped us as we ate our dinner and looked ahead to a night’s rest. While Martha, with her servant’s help, rushed around as a perfect host, Mary returned in her role as adoring admirer, listening to Jesus give an account of what happened today. During dinner, he presented it simply without garnishments. He didn’t explain his final speech to Martha, Mary, and Lazarus. They might not have understood it anyhow. James and I scarcely did ourselves. What Jesus did take time to explain was what he had planned tomorrow. He would gather the townsfolk one more time before returning to Jerusalem, for his final words. We already knew this, but the women were alarmed by Jesus’ words ‘one more time’ and ‘final words.’

“Oh, Jesus,” Mary asked, wringing her hands, “what do you mean?”

“Yes, master,” Martha leaned forward. “Are you going somewhere else?”

Jesus looked squarely at her. “Do you remember what I said before I raised Lazarus from the dead?”

“You are the resurrection and the life…” Martha began to recite.

“Then you understand why I go to Jerusalem,” he interrupted gently. “I follow the will of my Father. My life has led me to this point.”

Martha was, like everyone else, in denial. The look of alarm on Mary’s and her faces deepened, and yet they didn’t ask for clarification of those ominous words. Lazarus, however, knew what he meant, even more than Jesus’ disciples. I could see it in his eyes…. He had, after all, been resurrected, living proof of Jesus’ assurance.

That night everyone quickly found their pallets and, with little idle chatter this time, tumbled into that dark abyss called sleep.

******

When I awakened the next morning, a troubling nightmare, similar to previous dreams, surfaced in my head. Once again it was a surreal and unsettling scene. I emerged from a dark grove of trees. Looking out passed a shadowy group on onlookers, I saw three crosses silhouetted against the sky. A pale moon shined in the heavens, as a beacon for the scene. Shadows from both the onlookers and crosses stretched toward me, like a mirror image reflection. I tried to move beyond the edge of the grove, but my body now seemed frozen in this spot. I heard weeping and muffled voices below the crosses. It seems like such an obvious set of symbols to me now, but on that morning, only a day before Jesus last night, I couldn’t imagine such a dreadful thing happening.

For the first time in many months, I appeared to be the first one awake at such an hour. Judging by the amber light streaming into the room from a window, it was early dawn. Recalling those few times in my childhood when Jesus and I walked in the hills of Nazareth, after first light, I felt blessed. Perhaps, I told myself, tiptoeing passed the sleeping hulks of my companions, I’ll tell Jesus about my dream. Opening and then closing door ever so carefully, to avoid its irritating squeak, I slipped out into Bethany, a strange, overwhelming calm replacing the dark imagery in my mind.

As I searched the street of the sleeping town, I saw a dog trotting toward me. I don’t know why dogs were looked down upon by Pharisees and priests. I had always loved these friendly beasts. This dog, however, was acting very strangely. The closer it came to me the more I realized there was something dreadfully wrong. Once again, as in my dream, I froze—this time on purpose. I didn’t know whether to run for it or stay put. According to some thinkers, animals such as dogs and wolves were more likely to attack a fleeing prey. This seemed like a stupid idea to me, especially when dealing with hungry beasts. The dog moving crazily toward me wasn’t hunger; he seemed angry…. mad!

“Don’t move!” commanded a familiar voice. “He has the biting disease.”

“Jesus, save me!” I screamed.

Bounding in wide strides past me, Jesus headed straight toward the dog.

“Stop!” he shouted.

That was all he said. He must have prayed inside his head, for suddenly, from a mad beast, the dog sat down before Jesus. Despite its foam-flecked muzzle, there was a placid look on his face. With the corner of his robe, Jesus wiped its muzzle clean, knelt down, and began petting the dog.

“Jude,” he announced blithely, “come here. There’s something I want to show you.”

“Oh, I saw it,” my voice quivered. “I almost wet myself, Jesus. That couldn’t be the same dog.

“It is.” Jesus motioned cheerily. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful beast?”

“Our rabbi in Nazareth said they were unclean,” I replied light-headedly.

“Nonsense,” Jesus waved dismissively. “Dogs make the best pets. They’re loyal and, if trained properly, serve their master better than any of God’s beasts.” “Here,” he said, taking my hand, “stroke him. He won’t bite you; not now!”

“Well,” I said obligingly, “you cured people of the biting disease, why not dogs?”

Rising up and looking down at us, he said almost reverently. “This is a very special dog, Jude. This shall be your dog!”

“My dog?” I looked up in disbelief. “Are you serious, Jesus? How will that look for us to bring a dog into Jerusalem? What will I do with a dog?”

“Oh, I’m not suggesting you bring him there,” Jesus laughed softly. “He’ll stay here in Bethany. This dog will make a fine traveling companion for you, Jude. Did you know that Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob had dogs? Dogs were not only faithful guards and pets, they helped protect their sheep.”

“Really?” I muttered, cringing as the beast licked my hand. “What if he gets sick again?”

“Listen to me, Jude.” He knelt down to ruffle the animal’s neck. “That won’t ever happen again. This is true for the people I cured of this disease. The blind, mute, and lame have been restored permanently, so it shall be for them.”

“You’re saying this dog is indestructible?” I said in disbelief.

“No more than you,” he answered carefully. “You’ll live a long life Jude, and so will your dog. Right now, he’ll remain here. If Lazarus doesn’t want to take care of him, I’ll find someone in town.”

As always, Jesus enthusiasm was contagious. How could I reject his offer?

“All right.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ll visit him when I come to town, whenever that is. I don’t know when that will be, Jesus. Will he remember me? It might be a long time.”

“Oh, he’ll remember you,” he said reassuringly. “This is a special dog. Until you return, Bethany will be his home. Until that time, you should spend as much time as you can with him. He’ll be waiting for you. On those lonely nights when it’s just you, the stars, and the Lord above, he’ll give you great comfort. This will always be your dog! ”

“Hmm…,” I warmed up to the idea, “what shall I call him? He shall need a fine name.”

“Who is your favorite prophet?” he smiled.

“You!” I chimed.

“I mean ones of old,” explained Jesus. “This is no ordinary dog.”

“Will, Zechariah is too long name.” I pursed my lips. “Isaiah sounds strange to the tongue…. Let’s see, how about something short and easy to say, like Micah?”

Jesus now recited from Micah’s scroll: “But you, Bethlehem, though small among the cities of Judah, out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from everlasting.” “A perfect name, Jude!” he declared, rising to his feet. “Now walk a few cubits toward the house and say his name!” He pointed at the dog.

“Micah!” I called as I walked away.

Running happily toward me, he leaped, frolicked, and licked my fingers, as though

he had known me all his life.

******

The miracle he performed for Micah for my benefit might be considered trivial by strict standards, but I was delighted with my new friend. During this diversion, I had almost forgotten my nightmare. Then, as we meandered back to the house with Micah trotting behind us, it came back like a dark wave.

“Jesus,” I blurted, “I had that dream again!”

“The one with the three crosses?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes,” I exhaled, “that’s the one.”

“What’s that doing in your head?” he mumbled aloud. “I shall pray on it.” “Like the previous promise you made to me.” He glanced at me thoughtfully. “You mustn’t mention that to the others, not even James. All right?”

“All right,” I replied with a frown, “but should I worry? That’s not prophecy, is it? Why does it keep popping up when I sleep?”

“Jude.” He shook his head vehemently. “No one knows the mind of God. He guides my destiny, and he guides yours. You’ve had that dream before, haven’t you? It’s upsetting, I know, but you’ve had many strange dreams.”

“That’s true.” I nodded with resignation. “I had some awful ones. Once I dreamed I was being eaten by lions. When you pray, though, please ask God to blot that one from my mind.”

“I can’t control God’s mind,” explained Jesus. “You should try to have pleasant thoughts when you retire, Jude. If you dwell on darkness while awake, you’ll likely have dark dreams.”

Jesus shared his views on the causes of nightmares, a completely unreligious, almost scientific analysis of bad dreams. There were, he believed, aside from good dreams, which were influenced generally by happy thoughts, many kinds of nightmares, such as fear of falling, fear of being chased by wild beasts, fear of drowning, and so forth, but all them had one thing in common: dark and negative thoughts. Fear of failure, being rejected, or left alone can cause dreams in which you fail, are rejected, or are treated as a castaway. If you are afraid of heights, being in a small space, or drowning, these are also likely to become nightmares, in which you might fall, be buried alive, or find yourself on a sinking ship. This talk caused me to shudder. My dream of the three crosses, in fact, didn’t seem quite so bad. As we approached the house, discussing the nature of dreams, Peter emerged, shielding his eyes from the rising sun.

“What is that?” he muttered. “Is that a dog?”

“Yes, indeed,” Jesus answered cheerfully, “his name is Micah. He’s Jude’s dog.”

“Jude has a dog now?” Peter scratched his head. “What’re we gonna do with a dog?”

“Until Jude goes out on his own, he shall be our mascot!” Jesus paused, as Micah ran into the house.

“Get that filthy beast out of my house!” Martha shrieked.

“He’s our mascot now,” explained Peter, “he’s also Jude’s pet.”

“Well Jude can tie him to a tree or something,” grumbled Mary. “Dogs are unclean!”

“Not Micah.” Jesus reached down to pat his head. “He won’t be a bother. He’ll need a home for a short while. If you think he’s a burden, someone in town can take care of him.”

“Well,” Lazarus said hesitantly, “… I guess it won’t hurt.”

“Ugh!” Mary made a face. “They have fleas and catch diseases.”

“Not Micah,” came Jesus refrain. “He’s a special breed.”

“What about food?” Thomas scrutinized him. “That’s a fair-sized mutt. What’ll he eat?”

“The Lord will provide,” chimed Jesus.

Had I not caught his wink, I might have thought he was being naïve. Lazarus, who owed Jesus his life, though reluctant, had agreed. Regardless of the details, it had been settled. Jesus would say nothing more on the subject. When I recalled the mad creature charging at me moments ago, I felt light-headed again. As I sat down to wait for breakfast, he nestled beside me, his head cradled in my lap, the picture of man’s most faithful friend. He had immediately, after his miraculous cure, won my heart. To my delight, most of the disciples quickly warmed up to Micah, too. Peter admitted that a dog would be a good companion on a journey. Andrew, John, and his brother James, who agreed with most of what Peter believed, said much the same thing. Simon and Matthew, however, didn’t have to say anything. There actions spoke more loudly than the fishermen’s words. Sitting down in front of Micah and me, they stroked the beast continually. Lazarus, unlike his sisters, despite his initial reluctance, also took a liking to him, too, and Bartholomew, who had a mule, thought it would be a great joke to ride up to the temple with Micah yapping at his heels. Everyone agreed, however, that Micah couldn’t go with them to Jerusalem. There would be enough controversy with Jesus’ return without that. Though he would be my dog, Philip suggested light-heartedly, the rest of them would be his uncles and aunts and everyone’s our mascot when we visited Lazarus house. His very name was a reminder of Jesus’ purpose in the world. Who could not love my dog?

After Jesus told them of his healing, everyone marveled at Micah, touching and patting him as if he was a sacred thing.

“I’m getting one of these,” Matthew finally uttered. “This doesn’t look like a mutt. I’ve seen this breed before.”

“He’s a Canaanite dog,” declared Jesus. “Long before our people stole the land from the Canaanites, this beast protected their sheep. Now he protects ours. This dog is intelligent, faithful, and brave. Most of the dogs of Israel have descended from this original breed.”

“How do you know so much?” Mary batted her dark eyes.

“I pay attention to men and listen to God,” replied Jesus. “Knowing is never as important as doing. Action is more important than good intentions.”

It appeared, thanks to Mary, that Jesus had gotten completely off the subject, but then he brought up the subject of Micah again to finish his point.

“Behold, his innocence.” He looked around at us. “The dog obeys without question. He heard my voice, but he also listens to Jude. So it is, he listens to both of us, but Jude is his master. All the wisdom you have should never question the master’s voice. The good intentions of people mean nothing to God. When he calls, you must go! What he commands, you must do: through water, wind, and fire, you must endure.”

Not even Mary failed to get the message. Jesus had just reminded us, using Micah to make his point, that we must obey unquestioningly. Where he led us, we must follow, and that included Jerusalem. With this food for thought, as we ate our breakfast, we were left with the uneasy feeling once again that soon we would be on our own. I sensed this feeling in all twelve disciples, even Judas.

******

Soon, after breakfast, Jesus sent Thomas to alert Jairus, the unofficial leader of Bethany’s converts and supporters. Jairus, his wife, and son, appeared in front of Lazarus’ house, with a large assembly of the town, but not nearly the crowd we had before. Undaunted by this apparent setback, Jesus gathered everyone on the same hill where he stood before and gave his sermon. His introduction started off with what seemed like a continuance of the doomsday forecast he gave the crowd in Jerusalem:
“A day will come upon you when your enemies will build an embankment around you, surround you and close you in on every side, and level you and your children to the ground, and they will not leave in you one stone upon another, because you didn’t know the time of your visitation. Be alert and watch. The kingdom of heaven shall be likened to ten virgins who took their lamps and went out to meet the bridegroom. Now five of them were wise, and five were foolish. Those who were foolish took their lamps but took no oil with them, while the wise took oil in their vessels with their lamps. While the bridegroom was delayed, they all slumbered and slept. Then at midnight a cry was heard: ‘Behold, the bridegroom is coming; go out to meet him!’ Then all the virgins arose and trimmed their lamps. And the foolish said to the wise virgins, ‘Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.’ But the wise answered, saying, ‘No, because there might not be enough for us. You can go buy oil for yourselves.’ And when they went to buy, the bridegroom came, so that those who were ready went with him to the wedding, and the door was shut. Not long afterwards, the other virgins also came, saying, ‘Lord, Lord, open the door for us!’ But he answered and said, ‘Verily, I say unto you, I know you not!

“Therefore keep watch,” Jesus said to the crowd. “You neither know the day nor the hour in which the Son of Man comes.”

Unlike his sermon in Jerusalem, which elicited dumbfounded looks on his audience, this group appeared to understand his parable. This struck me as peculiar. Jesus parable of the ten virgins, though easier to follow as a story line than his prophecies in Jerusalem, could be interpreted two different ways: it could be understood as either a personal warning for people to be ready, as believers, for Judgment Day or a prophecy of Jesus’ own return at some future date, a notion that even his disciples couldn’t comprehend. After overhearing some of the comments of Bethany’s citizens, I was certain they believed in a personal interpretation of the parable, which corresponded to traditional Pharisaic religion: you die, you’re buried, and, at Judgment Day either go to heaven or hell. Of course, all of the disciples had heard Jesus talk strangely before and sensed a deeper meaning. Unfortunately, it was a notion too terrible to ponder. In order for Jesus to return he would, of course, have to die and be resurrected himself, but how could that be? Was he not the Son of God and the Messiah? Why, asked the fishermen, did he have to stray into such deep waters? Now, as I write my chronicles, I know why. It is clear to me that his earlier prophecies in Jerusalem and what he told his audience the next day in Bethany were connected and, by Jesus own words, a forecast for a sequence of events leading to his return.

This, however, is hindsight. After reading Matthew’s scroll, which were among the apostle’s writings collected by Luke and talking to John, the only disciple of Jesus other than myself still alive, I have more insight into what Jesus meant. John claimed to be having strange dreams, some of which sounded like Jesus’ gloomy vision, and yet he couldn’t interpret them. What I’ve heard so far from him made little sense. What he did explain to me was the prophecies of Daniel, which seemed to point to the dark days Jesus foretold. Today I understand some of the terms Jesus used in his sermon in Jerusalem, and yet I’m still not clear on the picture painted by his words. I wonder whether Daniel even understood what he wrote and if John wasn’t finally going mad. I can’t ask Daniel—he’s dead, but when I tried finding out about John’s dreams, he threw his hands up, pointed heavenward, and said, “Ask God!” From what I have gathered after reading Luke’s scroll, all of the prophets, including Daniel, Isaiah, Zechariah, and Micah, who prophesied Jesus’ coming, didn’t interpret their visions but merely reported the revelations they received. During his lifetime on earth, this might have been true for Jesus too. Reduced to their simplest meaning, the Jerusalem prophecies could be understood at face value: one day the temple would be desecrated (the abomination of desolation), signaling the beginning of a great tribulation that would test the remnant of believers in an evil world. The parable of the Ten Virgins, which he also intended for his Bethany audience, was merely warning for believers and those lukewarm to be ready for that dreadful day. The five virgins, who kept their lamps lighted were saved by their faith, but those whose lamps were unlit were doomed with the rest of this wicked world. So the question remains even now: Were these messages intended for this generation or a future generation as yet unborn? I can’t speak for the other disciples. Except John and myself, they’re all dead. Poor John appears to be addled in the head. Matthew, for that matter, wrote down Jesus Jerusalem prophecies and his Parables of the Ten Virgins, as he remembered them, but I doubt he understood them anymore than John, who claimed to be getting revelations from God. Along with the question of Jesus timing, there’s also the question of his intent. I’m still not certain if Jesus was, as Daniel, simply preparing believers for hard times directly ahead or preparing them for a distant time. I have seen believers greatly persecuted in the reign of Nero, but Nero, along with his henchmen, are dead. Now that the civil war is over, Emperor Vespasian appears to be a tolerant ruler. At least for a while, though an outlawed sect, we members of the Way are no longer hunted down and killed on sight. But Vespasian has only been on the throne for a short while; things could change. Moreover, as I write this account, Jesus, my brother and our Savior, hasn’t returned as he implied in his prophecies. So what did he mean? I’m an old man now. The more I ponder this mystery, the more it becomes apparent I won’t see his second coming. As difficult as it is for me to accept, it appears as if Jesus was talking about events in the future. Even John, who continues to scribble down his revelations, is swayed to this view.

******

Once again, as I write down my thoughts, I digress. That last day in Bethany, after wandering into the netherworld of doubt, my attention returned to Jesus’ parables. Alongside of me sat Micah, my faithful dog, who served to distract me from my doubts and fears. It seemed clear to me that Jesus had changed the subject. “…. Don’t waste God’s gifts,” he was saying. “For the kingdom of heaven is like a man traveling to a far country, who called his own servants and delivered his goods to them. To one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one, to each according to his own ability; and immediately he went away on his journey. The servant who received the five talents went and traded with them, and made another five talents. And likewise the servant who had received two gained two more. But the servant who received one talent dug a hole in the ground and buried his lord’s money. After a long time, the lord came home and settled accounts with them. He who had received five talents came and brought five other talents, saying, ‘Lord, you gave me five talents; look, I have gained five more talents besides them. ‘Well done, good and faithful servant,’ the said his lord, ‘you were faithful for a few things, yet I’ll make you ruler over many things. Enjoy the reward of your lord.’ He also who had received two talents came and said, ‘Lord, you gave me two talents; look, I have gained two more talents besides them.’ His lord replied to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant; you have been faithful over a few things, I will make you ruler over many things. Enjoy the rewards of your lord.’ Finally, the servant who had received only one talent came and said, ‘Lord, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you have not sown, and gathering where you have not scattered seed, so I was afraid, and went and buried your talent in the ground. Look, there you have what is yours!’ Angry with this servant, his lord said to him, ‘You wicked and lazy servant. You knew that I reap where I have not sown, and gather where I have not scattered seed, so you ought to have deposited my money with the bankers, and at my coming I would have received back my own with interest. Therefore I shall take the talent from you, and give it to him who has ten talents. For to everyone who has, more will be given, and he will have abundance, but from him who does not have, even what he has will be taken away.’ The lord cast his unprofitable servant into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

Though Jesus hadn’t clarified the previous parable for his audience, he took time to clarify the parable of the talents. Unlike the deep, gloomy prediction of his Jerusalem sermon and his parable of the ten virgins, he had given his audience advice on their personal relationship with God. It was a return to the more basic theme of salvation. The talents, he explained, were those gifts God gave each person. Some people had several gifts, some just a few, and others only one. What mattered was how they used their gifts. It’s not acceptable, he told them, just to have a God-given gift. Such gifts are useless hidden away or on the shelf. Like the three servants, they might not have gifts of the same degree, but God expects them to use the gifts given to them. The servant who received one talent was not condemned for failing to reach the five-talent goal; he was condemned because he did nothing with what he was given.

After listening to prophecy that foretold a dark age and hinting at his own death, this parable had been a welcome change. Everyone agreed that Jesus should stick to his basic message of personal salvation, not that gloom and doom. Unfortunately, God, who gave Jesus his revelations, had different thoughts. Once again, after pausing to drink from his water skin and splash water on his hair and face, Jesus returned to his previous theme.

“What does all this mean?” Thomas muttered.

“Who cares?” Judas whispered shrilly. “It’s very depressing!”

Jesus had begun reciting a passage from Isaiah that affected each of us differently: Thomas, like Simon, Matthew, and Bartholomew, was confused, Judas was annoyed, the fishermen were concerned about its implications, and James and I were stunned by the unequivocal meaning in Isaiah’s prophecy:

“… He was despised and forsaken by men, a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, one from whom men hide their faces. He was despised and we didn’t esteem him, and yet he bore our griefs and carried our sorrows. He was stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted, pierced through for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities, chastened for our well-being. By his scourging we are healed. All of us like sheep have gone astray, each of us has turned away. The Lord has caused our iniquity to fall upon him. He was oppressed and afflicted, but he didn’t open his mouth. Like a lamb he was led to slaughter, and like a sheep he was silent before his shearers. Yet he remained silent. By oppression and judgment, for the transgression of his people, he was taken away, cut off from the land of the living. His grave was assigned with wicked men, and yet he was with a rich man in his death. He had done no violence nor was their deceit in his mouth, and yet the Lord was pleased to crush his own offspring, bringing him to grief, rendering him as a guilt offering. As a result of the anguish of his soul, the Lord will witness it and be satisfied. The Righteous One, God’s servant, will therefore justify many, bearing their iniquities. Because he offered himself to death, numbered among the transgressors, he bore the sin of many, interceding for transgressors—the Lamb of God!”
“Did Isaiah really say that?” murmured Bartholomew.

“Yes,” James nodded, “except those last words.”

“That was revelation.” I sighed, stroking my dog. “I knew he’d get to that.”

Though we didn’t understand it then, Isaiah had foretold the arrest, torture, and crucifixion of Jesus, as well as his burial in Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb. He had explained the nature of the suffering servant and the meaning of his sacrifice for mankind’s sins. With this reminder, it should no longer matter who Isaiah’s other Messiah was, the one most Jews expected would come. What James and I more clearly understood than the others because of our greater understanding of the scriptures was Jesus use of this passage to prove he was the Lamb of God. How it affected the crowd was difficult to discern. I had found in my own experience with people that a look of awe and ignorance appeared almost the same, especially from a distance.

Looking out past the crowd, over the plain below, to distant Jerusalem, Jesus seemed to speaking to the entire world these moments:

“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. All the nations will be gathered before Him, and He will separate them one from another, as a shepherd divides his sheep from the goats. And He will set the sheep on His right hand, but the goats on the left. Then the king will say to those on his right hand, ‘Come, you blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? When did we see you as a stranger and take you in, or naked and clothe you? When did we see you sick, or in prison, and come to you? And the king answered them, saying, ‘Verily, I say unto you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.’ Then he said to those on the left hand, ‘Depart from me, you cursed, into the everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me no food; I was thirsty and you gave me no drink; ‘I was a stranger and you did not take me in, naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ And they answered him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry, thirsty, a stranger, naked, sick, or in prison, and did not minister to you?' But the Lord replied angrily, ‘Truly I say to you, inasmuch as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me. As you receive your reward of everlasting punishment, the righteous shall have eternal life!”

******

There were no voices of protest after this session. After the last batch of Pharisees, scribes, and priestly agents had been chased out of Bethany, Jesus had no visible critics…. But they were still there. As the crowd broke up and began meandering back to their homes, many of them murmured pleasantries to Jesus, a few stopped to compliment him on his words, and one old man asked him what was meant by the Son of Man. Jesus answer confused some of the disciples that much more.

“The Son of Man is the human side of the Christ, the Son of God,” explained Jesus.

“But Christ is a Greek word,” the old man protested. “Why didn’t you say Messiah?”

“Because,” Jesus said, placing his hand on his shoulder, “the Messiah was meant for the Jews, and the Christ is meant for the world.”

The old man was the last citizen of Bethany to talk to Jesus that day. The silence from the once excited multitude had been deafening. Now, as we walked back to Lazarus’ house, it was the quiet among the disciples that spoke loudly. Jesus had warned us repeatedly about the reception he would receive. A great and tragic irony exists in the writings of Isaiah. How is it, I ask myself, that such a prophet who so clearly predicted the true Messiah, could also prophesize a conquering Messiah, who would sweep our oppressors from our land. It now seemed apparent that the people who heard his message of salvation were also expecting a conqueror. In this respect, Judas Iscariot’s hopes were in line with the vast majority of Jews suffering the yoke of Roman domination. He was disillusioned and dispirited. Of course, the remaining eleven disciples didn’t share Judas’ delusions. They understood which redeemer he was. Our only concern now was our Shepherd. It was reflected on all of our faces. Our optimism that somehow Jesus estimate of our people was wrong had been in vain. Jesus had been right: they had been a stiff-necked people throughout their history. Moses had been afflicted by their wrong-headedness, as did the Patriarchs. They had murdered the prophets and created divisions in their ranks—Pharisees against Sadducees and rabbis at times against priests. The only thing that all Jews had in common was the expectation that a glorious day would return. An heir to David would arrive with a mighty force and make Israel great again. After hearing Jesus quote Isaiah’s passage about the suffering servant, his warnings about our people’s obstinacy rang true as more prophecy. The disciples, myself included, might not have clearly understood Jesus’ future prophecies, but we understood the connection between Isaiah and the mood in Bethany. Even Thomas, who had so many doubts, finally realized that Jesus was Isaiah’s man of sorrows.

As we sat down in Lazarus’s house our backs to the walls, facing each other, Thomas was the first one to speak.

“Lord,” he said, fidgeting with his beard, “you’ve never been wrong. I see that now. If our people won’t listen, the Gentiles will. When you answered that old man, I know that’s what you meant.”

“What ho!” Jesus looked up from his lap. “If Thomas, who doubts, sees this, it is so. Through your eyes, comes the truth!”

Everyone, except Judas, responded with restrained laughter. Jesus motioned to Thomas to sit on his right side, which forced Mary to scoot over, an action causing more mirth. The disciples resented Mary’s behavior around Jesus. During this hour, her fawning and eyelash fluttering was all the more irksome. As Martha and her servant prepared our meal, Lazarus had taken a seat on Jesus’ left side. With his pallor improved and glassy stair replaced finally to a normal human sheen, Lazarus no longer looked like a specter from the land of the dead, and yet he acted peculiar at times, pausing in mid-sentence, blinking suddenly, and saying strange things.

Except for Thomas, no one seemed to want to talk. Though it rankled Mary and Martha, Micah lie next to me, his head in my lap. Jesus gave the Shema and blessed the food, but the only other voices we heard were Martha whispering instructions to the girl serving our food. To break the silence, Jesus asked Mary if she had tended to Bartholomew’s mule. Mary simply nodded. All Mary had done was order the servant to do the deed. Next Jesus complimented Martha on our fine meal. Turning to her servant, she placed her arm around her, replying “Ashira deserves credit too.” For the first time since are first encounter with Lazarus and his sisters, we knew the name of the servant. By his warm smile to Martha, it was obvious he approved of her gesture.

“Come, Ashira,” he called gently.

“Me, Lord?” She seemed to gasp.

“Yes, Ashira,” Jesus took her small hand, “Lord. You have spoken truly. Do you share Lazarus, Martha, and Mary’s faith?”

“Oh yes, Lord,” she knelt down on her knees.

“Good, my daughter,” he replied, placing a hand on her head. “A servant in the house of Lazarus you are. A servant of the Lord you shall be!”

“Really?” Ashira was taken back. “Me?… How so, my Lord?”

Jesus, who had just chosen a new follower, bent forward and kissed her cheek. “When you return to your family in Bethany, remember this hour. They’ll need your strength! You will be sorely tested, Ashira, but you’ll prevail. Your faith is strong and your heart is pure.”

Though Martha smiled with understanding at Jesus’ words to Ashira, Mary’s dark eyes flashed with Jealousy. Something both remarkable and disturbing began happening that moment. Walking over to her servant, Martha kissed Ashira, an action that would one day be called the kiss of peace by believers. What we had witnessed moved us greatly. What followed was a controversial act. Mary reached behind a cushion to retrieve a bottle of spinkenard, a very costly oil. I knew at once what she had in mind. Immediately, after she popped off the stopper, the room was filled with the aromatic odor. Pushing Ashira aside, she anointed Jesus feet and wiped his feet with her hair. During this ritual, Jesus sat patiently, as he had when Mary Magdalene performed a similar ritual in Magdala, but this time he said nothing at first. Perhaps he was embarrassed or, considering how swiftly she moved, simply taken by surprise. It was either an impulsive or calculated act. It seemed quite likely that Mary was repeating what her namesake had done in Magdala. Understandably, everyone in the room, except Jesus, had risen to their feet, aghast at what they saw.

“This is outrageous!” Judas cried. “That oil costs three hundred denarii. The money could’ve been used for the poor.”

“I don’t normally agree with Judas,” I blurted, “but he’s right. What a waste!”

“Where did you get that?” Martha frowned severely. “Even in Lazarus tomb, we didn’t use that perfume.”

“Whoa,” Matthew snickered, “it smells like a Syrian brothel!”

By now, as we looked on in dismay, she had graduated to the next phase I recalled Mary Magdalene doing: anointing Jesus’ hair.

“Let her alone,” he finally spoke. “Mary’s doing good work. You have the poor always, and whenever you wish you may do good for them. Me you will not always have. She is preparing my body for burial. Whenever this gospel is preached, the world will know what this woman has done. This act shall be a memorial to her!”

Jesus words upset us that much more. Matthew and Mark would record Jesus rebuke to us, giving this action glowing praise, but John simply reported the event at face value, taking this opportunity to attack Judas for being insincere and a thief. Contrary to John’s opinion, Judas wasn’t a thief, and many of us agreed with him. In spite of his dislike for Judas, John admitted to me later that he agreed with him too, which might explain his omission of Jesus’ words. All of Jesus’ disciples had been shocked by Mary’s boldness. Mark hadn’t been there as a witness and had simply reported what he had heard, but Matthew, who mocked the event under his breath, must have been tempted to omit it, himself. There were, in fact, two anointings: one in Bethany, recorded by Matthew, John, and Mark, in which Lazarus’ sister Mary performed the ceremony and an earlier anointing performed by Mary Magdalene in Magdala, recorded by my friend Luke. In my opinion, Mary Magdalene was the greater of two Mary’s, and yet none of the eyewitnesses, had recorded her anointing of Jesus in their gospels. What no one reported at all, until this writing, was what Jesus said to Martha, who ran weeping from the house.

Upon hearing the door slam, Jesus rose up immediately in pursuit. Mary stood there smiling with satisfaction, her hands still moist with oil. Glancing scornfully at her, Peter, Andrew, Philip, and John turned on Judas then, blaming him for Jesus’ rebuke, Judas replying defensively, “You cowards, I only spoke your minds!” After Jesus slipped out of the house, James and I took the opportunity, as they argued, to eavesdrop on Jesus and Martha. While we managed to slip out unnoticed, Micah broke loose and followed us out the door. Hiding behind a myrtle tree, with Micah panting by my side, we heard Jesus clarify the meaning of Mary’s action and Martha’s importance in his plans.

“Martha!” he called to her. “Mary’s headstrong. You’re steadfast. It mattered not who did the deed!”

“Lord,” she spat bitterly, “this happened before. My younger sister is lazy and disrespectful, and yet you praise her. You once said she had the best part. Now you say the world will praise her, too? Where is the justice in our world? You’ve made my servant a follower. All I am is a slave!”

“No, no,” he comforted her, “you are all followers. Have you forgotten what you said to me?”

“No,” She answered, wiping her eyes, “how could I forget those words: ‘You’re the Messiah, the Son of God!”

“And what did I tell you Martha—the first person to hear this news?”

“You said, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he were dead, he’ll live and never die!”

“Because of your recognition and my response,” he exclaimed, “you’ll be immortal, too!” “Tell me, Martha” asked Jesus, “What words are more important, yours or your sister’s?”

“ … Mine,” she answered hesitantly.

“You have said it,” replied Jesus. “Don’t be troubled, my daughter. When the time comes, remember this conversation. Be patient with Mary. She’s not strong like you. My Father chose you as a witness. Like my disciples, you share in his plans.”

Jesus had singled Martha out and given her great praise. Taking her hand, he led her passed the myrtle where we hid ourselves, back to the house. For a brief moment, as Micah grew impatient, I was certain he would give us away as they passed by. Holding his muzzle and stroking him anxiously—two contradictory actions for a dog, I prayed that he wouldn’t growl or bark. To my surprise, though, Micah remained calm and silent. When I released my hand, he even licked my face.

“Good boy,” I whispered, “you are, in deed, a special dog!”

“Lord,” Martha said almost off-handedly, “you told us Mary was doing that for your burial. Everyone dies and will be resurrected, so what did you mean?”

Not wanting to alarm her, Jesus answered delicately, “… Mary’s action was impulsive, yet well meaning. What would have been better, being anointed for pure vanity or for my burial? What other reason could she have for anointing me with oil?”

As they approached the house, James murmured, “That was clever. He left the answer up to her. I wondered about that myself.”

“We know what he meant,” I whispered sadly. “Everyone’s in denial.”

******

That night, though Micah slept soundly beside, it was difficult for me to fall asleep. Though they were worried about Jesus’ safety, especially after his quotation from Isaiah, the other disciples, even James, appeared to be taking it in stride. Silently, it seemed to me, they were preparing themselves for the worst. Outwardly resolved, though, they were deep in denial. I couldn’t take it in stride and yet, like the rest of them, I refused to be a fatalist about the prospect of my brother’s death. Tossing and turning awhile, greatly annoyed by the nighttime sounds of snoring, snorting, and wind, I rose up finally from my pallet and tiptoed toward the door. Micah was right on my heels. On the way, I spied a jug of wine sitting miraculously on the floor. “Thank you, God!” I whispered, glancing at the ceiling, nabbing the jug, and slipping ever so quietly out into the night. In the moonlight, near the myrtle tree where James and I spied on Jesus and Mary, I settled down with my jug of wine and, as Micah sat watching me, became thoroughly drunk.

This time, I scarcely remembered the smallest fabric of a dream. Down a long dark corridor I tumbled, a voice calling, “Jude, Jude, have you been out here all night?”

It was Martha, bending over and shaking me gently, a smile playing on her face. On the other side of me, Micah’s friendly face also loomed large. I was reminded that moment of what an exceptional dog he was. Martha’s twinkling brown eyes and rosy cheeks were also a comfort to me that moment, much better than being awakened by Jesus or Peter, who would have taken me to task for my lapse. I was in pretty bad shape, after finishing off the jug. As the sun brimmed the eastern horizon, I was almost blinded by its rays, and it felt as if someone was beating a gong inside my head. After falling asleep in a sitting position against the tree, I had a painful kink in my neck. Though I didn’t remember being sick last night, I had vomited all over myself. I was a mess and a physical wreck. Micah had already begun my cleanup by licking off my face. It took all of Mary’s strength to get me on my feet and guide me toward the house.

Before we got too far, however, James emerged from the door, motioning for her to stop. He must have looked out the window and caught sight of us. My pack was slung over his shoulder and he carried one of the towels Martha had set aside for Jesus and his disciples.

“Let’s clean him up first!” he called in a hushed voice.

“I agree.” Martha nodded. “It’s early. Hopefully no one will see him. We don’t want people to think Jesus’ men are drunkards.”

James laughed sourly. “That’s the least of our worries,” he confided grimly. “We’re not happy about going to Jerusalem. After last night’s speech, most of the men got tipsy. Jude’s the worst, but even Peter drank too much. Jesus’ words finally sank into their thick skulls.”

“Is it going to be a one way trip?” blurted Martha.

“Wha-a?” My head jerked up.

“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” James sighed deeply. “How can he be the Son of God and Messiah be that man Isaiah calls the man of sorrows?”

“Is that why he got drunk?” Martha asked me softly.

“Of course it is.” James frowned at me. “I’ve never seen him this drunk!”

For several moments, with only an old woman at the well as eyewitness to the event, they cleaned me up. Fortunately the vomit hadn’t reached my pants and sandals. After pulling off my tunic, James bent me over so Martha could drench the upper portion of my body. The well water was so icy cold, I let out a yelp. With sympathy it almost seemed, Micah gave me a lick. Drying me quickly, my rescuers tidied up my hair and beard and, still gripping my arms, walked me around a nearby meadow in an effort to sober me up. For those moments, as a typical dog, Micah scampered around the meadow, after James threw him a stick.

“Listen to me Jude,” he counseled sternly, “this kind’ve behavior won’t help Jesus at all. I fear for his safety too, but his mind is made up. We, his disciples, must support him no matter what he decides.”

My tongue felt thick in my mouth. “He-e-es gon-na ged kill-led!” I tried forming the words. “I-sa-iah hid it ride on the marg!”

“I dunno.” James shook his head. “Isaiah contradicts himself. I trust Zechariah’s prophecy more!”

“Why are people so stupid?” Martha complained. “They’ve seen his miracles and heard his wondrous words. And yet they seem disappointed. What do they want, James: a savior or a soldier? After everything Jesus has done and said, they still don’t understand. Lazarus made sure Mary and I were educated, so we could read the Torah, but many of our neighbors are barely literate. They were told by the rabbis and Pharisees that our Messiah will be a warrior who will deliver our people. Then Jesus arrives, giving them something far more precious than earthly rule: salvation and eternal life. If they’re confused and don’t know who to believe, it’s because they lack faith. Why is it that Gentile converts have no trouble understanding who he is? Will our people choose the stale words of religious leaders or Jesus’ message of hope and salvation? Who shall they pick?”

Martha’s words had a sobering effect on my mind. It was, now that I think about it, actually a miracle. Suddenly the mists of wine cleared. I had ringing headache, but everything was so clear. I wished, during her statement, that I had ink and quell in order to write down what she said. As it turned out, Martha’s words would remain brandished in my mind. It was so simple: Jesus versus Jewish tradition. Was it any wonder, he quoted Isaiah? Had not Isaiah also said, ‘I will make you a light unto the Gentiles, so that my salvation will reach the ends of the earth?’

“I-I’m all right now,” I said, shrugging off their hands. “I appreciate your help. I’ve been such a fool.” “You spoke truly, Martha.” I turned first to her. “Thanks to you, I know now what Jesus wants me to do. I don’t know what’s going to happen in Jerusalem, and I don’t want to know. I believe the Gentiles will make his message a reality, not the Jews. When I left home to travel the empire, I met many types of Gentiles. They’re not like our stiff-necked people. They don’t care who the conqueror is. My Roman friends were the conquerors. Those Romans that Jesus converted came to the faith innocently, without preconceived notions.” “There’s no use trying to talk Jesus out of going to Jerusalem,” I looked at James. “Judas and most of Jesus followers believe he came only for the Jews. Because Jews have expected a warrior king like David, Isaiah’s other version of the Messiah is still preferable to them. Many of his listeners appear to want both Messiahs, which is why they’re confused. It’s those who have their minds made up that are the greatest threat. I can’t speak for the rest of the disciples. In the past Jesus always said we must preach to our people first, but Jesus now refers to himself as the Christ. This is a Gentile, not a Hebrew, word. That’s why I know what I will do!”

Martha marveled at my lucid state. “You were like the living dead before. How did you come out of it so quickly? You’re words were slurred and you could barely walk.”

“It’s simple,” I explained, stopping to shake a stone from a sandal and reach down to pat Micah’s head. “I purged most of my wine. I’m probably in better shape now than the others.” “The sooner we get on the road, the better,” I said to James. “As a sage once said, ‘There’s nothing more fearful than the unknown!’”

Chapter Forty-Eight

The Last Supper

I don’t care what John, Matthew, and Mark wrote about Mary. She found favor in Jesus’ eyes but so had the other Mary, and he sent her away. Jesus words to Martha yesterday convinced me that she was the best and brightest of Lazarus’ sisters. It would, in fact, be John, who briefly mentioned the anointing by Mary, who had immortalized Martha by quoting her words to Jesus before he raised Lazarus from the dead: “I believe you’re the Messiah, the Son of God!” Jesus discussion with her yesterday, in which he reminded her of her insight, and praised her fidelity, reaffirmed his high regard of Martha. Why Matthew, also an eyewitness of her statement at Lazarus resurrection and Jesus’ reply, had not recorded their important words I shall never know. It was one of the most important passages ever written about him, summing up his purpose on earth.

Late in the morning, after the breakfast Martha and Ashira prepared for us, I joined the line of disciples passing by Lazarus and his sisters, kissing the women’s cheeks and giving Lazarus a farewell hug. Judas, as was his nature, was excessive in his embrace of Mary. I whispered only for Martha’s ears, “It’s you who took the best!” Jesus the last one to bid farewell to the threesome, said something to them that should have unfurled a banner in our minds: “I shall see you in the kingdom!”

“What kingdom is that?” muttered Thomas.

“A good question,” replied Matthew. “I don’t think he means Israel.”

“You know very well what he means,” I looked back at Matthew and Thomas. “He’s talking about heaven!”

Micah, who sat beside Lazarus, had been instructed by both Jesus and myself to stay put. As trifling as this miracle may seem, I’m half certain Jesus used his powers. After several moments prior to our sendoff when I stroked and whispered endearments to him, Micah didn’t bolt after me, as we began our trip. After I patted his head again before joining the others, he barked just once as I stepped away, and then lingered obediently beside our host. After helping Bartholomew onto his mule, I remained beside the beast, holding its reigns, leading him on the narrow trail leading to the road. Looking back one last time I waved at Lazarus, Martha, Mary, and my dog. As the figures of Micah and our friends grew smaller and smaller, each time I glanced back, I carried fond memories from Lazarus house, comforted by Jesus’ promise that I would see Micah again.

******

As always, clustered around Jesus during the early stage of the journey, the fishermen comprised the front of our procession, while Matthew, Simon, Thomas, Jude, James, Bartholomew and I remained in the back. After several Roman miles, however, this formation broke up, as Jesus forged ahead, everyone trailing behind the Shepherd in single file. At a likely spot, where a spring bubbled out of rock and a copse of myrtle gave us shade, we stopped to rest, top off our water skins, and ate one of the snacks Martha and Ashira placed in our packs. The bread, cheese, and dates were carefully wrapped in separate napkins, unlike the pell-mell manner Esther and Dinah had stuffed them into our packs. While we rested and finished our lunch, Jesus gave us his third and final prediction of his death. Matthew recorded these grim words. Mark, who heard them from Peter, also wrote them down, and Luke found out from me when I visited him during his discipleship with Paul. At the time, however, it was the last thing we wanted to hear. Perhaps in our mental frameworks we had simply blotted it out. Even, while he spoke, we squirmed and fidgeted as we sat munching our bread, cheese, and dates. Judas went so far as to stop up his ears.

“Behold,” he rose up dramatically, pointing to the west. “In Jerusalem all things which are written by prophets about the Son of Man will be accomplished. He will be handed over to the Gentiles, and will be mocked and mistreated and spit upon, and after they have scourged him, they will kill him, but on the third day he’ll rise!”

Upon hearing this clarification of his coming death, we looked at each other like frightened lambs. Our shepherd had most unequivocally prophesized his end. Despite the seriousness of this dire warning, the only response he received at first was a shuddering, “Oh, master!” from Peter. Then, after he walked over to comfort Jesus, John cried out, “It can’t be! You’re the Christ, the Son of God!” and his brother James shook his fist in the direction of the holy city shouting some of Jesus own words, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you kill the prophets and stone those sent to you! A curse be upon you!”

Jesus didn’t rebuke James for his curse, but scolded all of us for being faint-hearted. Andrew and Philip joined the other fishermen in an attempt to reason with him. Like the rest of us, who listened quietly, they refused to accept Jesus’ fate, saying the same restated protest over and over: “God’s Son can’t be killed! Why is it necessary for the Christ to be killed?” Jesus called them spiritual cowards for working against his father’s will and stormed away. In the background, as I sat between Bartholomew and James listening the fishermen call to Jesus and Jesus scream back, “Cowards—all of you!”, we could hear Simon reprimanding Judas again

“Who are you to plug up your ears?” he scolded. “You don’t care about Jesus? You want him to change the world, not save it! You’re a serpent in Christ’s garden. You don’t fool me one bit!”

“He summed it up nicely,” James commented.

“Too nicely!” I jumped to my feet.

Fearful that Judas might attack Simon again, Matthew and Thomas had also risen to their feet. As I looked back, though, Judas was nowhere in sight. Remembering the Shepherd’s commission to me to keep Judas in the fold, I began searching for his errant sheep. In this endeavor I was alone.

“Good riddance!” Matthew snarled.

“Why don’t you keep going straight to hell?” Simon screamed.

While the fisherman coaxed Jesus back to our rest area, I called to Judas as he walked forlornly in the direction of Bethany: “Where are you going? You have nowhere else to go!”

“What do you care?” he shouted back.

Let him go, a voice in my head counseled, but, with Jesus request in my head, I called back, “Your acting like a stubborn fool. Why do you kick against the goads?”

Once in our childhood Jesus had said that to me. Retracing his steps, Judas moved sullenly up to me.

“Why didn’t you just let me go?” He searched my face.

I couldn’t lie to him. “Jesus asked me to watch over you. Why, I don’t know, but the truth is, Judas, you’ve made yourself persona non gratis with the twelve.”

“That’s a Roman phrase.” he frowned at me. “I heard you favor the Gentiles over our people. The Romans are our oppressors, Jude, and yet you rode with and befriended them. In spite of this flaw, none of the other disciples would come after me, only you. You’re the best of that lot!”
“I suppose, coming from you, that’s a compliment,” I managed a smile. “One thing’s for certain, Jude; at least you’re consistent. Take my advice for the rest of our journey and when we enter Jerusalem’s gates, forget about that other Messiah. It’s not going to happen that way. You should know that by now.”

“We’ll see about that!” he muttered aloud.

I almost fired back a response after hearing that claim. It was outrageous and outlandish, so typical of Judas Iscariot. Instead of losing control, though, I uttered a hysterical laugh, as he followed at a distance behind me, recalling Simon’s recent accusation. He was right: Judas was a serpent in Christ’s garden. By using the word Christ in place of Messiah, even Simon, the onetime spy, knew Jesus was meant for the world and wasn’t intended merely for our people. When we returned to the rest area, Jesus had gathered us all together, casting a jaundiced eye at the headstrong disciple. It was time to get back on the road, he indicated with a toss of his head.

A moody silence gripped us and hung like a shadow over the twelve as we came closer and closer to Jerusalem’s gate. As the city loomed ahead in the distance, I recalled both Jesus’ and James’ rebuke. It was true: many good men had died here for what they believed in. Now it appeared as if it would be Jesus’ turn. Once a pagan city ruled by the Canaanites, then conquered by David, the original deliverer of our people, it had been, because of its history and its temple, our religious center. Now as the final hours approached, far from being a spiritual comfort us, it once again threatened—this time a righteous man we believed was the Son of God…. How can this be? I kept asking myself. If he so desired, he could change his fate. He could, he once implied, destroy the temple. He could move mountains if he wished. His disciples and countless eyewitnesses have seen him do miracles that boggled the mind, and yet here he was, as John the Baptist prophesized, going like a lamb to slaughter…. How can this be?

******

It was the Feast of Unleavened Bread, our most sacred week, that begins with the Passover meal to celebrate the Israelites liberation from bondage in Egypt. After visiting the Egyptians with plagues in order to soften Pharaoh’s mind, the Lord took more drastic measures. When Pharaoh ignored Moses final threat from God, Moses instructed the Israelites to daub lamb’s blood on the doors of the Israelites with hyssop to protect them from the Angel of Death. Because of this action, the Angel of death passed over their dwellings, and the first-born of all Egyptians, including the Pharaoh’s own son, died. I know it was important for our people to be liberated, but I never liked that story. For that matter, I disliked the stories of Joshua’s army who, on God’s orders, wiped out Canaanites cities—every man, woman, and child. The God of our fathers was a wrathful and unforgiving god, so different than the Lord in Jesus’ sermons. Unlike the universal God he preached about, Joshua’s god was a local deity, who cared not wit for Gentiles, especially those occupying Israel’s future lands. The heresy in my mind those moments—that Jesus had been talking about a totally different god—was grounded in our people’s history. Because of what followed Passover night, I know differently now, but for all its glory and significance I hated Jerusalem that day. For Jesus, I sensed that it would be a one-way trip.

I recalled that shining hour when the crowd chanted ‘Hosanna’ and waved palms branches as we followed Jesus through the gate. It had been a parody of the conquering Messiah. Over half the population of Bethany and hundreds of citizens from the city had hailed him king and shouted out his praise. This time, as we entered, however, there was no fanfare. Alongside of pilgrims wishing to celebrate the Passover in the holy city, we almost blended in. Except for the specter of Bartholomew on his mule and Jesus, himself, we appeared ordinary enough. There were, in fact, a few people who recognized Jesus, but their reaction was subdued: a complete contrast to the glorious time before. As they glanced over, not one person greeted him. Though pointing him out to their traveling companions and occasionally smiling and waving, not one person spoke to him. The vast majority of the crowd didn’t appear to recognize him at all. The sheen had worn off. The man of sorrows had replaced the king of kings.

Turning down one narrow street, Jesus led us, as he had so many times before, to the exact destination he had in mind. On this occasion it was the house of Marcus, an early convert made at the River Jordan, along with Barnabas, Deborah, and Anna. When Jesus introduced him to us, the young man insisted on being called the Greek version of his name: Mark, the name he would be called when he wrote his version of Jesus’ life. In certain cases, such as Simon (who became Peter), Levi (who became Matthew), and Saul (who became Paul) the change of name had spiritual significance—a rebirth into the Way. I’m not certain why Luke preferred his Greek name over Lucas, its Roman equivalent, but I had always used the Greek sounding ‘Jude,’ over Judah (its Hebrew version) or Judas (the Roman equivalent). Mark had apparently made the name change on his own. Adding to the list of important Mary’s in our lives, for that matter, was Mark’s mother, also called Mary, who owned the house in which Jesus planned to have the Passover feast. During the amenities, in which Mark’s mother gave our travel worn band a look of dismay, Jesus requested a room for our meal. He offered what little money we had in our purse, but Mark, overjoyed at Jesus’ presence, wouldn’t think of it. Ignoring his mother’s glare, he shook his head. “Our house it at your disposal!” he exclaimed. “The largest room, where my father once lived, would be just perfect for your feast.”

“The upper room?” his mother cried. “Just who’s going to fix this feast?”

“Please, we don’t wish to be a bother.” Jesus held up a hand. “Really, I’ll find a butcher. We’ll hire someone to prepare our meal.”

“On the Feast of Unleavened Bread’s most sacred night, I don’t think so!” Mark grinned. “Mother and I, with the servant’s help, will prepare your meal. During the meantime, why don’t you men freshen up? I’ll have the servant bring towels and basins up to your room.”

“You’re most gracious,” Jesus praised him. “A blessing upon this house.”

Mark waved off his praise with another grin, not knowing that Jesus was serious. This place, like Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem, his calling at the River Jordan, the towns and cities where his miracles were made, and Lazarus’ tomb, would forever be remembered as holy sites in the road map of his life. In spite of his mother’s original reluctance, she would, in fact, offer us a fine supper and one day be numbered among the Way. That, however, remained to be seen. Right now they were simply two more Good Samaritans on our journey, offering us food and rest. I was greatly impressed with this young man. In fact, next to Luke, Paul, and Barnabas, he would become a close friend. Right now, he offered us a contrast to the youths encountered during Jesus’ ministry, who were often insincere or listed among his critics. What was most different about Mark was the innocence of this youth. By his glowing eyes and warm words, he presented himself, in Peter’s words, as an open scroll.

Despite Mark’s generosity, Jesus insisted on paying for the Passover lamb, money Mark would later give to the poor. While Mark and his mother and their servant prepared our meal, we were provided heated water to wash ourselves. At this point, something extraordinary took place before our meal. After we had rinsed off our faces and hands, Jesus poured fresh water into a spare basin, removed his robe, rolled up his sleeves, and set about washing all of our feet. Though embarrassed by this gesture, most of us tolerated this ritual, strangely moved by this humble act. During this event, as our dinner was being prepared and our attention was drawn to

Jesus, Judas disappeared from the room. As Jesus moved down the line, reaching Matthew’s feet, he said nothing and seemed not to notice, though I know that’s not true.

“Where’s Judas?” I whispered to James.

“I heard him tell Thomas he was ill,” he murmured. “He looked rather pale on the road. He might be having a breakdown. The signs were all there.”

There it was, though not found in the other apostles’ scrolls, the excuse Judas had for slipping away. The very notion of what he was up to hadn’t occurred to us. Who could imagine such a monstrous deed? We were too distracted by the washing of our feet, which John recorded reverently in his scroll. When Jesus finally came to Peter, ironically the last to be cleansed, the disciple shrank from the action.

“No, Lord,” he wrung his hands, “you’re the shepherd. I’m the lamb. It is I who should wash your feet.”

Jesus answered patiently at first, “What I do now, you’ll one day understand.”

“Never, Lord,” Peter shuddered, “I’m unworthy. You can’t wash my feet!”

“Really?” Jesus studied the fisherman. “If I don’t wash your feet, Peter, you can have no

part of me!”

Taken back, Peter ran his hand through his hair and replied in a shaken voice, “Then so be it: wash not only my feet, but also my hands and my head.”

Jesus uttered a sad laugh, then, looking up and down the table, spoke to the entire group: “He who has bathed, need only to wash his feet, and yet he is completely clean, but this is not true for all of you!” As he completed the sentence, he caught sight of Judas entering the room. Judas, appropriately enough, was the only one of the twelve not cleansed. Not long after Judas’ reappearance, Mark, his mother, and their servant arrived with our meal. Jesus and the twelve stood up and backed away to give them space. After the servant placed the roasted lamb in the center of the long table, Mark and his mother added lentils, bitter herbs, and a tray of freshly baked unleavened bread on each side of the main course. When we sat back down, Peter took a seat on the left of Jesus and John sat on his right side. I managed to get a place between Peter and my brother James, followed by Matthew, then Bartholomew, with Simon sitting at the end. Judas, of all people, scooted in between John and his brother. Because John’s brother James considered himself to be in Jesus’ innermost circle, this irritated him very much. On the right side of John, also miffed, were Andrew and then Philip, who, had been Jesus’ first two disciples, with Thomas sitting at the right end of at the table.

As he did for all our meals, Jesus recited the Shema and then blessed our food.

“Wait,” he said afterwards, raising a hand, “do you men understand why I washed your feet. You call me Lord, which is right and correct, for so I am. If then, your lord and teacher washes your feet, you also must wash one another’s feet. I gave you an example to follow: you must do as I did to you. For a slave is not greater than his master, nor is one who is sent greater than the one who sent him. If you know these things, you are blessed only if you do them. I do not speak for all of you. I know the ones I have chosen, and yet scripture must be fulfilled. It is written: ‘He who eats my bread has lifted up his heel against me. I tell you before it happens, so that when it occurs you’ll believe that I am he.”

In the words ‘He who eats my bread has lifted up his heel against me’ Jesus told us that one of us would betray him, and yet, because of the wording, it seemed to pass over the other disciples’ heads. Everyone was mainly concerned with devouring their meal and drinking wine. The truth sank into my head slowly as I ate my meal and emptied my goblet.

“Moses beard!” I finally groaned.

“What’s wrong?” whispered James.

“I think I know what he meant,” I replied.

“What?” James murmured. “You scaring me, Jude.”

I stared at him mutely. Even though it was blatantly obvious what he meant and whom he singled out as the traitor, I didn’t want to believe it. I felt light-headed, partially because of the wine. Finally, after I listened to slurping and gulping for several more moments, in a clear, calm voice, Jesus clarified and simplified the charge: “Truly I say to you that one of you will betray me!”

Stunned by his words, everyone stopped eating, all goblets banged down on the table, and, after bending our heads forward, all eyes looked down the table at Jesus. Just that moment, Judas, the greatest glut of us all, was dipping his leavened bread into the sauce, as several disciples, including even John, replied, “Is it I?” “No, John,” Jesus answered, reaching down with a piece of bread. “It’s he who dipped his hand in the sauce the same time as me.”

John’s breath left him, he gripped his forehead, and stared at Judas in horror. Contrary to what John would later write, this incident wasn’t subtle. Jesus had called out his betrayer three times now, this time straightforwardly. Everyone at the table, even Simon and Thomas, who sat on each end, now clearly understood. The third accusation brought all of us to our feet.

“Sit down!” Jesus said in a shrill whisper. “All of you. Let my Father’s work be done!” “What you do, do quickly!” he said to Judas.

Without a word or backward glance, Judas slipped out of the room.

In Matthew’s scroll, which Luke let me read, Judas offered to betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. That might be true, but it’s unproven. Who told Matthew about this payment? Were there witnesses to this exchange? Matthew, like most of the disciples, didn’t stay around very long after Jesus arrest, fleeing the scene for his dear life. As most of the disciples, he hated Judas. He once suggested that Judas was mad. Another time he claimed that Judas possessed by a demon. He never suggested that Judas was greedy. It was John who made that claim, and yet John never recorded that Jude was actually paid for his betrayal. It was Luke who captured the emotion, if not the facts, of this episode when he wrote that Satan entered Judas Iscariot, who conspired to betray Jesus to the chief priest. Luke, even though he hadn’t been with the twelve, also claimed Judas was paid for his services, yet implied that Satan had been in control. Considering Jude’s quirky behavior in those last several months, Luke might be closest to the truth.

But this is hindsight. At this dark hour, like my companions, I was in shock. After we sat back down, Jesus said solemnly, “The Son of Man goes just as it is written of him, but woe to that man by whom he is betrayed! It would have been good for him if he hadn’t been born.”

With that said, he took a large roll of unleavened bread, blessed it, broke it in half, and handed it to Peter and John on each side of him, who likewise tore their pieces in half, passing them down the table, until all eleven of us had a piece of bread.

“Take this, and eat it,” he instructed us, “for this is my body.”

Then, after filling his mug with wine, he handed it to Peter, saying, “Drink from this cup, each of you. For this is my blood of the new covenant, which is shed for many for the remission of sins…. I say unto you, I will not drink the fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it with you in my Father’s Kingdom.”

Standing up slowly, he looked at each of us, as we took our turns drinking from the cup, then when Simon, the last to drink, was finished, retrieved the cup and sat it on the table.

“Do this meal in remembrance of me.” He pointed to the cup and remnant of bread. “My hour draws near…. We have had a long journey together. The seed has been planted. After I’m gone, the harvest awaits you. But tonight, because of me, you’ll fall away, for it is written, ‘I will strike down the shepherd, and the sheep of his flock shall be scattered.”

“No Lord,” Peter shook his head fervently. “No matter how many fall because of you, I’ll never fall away!”

“Peter, my Rock,” Jesus looked at him sadly. “Before the rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.”

“No-o-o!” Peter’s voice broke. “Even if I have to die with you, I will never deny you!”

“Nor I!” John’s eyes filled with tears.

All of us, in fact, echoed the words of John, who would be the only one not to abandon Jesus tonight.

“Little children,” he said with great tenderness, “I am with you a little while longer. You’ll seek me, but where I’m going you can’t come. A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another, as I’ve loved you. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Peter, still shaken from Jesus’ prophecy, gave him a troubled look. “Lord, where are you going? Why can’t we come, too”

“Do not let your hearts be troubled.” He looked around the table. “If you believe in God, believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you. I’m going there to prepare a place for you, and if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you with me to be where I am.”

“Lord!” Thomas gave him a dumbfounded look. “We don’t know where you’re going. How can we know the way?”

“I am the way and the truth and the life,” Jesus explained. “No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really know me, you will know my Father as well. From now on, you know him and you’ve seen him.”

“Show us the Father, Lord,” Philip replied. “That will be enough for us.”

“Philip,” Jesus chided, “don’t you know me, even after I’ve been among you for such a long time? Anyone who’s seen me has seen the Father. So how is it, Philip, that you say, ‘Show us the Father’? Don’t you believe that I am in the Father, and that He’s in me? The words I say to you I don’t speak on my own authority. Rather, it is the Father, living in me, who is doing his work. Believe me when I say that I am in the Father and the Father’s in me; or at least believe on the evidence of the works themselves.”

Despite everything I had seen and heard, my first thought about these words were that they were purest heresy. This didn’t bother me, of course; most of the things Jesus had said were viewed as heresy by Pharisees, scribes, priests, and more conservative-minded Jews. I could imagine how this shook the other disciple’s minds. Not only was he the Son of God, he was God! James was beside himself after hearing Jesus’ claim. And yet none of us, even James, said a word, as Jesus continued his speech.

“Whoever believes in me will do my work and, when I’m gone to the Father, do greater things than these. Then, when I’m gone, whatever you ask in my name shall be done by the Father, who shall be glorified in the Son. If you love me, keep my commands, and I will ask the Father to give you another advocate, the Holy Spirit, to help you and be with you forever. Now, this hour, the world can’t accept him because it doesn’t know him. But you know him; he has lived amongst you and will, after this hour, be with you always. I am he. I won’t leave you as orphans. I will come back. Before long, the world will see me no more, but you’ll see me. Because I live, you shall also live.”

Though we didn’t fully understand it yet, the full identity of Jesus had just been presented: God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This would be a matter of great controversy even among members of the Way, but Jesus newest revelations would become central to what we believed. As I listened to him that day, I was mystified, as the other disciples, over this third figure, the Holy Spirit. It seems so plain to me now that the Holy Spirit or Holy Ghost was the spirit of Christ on earth and the third person of the godhead, but at that stage of our spiritual development, this notion was beyond our grasp. Without the consequences of the next few days, which would further clarify Jesus identity and give meaning to his third nature, the Holy Spirit was too abstract even for James and me.

What came after this, were mostly comforting words. He reassured us that when it happened, we would still believe, implying once again that we would temporarily lose heart. By saying ‘when it happens’ he also left little doubt that something dreadful was about to occur. When the time came, for that matter, he implied that the Holy Spirit would teach us what we needed to know. His last words at the table were, “Remember this my children, ‘what I must do was foretold my the prophets and ordained by the Father.” After this, he motioned for us to rise from our seats with uplifted palms. “Come,” he said solemnly, “let us walk.”

******

After Jesus’ last supper, we followed the Shepherd silently, each of us wrapped in his own cloud of misgivings and doubts. It occurred to me that all of us, not merely Jesus, were in danger. I could see the fear even in Peter the Rock’s eyes, which made me that much more afraid. I recall Jesus once telling us that we would have to suffer for his name. Would our suffering begin tonight? I wondered. I wanted to convey my concern to James, but the quiet surrounding Jesus was too deep. Everyone, in fact, seemed afraid to utter his own thoughts, until spoken to by Jesus, so, out of respect for his frame of mind and concern that I would show my cowardice, I kept my fears to myself.

Walking through town, looking this way and that, wondering if an assassin sent by Caiaphas would emerge from the shadows or a gang of temple thugs might appear, we arrived finally at a place I had never been before. Jesus asked us to wait for him while he prayed in the nearby woods. James, who had lived in Jerusalem for a while, told us it was known as the Mount of Olives and the place Jesus had selected on it was called the Garden of Gethsemane. Despite these idyllic names, there was nothing peaceful or reassuring about this spot. Our fears, now heightened by the behavior of Judas Iscariot during our supper and his subsequent absence, were now concrete and real. There was no way we could escape the road Jesus had taken. Where it led we didn’t know. The moon, half hidden behind dark clouds, and the shadows of the trees made this place seem ominous. As I looked around at the other disciples, their faces mirrored my own dread and disbelief. In spite of our fears and doubts, however, most of the disciples, who drank too much wine, grew drowsy as Jesus prayed, and one-by-one they fell asleep.

James and I, Jesus’ brothers, were the exception. Bartholomew, who was unable to ride the beast to our destination, had been forced to leave it at Mark’s house in the care of Mark’s servant. Needless to say, after his strenuous walk, he was the first to tumble into slumber. Vowing to protect Jesus with the sword hidden in his pack, Peter sat with James and I holding vigil, trying desperately to stay awake, but, like many of the disciples who slept poorly the last few days and drank heavily, he also fell sound asleep.

“Do you believe it?” James snarled. “They couldn’t stay awake—for just one hour!”

“I dunno.” I groaned. “I’m pretty tipsy, James. I’m dozing off, myself!”

“Come on,” he said, giving me a nudge. “Stand up and walk it off. You should never have drunk all that wine!”

After walking a ways into the woods, we heard Jesus’ voice. For a moment, we froze in our tracks, not wanting to intrude on this sacred time, but it was too late. Already, we were within earshot of him. Out of nowhere it seemed, Mark, our host, appeared, wide-eyed with expectation and fear.

“What are you doing here, Mark?” whispered James. “You’re in danger here. Go home before it’s too late!”

“There-there coming for him,” his voice trembled, “I’m certain of this. I followed Judas to the temple. He’s out of his head. I heard him say to himself, “I must force his hand. Surely, God will intervene for the Messiah. Our Deliverer is here—all he needs is a nudge!” He mumbled a bunch of words, as if he was rehearsing what he was going to say, and then he disappeared into the temple. That bastard is selling Jesus out!”

James and I were speechless. James had clamped a hand over Mark’s mouth after his outburst, fearful Jesus might have heard. Fortunately for us, however, Jesus was too engrossed in prayer to notice our presence. We had heard snatches of his talk with God but weren’t close enough to make out of the gist of what he said. Peering through the bushes now, we could see him kneeling beside of slab of stone, staring up at the moon, which had broken through the clouds, casting shafts of light upon his upturned face. This eerie effect made us gasp. There was no doubt in our minds who he was. It was, I reflect in hindsight, as if the sky opened up and God was listening to his son. That very moment we heard him cry out, “Father! Father! Everything is possible for you. Is it possible that you might take this cup of suffering from me?” Then, after a pause, as if God had silently answered, Jesus replied. “Very well, Father. Your will, not mine, will be done!”

“Oh my goodness!” Mark whispered excitedly. “Did you hear that? Judas was wrong. God’s not going to protect him!”

“Shut up, Mark!” James shrilled into his ears.

As Jesus arose, radiated by the light, he stood a moment longer listening to his father and then turned suddenly toward us. I don’t see how he couldn’t have noticed us and, in fact, he probably knew we were there all along, but he walked forward as if in a daze. One day Mark would write about these precious moments in his scroll, a work which Matthew and Luke borrowed heavily from in constructing their own accounts, but for now Mark was a terrified youth, who understood more than any of us what was afoot. To avoid being seen by Jesus, we ducked down behind our bush, as Jesus awakened from his daze and took the disciples to task. Since Peter was the Rock, he looked squarely at the fisherman as he upbraided his men:

“What is this?” he said accusingly. “You were asleep. You couldn’t stand watch for one hour. You must keep watch and pray, so that you won’t give in to temptation. For the spirit is willing but the body is weak!”

“I-I’m sorry, Lord,” Peter said contritely. “I just nodded off. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m sorry too!” exclaimed John.

Rubbing their eyes and blinking, the other disciples mumbled apologies too. Looking around at his groggy disciples and glancing at James, Mark, and me as we approached, Jesus laughed sadly. “Go ahead and sleep, men. These have been trying times.”

I wanted to reassure him that James, Mark, and I, unlike the others, had kept vigil, but just that moment there was a commotion in the woods: the sound of marching feet and clanking armor and swords.

“Alas! What is that I hear?” Jesus perked up his ear. “Is that my enemies?” “Yes,” his breath left him momentarily, “…they’re here at last. The Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners.” “Look!” He pointed toward the men appearing in the clearing. “My betrayer is here!”

At the forefront of the contingent of guards strode Judas Iscariot, beaming as though he just done a fine deed. I recognized the uniforms of the temple guards: sixteen burly, bearded men, glaring fiercely with purpose. Judas turned to one member of the contingent, obviously the leader of the guards, and said matter-of-factly, “Malchus, these are his disciples. Whomever I kiss is the one. Seize him!” Under normal circumstances I could imagine Peter or Simon rushing up furiously to attack the traitor, but everyone was fearful at this point.

“Greetings, rabbi!” Judas called out cheerily.

I noticed even in my shock that he didn’t call Jesus Lord. He had never believed that Jesus was anything more than Israel’s promised Deliverer. I know now that he was merely trying to force Jesus hand, but during those dark moments his actions were unbelievable.

Jesus recoiled, replying with a snarl, “So this is how it is friend. Betrayed by a kiss!”

“No, rabbi.” Judas shook his head. “This is your hour!”

Judas might have elaborated on his words to at least make sense out of what he was doing. We would have understood his intention of making Jesus do what he felt was the right thing to do. This oversight left the gospel writers to conclude that he had simply sold Jesus out. He did, in fact, by his grin and wide-eyed stare, seem quite deranged. That moment, as Judas stepped away, Malchus, the chief guard, lurched forward to grab Jesus, an action that finally triggered Peter’s rage. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a sword, so quickly no one, except James, Mark, and I, who stood behind Peter, noticed the action. We all knew that Simon owned a sword, but we had never seen Peter with such a weapon. Raising up his sword swiftly, he slashed at Malchus left side while Malchus restrained Jesus, slicing off one of his ears.

Shocked and frightened by this provocative action, we expected Malchus’ men to turn their wrath upon us, too. At this point, Mark fled the scene. I was tempted to follow, myself, until Jesus took matters upon himself. Squatting down quickly, he scooped up the bloody ear and clapped it to the side of Malchus’ face. Without uttering a word, he simply held it there a few seconds, withdrew his hand, and lo and behold, Malchus’ ear was perfectly restored.

“It’s true what the priests say.” Malchus gasped. “You are a sorcerer!”

“Take him, you have your orders!” Judas barked.

That moment, Peter raised his sword again, this time to strike the traitor, but Jesus held up his hand. “Put your sword away, Peter,” he commanded sternly. “You still don’t understand. All who use the sword will perish by the sword! Do you think that I can’t now pray to my Father, and He will provide me with more than twelve legions of angels? How could the scriptures be fulfilled if you stop these men?” Turning to the guards, Jesus rebuked his captors. “I sat daily teaching in the temple and yet Caiaphas, your leader and paymaster, didn’t have me seized. Yet you come in the dead of night, with swords, to take me.”

Though impressed with Jesus magic, Malchus regained his composure enough to mutter orders to his men. “Well, don’t stand there like frightened lambs. Let’s bind this prisoner and take him back to the priests.”

“What about them?” asked one of his men. “I heard Caiaphas say he wanted their heads.”

“Caiaphas says a lot of things,” grumbled Malchus. “I think he’s scared of this man. Jesus is right: we could have taken him at any time,” “but it’s true,” he conceded, turning to the disciples, “the high priest wants your heads. All I was told to do was bring him in.” “Get out of here!” He motioned impatiently. “Forget you’ve ever known this man!”

Though Matthew and Mark would have you believe we took to our heels, our flight was much slower than that. Jude, who must have realized by now that he couldn’t force Jesus hand, seemed bewildered and lost as the guards surrounded Jesus, now bound tightly with a rope.

Jesus’ insistence on letting himself be taken because of scripture, despite all the warnings he gave us, seemed insane. Despite the fact that Judas was, in fact, facilitating prophecy, himself, his treachery was devastating. Following Peter’s example, Simon, Judas’ chief nemesis in our group, now stepped forward, with doubled fist and gritting teeth.

“You filthy traitor!” he shouted. “You just don’t understand. You never did. Why couldn’t you accept Jesus for who he is? After everything he’s done, you still want him to smite the Romans. You’ve never listened. You’ll burn in hell for this, Judas.” He wrung his fist. “So help me,” he shrieked, lunging forward, “I’ll tear out your lying tongue!”

“Stop it, Simon!” cried Philip, grabbing his waste. “Don’t anger them. There’s nothing you can do!”

“Stand back, you fool!” Malchus drew his sword. “Don’t make me run you through.”

“I knew he was a traitor,” Simon persisted, as Philip pulled him away. “All the signs were there. All along it was right in front of my face!”

“It’s my fault!” Peter lamented. “Jesus called me the Rock. Look at me. Some rock I turned out to be!”

“It’s all our faults!” John shook his head. “I saw him leave the table. We all did. It was obvious he was up to no good! We should have stopped him—all of us. While we sat there in Mark’s house, he was betraying Jesus to the priests!”

“Simon, Peter, John—everyone,” Jesus called back, as he was led away, “this isn’t your fault. This is done so that the words of the prophet will be fulfilled. Listen to Philip. Don’t anger the guards. Go! Leave the garden. There’s nothing you can do here. The deed is done!”

“Jesus, my brother,” I cried out, as they led him away, “use your powers. This is madness. What purpose does this serve?”

I had, as the traitor Judas, expected Jesus to change his course and free himself from captivity, but I knew in my heart that it was too late. His fate was sealed. James, Mark, and I had heard him say as much to God. Turning toward us one last time, Malchus made scooting motions. “One more time, men,” he barked, “get out of here. Caiaphas will go after his followers too. Are you listening to me, you fools, flee!”

We could hear him say to Jesus, as they led him away, “I’m sorry. If I had my way, you’d be free, but I’d lose my head. My men would be punished too. Forgive, me rabbi. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. Caiaphas fears you powers!” His voice fading in the distance, Jesus consoled his chief captor, “This isn’t your fault, Malchus… It’s them—the priests, Pharisees, and rabbis, who’re finally having their way. You’re but an instrument of the Lord!”

As the disciples began to drop away from sight, walking forlornly through the woods, Peter stood there a moment, numb with shock and anguish. James placed his hand on my shoulder.

“This is dreadful… just awful,” his voice constricted, “but I’m not surprised. We knew it was coming. Jesus could have stopped them, but he let them take him. He’s following prophecy.” “Come, my brother,” he said, giving me a nudge, “we’ll try to help him. We’ll go to the temple and find out what’s happening. Afterwards, I’ll try to find Nicodemus, my teacher. He’ll surely help. He was Jesus’ friend. ”

“Yes, yes,” I nodded numbly, “…He’ll help us…. Let’s find Nicodemus.”

I was torn with grief. James was the strong one now. Turning to back to Peter, as he guided my steps, he called to the Rock: “Come with us, Peter. We’ll try to save him. Don’t worry about what Malchus said. It’s quite dark. When we’re in town, pull your hood over your head. Don’t lose your temper again; you’ll just get yourself arrested, maybe killed!”

Chapter Forty-Nine

The Trial and Passion of Jesus

As James, Peter, and I headed toward town, we could see the torches of the guards in the distance. It was the worst nightmare of my life. It was a good thing James managed to keep his wits or Peter and I would have walked off somewhere in a daze. Now we had a visible goal: Jesus was among those coarse men. I could picture Jesus being dragged along toward an uncertain fate. As if he wanted to catch up with them at first, James walked with long strides awhile, and then as we drew much closer, prudently slowed down.

“That’s close enough.” He sighed. “Let’s wait for them to enter. There’s a bunch of people outside the temple. Keep quiet, men. Let’s keep our hoods over our heads.”

James was in charge now. Though we were only three, his leadership would grow in importance when he remained in Jerusalem while everyone else fled. Now, as we approached the temple and saw the illuminated faces of men and women surrounding a makeshift fire, he bravely took the initiative.

“This is the entrance of the temple,” he noted with concern. “I don’t know who those people are, though. There’s not many of them. They look like riff-raff. News of Jesus arrest must’ve been kept a secret.”

“Why are we here?” I managed to ask. “They won’t let us in.”

That moment, as we entered the circle of firelight, the men and women—some old, some young, glanced warily at us. Their dark, probing eyes and glowing features seemed ominous. Out this late at night, these persons weren’t typical townsfolk. By their dress and scraggly appearance, they might even have beggars or criminals for all we knew. James, who stood in front of us, studied these misbegotten souls, a worried expression playing on his face. “This wasn’t a good idea,” he mumbled. I nodded in agreement. There wasn’t anything we could do here except draw attention to ourselves. I kept myself in the shadows behind my brother. Peter, the Rock, who moved closer to the fire, stood out greatly among this group. Having drawn his hood far down over his face, all that could be seen were two frightened eyes, twinkling in the firelight. This was a bad idea, too. Instead of protecting his identity, his concealment only made him look suspicious. An old crone, leaning on a cane, hobbled toward him that moment, a fearful look on her face.

“Are you a leper?” she asked, brandishing her cane.

“No,” Peter answered.

“Then show us your face!” demanded an old man.

“Yes.” A second woman stepped forward. “Lower you hood.”

James gave Peter a nudge. “Do it!” he whispered curtly.

It was either that or be stoned. When he lowered his hood, I heard several gasps. Out of the shadows a young woman appeared. Judging by the fabric of her dress and cape and her unblemished features, she didn’t belong in this group. In their scrolls, Matthew, Mark, and John would claim that she was the servant of the priest. They also recorded a dialogue on their scrolls recounting Jesus trial. In both cases, I am puzzled as to how they knew this information without being eyewitnesses, which they weren’t. The young woman could have been a prostitute for all I knew. She just stood there listening intently for a few moments. As the men and women surrounded Peter, he was momentarily cornered. Though not wanting to leave Peter with this bunch, I felt the urge to make my exit, but James and I were also trapped.

“He-he,” the crone uttered, pointing a gnarled finger, “you were with that Jesus fellow—the one arrested tonight.”

“No,” Peter blurted, “I don’t know the man.”

James and I were stunned by his denial. That moment we heard the familiar crow of a rooster. Remembering what Jesus had said to Peter at the table, James and I stared at each other in disbelief. The young woman, who appeared suddenly in front of the temple, now pointed a bejeweled finger at Peter.

“Yes,” she said accusingly, “he was with that preacher, as were the other two. I saw them entering the gate.”

“Have you no ears?” Peter growled, shaking his head. “I don’t know him. Leave me be!”

“Moses beard!” I groaned.

“Keep your mouth shut!” James whispered into my ear. “Don’t say a word!”

At this point, the young woman and riff-raff around the fire closed ranks around Peter, as James and I hung back in the shadows.

“Surely you’re one of them,” the young woman said tauntingly. “You are a Galilean; your speech proves it. That’s where Jesus of Nazareth is from. Why do you deny it? Admit it, you are one of his men!”

Peter exploded in frightened rage, cursing under his breath, and saying over and over, “I don’t know him! I don’t know him.”

That very moment the rooster crowed a second time. Jesus prophecy had been fulfilled. Peter elbowed his way through the circle of antagonists, heading in the direction of Mark’s house. We expected someone, possibly, the young woman, to go notify the priests of our presence, but, as I looked back, I saw them all just staring at us, muttering amongst themselves. The young woman, however, called out to us shrilly, “Give up this foolishness, go back to being fishermen. Your master is a blasphemer against our faith!”

That was no ordinary woman of the streets. Before we turned on a side street, I looked back once more and saw a darkly clad hooded figure standing in the midst of the group. The woman was nowhere in sight. I recalled the specter we once saw on the road, and I knew who it was: Satan. Very likely, the crone, who spoke first, may have been it, too. Though I was quite certain of this, I didn’t share this insight with Peter or James. Peter was devastated by his betrayal of Jesus. James only concern was to find Nicodemus and ask him to intervene on Jesus’ behalf. The first thing we did on our way, though, was drop Peter off at Mark’s house. He was beside himself with remorse and would be of no help. Mark was very understanding when he greeted us. After all, he had ran like a coward upon seeing the guards approach, but his mother, who hadn’t wanted anything to do with our band at first was suddenly self-righteous, upon hearing Peter confess his sin.

“All those fine words.” She tossed back her head. “Peter, the Rock he called you, and you denied him three times!”

“Shut up, mother!” cried Mark. “I ran like a frightened lamb. If asked, I would’ve denied him four times!”

James and I followed Peter up the stairs to the upper room where, to our surprise, all of the disciples sat around the table in various stages of dejection and doubt. Despite Peter’s grief and expectation of rebuke for his cowardly act, no one condemned him. As James and I stood by that fire listening to Peter being questioned, we understood the position his inquisitors had put him in. Though John would exhibit his courage later, everyone, except James, who acted bravely and clear-headedly, behaved cowardly tonight. Like Mark, I would have denied him repeatedly if questioned. Because Peter had been called the Rock, however, he felt especially remorseful.

“Jesus was right,” he said tearfully. “Before the cock crowed twice I denied him three times. In his hour of need I failed our Lord. I should’ve killed that traitor Judas when I had the chance!”

“Jesus wouldn’t let you,” James reminded him.

“What good would it do if you did?” asked John.

“You might’ve gotten all of us killed!” his brother grumbled. “I’d expect Simon to do something like that, not you.”

“Oh, I wanted to.” Simon nodded. “I really did.”

“You better control your tempers—both of you,” advised Andrew. “Malchus could be right. After tonight, we might be wanted men!”

“I don’t know.” James shrugged. “Malchus could’ve arrested us if he wanted to, but he let us go. This seems to be a personal matter between Jesus and the high priest. Jude and I are going to talk to Nicodemus. He has some influence with the Sanhedrin and the temple. Because of Jesus’ message, the priests are jealous of him. But Jesus has never challenged authority. He never called for the overthrow of our Roman oppressors. He’s isn’t a threat to the priesthood either. Maybe Nicodemus can reason with Caiaphas and convince him of this.”

“Hah!” Philip sneered. “Have you forgotten that Nicodemus is a Pharisee. He won’t side with Jesus. None of them will.”

“Philip’s right,” replied Bartholomew. “Nicodemus is a coward. He backed off from Jesus as if he had the plague!”

“Well, I’m going to try.” James said with resolution. “Come on Jude.” He motioned to the door. “Let’s pay old Nicodemus a visit.”

“How could Judas do such a thing?” We heard Thomas ask, as we clomped down the stairs.

“How could anyone do it?” asked John.

These were questions that believers would ask long after these dark days.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked nervously, as we stepped out into the night. “What if they spot us on the street?”

“You mean the guards?” James waved dismissively. “They had their chance. For that matter, why would the Romans care? They passed us on the road and seen us in towns countless times, and the town magistrates have never been a serious threat. This is Caiaphas’ plot!”

******

When we arrived at Nicodemus house, Ethan, the chamberlain, refused us admittance. James beat vigorously on the door when there was no immediate response. Then, when that didn’t work, he shouted, “Nicodemus, it’s me James, your student!” Through a crack in the great wooden door, Ethan barked, “My master is unwell. Come back later!”

“That bastard!” James stomped his foot.

“What do we do now?” I looked around self-consciously.

“This is unacceptable,” James banged relentlessly on the door. “This is an emergency, Nicodemus! Please let us in!”

Whether or not Nicodemus was really sick or just afraid to be associated with Jesus brothers and followers, the chamberlain was most uncivil. He was even more discourteous than he had been before. Already we were feeling like outcasts among our people. Despite this cold reception, James made so much commotion, he forced Nicodemus, himself, to come to the door. After pounding on the wood and shouting repeatedly, the graybeard poked his head out and snapped querulously, “It’s late, James! What do you want?”

“Jesus has been arrested!” James came straight to the point.

“Abraham’s bosom!” cried Nicodemus. “It finally happened. Dear merciful God! I was afraid it would happen, but on the Passover? How dreadful and unseemly. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” “Come in! Come in!” he insisted, throwing open the door.

Nicodemus didn’t look sick to me, but, judging by his flighty, wide-eyed mannerism, he was obviously scared. With a contrite expression, the chamberlain appeared that moment with mugs and a pitcher of wine.

“Tell me, when did this happen?” asked Nicodemus, pouring us all a goblet of wine. “I knew Caiaphas would get him sooner or later,” he added under his breath.

“There’s no time for this.” James shook his head. “Every moment counts. Please, Nicodemus, go to the temple and talk some sense into them. There’s no telling what they’re going to do.”

“Go to the temple at this hour?” He looked with amazement at James. “This is a clandestine move by the high priest. One has to be invited by Caiaphas. Knowing my friendship with Jesus, I doubt very much I’ll be on his list.”

“I knew it!” I threw up my hands. “Philip and Bartholomew are right. This Pharisee won’t help us. He asked Jesus a lot of questions, but he never believed in him—not really. Like all graybeards his head is stuck in the past!”

“Jude, that’s enough!” James chided, holding up his hand.

“That’s all right,” Nicodemus mumbled, taking a long swig of wine. “… It’s true… I have been a coward. It’s hard to teach an old man new things.” “But your wrong, young man.” He paused and frowned at me. “I do believe… I just don’t know what to do about it. There’s no question in my mind that Jesus is not one of us. I’ve given this much thought. The problem is, Jude, he doesn’t fit neatly into our prophecy—not the one preferred by most of the people.” “… He’s a different kind of deliverer,” he searched for the words. “Isaiah is much to blame. In one breath he speaks of a suffering servant but in the next he’s talking about a conqueror. These two images are drastically different. I know in my heart who he is, but my mind—the Pharisee you speak of—keeps getting in the way.”

As he spoke, I drained my mug. James gave me a look of disapproval, yet managed to take a few swallows, himself. Nicodemus took another long drink from his mug, wiped his beard, and stood there staring into space. I recalled the time he came to warn Jesus of Caiaphas’ intentions. As I listened to him reflect upon that hour, I knew I was wrong about Nicodemus.

“Born again,” he said softly, “I had trouble with that. All those years reading dusty scrolls never prepared me for that. I’ll never forget the peace I saw on his face. His words about being born again have haunted me. In all my years of studying the Torah and the prophets, I’ve never been so moved. I knew after that day, I’d never been the same,” “and now they’ve arrested him,” his voice broke, “a man of peace, with such a simple formula for life.” “Damn them!” He slammed his mug down. “They murdered the prophets and now they plan on murdering the greatest of them all!”

“Nicodemus…Nicodemus,” James was saying, tugging on his sleeve. “We must go. You know Jesus. You must stand up for him and change the high priest’s mind. What he’s doing isn’t even legal. Without counsel, he had Jesus arrested in the dead of night. The Romans have no issue with Jesus. This is a private grudge, between Caiaphas and him. Please, Nicodemus—no more hesitation. You must make a stand!”

Nicodemus paused in his reflections, emptied his mug, and called to his chamberlain.

“Ethan.” He snapped his fingers. “Fetch my cloak and cap.” “James and Jude,” he turned to us. “They won’t let you into the high priest’s chambers. You must stay out of sight!”

James nodded, wide-eyed with worry. “All right…We’ll go back to Mark’s house. Please let us know what happens, Nicodemus. Caiaphas has made Jesus his personal enemy. He’s turned the other priests against him, but the elders in the Sanhedrin obey the Torah, not the high priest. Surely, you and your friends can talk sense into him. Caiaphas isn’t above our laws!”

“As soon as I find out what’s happening, I’ll send word,” promised Nicodemus. “You’re right about this being illegal, James.” He patted his shoulder. “I’m certain the high priest will call the Sanhedrin. He has too. I know most of those men personally. They do, in fact, believe in upholding the law. If I get there before them, I’ll have to wait until they arrive before business begins, but I’ll have a chance to see how Jesus is. Caiaphas must really hate him to pull something like this. I can’t believe the Sanhedrin would condemn an innocent man on the word of this man.” “Don’t forget,” he reminded us, “we’re governed by Roman, not Hebrew, law. For once, that’s a blessing. It’s true, the Romans have no issue with Jesus, just our high priest. Unfortunately, Caiaphas appears to have a score to settle with him. No matter that there a numerous factions in our religion, he sees Jesus’ simple message as a threat to his authority and the Hebrew faith.”

As he left, escorted by Ethan, who was carrying a lamp, I realized how hopeless this might be. Caiaphas had already made up his mind. After having Jesus arrested in the night on the Passover, this seemed painfully obvious. There was no telling how many Pharisees and scribes would side with him. Nicodemus’ conscious had prickled him, and he was acting courageously considering the animosity most Pharisees and scribes had for Jesus, but just how many friends could he muster onto his side? I could count on my hand how many graybeards and scribes supported Jesus in the past. In Jerusalem that number had shrunk to one. James’ strength in this hour was admirable but naïve if he thought Nicodemus could have an effect. Yet I kept my doubts to myself. After all, Jesus was a miracle worker. He could, as he told Malchus, muster an army of angels to protect him from harm. Jesus own words, however, belied that fiction.

******

When we arrived at Mark’s house it was past midnight. Mark let us in, the hulking shadow of his mother in the background, hands-on-hips, indicating her displeasure at this late hour.

“You won’t believe who is here!” chirped Mark.

“Don’t tell me,” I grumbled, “Caiaphas? Or is it Malchus sent to bag us, too?”

“Come, come!” Mark said excitedly, leading us up the stairs.

“You sound awfully chipper.” James frowned. “Are you drunk?”

When we entered the upper room, Mark giggled foolishly. James and I gasped. There seated at the table were Jesus, James, and my mother and, of all people, Mary Magdalene. I could understand our mother being here during the Passover, something she tried to do every year, but Mary Magdalene? It was an untimely appearance for them. Both woman appeared quietly devastated by the news. I was curious even in my state of mind to know how they knew about Jesus, especially Mary, who had been faraway in Nazareth. James later suggested that they were guided by the Holy Spirit. This may be true for Mary Magdalene, but for our mother it’s possible it could have been a coincidence. As it turned out, the explanation for Mary’s presence was answered when John, who sat next to her, holding her hand, asked her point blank, “How did you know Jesus was in trouble?”

“I had a vision,” she answered promptly, staring glassy-eyed into space, “I heard a voice, and an angel appeared in my dream—”

“Not now!” Andrew waved impatiently. “No one else had a vision, woman. Why would one appear in your head?”

“I had a feeling…. Perhaps it was mother’s instinct,” my mother looked up sadly. “Before I ever arrived in Jerusalem, I knew something was wrong.”

“You had a feeling,” Philip said mockingly, “but Mary had a vision!”

“I’ve had visions.” Andrew joined in the sarcasm. “Usually when I’m drunk.”

“What did he say?” She looked at James and me.

“You mean Nicodemus?” James knelt down to press her knuckles. “…We’re hopeful. Nicodemus has a lot of influence in the Sanhedrin.”

This, of course, was a lie, but I nodded in agreement. “Yes, Mama,” I clasped her other hand tightly. “He has many friends.”

Matthew gave me a dubious look. Andrew, Philip, and Bartholomew laughed with scorn. I doubted very much, after his association with Jesus, that Nicodemus had many friends. He was, as I heard Thomas comment, on a fools errand. According to James, he was, by Pharisaical standards, a free thinker and preferred like-minded scholars, which were few and far between in Judea. What could I say to our mother, except empty platitudes? Peter sat by himself, inconsolable, looking at the floor. I was certain he was quite drunk. It appeared as if only James was sober and had kept his head. All the other disciples were in various stages of drunkenness, which partly explained their grumpiness. After drinking at Nicodemus house, I was tipsy myself, which was quite foolish of me. I needed my wits. I wanted, in addition to consoling my mother, to comfort Mary Magdalene, also stricken with grief, but John had beaten me to it. On her other side was Simon, another admirer, holding a mug of wine. All Mary could muster up for me was a wan smile. Our adventure together in Capernaum spreading the word now seemed ages ago.

Rising up unsteadily, I found myself walking over to Peter. He seemed so lost, a mere shell of his old self. Despite the tolerance I thought I saw earlier for his action, Peter’s denial of Jesus was sinking into the fishermen’s rustic minds.

“Leave him alone,” advised Matthew. “He doesn’t want to talk.”

“I don’t blame him,” John’s brother snarled. “I’d be silent too.”

“It’s not his fault!” chided James. “You act so high and mighty. We were right outside the temple when they came at Peter. If they cornered you, you’d deny him too.”

“No, I wouldn’t!” he spat. “I’d never deny our Lord!”

“I wouldn’t either!” John sprang to his feet.

“That’s enough,” my brother scolded. “You weren’t there, James and John. You have no right to condemn Peter. Jesus foretold this. If you think about it, it’s God’s will.”

“Oh, is it God’s will that Judas betrayed Jesus?” asked Simon.

“Yes it is.” I looked back him. “It was no accident that Judas joined our group. I never told anyone this, but Jesus told me that he would serve a purpose. I know what he meant now. I feel sorry for Judas. He’s a tortured soul.”

“I agree.” James gave me a nod. “Despite being a traitor and being despised, he fulfilled prophecy. He served God’s end.”

“He’ll burn in hell for eternity!” Simon cried.

James shook his head. “You don’t know God’s will, Simon—none of us do. Jesus once told us to forgive our enemies. What greater enemy is there than a man who betrayed Christ? When he was asked how many times you should forgive someone, Jesus implied that the number is limitless. By this he included Judas, too!”

“Humph!” grumbled Simon. “You’re preachy tonight!”

“Yes, James,” Matthew said thoughtfully. “Something’s come over you. You’re awfully calm. Do you really believe Nicodemus can help?”

“He believes he can.” James tried to sound positive. “What Caiaphas is doing is illegal. If Nicodemus can talk the other Pharisees into seeing this, I think Jesus has a chance.”

“You might think,” muttered Andrew, “but you don’t know.”

“What if he doesn’t have a change?” Matthew raised an eyebrow.

“Listen Matthew, Andrew—all of you,” James looked around the room. “The Sanhedrin still has to go through Pilate, our Roman procurator. I heard he really hates Jews, most of all our religious leaders. In the first place, Jesus hasn’t broken any laws. So far the Romans have given us little trouble. To maintain order they tolerate all religions, pagan or otherwise. If they bring this case to Pilate, he’ll see it for what it is: a squabble between religious sects. It’s likely he’ll decide in Jesus’ favor just for spite.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.” Matthew studied him. “What you say makes sense. I just hope you’re right!”

“I once studied to be a scribe,” explained James. “In Jerusalem, I learned a lot about Roman attitudes toward our religion. They’re forced by the emperor to respect our temple and its priests, but they’re indifferent to their religious laws. The Romans want order and define law differently than the Pharisees, scribes and priests. To them Jesus is just another religious leader, another prophet from the desert, preaching about an invisible God. They don’t understand our God and have no desire to. They want no more Judah the Galileans and won’t tolerate unruly Jews. What they want are peaceful subjects, who mind their own business and let other people live. Jesus once told us, ‘Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is Gods.’ We know now that he’s not another Judah nor, for that matter, a warrior King like David. He’s a man of peace, who brings salvation, not the sword. I want to believe that, if the vote goes against Jesus, Pilate will see Caiaphas’ action for what it is: a move to squelch dissent and nothing more.”

“So,” Andrew said anxiously, “you’re saying things might go against Jesus and it’ll be up to Pilate to cast the final vote.”

“I’m optimistic about the Sanhedrin,” clarified James, “but yes: Pilate is our best hope!”

“I’ve heard dreadful things about that man.” Thomas frowned. “They say he’s cruel, especially to Jews. One thing I’ve learned about the Roman is that they fear insurrection. What if Caiaphas paints a picture of Jesus as a revolutionary like Judah? Pilate might make an example out of him just to make a point!”

I know now that the mild-mannered and indecisive Thomas was closest to the truth. That moment, however, I clung to James’ logic and counsel. James thought about Thomas’ words a moment, then, hands behind his back in deep thought, he stopped suddenly before our mother, and said with great resolution, “Jesus has lived his life following his father’s will. Can we do any less?”

It was true, of course. What else could James say? I had great respect and admiration for him now. He half believed what he said about Nicodemus’ mission, and was trying desperately to bolster our spirits, but his efforts seemed to fall on deaf ears. Looking down at Peter that moment, I tried thinking of something clever to say—words of comfort or counsel. Instead I plopped down beside him, placed my hand on his calloused knuckles, and sat there quietly with him as we waited for the news.

******

Until Nicodemus sent word to us, we were plunged into gloomy silence. When word finally came, another calamity appeared to confront us, making the news that much more of a crisis. Ethan, the chamberlain, who apparently ran all the way here, was out of breath but quickly as he arrived at the door managed to say, “They’re taking Jesus to Pilate…. Caiaphas ordered his guards to bring Jesus men in for questioning. They’re on their way now!”

“Why?” James clasped his forehead. “They could’ve done that in Gethsemane. Why now?”

“You must hurry!” Ethan insisted, making shooing motions. “Nicodemus did all he could. He believes the high priest wants Pilate to see this as a threat to law and order. Caiaphas might round up as many followers as he can to prove this point. You’re lucky he doesn’t know where you are. Nicodemus shrugged his shoulders when the high priest asked him where you’re hiding. It’s the first time I’ve heard him tell a lie. He would let you stay in his house, but, after his defense of Jesus, it’s the first place the guards will look. If you hurry, there’s still time. You might run into Caiaphas’ men if you exit the East Gate, which is near the temple, so take the Damascus gate not far from here, which is further away. Go quickly!”

“At this hour?” Andrew looked at him in disbelief.

“I hate traveling in the dark.” Thomas shuddered.

“You have no choice!” Ethan pointed to the stairs. “The Romans aren’t a part of this yet. There’s no time to waste. Tell anyone asking that you must get on the road before dawn.”

“Where will we go?” asked Mary Magdalene.

“We’ll go home!” Philip suggested. “It’s the safest place to be.”

“No.” I shook my head. “That’s too far. Bartholomew’s mule’s in the stables. He’ll have to walk.”

“I’ve lived my life,” Bartholomew said magnanimously. “Let me stay here with Mark and his mother. I’ll be just fine.”

“Why can’t we go to Lazarus house?” suggested Simon. “That’s not too far to walk.”

“Bethany?” the chamberlain scratched his head. “That’s pretty close. Caiaphas has spies everywhere.”

“If that’s true,” replied Matthew, “his men could round us up on the road!”

Ethan nodded slowly. “… Whatever you do, get out of Jerusalem. Nicodemus has a bad feeling about this.”

“What does that mean?” James lurched forward.

“That’s all Nicodemus said,” he confessed. “He’s very upset. He’s the only one to vote in Jesus’ favor.”

“The only one?” screamed our mother. “How can that be?” “You told us he would help Jesus!” she turned to James. “How is it possible that so many have turned against my son?”

“Listen, Mama,” James gripped her shoulders, “I said he’d try, but I also said Pilate is the last resort. This isn’t a Roman matter. It’s a Sanhedrin matter—a bunch of priests, scribes, and graybeards fearful of losing their prestige.” “Please, everyone.” He scanned our frightened faces. “Let’s keep our heads. It won’t do to panic now. I still stay Caiaphas could have nabbed us in Gethsemane. How are eleven men proof of a rebellion? He can’t round up all of Jesus followers tonight.”

Once again it sounded like sound logic to me, but the messenger insisted we leave at once, repeating much of what he had said before. Most of the disciples agreed with Simon that we should flee to nearby Bethany. After all, as Andrew pointed out, it was in the safety of Lazarus our friend’s house. What better place was there to wait it out? In the morning one of us could slip into one of Jerusalem’s gates and find out what happened. It was, of course, a cowardly act, but the urgency in the courier’s message convinced the majority to make their getaway before Caiaphas’ men arrived. I know now that the messenger had exaggerated the threat, which had probably been influenced by Nicodemus’ concern. As Andrew, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Simon, and John’s brother, filed out, clomping down the stairs, Simon called back to Mary Magdalene, “Aren’t you coming?”

“No, I’m staying,” she replied, folding her arms.

“And me.” John took Mary’s hand.

“That goes for me,” Bartholomew laughed nervously, “I’m resting these weary bones.”

“Well, I’m not going either.” James frowned. “I’m staying put!”

“So am I.” Our mother rose solemnly. “I won’t abandon him. Simeon said a sword will pierce my soul… That hour has come.”

James turned to me. “Well, Jude…What’re you going to do?”

Feeling a pang of jealousy as I looked over at Mary holding John’s hand, I nodded reluctantly. “I’m staying… I’d like to know what’s going on.”

Peter appeared in our midst, receiving a cold stare from my mother and John.

“If you people insist on staying.” The chamberlain sighed heavily. “I’ll keep you informed. I heard Jesus speak in front of the temple. He’s a brave for challenging those priests. I’m not one of his followers, but he impressed me greatly. Jeremiah, one of the chief priest’s scribes I befriended, was a pupil of Nicodemus. The Sanhedrin’s meeting with Pilate shouldn’t take long. He’ll probably shoo them away. I’ll send a temple servant in to fetch Jeremiah if he returns to the temple. I might even go to his house. He’ll tell us what happened. Until then, stay indoors, all of you!”

Mark and his mother stood at the entrance of the stairway gazing at us. At this dreadful hour, his mother seemed understandably irritated. Not only had we imposed upon her hospitality but we had made her an accomplice in Caiaphas’ mind. Mark had a frightened look on his face, nothing in his boyish expression that might indicate what he would one day be. With the exception of James and, perhaps, John, none of Jesus’ disciples resembled the disciples they should be or hinted at future greatness in the service of the risen Lord. These were the darkest hours for Jesus—a great test in which most of us failed.

While we huddled in the upper room, Mark and his mother overcame their fear enough to join us in our vigil. It was not more than an hour after the first report that news came from Ethan, Nicodemus’ chamberlain, after his discussion with Jeremiah, the scribe. By then, Bartholomew had fallen asleep in a sitting position, his chin falling into his beard, but the remainder us had managed to keep awake. The knock on the door below jarred us and sent James scurrying down the stairs.

Our mother’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh merciful God!” she cried. “What now?”

“There-there,” Mary Magdalene comforted her. “Don’t worry. Pilate won’t humor those silly men, especially the high priest!”

“Yes, Mother Mary,” John cooed. “I’m sure it’s good news.”

Even during this dark hour, I felt irritation at John’s pretensions. Not only did he take advantage of Mary Magdalene’s grief, but also he attached himself to my mother, calling her ‘Mother Mary.’ I can’t speak for Mary; it appears that she’s an orphan, but John has a mother of his own, who once asked Jesus to give her sons preeminence over the rest of us. Jesus, of course, rebuffed her, but this haughty attitude lingers in her sons. Tearing me from this selfish line of thinking was the sound of my brother James sobbing in the stairwell.

“No-no,” he cried, “tell me it isn’t so.”

“I’m sorry,” Ethan said in a husky voice. “Please, listen to me. Now that Caiaphas has had his way, he’ll go after his disciples. You must leave Jerusalem at once!”

As the two men entered the upper room, followed by Mark and his mother, we stared in horror at Nicodemus’ chamberlain. James embraced our mother who wept uncontrollably. Mary Magdalene, who let out shriek, lapsed into silence in John’s arms, as I stood there beside them in shock. At that point, Ethan shared with us what Jeremiah had told him.

“Tell us everything you’ve heard,” Peter said in a strained voice.

According to Jeremiah, as it was reported by Ethan, Jesus had a total of six trials. Jeremiah’s account of the trials was similar to what Mark and John wrote in their scrolls, who must have used his report in their account of Jesus’ life. What Matthew and Luke wrote about this event, in turn, was taken almost verbatim from Mark’s scroll, the most accurate version of Jesus’ life. Of the four apostles accounts of the trials, which differ slightly, only John listed six, rather than the five trials recorded by Mark, Matthew, and Luke. According Ethan, through Jeremiah’s first hand account, Jesus already had two trials before he was taken to Pilate. We had thought that Caiaphas was the first inquisitor to question Jesus, but it was Caiaphas father-in-law, Annas, as John would claim, who was present when the guards brought Jesus in. Annas had also been high priest like his son-in-law and was addressed as such. Curiously enough, he was angry at Caiaphas’ machinations. Calling it illegal and inappropriate for our holiest of days, he would have nothing to do with this business, himself, and yet, like Caiaphas, treated Jesus deplorably.

When questioned about his teaching, Jesus answered, “I have spoken openly to the world. I taught in the synagogues and even in the temple, where Jews come together. I have said nothing in secret. Why question me. Ask those who heard my message. They know what I said.” After Jesus said this, one of Annas’ men struck Jesus. “Is this how you answer the high priest?” he demanded. “If I said something wrong,” replied Jesus, “testify as to what is wrong. But why strike me if I spoke the truth?” Annas dismissed Jesus, with a wave of his bejeweled hand, saying, “This is Caiaphas’ game, not mine Let him break our laws.” Annas, who wanted no part of this, virtually did as Pilate would do, washed his hands of this affair, and sent Jesus, bound like a criminal, to Caiaphas, the current high priest.

After this, as Jeremiah tagged along, the Sanhedrin, which included Nicodemus at that point, entered Caiaphas chambers. It was, during this second trial, explained Jeremiah to Ethan that the injustice of the arrest and treatment of Jesus worsened. From the beginning, Nicodemus lone voice had little effect upon the Sanhedrin. Pharisees, scribes, and priests couldn’t find anything more than hearsay evidence against Jesus, which amounted to fabricated stories and outright lies. It was, ironically, a witness who told the truth, whose account led to Jesus’ undoing. An old man, Jeremiah recognized as one of Jesus’ followers, claimed that Jesus said he would destroy the temple made with human hands and in three days build another, not made with hands. At that point, Caiaphas stood before him and demanded, “Jesus answer this charge these men bring against you!” But Jesus remained silent and gave no answer. So again the high priest spoke to him, asking him a question that would seal his fate.

His eyes narrowing to slits and voice rising in intensity with each word, Caiaphas asked, “Are you the Messiah, the Son of the Most High?”

“Yes, I am,” Jesus answered unequivocally. “And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of Him, coming on the clouds of heaven.”

Though Matthew had Jesus give his standard enigmatic reply, “You have said it,” leaving the interpretation open to the inquisitor, both Luke as well as Mark, the most reliable of the apostles’ scrolls, reported, as did the original source, Jeremiah, an unequivocal answer from Jesus, leaving no doubt as to the meaning. Hearing Jesus response, the high priest, with what Jeremiah described as a touch of drama, tore his clothes.

“What more do you need?” Caiaphas turned to the Sanhedrin. “Do we need any more witnesses. You have heard blasphemy, utter defiance against the Most High.”

“Sire,” Nicodemus spoke up again. “Jesus meant that figuratively. He won’t really destroy the temple. I know this man. He’s a messenger of peace. Nothing he has said is a threat to our faith!”

“Really?” Caiaphas turned to the others. “Shall we take a vote…. All in favor of setting this blasphemer and heretic free raise your hands.”

Sadly, as Jeremiah recounted, only Nicodemus raised his trembling hand. He lost many friends that hour, added the scribe.

“So it’s settled.” Caiaphas stood by his throne above the assembly. “The Sanhedrin, our sacred counsel, has spoken!” As if on cue, the self-righteous graybeards, scribes, and priests spat upon Jesus. Erbal, a notable Pharisee, even blindfolded Jesus and he and the others struck Jesus with their fists, crying out repeatedly, “Prophesy! Prophesy!” Then, on Caiaphas’ orders, as Malchus stood apart, with a downcast look, the guards took their turns, beating Jesus to the floor.” What Ethan told us was far worse than we expected. Nicodemus chamberlain was about to continue Jeremiah’s report when John shook his head and waved his hands.

“Enough!” he cried. “His mother has heard enough!”

“Yes,” Mary wailed, “tell us no more!”

“No,” Peter shook his head, “I denied our Lord. I won’t stop up my ears. Take the women down stairs, John. I must hear it all.”

“…. Me too,” James mumbled.

“Go with John,” I reached over to pat her wrist. “You shouldn’t hear this.”

“No-no.” She braced herself. “This is my son. I shall stay.”

“Then I shall stay too,” Mary said with resignation.

“Very well.” John sighed heavily. “Continue Ethan. Tell it all!”

“It doesn’t get any better,” he warned. “As you might know, the Sanhedrin couldn’t exercise the death sentence, so Jesus was taken straightaway to the procurator, Pontius Pilate. To avoid being contaminated for the Passover in a Gentile household, they didn’t meet in Pilate’s palace but in his outer court.” “As is they hadn’t contaminated themselves already!” Ethan added with a snarl. “Jeremiah was ashamed to be in the company of these men. From the beginning, Pilate had contempt for the Sanhedrin. Almost immediately as they shuffled in, Pilate shouted, “What charges do you bring against this man?”

“Sir,” Caiaphas said with a bow, “if he weren’t a criminal, we wouldn’t have brought him.”

“You people have your own law,” Pilate waved dismissively. “Judge him yourself!”

“But sir,” Erbil, the oldest of the graybeards objected, “we aren’t allowed to execute criminals.”

“Humph.” Pilate looked down at Jesus from his dais. “You’ve certainly roughed him up!”

“He insulted the high priest,” explained Erbil. “He is insolent as well as blasphemous.”

“Hah!” Pilate replied with great contempt. “You people! This is a religious quarrel, nothing more!”

“No-no,” Hammon, a chief scribe waved his hands. “You don’t understand. It’s much more than that—”

“Silence!” Pilate shouted. “All of you calm down. I shall speak to Jesus alone and hear what he has to say.”

“But Pilate,” protested Caiaphas. “Jesus claimed he was king of the Jews. Isn’t that a threat to Rome?”

“Ah-ah-ah!” Pilate wagged a finger. “Say no more, high priest. Did I not demand silence? I shall, the gods willing, make up my own mind!”

Eying his guards, he motioned impatiently to them. As Caiaphas, the Sanhedrin, and Jesus two advocates, Nicodemus and Jeremiah, waited, intimidated by Pilate’s mood, the guards quickly returned with Jesus, now bound in chains. At this point, they heard Pilate ask Jesus, “Is what that fellow said true, are you king of the Jews?”

“You have said it,” Jesus gave his familiar answer. “What do you believe?”

“Hah!” Pilate snorted. “Am I a Jew?”

Then Jesus replied loudly, “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my followers would fight to prevent my arrest by the Jewish leaders. But now my kingdom is from another place.”

“So!” Pilate laughed. “You are a king!”

“You say that I’m a king,” Jesus replied indirectly again. “In fact I was born into this world to testify to the truth. Everyone who believes listens to the truth.”

“Truth?” Pilate said with a chuckle. “What is truth?”

As Nicodemus and Jeremiah looked on impotently, the high priest and Sanhedrin were outraged at Jesus’ claim. In fact the reaction to his last claim, Jeremiah told Ethan, was almost as bad as when Jesus admitted he was the Son of God.

“Now you see what I mean!” Caiaphas came forward wringing his hands. “Surely you see this man as a threat!”

“Yes!” Erbil wrung his fists. “Hasn’t Rome crucified such troublemakers!”

“Nonsense—all of it,” Pilate snarled. “He’s not talking about this world. He’s talking about what we Romans call the Elysian fields—heaven. Why is he a threat to your religion. This man’s addled in the head!”

“No-no, he’s anything but addled!” Caiaphas shook his head. “People are beguiled by this sorcerer. If you don’t make an example of him, his followers will grow like locusts—”

“Shut up!” Pilate roared. More calmly, after pacing the floor awhile, he turned to the high priest, asking him, “Where is this rascal from?”

“Galilee.” Caiaphas frowned. “He’s a Nazarene no less.”

Pilate gave the high priest a crafty look. “That is Herod Antipas’ domain, is it not?”

A worried look came over Caiaphas face. “Yes, but—”

“No ‘buts’.” Pilate waved dismissively. “This is Herod’s problem. I find nothing wrong with this man. Let that jackal decide!”

Ethan’s voice grew hoarse. When Mary Magdalene gave him a goblet of water, he took a gulp then brought us back to the scene playing in our heads:

“The court was filled with outries and much head wagging. Contrary to Jesus own words, members of the Sanhedrin told the procurator that Jesus was an agitator causing rebellion in Galilee and Judea, but Pilate retreated to his chambers without a second glance. This mockery of justice was now deferred to Herod Antipas’ court. Unlike Pilate, Herod was happy to see Jesus. Having heard about Jesus’ wondrous deeds, he wanted him to perform a miracle. When Jesus refused, Herod’s enthusiasm began to wane. In the background the Sanhedrin grumbled to themselves after stating their charges against Jesus. Nicodemus and Jeremiah still had a flicker of hope. No friend of the high priest or temple, Herod dismissed the charges outright and questioned Jesus himself. Herod cared not a wit about Jesus’ message or this quarrel among Caiaphas and this man. He wanted to know about the miracles Jesus perform and clarification of just who he was. Did he really believe he was the Messiah? Surely he didn’t believe that rumor he was the Son of God. “Are you John the Baptist back from the dead?” he asked half-seriously. When Jesus remained silent, the tetrarch of Galilee grew irritated. His light-hearted attitude disappeared, and was replaced by scorn. Herod and his guard began mocking and ridiculing Jesus. Jeremiah’s report to Ethan, so branded in the chamberlain’s mind, had caused all of us to weep and grind our teeth. I could envision Jesus standing before Annas, Caiaphas, Pilate, and now that reprobate ruler Herod, suffering silently for the sake of his prophecy. I was angry at God, the priests, Pharisees, and scribes, and the majority of my people who didn’t understand who he was. I should have blamed Isaiah for his prophecies, but it was, in fact, Judas who, in accordance with Isaiah’s fateful passages, set in motion Jesus arrest and condemnation.

“Finally,” Ethan continued with a sigh, “they put a purple robe on him, a color indicating royalty, bowed mockingly, and, with no more fanfare than Pilate’s send off, Herod sent him back to Pilate with the words, “I find no fault in this man.” To his credit, Herod said to Jesus as they led him away, “If I were Pilate, just to spite his enemies, I’d set you free!”

Jeremiah who had taken notes throughout the ordeal, scribbled this message down too. His notes of Jesus’ ordeal, which would corroborate and add to Ethan’s report that night, were the basis for the apostles’ accounts. As I record this event, I recall something Luke told me: from that day forward, Herod and Pilate became friends, both men tainted and implicated in the Sanhedrin’s crime.

“Now that the matter was left up to Pilate,” Ethan now continued, “the procurator was still confronted with unreasonable rancor against Jesus. Caiaphas and members of the Sanhedrin now elevated the danger Jesus posed by claiming he would lead a revolt against Rome. Their logic appeared to wear down Pilate’s patience. Wasn’t Judah, also a Galilean, perceived as the Messiah, turning his mission into full-scale insurrection? They asked. There were times when Pilate appeared ready to order his guards to clear the courtyard, but the charge that Jesus threatened the Pax Romana wormed its way into his mind. Nicodemus had remained silent since the first and second trials, but now spoke out again on Jesus’ behalf.

“Sire,” he said with a bow, “I am a lone voice among my peers, but please hear me out. I know this man. What they are saying are lies. As you heard Jesus say, his kingdom is not of this world. The only guilt they can heap on him is based upon his words—a message of peace and hope. It’s strictly a religious matter, nothing more.”

“It’s true!” Jeremiah stepped forward finally. “This man is innocent of any crime!”

Like a drowning sailor thrown a rope, Pilate grabbed this line, turned to the grumbling men and announced his verdict: “I have made up my mind. You brought this man to me, accusing him of leading a revolt, but I’ve heard no such reports until now. I find your charge unfounded and self-serving. After listening to Jesus and hearing Nicodemus verify what I heard before, I find him innocent. Herod came to the same conclusion, as did Annas, who was once your high priest. Nothing this man has done calls for the death penalty, but because he is accused of a religious crime, I shall allow the type of punishment that local magistrates and your temple guards are allowed by Roman law to perform: flogging.

While the Sanhedrin protested and gnashed their teeth, Jesus was taken outside the courtyard and flogged with a lead tipped whip. It wasn’t enough that Jesus was tortured in this manner, the Pharisees, scribes, and priests wanted his death. By now, perhaps at the connivance of Caiaphas’ agents, a crowd had assembled out in the street—rabble gathered from throughout the city, some of whom once hailed Jesus as king.”

By now I wondered whether or not Ethan was not garnishing his story. His report, based on Jeremiah’s eyewitness account, was too perfect. It might be that he had near perfect recall like myself or the Lord, himself, filled his head with details. What followed this point, was far worse than the flogging. James, normally, a teetotaler, had poured himself a mug of wine. Despite her attempt at being strong for her son, what came next was too much for our mother, and yet she refused to be escorted from the room. Mary Magdalene had crumpled onto a chair alongside of her comforter, John.

With James and I on each side of our mother and Peter standing to the side with bowed head, Ethan finished his account most solemnly, his eyes brimming with tears.

“When Jesus was brought to the Sanhedrin, his back and chest were covered with stripes, Nicodemus and Jeremiah broke down into sobs, but the Sanhedrin were unsatisfied. They wanted his death. So Pilate screamed at them, “Look at him. He’s been flogged as your law demands. What kind of men are you that you would kill an innocent man?”

Pilate wanted to set Jesus free. Looking down at Jesus after demanding silence again, he pleaded with him: “Speak up for yourself. Deny these charges. Don’t you realize I have the power to set you free or have you crucified?”

Jesus answered calmly, “You would have no power over me if it were not given to you from above. Therefore the one who handed me over to you guilty of a greater sin.” Pilate looked over at Caiaphas then, with great contempt, then studied Jesus’ foes.

Outside, probably orchestrated by Caiaphas’ agents, a loud, deep voice boomed, “If you let this man go, you’re no friend of Caesar. Anyone claiming to be king opposes Caesar.” This and other similar demands including the dreaded “Crucify him! Crucify him!” rang out at the agents’ bidding, until a sea of voices, as though it was the whole town, were chanting for Jesus’ death.

It was a sympathetic counselor, who had been standing on the sidelines, who unwittingly sealed Jesus’ fate. As Pilate stared at the bleeding frame of Jesus, the counselor told him of a custom practiced by Romans: the freeing of a convicted man from the execution. It seemed foolhardy to me when I heard Ethan explain this. The crowd had already made up its mind. Nevertheless, Pilate gathered his wits, went to the balcony overlooking the rabble, with Jesus in tow and gave them a choice.

“Citizens of Jerusalem,” he used the word lightly. “There’s a bandit and insurrectionist who has terrorized Judea and Galilee for years. He has been sentenced to crucifixion for murder and mayhem.” Turning to Jesus who stood beside him, he announced with great conviction: “Here before you is an innocent man, whose only crime is claiming he’s king of an invisible world. This man is innocent of murder and mischief.” “Who should I pardon: Jesus, a harmless preacher or the criminal Barabbas?”

All of us remembered that dreaded name. We were speechless, as we heard Ethan quote the rabble’s reply. “Give us Barabbas! Give us Barabbas!” they shouted as one coarse, unfeeling voice.

“I don’t believe it!” I was finally able to utter. “That can’t be!”

“It’s true.” Ethan nodded.

“But the man they released killed hundreds of Jews,” exclaimed John. “Because Jesus is spiritual king of the Jews he must die? This is insane!”

“Nonetheless.” Ethan sighed brokenly. “They chose Barabbas. After that point, Jesus was taken away. Nicodemus and Jeremiah, along with the Sanhedrin, gloating in their victory, left Pilate’s courtyard. Caiaphas ordered the ‘traitor’ Nicodemus to leave the Sanhedrin at once. In great sympathy with the old Pharisee, Jeremiah accompanied him to his home. It might not seem like much, but Nicodemus did all he could. As the Romans say, he’s now persona non gratis among his peers…”

As Ethan’s voice trailed off, Peter asked in disbelief. “Is that it?…. No one followed them. They’re going to nail him to a cross?”

“I’m so sorry.” Ethan looked around at us. “I wasn’t there, myself. Had I been an eyewitness. I don’t know what I’d do. Before I left Nicodemus’ house, Jeremiah told me that Caiaphas planned to have all of you arrested, but I’m not so sure. With your leader dead, Pilate might think he’s done enough. Just the same, the high priest has inflamed the rabble, so stay out of sight!”

“Not anymore!” Peter set his jaw. “I’m going down there. Come on men, are you with me?”

“I’m coming.” James nodded with resolution.

“Me too!” I felt obliged to say.

“Well, I’m staying with Jesus mother,” John reached out to clutch her hand. “She’s suffered enough.”

“All right,” I tried not to sound petulant, “but she’s our mother too. If anyone should comfort her it should be her family. I wish she was safe and sound in Nazareth with her daughters. Ethan might be right. Jerusalem is too dangerous for her now.”

“Let’s go Jude,” James tugged at my sleeve. “John will take care of our mother.”

“Very well,” I shrugged, falling behind Peter and James.

Looking up from the bottom of the stairway, as if ready to join our procession, was Mark and his mother. It seemed as though Mark’s mother, after hearing Ethan’s account, shared her son’s faith.

“Wait!” our mother called out, as we began clomping down the stairs. “I must go too!”

“As I,” Mary Magdalene said, breaking free of John’s hand.

John quickly fell in step, a bewildered look on his face.

“People!” Ethan shook his head vigorously. “This isn’t a good idea. I told you it isn’t safe! If you must go out, keep silent, no outbursts, and blend in with the crowd. Only Peter stands out very much. Keep your hood over your face, Peter, and keep in the shadows. I must return to Nicodemus. Please, all of you, be careful on the street. On my way over here, I heard the crowd in the distance—probably the same rabble who called for Jesus’ death… Whatever was going to happen next, has already begun!”

******

As Ethan had feared, the rabble spotted us as we approached the Antonia, Pilate’s headquarters in Jerusalem. That very moment, as providence cruelly decided, a contingent of legionnaires were dragging out three men, all of whom were carrying the cross beams to their crosses. This time, when men and women pointed at Peter and also James, who caught their eye, there was no response from them. Peter vowed as he had headed toward the Antonia not to deny Jesus again, but it grew more difficult as we elbowed through the crowd.

“Take the women away from here, John!” Peter demanded. “Don’t argue. I know you want to be brave, but get them to safety. James and Jude are Jesus’ brothers. I must show our Lord I’m here. Please, John, do as I say!”

Once again, Peter was the Rock. James and I wholeheartedly agreed. This could prove too dangerous. As our mother protested in a whisper, she and Mary were ushered away by John. Somehow Peter, James, and I managed to plough through the onlookers, who continued to mutter back and forth, “It’s them—two of his men!” They hadn’t recognized me yet, perhaps because I had stood behind James when Peter denied Jesus.

It was a spirit-shattering sight. First came two men ahead of Jesus, probably thieves or murderers, and then, bloodied and wearing what looked like a crown of thorns came Jesus, who because he had been badly abused dropped his crossbeam. Peter lurched forward as if he might carry Jesus load, but another man—a tall dark skinned fellow in colorful clothes and turban stepped forth, at the prodding of a soldier, and hefted Jesus’ load. That moment, as Jesus struggled to his feet, a young woman ran to him with a skin of water.

“Step away from the prisoner,” barked the soldier. “You hear me, woman.” He brandished her with his whip. “Go!”

With his attention drawn to the woman, who cowered in fear, a second bystander—this time an old man, hobbled up to hold the water skin to Jesus mouth. “There, master,” I heard him mutter. “You’re going to a better place!” When the same soldier raised his whip to strike the old man, the young woman bent down, pulled off her veil and wiped Jesus’ face. “You cured me, master,” she sobbed, “you made me whole!”

As the big dark skinned man, lifted up Jesus cross beam, he cursed the Romans. That moment, Jesus was also assisted by two other men, who helped him to his feet, then darted back into the crowd. During the procession, Peter James, and I edged our way along, sometimes being elbowed in the ribs or spat upon, but, despite our fears, no one informed on us or even called us out. There was simply too much happening right now. Clearly, as we watched people in the crowd shake their fists at Jesus, a few even tossing rotten fruit, we were aware of a minority of citizens who sympathized with his plight. The young women and old man who tried to comfort Jesus, as well as the two young who helped him to his feet, might have been converts. One piercing voice, “Oh, Jesus, my Redeemer. What have they done?” summed up the sentiment of this few, but the overwhelming feeling of the rabble was a mindless fury.

In spite of his travail, Jesus managed one last sermon, as he staggered to his fate. Turning to a small group of believers or sympathizers, he said in hoarse voice, “Daughters of Jerusalem, don’t weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. For the days are coming when they will say, ‘Fortunate indeed are the women who are childless, the wombs that have not borne a child and the breasts that have never nursed.’ People will beg the mountains, ‘Fall on us,’ and plead with the hills, ‘Bury us, for if these things are done when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”

It was the most remarkable thing I had ever heard Jesus say. Even then, during his darkest hours, he was able to preach.

“What did he do to deserve this?” a woman beside Peter asked. “The Romans are killing our miracle worker. How did he fall into their dirty hands?”

“He is without sin,” Peter spat bitterly. “He dared to tell the truth; that was his crime, but don’t blame the Romans. Blame his accusers. The priests, Pharisees, scribes and the rabble crying for his blood are guilty. Pilate was just a coward, as was I.”

Suddenly, because of this disclosure, the suspicions of those around us worsened. Several people pointed in our direction. Some of them even knew Peter and James names.

“You’re him!” an old lady behind us cackled. “I saw you in front of temple. You’re the one they call Peter, the Rock. You got some nerve coming here.” “He-he!” She pointed at James. “I recognize you too. You’re James.” “Am I correct?” She poked them. “They’re looking for you men. You’d better hide!”

“Yes, I’m him” Peter whirled around angrily, “I’m Peter, the Rock and that’s James. What of it?”

“Moses beard!” James groaned.

Suddenly, a horseman appeared in the procession, winding his way rudely toward the front. “Get out of the way!” he cried, waving his sword.” I recognized him immediately. A few years ago, I was told that the Centurion of the First Cohort in Galilee had been transferred to Jerusalem and here he was in charge of this dreadful affair.

“James!” I pointed excitedly. “It’s Longinus!”

“Where?” James said nervously. “…You mean that fellow… Oh yes, it’s him!”

That very moment, as Longinus trotted passed, several men, possibly Caiaphas men, laid hands on us, and began dragging us from the street.

“Longinus!” I cried out. “Help! Help!”

Turning his mount, the centurion scattered the onlookers, shouting, “You there! Unhand those men. What is the meaning of this?”

“We’re companions of Jesus,” I explained prudently. “They would do harm to us for being his friends.”

The six ruffians who had grabbed Peter and James, released them, and disappeared into the crowd. As the procession continued, Longinus sat on his great black stallion, the same stony expression I remembered before on his face. With his glistening armor and sparkling helmet with its sideways plume he looked like a typical no nonsense officer. If we didn’t know who this man was, his gruff speech and mannerisms might have been intimidating, but this was, I was cheered, our family’s one time protector and friend.

“They’re taking those men to the Golgotha, a hill at the end of the road,” he explained, sheathing his sword. “Jude and James—I’m sorry I’m a part of this. I’ve heard great things about Jesus. I couldn’t believe they picked Barabbas over him. If you wish to witness this awful event, some of my men will escort you to the hill. After today, however, until this blows over, get out of Jerusalem. You’re sect will lose its leader. I wasn’t there at the trial, but I heard Caiaphas wants to stamp it out.”

“You’re not to blame, Longinus,” Peter looked up at him, “the Sanhedrin is. But your leader Pilate is a coward, as was I. He should’ve set Jesus free. Instead he caved in to the high priest. You’re wrong if you think this will blow over… It’s just begun!”

“Well, I must go.” Longinus said wearily. “Pilate wants this done efficiently. We Romans pride ourselves on that.” “But you’re right” he added, looking down at Peter, “Pilate’s coward. Cornelius, my prefect in Galilee, would’ve set Jesus free. Your friend is innocent. Pilate knows this. All of his men know this. He’ll have to live with this the rest of his life!”

******

Riding ahead, Longinus, called to four of his men in the procession, ordering them to escort us to the hill. At first we were greatly relieved for the protection. It appeared as though the normal rabble were more bark than bite. James believed that the men, who grabbed us and were disguised as ordinary citizens, were hand picked by Caiaphas. Though the horror of this ordeal had filled us with sorrow and dread, our minds were set on seeing this through. The four legionnaires accompanying us to the hill were husky young men that no one would wish to trifle with. I had noticed in the past that Roman soldiers could be cruel if ordered to do so, but when they were by themselves they seemed to be carefree, almost boyish in their lust for life. These same youths might have been the very same soldiers who scourged Jesus and drove that hideous crown of thorns down upon his brow. Right now, as they chattered amongst themselves, they a shielded us against Caiaphas’ men.

Soon, after our guards cleared a path for us with menacing stares and the flicking of their whips, we arrived a the base of Golgotha, a Hebrew word, which meant appropriately enough ‘Place of the Skulls.’ What we saw ahead of us was almost too terrible to describe. Without delay, the three men, including Jesus, were being nailed to their crosses. My first glimpse of this terrible scene brought to my mind those nightmares I had of the three crosses that Jesus had tried to downplay. Now here they were again, this time as real life images. Sure enough, standing nearby overseeing this business, reminiscent of the onlookers I saw in my dreams, where none other than the high priest, several other men, probably members of the Sanhedrin, and a mob of men and women, perhaps part of the same crowd below the Antonia calling for Jesus’ death. It was much worse than my nightmares. What had been silent dreamscapes, with faceless, motionless characters, became a noisy, smelly panorama of cursing, taunting, and weeping on the hill. Very soon, however, as more people crowded onto Golgotha, our view became blocked. There must have been, at this stage, hundreds of people on the scene. To our dismay, all we could see were the top of their heads.

“Halt!” one of the guards barked.

James and I froze in our tracks. Peter, however, as he had in the garden, lost control. “I’m gonna put a stop to this!” He surged forward, shaking his fist.

“You’ll do no such thing!” roared the guard, grabbing his collar.

All four guards had to restrain Peter. Caiaphas, who had caught sight of this, pointed excitedly at this scene. Thanks to Peter, the high priest had alerted both the Sanhedrin and the mob to our presence. James and I wrung our hands in despair as they the guards brought him to the ground.”

“Are you mad?” scolded the first guard. “Now he’s seen you. We heard about him. He’ll sick that scum on you. We don’t have enough men to fight off that mob!”

“I-I want to see our Lord!” sobbed Peter.

“No.” He shook his head. “Absolutely not. Until we clear this hill, this is as far as you go!”

“But that’s Jesus, my brother!” I cried.

“I don’t care if it’s Zeus himself!” he snapped. “You’re staying put!”

“So when are they going to clear it?” James gave him a desperate look.

“I dunno.” He shrugged his shoulders. “There’s a wall of people in front us. They just keep coming. Don’t worry; they won’t dare attack us, but mobs are unpredictable. I wish I could signal Longinus. He must be worried about this. It’s getting out of hand.” “All right.” He looked down at Peter, glancing back at his men. “You fellows watch them, especially that one, while I check this out. If he tries that again, knock him out!”

For several terrible moments that would be recorded by John but unseen or heard by James, Peter, and me, Jesus was, after being nailed in place, raised up on the cross in the middle two thieves, Dismus and Gestus. According to John, Jesus asked God to forgive his tormentors, because they didn’t know any better—a concession that must have included the soldiers who had beaten, whipped, and nailed him to his cross. Not one of those conniving priests, Pharisees or scribes was innocent of guilt. Also missed by us as we were watched by the guards, was when a pre-made sign was placed over Jesus head that read ‘Jesus, King of the Jews.’ Caiaphas and his cohorts protested this alleged blasphemy, but the guard informed them that the order had come straight from Pilate. Soon, after being hung up, Jesus looked down at his mother and said, woman behold your son, and then to John he said, “Behold your mother!” Much later, when we could look at this clearly, I asked James if Jesus might have been angry with us for not being there (a situation that wasn’t our fault). James had no answer for this, and, indeed, considering that our mother had four other sons, including James and me, and John had a mother of his own, it made no sense. Nevertheless, John wouldn’t invent such a story. What we knew of this brief period during the crucifixion was learned from him. In the company of our mother and Mary Magdalene, who John had grown closer to, he was privy to the conversation between Jesus and the two other men sentenced to death, Dismus and Gestus. Gestus, the criminal on his left side, taunted Jesus, “If you’re the Son of God,” he cried, “save yourself and us!” Then Dismus, who hung on his right side, scolded his cohort: “We deserved our punishment. This man is innocent of a crime.” “Lord,” he added with a gasp, “when you enter your kingdom, remember me!” and Jesus replied quickly, “Fear not! Today, you’ll be with me in paradise!”

After this, according to John’s report, Jesus asked God why he had forsaken him. He also cried out, “I thirst!”

Those moments before Longinus returned to us, above the heads of the crowd, we saw the silhouettes of the three crosses. Distant taunts from below Jesus cross were a forewarning and reminder of who are enemies would always be: the Pharisees, scribes, and priests. For the time being it seemed as though the powers that be had won. Jesus had warned us that we would suffer for his name. Now, in his death agony, our suffering had begun in earnest. As the centurion galloped up on his black stead, he wasn’t alone. A contingent of armored legionnaires who, we learned later, entered the East Gate instead of the West, appeared behind him, startling Caiaphas and his followers, sending them skittering from the scene, along with most of the crowd. The mere sight of this force, without bloodshed, had cleared the hill. At least an hour had passed since Peter, James, and I sought out Jesus… At last, our moment had come. We had a clear view of the crucifixions and the remaining bystanders on the hill.

Dismounting his horse, Longinus wiped his brow, and motioned to us, as the other horsemen began patrolling the grounds, on the watch for rabble-rousers. Except for a few onlookers below Jesus, including John, Mary Magdalene, Jesus mother, and a handful of soldiers also gazing up at the cross, the hill was free of hecklers.

“These will be orderly executions!” he exclaimed. “Come!” He motioned. “For your master it’s almost over!”

As we approached the scene, James and I braced Peter, who wept uncontrollably now. I could see John, Mary Magdalene, and our mother turn around finally and walk from the scene.

“They’re leaving,” Peter said in a broken voice. “He must be dead!”

“Let’s stop!” I nudged James. “I want them to know we were here!”

As I cupped my mouth prepared to yell, however, James shushed me. “No, Jude. We’ll tell them later. We have nothing to prove.”

“I do!” Peter groaned. “I wanted Jesus to see me. Now it’s too late.”

“Maybe not,” replied Longinus.

Handing the reins of his horse to an aid, he led us solemnly up to the middle cross. The other two men were still awake, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed down at us, but Jesus hung on his cross with head bowed, unmoving. Not far away soldiers appeared to be gambling. A purple robe, the one Jeremiah told Ethan about, lie on the ground below their game of chance. Overhead, after a normal sunlit day, with few clouds, the sky had begun to darken with a thunderhead. In the quiet, a few of the previous onlookers, perhaps even a few of Jesus’ hecklers returned, silenced by the strange calm. Peter hugged the cross, banging his head repeatedly on the wooden post. James knelt below the cross, weeping softly now. A familiar supporter—the finely dressed patrician woman that expressed sorrow during the procession—appeared, saying tearfully, “They have murdered a God!”

I just stood there staring up at Jesus, almost drained of feeling. Glancing at the woman, I wondered if this Gentile knew how close she was to the truth.

“Do you know who that is?” Longinus looked back at me.

“No.” I shrugged.

“That’s Claudia,” he said, with a snicker, “Pilate’s wife. What irony! I heard her beg him after the sentence against Jesus, to rescind his order. She claimed to have a dream in which a voice told her that he was, in fact, a god.”

“I pity her living with such a man,” I said with great bitterness. “I know Caiaphas is to blame for this, but Pilate could have stopped it. He let it happen. History will judge him too!”

“Listen Jude,” Longinus said thoughtfully, “we Romans are the instrument, but your people are the cause. Pilate wanted to let Jesus go, but he was too great a threat. I’ve heard what his followers call him. They believe he’s God’s son. That makes him a god, too, and yet most of your people wanted a king, not a god. After today, I wonder if they understood him. They wanted him to smite we Romans. Instead he was crucified.” “Look at him now.” He pointed sadly. “That’s your Messiah. Until this moment, I had begun to believe what his followers called him… How else can one explain such fantastic stories? If I had my way, Jude, it would be Caiaphas on that middle cross, not Jesus. Your brother was a righteous man!”

Following Longinus’ words, there was a peel of thunder, then another, and the sky turned so dark it seemed like night. The centurion backed away, startled. The soldiers, who had been gambling on Jesus robe, retreated, wide-eyed with fear. Fear was also etched in Longinus’ stony features, as he scanned the heavens. The remnant of onlookers that had returned, including the patrician began to flee.”

“He shall punish us!” she screamed, pulling her hood over her face.

That moment, to our surprise, Jesus stirred on the cross. With great effort, his head rose and he cried out hoarsely, “Father, unto you hands I deliver my spirit!” As Peter, James, and I looked up, witness to God’s wrath, a gust of wind blew across the hill, the centurion stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Jesus on his cross, exclaiming above the storm, “Truly this was the Son of God.”

Chapter Fifty

Darkest Days

As Jesus and the other two unfortunate men hung on their crosses, the storm worsened. During crucifixion, a criminal naturally remained hanging on the cross until he was dead. It was obvious that Jesus had died, but the other two men were still alive. Despite Longinus fine words on behalf of Jesus, I hated the Romans then. They might not have accused Jesus and insisted on his execution as the Sanhedrin, but they carried out his execution and the two thieves with a cruelty I had never seen before. Lighting flashed overhead, striking the ground here and there, causing us to cringe. Later, we would hear from Ethan, that the temple veil in the most sacred part of the holy of holies was torn. Because of the wind, lightning and onslaught of rain, we finally retreated from the hill. Several of the soldiers in this grim detail that had wiled away their time as their victims slowly died, gambling on Jesus robe, also fled. Looking back I could see the centurion still standing there gazing up at Jesus’ cross.

The Lord was angry or simply trying to make a point. On these possibilities, the three of us agreed. God didn’t want anyone on the hill. Those moments, as prophecy was fulfilled, Golgotha, the hill of Skulls, was sacred. When we arrived back at Mark’s house, we found, to our surprise, that, along with John and the two Mary’s, all the disciples were assembled in the upper room. When Lazarus and his sisters had heard from them what happened to Jesus, they insisted that the faint-hearted men return and support their shepherd. Lazarus, Martha, and Mary had set an example for them, by going it by themselves at first, until the disciples joined them on the road. Though Martha had insisted that Lazarus, still recuperating after his resurrection, was not up to the trip, Lazarus wanted to be here. Not long after the procession to the hill had begun, they had finally arrived.

There were now, including Mark’s mother, four Mary’s in the room. We weathered the storm together, mostly in silence, congregated on each side of Jesus mother, who remained in deep, unapproachable shock. It was James, reminded us, the Day of Preparation. Tomorrow would be the Sabbath. The Jewish leaders wouldn’t want the bodies left on the crosses during this holy day. Despite James’ observation, as we dealt with our grief, an unspoken question hung in the air.

Mary, mother of Mark, brought us bread, cheese, and wine, but for those moments together in the upper room we had no appetite, so we fasted on Jesus’ behalf, not knowing what tomorrow would bring. The skies had darkened, the wind had blown, and lightning flashed with thunderbolts, as rain drenched the land, but then, just as suddenly as it began, the storm ceased and the sun once again broke through the clouds. That hour, as we discussed what to do with Jesus body, three visitors appeared in our midst. After many years away on his travels, Joseph of Arimathea returned for the Passover. He came without his two sons this time, but brought with him Glychon, one of his bodyguards I remember as a child. Not far behind him, emerging from the stairs, was Nicodemus, carrying a large sack. Entering the crowded upper room, the old men, in their caps, phylacteries and fine clothes, and tall, muscular black guard in light armor were a contrast to the homespun Galilean fabric worn by us. The first thing Joseph and Nicodemus did, of course, was offering their condolences to Jesus’ mother. Looking up with a vacant expression, she nodded faintly. Peter frowned at these representatives of Israel’s religious leaders, as did many of the disciples, but James and I remembered how much Jesus loved these men. Joseph had singled out Jesus long before the Baptist’s call. He came, as a true friend, in an hour of need. For that matter, Nicodemus, who had approached Jesus early in his mission for answers, had done everything he could at Jesus trial.

I can’t speak for the others, but Joseph’s and Nicodemus’ timely appearance, coinciding with his pilgrimage during the Passover, was balm to my spirit. Not all Pharisees were bad. Joseph of Arimathea had taken our brother along with him on his business trips, offering Jesus a chance to see the Roman world. Like Nicodemus, who sacrificed his friendship with his peers, and that precious few Pharisees we had befriended, Joseph was one of the good ones. Not only did he bring a bag of gold coins for our needs, but he offered his tomb for Jesus body. In the bag he carried, Nicodemus presented us with myrrh and aloe and linen for Jesus burial in the tomb No one spoke at first. With the exception perhaps of John, who grunted with approval, now that Jesus was dead it didn’t seem to matter to most of the disciples, but James and I were greatly moved. Our mother merely nodded, as did Peter and John. Mary Magdalene turned to Mark’s mother and whispered something into her ear. “Yes, I will help,” murmured his mother. “I will bring my friends to help.” “I will help, too,” our mother spoke, awakening at last. “Once when Jesus was born, three Magis paid us a visit, bringing gold, frankincense and myrrh. The gold will be needed for my son’s followers, but the frankincense and myrrh had been saved for this day.”

“Mistress, do not trouble yourself,” Mary Magdalene bent down and kissed her cheek. “Let them be used for the mother of our Lord. We must go quickly before the Sabbath to bury your son.”

Mary Magdalene was now a pillar of strength, as was Mary, the mother of Mark, who had risen above her discomfort with the Galilean rustics in her house. Ethan, who entered the upper room later, after visiting the hill, recommended that the men stay in doors. With the executions completed, Pilate had removed most of the Roman presence on and around the hill. We had little protection out there now. According to Jeremiah, our eyes in the temple, as reported by Ethan, Caiaphas, savoring his victory over the heretic’s faith, was sending his henchmen throughout Jerusalem to root out his followers. What he planned on doing after Pilate washed his hands of this affair was, as Jesus’ crucifixion, quite illegal. He couldn’t publicly execute us without permission from the procurator nor did he dare even making this demand, and yet he wanted to harass us and do us harm. Perhaps, suggested James, since he had little authority in Judea and Galilee, he merely wanted to drive us out of the city. What Ethan feared most, though, was the possibility that we might be waylaid in an ally or even knifed by a sicarii, those fanatics, who thought Jesus compassion for Gentiles, an affront to God.

We all felt like cowards, as Joseph, Glychon, Nicodemus, and Ethan in company with Martha and the four Mary’s slipped out of the house. Lazarus, who had nothing to fear, was not well enough to be up and about, but Mark, who wasn’t yet a disciple, had no such excuse. Accompanying the four men to the Antonia, Mark would gather information there and at the tomb and return to the upper room with his report. With all this decided, it was, as it had been during Jesus’ trial, a waiting game, but this time overshadowed by the grim realization of Jesus death, which sat heavily over us: a cloak of sadness, misgivings, and doubt.

******

Mark’s report was given to us after Pilate agreed to Joseph’s and Nicodemus’ request to move Jesus’ body to Joseph’s tomb and during the preparation of Jesus for burial, a procedure Mark was too fainthearted to oversee. What he hadn’t known and was told to us later by Ethan through his friend Jeremiah was the brutal treatment of the condemned men before the bodies were removed. Because the Jewish leaders did not want the bodies left on the crosses during the Sabbath, they asked Pilate to have the legs broken and the bodies taken down. When the soldiers came to perform this grisly chore upon Dismus and Gestus, they found that Jesus was already dead. To make sure, however, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus side with a spear, resulting in a flow of blood and water. Though Jesus was carried reverently by the women to his burial place, the two criminals, who had been crucified with Jesus, would be left hanging for several days, and allowed to rot on their crosses. Hence came the name Hill of Skulls. Once again, in spite of the greater blame Jesus himself placed on our religious leaders, I could think of no group more brutal than the Romans. This, of course, overlooked the facts. It was the cold logic of the Romans as opposed to the evil intent of the Pharisees, scribes, and priests. I had plenty of time to think about all this in the hours ahead. Not only did I blame the Romans, religious leaders, and the Jewish rabble for Jesus’ death, I blame we disciples for not spiriting him away from all this. Judas might have betrayed Jesus and led his enemies to him but, like frightened lambs, we allowed him to walk into that trap.

After Mark gave his report, we finally ate a few scraps of cheese and pieces of bread washed down liberally with wine. Without our leader, we were adrift in our own thoughts. Only Lazarus, who sometimes seemed addled in the head, had a clear conscience. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be brought back from the dead, and I didn’t care to know. During this time of meditation, there was little chatter, until Thomas, his tongue loosened by wine, asked, “What happened to Judas?”

“Who cares?” grumbled Peter.

No one could argue with that, but now that the subject had been brought up Mark looked up suddenly from his wine cup.

“If I was him,” he said lazily, “… I’d find me some rope.”

“Nah,” Philip snarled. “I’d find me a cliff. Much quicker that way!”

“How about a sharp knife?” Andrew made a cutting motion across his throat.”

“Or poison?” suggested Matthew. “This piss passing for wine might do.”

“No!” Simon shook his head. “All that is too quick. Like Jesus, he deserves a painful death.”

“You’re all wrong!” growled Peter, staring into his mug. “Death is too good for him. Let him walk the earth like Cain—cursed by what he’s done.”

Mark gave Peter a surprised look. “That’s very deep, Peter. You compare him with Cain?”

“Not really,” the fisherman snorted. “Cain committed the first murder. What Judas did was worse.”

“Judas fulfilled scripture,” James reminded them. “It’s true that he betrayed Jesus, but he was misguided—blinded by scripture. If you look at it from the perspective of prophecy, someone had to do it. Cain committed a cold-blooded deed. Don’t forget what we were told. Jesus forgave his enemies from the cross.”

“Yes,” I perked up, “Judas, like the Romans, was a tool. Jesus told me that Judas was important for his cause. Why else did we have to put up with him for so long?”

“You’re his brothers!” Simon looked at us in disbelief. “How could you defend such a man?”

“We’re not defending Judas.” I waved irritably. “Jesus, not us, wanted him in our group. Though it annoyed us, I respected his wishes to keep him in the twelve. James is right: Judas acted on behalf of prophecy and God’s will. It doesn’t make sense to us. It might never make sense. In addition to the Lord’s many blessings, he has allowed many bad things to happen, including the enslavement of our people, in order to fulfill prophecy. The crucifixion of Jesus seems to make the least sense off all his plans, but it’s still based on prophecy, scripture, and God’s will.”

“I’m glad I can’t read,” grumbled Peter.

“Me too!” Andrew slapped his knee.

“Are you serious?” Matthew snickered. “You men can’t read?”

“Yeah, so what?” Peter gave him a challenging look. “What’s there to read?”

“I can’t read either.” Philip looked around proudly.

“Really?” Thomas scratched his head. “I was just a servant, and even I can read.”

“What’s the point?” Andrew shrugged. “What did those words in the Torah bring us? Those priests and Pharisees killed our Lord.”

“The Torah isn’t the only scroll you can read,” Simon said thoughtfully. “There’s all kinds of writing—some really great stories out there, and don’t forget the Psalms and words of David and Solomon. Not everything in the Torah is prophecy about our people and our Messiah. There’s a lot of common sense and good advice in those scrolls.”

“Don’t forget the history!” Thomas raised a finger.

“And those boring descriptions of our laws,” Matthew made a face.

For those moments, their spirits raised by wine, the disciples sounded like their old selves. No one wanted to face the issue at hand. We were, as we were so often in the past, in denial. It was, at least for me, as if I was a sleepwalker, in bad dream.

“I’ve read the Torah.” I admitted wryly, taking another sip of wine. “The only part I really like is the story of Ruth.” “She was some woman!” I smacked my lips.

James shook his head. “That’s the only scroll that impressed you? What about the story of Adam and Eve, Noah, and all our other tales?”

“They’re all right,” my eyelids fell to half mask. “…I like Ruth the best!”

“What about you?” I looked slyly at John. “Do you share Peter, Andrew, and Philip’s opinion? Can you read?”

“Oh, he can read,” Andrew answered for him. “When we need to know something on paper, we let John read it. He’s always been good with words.”

“We’re not all stupid.” John said glumly. “With the help of our rabbi, I taught myself how to read. I used to like reading the prophets, but not anymore….Thanks to them Jesus got himself killed.”

John’s brother, broke his silence, mumbling, “I can read a little: numbers, signs, and such, and I can write my name. John’s the smart one in our family. I was never good with words.”

Looking over at this disciple, who would one day be called James the Greater, I couldn’t understand why Jesus placed him in his inner circle. He was moody, a man of few words. Jesus had his reasons. Who was I to question the Lord? It was, in fact, John’s recent words that troubled me now. Once again, I recalled Isaiah’s conflicting prophecies: the conquering Messiah versus the suffering servant. As the men lapsed into silence, I wanted to comment on what John said. I half agreed with him, and yet I knew deep down, passed the shock and anger, that what he said was backwards. Jesus got himself killed to fulfill prophecy, not the other way around. For the remainder of our vigil, until the men and the women returned, we continued to drink wine, until we were all shamefully drunk.

******

I had never gotten so drunk with wine. I recall sitting between Bartholomew and James at the table, across from Peter and Andrew, with Matthew, Simon, and Thomas close-by. Huddled together, we discussed with drunken slurs, the injustice of it all and shared our fears of what came next. Jesus’ death appeared to have wiped away once and for all the animosities between the fishermen and outsiders in the group. Even John and his brother James, who after the Transfiguration fashioned themselves as the sons of thunder, were humbled and brought down to earth. Like disenfranchised children without our mother or, as Jesus would prefer, sheep without its shepherd, we were all castaways now, soon, it appeared, to become outcasts from our people, forced into exile for following a lost dream.

It was a dreary and profoundly incorrect vision for the men picked by Jesus to represent him on earth. For our small minds he was, in fact, no longer on earth. Jesus, the Son of God and savior had been crucified as a common criminal. How could that be? Regardless of his promise to return, death seemed so permanent. Our best short-range course was to drown our sorrows and doubt in Mark’s cheap wine.

When the men and women returned, they found most of us slumped over face down on the table, our mugs clutched in our hands. Bartholomew was sprawled on the floor, and Simon lie peacefully at one end of the table, his pack beneath his neck.

This hour, unlike the time in the garden, all of the disciples, including James and I, had fallen asleep. Even Lazarus had managed to drink himself into oblivion. I looked up, opening my eyes, hearing Joseph, Glychon, Nicodemus, Ethan, and Mark break into nervous laughter and Mary Magdalene titter to herself. Though Mark’s mother merely muttered with irritation and Martha and her sister said nothing, Mary, the mother of Jesus, was outraged.

“So!” she shouted angrily. “This is how you mourn my son. I heard about your naps in Gethsemane. Once again, you sleep on watch!” “Wake up! Wake up!” she scuttled around socking and slapping our heads.

“You, you, you, you—wake up!” She went down one side of the table and then the other, thumping and smacking us awake. “I’m ashamed of you—all of you!” “Look at you Peter,” she screamed into his ear. “Some rock you are!” “And you James and you Jude.” She pummeled us. You’re his brothers. Even you let him down!”

Pausing to shove Simon off the table and give Bartholomew a kick, she spared no one, including John, who had been so attentive today.

“Watch it!” Martha cried, when her brother was attacked. “He’s not well.”

“Hah!” she persisted. “He’s well enough to get drunk. Jesus brought him back from the dead! This is how he repays him? He could’ve left him in his tomb to rot!”

“Whazzamattuh with thad woman?” Lazarus tried forming his words. “Why she so ubset?”

“Yeah, Mary, that’s enough!” Peter sat up, clutching his head.

The remainder of us protested more feebly, except Simon, who was badly shaken after being shoved off the table. “Woman,” he growled, “are you insane? That hurt!”

“Good!” she screamed. “You needed waking up! The Romans crucified my son, and you’re all asleep!”

Mark stood beside his mother, shaking his head. Ethan seemed embarrassed by her behavior. Joseph and Glychon, his bodyguard, stood back, taken back by this excess, but Nicodemus, finally spoke up. “Mary, Mary,” he said gently. “You can’t blame them. They feel lost. I might just get drunk, myself.”

“She’s having a breakdown,” Mary Magdalene explained calmly.

Martha and her sister nodded in agreement. Mark’s mother came forward and joined the circle of women.

“I’ve seen this before,” she said. “Her grief is greater because of who Jesus was. He offered our people a deliverer. Where are his people now?”

“Not was, is!” Mary Magdalene’s eyes widened with understanding. “Jesus promised us he would return. In three days he would rise from the dead!”

“He raised me.” Lazarus murmured coherently.

“Yes,” Martha clasped her hands. “Why can’t he raise himself?”

“Please, not now” Peter shook his head. “I saw him…. No one rises from that.”

“I remember him saying that,” John replied thoughtfully. “He said it more than once.”

“He said a lot of things.” His brother sighed deeply. “Some of it never made sense.”
“Many time he spoke in riddles,” Thomas said with a sigh, “seldom speaking plainly. Often I saw his listeners scratch their heads. Perhaps they didn’t understand. When the rabble called for his death, where were his followers?”

“Nowhere in sight!” spat Philip.

“Fleeing like frightened children!” Andrew shook his head.

“Yes.” James stared into space. “Jesus warned us of this too…. The man of sorrows…. That’s who he was.”

“Is!” Mary stomped her foot.

For the second time the question ‘Where had his followers been?’ had been asked. Even James, as a scribe, who understood more than anyone what Isaiah meant in his scroll, was befuddled and lost in doubt.

“I saw some of them as he carried his cross.” I stepped forth, groggily. “…. There were few supporters in the crowd, but they were there. Claudia Procula, Pilate’s wife, was one of them. She had wanted her husband to spare Jesus. She believed God would punish the Romans for killing a god. She didn’t understand who Jesus was—I mean is, but she understood more than many in the crowd. Dozens of the people lining the procession, taunted Jesus. Some threw rotten fruit at him. A few spit on him. I could see a mixture of pity, hatred, or amusement on members of the crowd. Some of those tormenting him I saw in Bethany and in front of the temple. Now that they knew he wasn’t going to deliver them from the Romans, they had turned on him…. as had Judas.”

“Say,” Matthew changed the subject, “where is that rogue?”

“Who cares?” Simon looked down into his empty cup.

James thought a moment. “I can’t imagine what’s going through Judas’ mind. He thought he could force Jesus’ hand. Considering what Jesus said to Jude, its obvious he knew Judas would betray him.”

“Yes,” I marveled at my stupidity, “he so much as told me!”

“That’s still no reason!” Peter snarled. “There’s no excuse for what Judas did!”

Joseph walked over to me while the disciples discussed this issue, placed his hand on my shoulder, and spoke discreetly: “You know him better than anyone…. The prophets have confused our people. After everything I saw and heard, though, I know who he is. From the moment I met him, through our journeys together, I grew in this knowledge. Now, those passages of scripture that really matter have borne this out. I want to believe what Mary Magdalene said, but it defies everything I believe…. It’s a waiting game, Jude. Regardless of what happens in the coming days, our lives will never be the same!”

I gripped his forearm in the Roman manner. “Joseph, you’re a good man—a faithful friend. We’ll wait this out, but I’m worried about my mother. This will destroy her mind. If you’re traveling near Nazareth, please take her with you. Get her out of this city. If what I fear is true, none of us will be safe here in Jerusalem. One dead son for her is enough.”

“Don’t worry.” Joseph raised a hand. “Pilate’s reach is only so far. When this is over, you men can go home. You’ll be safe in Galilee. That’s Herod’s kingdom; Caiaphas won’t bother you there.”

“My mother,” I pressed him, “will you take her with you? Please, Joseph, take her away from here.”

“Of course,” he reassured me, “if she’s agreeable, I’ll take her along.”

As we turned our attention to an argument in progress, I thought about what Joseph said. I knew very well my mother would do as she pleased. She was as stubborn as Bartholomew’s mule. She sat there being consoled by the four women, while the men stood in the background scratching their heads. Nicodemus, who appeared to be unwell, gave us his best wishes and made his exit. Joseph and Glychon, who would stay at Nicodemus house, followed behind, promising to return as soon as word came. Mark and his mother, weary from the ordeal, likewise retreated temporarily to their quarters below. Lazarus and his sisters Martha and Mary would wait until the morning before returning to Bethany, which left Mary Magdalene, James, and I to console our mother. The other disciples were unapologetic for their drunkenness, and kept to their side of the room. In the evening we would be served a simple meal, that we hoped included more wine. It would be a restless night for all of us. The future, if there was a future at all, seemed bleak, a formless void in front of us, the haunting words of Mary Magdalene teasing our minds with futile hope…. Three days, Jesus had promised us. Tonight was the first night without Jesus, and tomorrow was the second day. Until the third day, trapped in the upper room, we looked into our empty cups, impatient for supper and more wine.

Part Four

Risen: A New Message

Chapter Fifty-One

The Resurrection

The next morning found the disciples recovering from another bout with wine. This time Martha and her sister Mary kept Lazarus cup filled with water. James and I had decided to please our mother (not that she was that much aware of her surroundings) and had drunk sparingly, just enough for a decent night’s sleep. Not long after dawn, as we waited for our breakfast and paced restlessly around the upper room, Mark tromped up the staircase announcing the arrival of an important guest. Behind him, as Mark informed us, was none other than Jeremiah, the temple scribe who had been one of Jesus’ two advocates at the trial.

“He has information about Judas!” Mark said excitedly.

Mark paused to quickly introduce the people in the room before Jeremiah gave us the startling news.

“Before Jesus was arrested,” he began, stroking his beard, “Jude came to the temple.”

“Of course!” John said sarcastically “Where else?” “

“Who did he see?” Philip frowned.

“Caiaphas.” Jeremiah answered with a frown. “Let me finish.” “You might be surprised.”

“Shut up, you two!” snapped Peter.

“It’s like this.” Jeremiah drew in a breath. “Judas and the high priest met at Solomon’s Porch, near the women’s court of the temple. Before Judas offered to betray Jesus, he was carrying on about Jesus. He didn’t sound like a betrayer but someone who wanted Jesus to take a stand. He told Caiaphas that Jesus was Promised One and believed the hour was right. He simply wanted give Jesus a little shove. He sounded addled, like a man possessed. Then the high priest handed Judas a bag, which he said contained thirty pieces of silver.

This caused Philip to say, “Ah hah! We were right; he did it for money.”

“I said shut up!” Peter growled.

“I don’t think he did it for money.” Jeremiah shook his head. “Judas said nothing about being paid. I think felt he was an instrument of God. He handed the bag back to Caiaphas, but the high priest explained that it was formality. If he didn’t want payment he should give the money to the poor.”

“Did he keep the money?” Andrew cocked an eyebrow.

“Well… yes,” Jeremiah said hesitantly.

“Then he did it for money!” Andrew folded his arms.

“That’s what I said,” Philip said defiantly.

“Very well, Jeremiah,” Peter threw up his hands. “But what difference does it make? He still betrayed him.”

“The fact is,” Philip insisted, “he got paid!”

“He didn’t do it for money, though,” James disagreed, “he wanted to force Jesus’ hand!”

“That’s’ right!” I slammed down my mug. “Judas was a deluded fool!”

“No rational man would do what he did,” replied Matthew. “Judas was possessed

“No.” Thomas waved impatiently. “He was insane—mad as a bat!’

“Or just plane evil!” Simon decided.

Now that I think about it, I believe Judas actions might have been driven by all three emotions: he was deluded, evil, and mad. Mark listened to this diversion a few moments, then motioned impatiently. “All right,” he replied irritably, “we’ve established Judas’ frame of mind, but Jeremiah had much more to say!”

“After the trial,” Jeremiah continued, with slight irritation, “I found myself in the crowd on Golgotha. I’ve never been more disgusted with our people. These were Judeans. I recognized many of them. Among the normal rabble of Jerusalem, many of those shaking their fists and flinging insults at Jesus had been his followers.” “…. I was in a daze.” He paused to reflect. “…. I could scarcely believe what happened to that righteous man. I saw a horde of hissing and hateful people on that hill. Then, suddenly, it was raining. Thunder peeled in the sky. Surely, I thought, God was angry because of the murder of his son. With the help of the Romans, who tried to bring order in our city, the Lord was showing his displeasure to Jerusalem, sweeping Jesus’ tormenters from Golgotha. Then the storm stopped, as quickly as it began. From a distance, I gazed a moment at the three crosses. On one of the crosses hung Jesus, crucified with two common criminals. A shadowy figure appeared not far from me on the hill. Because his hood was pulled over his face, I couldn’t yet see his face. At first, I thought he might be a follower—so few in numbers they were in this city, yet I paid him no mind. What could anyone say at such a time? Turning from this dreadful place, I began retreating from the hill. Hearing one last peel of thunder, as the sky began to clear—one final rebuke from God, I looked back just in time to see the hood fall from the strangers face. Now the storm had ceased, the moon had broken through the clouds. In its eerie light, there was no question who the stranger was. It was Judas Iscariot, the man who betrayed Jesus. Unaware of my presence it seemed, he slinked away, as if he was a fugitive from divine justice, into the darkness beyond the hill. I don’t know what sort of man Judas was before he did his deed, but I’ve never seen a more tortured soul.”

“Well, what happened next?” Peter looked at him expectantly.

“ I followed Judas into a region of Jerusalem I had never been: down the hill of the skulls, over a field of bones—the discarded victims of Roman barbarity, to a precipice near the city wall. I saw him walk up to the edge of a cliff, which overlooked a great garbage heap of all manner of trash. Because clouds once again covered the moon, it was as if a lamp had been turned off in front of me. One moment, as I stood there watching Judas, he stood there looking down at the refuse, perhaps comparing it to what his life had become; and the next moment, as the clouds parted, he was gone. The space where he stood was now empty. I assumed, after dashing to the scene, that Judas had jumped. Near the crest, I noticed an overhanging tree, its roots clinging to the top of the cliff. The shredded end of a rope hung from one of its branches. After thinking he had leaped to his death, it now seemed as though Judas had hung himself and the rope simply broke…. But then the moon reappeared. As I scanned the mound of refuse below, I could see nothing but garbage and discarded junk. Had I not already felt defiled by my experience, I might have ventured down into the abyss. Even so, it would have difficult, maybe impossible to find a corpse in such a mess.”

“What does that mean?” Peter frowned. “Did he jump or not… Is he dead or alive?”

“It would seem so.” Jeremiah shrugged his shoulders. “Unfortunately, because that place is unhallowed grounds, it will require the Roman magistrates to make sure…. Considering the way most crucified victims are treated by them, I doubt they would do such a thing.”

Andrew looked at him in disbelief. “So he could still be alive?”

“I don’t think so.” Jeremiah shook his head. “He must be in there somewhere. He could’ve sunk into that quagmire. I can’t believe Jerusalem, our holiest of cities, would allow such a mess!”

“This is no longer a holy city,” grumbled Philip.

“Well, that place certainly isn’t.” Jeremiah laughed softly.

“It appears that way.” James heaved a sigh. “Jerusalem, the city of David and Solomon, has always had a checkered history. Now it’s fallen from God’s grace. It’s shining temple and fine buildings mask spiritual filth, no worse than Golgotha, a place of the dead. At the heart of this filth is the temple. As a scribe, I once admired it. I once wanted to work there, until Jesus opened my eyes. Now, because of what they did, it’s tainted; for us, Jesus followers, it is, like Golgotha, unhallowed ground.”

Jeremiah was shocked by this characterization. “Filth, you say?” his voice shook. “A place of the dead? You’re going too far, John. Let’s hope Jerusalem can redeem itself. Is it really a lost cause?”

“Redeem itself, after killing the Redeemer?” replied James. “Never! It’s dead to me. Jerusalem is lost to God!”

“Lost! Dead!” John agreed. “It let the Romans kill our Lord!”

“Let the Romans have it.” His brother shook his fist. “They deserve it. I hope they burn it to the ground!”

“Burn it to the ground!” Philip cried. Thomas, Matthew, Bartholomew, Lazarus, and I joined in them in this chant. Andrew rose up, clinching his fist, exclaiming with great bitterness, “James is right. I blame those filthy priests! They had him crucified him. It’s their fault!”

“A curse on them!” roared Simon. “They’re evil, especially Caiaphas, the high priest. I hope they roast in hell!”

After listening intently, I raised my hand impatiently. “It’s not just the priests and the Romans,” I reminded them. “Let’s not forget that stinking mob: the rabble who turned on him and called for his blood!”

“That’s right,” Peter reflected grimly, “we saw the worst of them. Those people chose Barabbas over him. Afterwards, the town followed their lead. That makes the people of Jerusalem at fault—the whole town: the Pharisees, the priests, the scribes, those turncoat citizens.” “And not just Jerusalem.” Peter raised a finger. “There were, we were told, people from Bethany and other towns. I wouldn’t be bit surprised if all the Jews of Palestine had turned on him.” “A curse on our stiff-necked people,” he added, socking his fist. “When it comes right down to it, their to blame!”

Peter had said it best. No one could top that, not even John, who had stood at the foot of the cross. During our rage, most of the women had looked on in stunned silence. Our mother, however, sat there nodding her head as we ranted. After this dark period, she would never visit Jerusalem again. No one could blame her. Mark, the only man not spouting off, seemed to make light of matters.

“Well,” he said nervously, “we got of the subject, didn’t we?” “I’m sorry Jeremiah,” he murmured discreetly, “I hope you don’t report this to the temple.”

Not sure he was serious, Jeremiah managed to grin. “Ho-ho.” he forced a laugh. “Don’t worry. After the trial, as the Romans say, I’m persona non gratis!”

Mark had awakened our consciences. Realizing at last how Jeremiah, a temple scribe, might react to our rant, we lapsed into silence. After all, until the trial, he was a faithful officer of temple.

“What about Judas?” a voice broke the quiet. “Blame is one thing, but he betrayed my son. He committed the ultimate crime!” “We all know who’s to blame for the trial and execution of Jesus. It was Judas who sold him out!”

On and on she went, drawing from the report given to her. James and I looked at our mother sympathetically. With the imprint of Jeremiah’s account of Judas apparent suicide, however, my hatred of Judas was tempered by pity. I sensed that James felt the same way. Also playing on my logic, was the notion given to me by Jesus, himself, that Judas was an instrument of the Lord. Mary Magdalene, Lazarus’ sisters, and Mark’s mother stood over our mother cooing kind words, as she carried on.

“We’re back to the subject.” Peter looked into his empty cup. “Did he jump?… Did he hang himself?… You gave us a mystery Jeremiah.”

“No… I didn’t say that.” Jeremiah shook his head. “I didn’t see a body…. No one’s going to that no man’s land to search for him. Let’s look at the logic of this business. One moment he was there on the cliff and the next moment he was gone. Where else could he be, if he had jumped onto the refuse heap? Then there what was the tattered rope, implying that he hung himself, and the rest of it broke because of his body’s weight.” “Those are the facts,” he looked at each one of us. “Judas is probably dead…. That’s good enough for me.”

“Me too!” John nodded enthusiastically.

“And me!” his brother agreed.

“We all want to believe this,” Peter said with resignation. “Let us take a vote.”

When the count was taken, everyone raised their hands. Based upon Jeremiah’s inability to see a corpse when he looked down, we had our own doubts, but there seemed to be no other outcome to what the scribe first saw on the cliff.

******

Thus the legend of Judas’ suicide was born. Matthew would write that Judas hanged himself, but I would read one of Luke’s scrolls and find the story that Judas jumped off the cliff, his guts gushing out when he hit the bottom. I never argued with Luke over this garnishment, but if Judas did, in fact, kill himself, I think Matthew was closer to the truth. A rope hanging from a tree seemed too coincidental. On the other hand, the rope had broken, so, in the end Judas might, in fact, have fallen to his death. Jeremiah had given enough evidence for either conclusion. That night, as we sat in the upper room, literally in spiritual limbo, there were other more pressing matters. This was the second day, after Jesus’ crucifixion, which made us wonder what tomorrow would bring. Would Caiaphas ruffians finally discover our hideout? Or had we exaggerated this threat?

After a lackluster meal, in which we finished off the supply of wine, the disciples, including James and I managed, in spite of our mother’s rebuke, to drink ourselves to sleep. Using our packs as pillows this time, we at least found spaces on the floor instead of falling asleep at the table like common drunks. The women were furnished blankets and pillows by Mark’s mother. Because of his sickly condition, Lazarus was given Mark’s bed. I had a familiar nightmare that night, as I lie between James and Bartholomew, in which I stood on a hill looking at three crosses that stood out against a darkened sky. This time the meaning was perfectly clear. All the players were there at the same time, however: Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin in the background, Longinus overseeing the execution, and John and the two Mary’s standing below Jesus’ cross. When I awakened the next morning, I was, like the other men groggy with a hammering head. It must have been very early, because everyone except Mary Magdalene was still asleep. Looking down at me, she smiled slyly.

“It’s the third day!” she announced happily. “You know what that means!”

“Mary,” I rose up sluggishly, “wait till everyone gets up and has breakfast. Don’t go running off.”

“I’m not waiting, Jude,” she called over her shoulder. “I tried waking John and Matthew, but they’re too drunk.”

“Wait!” I called out hoarsely. “You shouldn’t go there alone.”

Pausing a moment at the stairwell, she held out her palms. “No, don’t try to be brave, Jude. During the crucifixion, you and the others ran away like frightened sheep!”

“No we didn’t!” I said indignantly. “We were there, too: Peter, James, and I. I saw Jesus die. I heard his last words.”

“Really?” She gave me a dubious look. “I didn’t see you. Why didn’t you tell us?” “It doesn’t matter.” She said airily. “They won’t notice one lone girl visiting the tomb, but Jesus disciples are wanted men. Please, don’t complicate things, Jude. Jesus needs you to spread the word. Stay here where it’s safe.”

That moment Lazarus’ sister Mary rose up from her makeshift pallet next to Martha, grabbing her robe and sandals. Though asleep, herself, she joined her namesake at the foot of the stairs, muttering, “Wait! Wait! I wanna go too!” Before I could protest very much, the two women moved quickly down the steps and through the door, leaving me standing like a coward in the room.

“What was that all about?” James looked up from his pallet.

“Mary’s going to visit Jesus tomb.” I answered guiltily. “One of Lazarus’ sisters went with her. I should’ve gone with them.”

“No, you shouldn’t!” he said, with yawn, “… They’ll be safe. The women were at the tomb before. Caiaphas’ henchmen are still out there, Jude. They tried to get us during the crucifixion. They’d love to stone one of Jesus disciples or tear them to bits.”

“I know.” I looked forlornly at the empty space where Mary stood. “But I feel like a coward…I care about her, James. She’s quite a woman. She’s been with us from almost the beginning. No one took her seriously, and yet she was there with our mother below the cross, there when they carried him to the crypt, and the only one who believed he would rise from his tomb…. I’m glad someone’s going with her. I still wish I’d gone along.” “What do you think?” I looked at James, as he rose shakily to his feet. “…This is the third day.”

“Well, that’s true.” He shrugged his shoulders “We shall see…. Let’s not waken the others yet. I’m sure Mary will do that when they return!”

James and I sat on the tabletop watching the others stir. A pallet had been prepared especially for our mother in the room below and, according to Mark when he arrived sleepy-eyed in our midst, she was still asleep, as was Lazarus in his room. Mark’s mother, the next one to rise in the house, brought up towels, asking us to inform the others that hot water for washing was being prepared. Ever since this ordeal had begun, we had remained unwashed, she complained. Jesus would want us to honor this time. When we left Jerusalem we should leave clean, with food in our bellies, not sneak out like thieves on the run. I wished the others had heard her. She was right, I thought. While the women in the house remained strong, we had fallen to pieces, let ourselves go, and become drunks.

James, Mark, and I waited anxiously for the two Mary’s to return. Just as Peter raised his woolly head and peeped around the room and Bartholomew let out a massive yawn, Mary Magdalene charged up the stairs shouting, out of breath, “He’s risen! He’s risen!” Echoing her words, her namesake, added the exclamation, “Jesus has risen from the dead!”

“Not again,” Peter grumbled, still half-asleep. “What’re they carrying on about now?”

Panting after dashing from the tomb, Mary Magdalene began relating to us their mission from the moment they slipped away this morning. James and I helped the two women onto the tabletop, as she began her account. While the men approached the speaker in various stages of wakefulness, Martha, Lazarus, and our mother hastened quickly to the scene. Until the report was finished, no one interrupted them. This was the moment we had waited for. Taking turns, the two Mary’s told us an amazing story.

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, all wrote different versions of this great event. Ironically, other than my own account, Luke who got his information second hand from Mary Magdalene gave the most accurate account. According to her, with little embellishment from Luke or myself, she and Lazarus’ sister, Mary, found the stone to the tomb rolled away. The guards nearby were asleep and no one was about. When they entered the tomb, they discovered that it was empty. Jesus’ grave clothes lay on the slab. Mary Magdalene and her companion talked about this a moment, wondering if Caiaphas was behind this mystery, yet hoping that Jesus prophecy had come true.

“Suddenly,” said the second Mary, clasping her hands, “two men appeared in white robes that glistened around the edges. Their golden hair also glowed like crowns of light. “Knowing we were in the presence of angels,” Mary Magdalene continued, “we bowed down before them, but one of the angels asked us, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He isn’t here; he has risen! Remember how he told you, while he was still with you that the Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified and on the third day be raised again.’”

“Yes!” they both cried. “You see!” Mary Magdalene looked around the room. “It’s all true. Jesus has returned as he said he would. He’s risen from the dead!”

“I don’t know,” Thomas shook his head, “this is hard to believe.”

Andrew and Philip nodded in agreement. “You didn’t see him,” Andrew suggested. “The Romans or Caiaphas’ men could have stolen his body.”

“Wait a minute,” John raised a hand. “Tell me Mary. You say Jesus grave clothes were lying on the slab…Why would the conspirators leave that behind?”

“That is strange,” Peter scratched his head. “I want to see this for myself.”

“What about Caiaphas?” Andrew caught his sleeve. “He might think we stole him. He’s aware of the prophecy too!”

“Let’s go!” I looked back at James.

“I believe them.” James nodded solemnly.

“No!” Peter shook his head. “We’re not going together. Let John and I go first. We go out there at the same time and they’ll spot us for sure.”

Once again, as the two men departed, I felt cowardly. In truth, despite a brave well-meaning front, I was, in fact, afraid. So were James and the remaining disciples. At this point, Martha, who felt she had let Jesus down, insisted on going too. I reminded them of Peter’s admonition. The other women also tried to stop her, but it was no use. Off she went.

“Martha!” her sister called after her. “He’s gone. All there is now is an empty tomb!”

“I don’t care,” she called back, surging forward and racing the stairs. “I want to see it for myself!”

******

At the table on which Jesus ate his last supper, we waited anxiously for Peter, John, and Martha’s return. Mark’s mother brought up bread, cheese, and well-water up for breakfast. We had drunk all her wine and eaten almost all of her food. Despite our physical condition and hunger, we ignored the meal set before us, much too excited to eat. Mary Magdalene and Mary, sister of Lazarus, chattered continually about their experience. James and I, who had seen Jesus die, wanted to believe them, as did the other men. After awhile, their chatter grew irritating to us. Our mother, who had a practical mind, couldn’t understand why the alleged angels they spoke of did not appear to her, Jesus mother, instead of those flighty girls. Ironically, the mother of Jesus, who bore him and raised him, had, in the company of her other children, tried to talk him out of this ‘foolishness.’ Now, as we waited for Peter’s corroboration of what the women discovered, every sound outside the walls—voices or hoof beat caused us to bolt upright and perk up our ears, until finally, we heard the door slam below and three pares of feet clamoring up the stairs.

“He’s back!” Martha squealed, prancing around excitedly. “Jesus rose from the dead!”

“It must be true!” Peter exclaimed, out of breath. “He’s gone all right. We found his grave clothes.” “Here they are,” he shook them irreverently. “Phew!” He wrinkled his nose. “Smells like a Syrian whore.”

“You silly man!” Mary Magdalene pulled them from his hands. “It’s myrrh and aloes!”

“It was smelly.” John confessed. “Nicodemus was generous in his supply. We saw it for ourselves, though… The stone was rolled back and the guards were gone. The tomb was empty just like they said.”

“I remember that smell,” Lazarus stirred, staring into space. “It’s stifling. It makes me shudder just thinking about it. When I die again, bury me quickly. Next time, let me sleep. Let Jesus awaken me in his kingdom. I don’t need evidence that he returned.” Looking around the room, his gazed fixed upon Mother Mary’s eyes. “Your son lives!” he said to her. “If anyone in this room knows for certain, it’s me!”

Her breath left her momentarily. “… Really?” she murmured, her eyes filling with tears.

“Really.” He nodded faintly. “You know this in your heart.”

By his words, I realized Lazarus was clearly back among the living. He wasn’t addled, as I suspected. His words swept away my doubts. It was true, I thought. Who more than Lazarus would know?

“I believe it!” I shouted happily. “Look at him!” I pointed at Lazarus. “He was resurrected, too. What more proof do you need?”

“Yes,” James cried, socking his fist. “Jude’s right. Mary Magdalene’s right. Why do we have to see Jesus again? He’s with his father in his kingdom. Simple men have to see things and feel them in order to believe, but that’s wrong. Our brother once said ‘More blessed are those who believe but don’t see.’ You don’t sound completely sure Peter and neither do you John, and yet you both were at the tomb.” “But you two believed!” He looked over at Mary Magdalene and Lazarus’ sister. “Without seeing Jesus, you knew he had risen… And he has!” “Open your hearts men!” His gaze turned to the disciples. “Your eyes can’t see the kingdom, so why must they see our Lord?”

Chapter Fifty-Two

The Appearances of Jesus

John, who wrote his own version of Jesus’ exploits, would have his readers believe that Mary Magdalene, alone during her visitation, was the first follower to see the risen Christ. According to his gospel, early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene went to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the entrance. Without even looking inside, she came running to Simon Peter and John, telling them that Jesus body was stolen. Peter and John inspected the tomb, for themselves, as they in my account, and, naturally since he was recording this event, John was the first one to say that he believed. Despite this, John admits, none of the disciples understood the prophecy of Jesus resurrection. After his acknowledgment of the resurrection, which is stretching the truth, the story switches to Mary Magdalene, standing outside the tomb crying. As she sobbed, she looked into the tomb and saw two angels, who asked why she was wept. “They have taken my Lord!” she exclaimed. After this amazing statement, she turned away from the angels and discovered a man standing in front of the tomb. Once again Mary’s weeping is questioned. “Woman, why are you crying?” asked the stranger. “Who are you looking for?” Because Mary didn’t recognize Jesus familiar face, John had her say, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.” Jesus then called her name, as if that triggered her memory. Crying out ‘Teacher!’ and reaching for his robe, she caused Jesus to back away with the words, “Don’t touch me, for I haven’t yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I’m ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Afterwards, Mary Magdalene returned to the disciples to tell she had seen the Lord.

Recently, when I read these words from one of Luke’s collection of scrolls, I was puzzled. None of the other apostles recorded this episode of Jesus’ appearance at the tomb. I won’t questions John’s intent on writing this version, which he wrote many years after Jesus death. Perhaps his exile in Patmos had clouded his recollection or perhaps he wanted to dramatize the basic story, but the only part of this account that resembles Matthew, Mark, and Luke’s accounts, is when Peter and John went to the tomb. That John believed instantly was never claimed by himself in our presence nor did Mary Magdalene claim to see Jesus before anyone else. No one could dispute John’s account, which he wrote as a very old man. Everyone outside of John, except Luke and I, were dead. Looking back on the day, when the two Mary’s returned from the tomb, however, I recall the same doubt on John’s face as I saw on Peter’s. It took Lazarus’, James’ and my words to jar the others’ minds and bring them closer to accepting Jesus had risen, and even then Thomas shook his head in disbelief.

As in any historical account, which begins by word of mouth and is stored away in the mind before being written down, embellishments and new information are added to it that conflict with other accounts. All of the authors of Jesus’ life had a slightly different version of his arrest, trial, and resurrection. Matthew account at least gave both Mary’s credit for seeing the risen Christ, leaving out the details of John’s more lengthy account. Neither Matthew, Mark, nor Luke gave Mary Magdalene such a pivotal role after the crucifixion. If John, who appeared to admire her as much as me, wanted to glorify her name, I think he failed. Mary Magdalene wasn’t the flighty-headed girl John and the other disciples thought she was. There was a witness to her actions at the tomb: her namesake, Lazarus’ sister. Neither of the two Mary’s said anything at all about seeing Jesus, but they were both smart enough, after finding grave clothes, to accept the likelihood he had risen. More importantly, were the disciples failed, the two Mary’s took that leap of faith and believed outright it was true. Mary Magdalene and her namesake and, for that matter, Lazarus and Martha, didn’t need to see to believe. Greatly moved by what we heard that day in the upper room, this was also true for James and me, despite our doubt on the hill. That the others still had doubts, had much to do with human nature. Most of the disciples, like all of Jesus’ followers, believed what they saw, felt, and heard—the three fundamental senses of human understanding. James and I, because we were Jesus’ brothers and shared our childhood with him, were predisposed to believe because of our three senses and Lazarus, after all, had been brought back from the dead, naturally experiencing all three. We three had the advantage of foreknowledge and were inclined to believe Mary Magdalene and Lazarus’ sisters. But the three women knew only what their hearts understood. This wasn’t a human sense. They needed no proofs. For that, I believe, there is a special place for them in history as the first to acknowledge the resurrection.

The question now, you may ask, is ‘who was the first to see the risen Lord?’ This is another point of inconsistency among the writers. Luke the keeper of the scrolls naturally thought his account the most accurate and he was almost correct. Perhaps, wanting to give credit to Peter the Rock, he claimed that Peter saw Jesus first, but then, because we were with Peter the whole time before the sightings began, this is impossible. It is Luke’s account of Cleopas and Matthias sighting that is undeniable. It was, in fact, me who told him about this event, which was related to us in the upper room by these men. Jesus always told us that God works in mysterious ways. Since he was now part of the Godhead it was true for him too.

No one will ever know why Jesus didn’t appear first to those closest to him, including his own mother. Instead he appeared to two followers, who were mostly absent during the period of Jesus’ mission. The first few days after the tomb was discovered to be empty should have been joyous days, but for most of the disciples who clung stubbornly to their doubts it was troublesome. We all felt like prisoners in the upper room. “Where was Jesus?” the fishermen continued to ask. James, Lazarus, the two Mary’s, and I did our best to convince them. Bartholomew, Thomas, Matthew, and Simon were halfway there, listening more patiently to James and my reassurances. James and I, however, had failed to comfort our mother. She wanted desperately to believe her oldest son was alive. For that matter, the two Mary’s had almost convinced Mark and his mother, but, like the fishermen and our mother the lack of those human proofs was a stumbling block.

When Lazarus and his sisters decided to return home and share the good news with their friends and neighbors in Bethany, we decided it was time to leave the upper room, too, our unanimous decision being to shift our refuge to Bethany in Lazarus’ house. Drawn by our fellowship, Mark and his mother decided to come along, leaving their servant to oversee their house. Breaking up into pairs and threesomes, we made our getaway, each hour slipping piecemeal through Jerusalem’s main gate, until that evening we were assembled as a group in Lazarus’ home.

******

James, Bartholomew astride his mule, and I were the last group to arrive at his house.

Fleetingly, during the dark time, I had thought about Micah, my dog, waiting there in Ashira’s care. Now, on a leash she had made for him, he broke away from the servant, almost vaulting into my arms.

“He remembers you!” James laughed.

“Of course!” I said, nearly falling down. “After Jesus cured him, he became mine forever. It was as if he knew me all his life.” “Easy does it Micah,” I tried calming him. “we’ve had long walk!”

Ashira raised her hand in salutation. “Greetings Jude, James, and Bartholomew!”

“Thanks for taking care of my dog.” I grinned happily “You don’t have to he so formal, Ashira. You’re one of us now!”

“It’s true, Ashira,” Bartholomew said, peering down from his mule. “There’s no masters or servants in the Kingdom.”

“Yes,” nodded James agreed, “we’re all servants of the Lord.”

During these platitudes, I reached out warmly to her. “Now Micah’s staying here,” I took her hands, “he’s partly yours.”

“That seems only fair,” James agreed. “Jesus gave him to Jude, but he’s like our mascot. Who couldn’t love this special dog.”

“I certainly do!” She reached down and ruffled his head. “Watch this!” she exclaimed. Micah’s really smart. I taught him some tricks.”

At that point, she signaled to him with her hands. Responding to each signal, he sat up, barked, rolled over, played dead, and, for his final trick, chased his tail.

“That’s amazing!” James slapped his forehead.

“It’s not natural,” marveled Bartholomew.

“It’s true.” I sighed with satisfaction. “Your both right. Because Jesus cured him, Micah is unnatural. He’ll never be normal dog!”

As Micah trotted behind Ashira, James, and I, his leash dragging uselessly on the ground, I felt great pride. Here, in a very real way, was a part of Jesus, who had placed him in my care. Yet, despite being such an amazing creature, he was still a dog, scampering playfully around Bartholomew and his mule, barking at a low flying bird, and romping up alongside of me to lick my hand.

******

Though giving us a break from the upper room, our shift of residence proved problematic for Lazarus’ household. Now that our numbers included, not only eleven disciples but Mary Magdalene, Mark, and his mother, as well as Micah, my dog, there simply wasn’t enough room. Also disappointing to us was the reception we received the next day from townsfolk who had once appeared to be Jesus’ followers. When Lazarus sent his servant with word of Jesus resurrection, only a few these fair-weather followers paid us a visit. The very air seemed charged with discontent after word of the crucifixion reached the town. No one, not even Jared and his wife, who had joined the Way when Jesus was alive, believed he survived such a death. During a conversation during our evening meal, the subject of returning to Jerusalem was brought up by James, who felt our flight was a cowardly act. There wasn’t enough room in Lazarus’ house, I joined the argument. We were persona non grata here. No one had believed Lazarus servant. Our reception in Bethany was almost as bad as that in Jerusalem. It was time to return. James looked around the table for everyone’s support. Peter, who had tried to play the part of Rock and failed, joined James and I in our vote, as did Mary Magdalene, Lazarus sisters, Mark and his mother, and, after a pause, most of the disciples at the table. Lazarus and his sisters would stay in Bethany, as well as Thomas, who had not been convinced. Thomas complained of an ailment of his bowels, but we weren’t fooled. Had Peter not stepped forth, I’m certain Bartholomew, Philip, and Andrew might have bowed out, too.

James’ pep talk, had given the majority courage. Also bolstering their resolve, brought up during dinner, was how easily we had walked down Jerusalem’s main street in plain sight and slipped unnoticed out the gate. A strong presence of Roman legionnaires in town, which we noticed immediately upon returning to Jerusalem, was yet another factor bolstering our resolve. Now, if we felt hemmed in, James assured us, we could stretch our legs in town. We might, if we were vigilant, even pay Nicodemus a visit. The old Pharisee might not even know that Jesus rose from the dead.

At dawn the next morning we began our trek back to Jerusalem. Giving Micah a hug, I once more left him in Ashira’s capable, caring hands. In spite of our resolve there was an unspoken anxiety in our ranks. What if all James’ and my fine words was wishful thinking ane even delusional and Caiaphas’ henchmen pounced on us as soon as we entered the gate? As Andrew put it, “No one can predict what that reptile might do.” Despite such lingering doubts, however, our return to the city, as James predicted, proved to be uneventful. After a short pause in which we ate lunch in Mark’s house, James and I paid Nicodemus a visit. As is turned out, both he and Joseph of Arimathea, his guest, appeared to believe our story. Ethan, Nicodemus’ chamberlain, likewise seemed receptive. So hopeful were they that this was true, however, it could be the same kind of reception the fishermen gave the news: a wait and see vigil requiring positive proof. When we left Nicodemus’ house, we saw a familiar rider trotting down the street. On his great black stead, the old centurion looked down at us as he rode up, a faint smile cracking his chiseled fact.

“Ave Jude and James!” he greeted us, raising one hand.

“Longinus!” I called. “The tomb was empty. Jesus has risen from the dead!”

“The dead don’t rise,” he replied bluntly, “even the Son of God!”

“But if you believe he’s a god, he’s immortal,” I played his game.

“Ho-ho, point taken!” he said with a nod. “Tell me,” he said, climbing off his horse, “how did his father manage this? I heard the guards were bewitched or fell asleep. The stone rolled away was quite heavy, and yet the rumor is your king was stolen by the priests. Thanks to the Jewish God, the guards got into big trouble. They might even lose their heads.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I reached out to grip his forearm. “Jesus wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“Awe, they’ll probably just get whipped.” Longinus laughed sourly. “They’re were a shiftless pair!”

“…He’s not the Jewish god,” James said belatedly, “he is God!”

“Hah!” The centurion shrugged. “Thanks to Roman policy, we have hundreds. The Jewish god is just one more added to our pantheon.” “The truth is,” he added more seriously,

“ Our gods—Roman and foreign—are stone. I’ve never met someone like Jesus. He didn’t claim to be a god; he claimed to be the Son of God, but that would still make him a god. The Egyptian god Osiris had a son and so did Rome’s Jupiter, but none of our gods claimed to the Christ. They weren’t interested in men’s souls and their salvation. You offered sacrifices to them. You didn’t have to live a good life or even pray. We have priests for that. I heard Jesus forgave his tormentors as he was nailed on the cross. Jupiter, if he ever existed, would have struck them all dead.” “I also heard something else,” he added, stroking his horse. “…. There were two men on each side of Jesus, both of whom were members of Barabbas’ gang. Can you believe it? Jesus, the Son of God, was hung between two criminals. It sickened me when that rabble chose Barabbas over him. Barabbas is a murderer and insurrectionist. He should have been the one nailed on a cross…. When I looked up at your king, I was filled with great rage… Then I heard Gestus, the criminal crucified on Jesus’ left side, taunt him. ‘Why didn’t he save himself and also them, if he was King of the Jews as the plague over his head stated?’ he asked. The second man, Dismus, crucified on Jesus right side, scolded his cohort, saying, ‘We deserved our punishment, but Jesus is innocent.’ Looking over at him, Dismus, pleaded, ‘Jesus, when you enter your kingdom, remember me!’ Jesus, in great agony, who had forgiven his enemies, exclaimed to Dismus, “Today you shall be with me in Paradise!” “Suddenly,” Longinus said after a pause, “the rage I felt—like a shadow on my mind—disappeared. I wondered that moment if a man like Dismus, who had been a murderer and thief all his life, only moments or hours before he died, could merit eternal life, why not me? I have killed men who tried to kill me and only done my duty for Rome, but I have never believed in the gods. What happened yesterday sullied me. I heard about Jesus’ miracles and heard him speak, so I knew we were killing a god—”

“Longinus, you are part of God’s plan,” I interrupted, patting his arm. “You acknowledged him. I heard you. If you believe and repent, you, too, are saved.”

“Ho-ho,” Longinus laughed self-consciously. “You preach to me? I’m not a Jew. What does you king need of another sword?”

“You think Jesus came for only Jews?” James looked at him in disbelief.

“Yes,” Longinus nodded. “That’s what I’ve gathered.”

“That’s not true.” James frowned. “Jesus has converted Gentiles. I know of a few.”

“A few, you say,” he replied dismissively. “I know of none. I would be cashiered out of the legions if I joined your sect.”

“Ah hah!” I cried. “You must be thinking about it. No one has to know. Jesus doesn’t expect people to give up what they do for a living. You can serve both Caesar and Christ.”

Longinus, who must have been thinking about this since the crucifixion, sighed deeply, climbed back on his horse, and sat there in silence, as a squad of soldiers walked passed. Saluting the centurion and receiving a nod, they continued on their way without a backward glance. Peace had been restored to Jerusalem. For the most part, the holy city was the same. Ordinary Roman soldiers didn’t care that Jesus had been crucified or that the veil in the temple was rent asunder. Only Longinus and probably Pilate, who knew he had crucified an innocent man, felt pangs of guilt.

“One thing I don’t understand.” Longinus looked down with a troubled expression. “If Jesus was the Christ and Son of God, why did your people turn against him? I saw very few sympathizers in that crowd?”

“They were there,” James reassured him, “and they’re the ones that count. I saw a few Gentiles there too.”

“Yes,… Claudia, Pilate’s wife.” Longinus stared into space. “I saw her below the cross. She believe s like some of my men that we killed a god. She’ll never forgive her husband for that.”

“We learned from a scribe what Jesus told Pilate.” I explained consolingly. “He told the procurator that the Sanhedrin had the greater blame. You like Judas, even Barabbas, were part of God’s plan, but unlike them you believe.”

He gave me a questioning look. “I do?… If that’s true, why don’t I feel it? I’ve gained nothing in life but my service to Rome: no family, no permanent home, and hardly any true friends. Suddenly, because of one crucified man, I regret it all. Did you know that my reassignment to Jerusalem was punishment for my association with Cornelius? Why did I waste my life in this thankless job?”

“Listen my friend,” I said greatly moved. “If you hadn’t of been sent here, you might not ever have believed. You, like James and I, witnessed a terrible and glorious event. We are a chosen few. We heard his words on the cross and saw him take his last breath. Now we know that he’s risen. That’s the most important thing you have to believe, Longinus. Jesus is alive. The king is back!”

“That’s what I heard,” he confessed, taking a hold of his reins. “A legend was born. Those two men guarding the tomb swore they were bewitched. In a sense that’s true. They weren’t drunk. They know what would happen if they got caught drunk on duty. It occurred to me also how unreasonable it would be for the priests to steal Jesus body, which would prove he rose from the dead. It could, as Pilate suggested, be his disciples who moved him, but if that’s so, why would they leave his shroud—a disrespectful act for someone they called the Christ. His disciples weren’t very brave. They wouldn’t have dared show their faces near the tomb.”

Giving his horse a gentle kick, he looked back as he trotted away, raising his free hand in salute, his final words, affirming what I thought: “…. I don’t know where this will lead me. Soon I will retire and get a plot land in Galilee somewhere or I might even return with my bag of coins to Rome…. No matter where I go, that day below the cross will haunt me…. It’s true, my friends,… Jesus has bewitched me, too…. He’ll haunt me the rest of my days!”

******

What still seemed like a risky and unnecessary stroll in Jerusalem proved to be worthwhile. I couldn’t wait to tell the others about our conversation with Longinus. Though he scarcely would admit it, Longinus now believed. When we returned to Mark’s house, however, there were visitors in the upper room. The report on our meeting with Longinus would have to wait. As James and I entered the room, Cleopas and Matthias greeted us with uncharacteristic hugs and backslapping. Both men grinned continually, eager to relate their story. Someone must have purchased spirits in town, for everyone clutched a mug of wine. Everyone, in fact, including the women, appeared to already have made a few toasts. Our mother had a look of illumination on her face. It appeared as if they must have let most of the story slip, and yet the group had waited excitedly for James and I to return before so they could share with us the extraordinary news. Cleopas and Matthias, who had been there at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry but gone their own ways, had been on their way to Emmaus when, according to Cleopas, a stranger approached them on the road. As they talked about the news of Jesus’ crucifixion and apparent resurrection, which both of them wanted to believe, the stranger, whose face was almost hidden in his hood, broke into conversation with them.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Emmaus,” replied Cleopas, looking suspiciously at the man.

“I can tell,” noted the man. “that something has made you sad.”

“I would say so,” grumbled Matthias. “Haven’t you heard, sir?”

“Heard what?” the stranger pressed. “Did something happen when I was gone?”

“You must have just returned,” Cleopas replied, “or you’d know what happened.”

“All right.” The man shrugged. “Tell me what happened.”

“Very well,” Cleopas looked over at him, as they walked, “Jesus of Nazareth, our prophet, was arrested by the priests, condemned by the Romans, and nailed to a cross. We had hoped that he was the Christ, who would redeem Israel. We heard a rumor that he had risen on the third day. Though his tomb was empty, no one has seen him. That’s why we’re sad. That’s why all of Israel should be sad!”

That moment, as Cleopas repeated his glowing report, I sensed what came next.

“Oh, you foolish men!” the stranger cried. “Don’t you believe what the prophets have written. Everything that happened—his suffering and crucifixion—were meant for his glory, so the world, not merely Israel, will be saved!”

Already James and I exchanged knowing looks. According to Cleopas, in what struck me as incredibly dense, neither he nor Matthias knew who the stranger was. They never bothered to even ask him his name. Even when the man went on to espouse passages from the scriptures, beginning with Moses and ending with Isaiah, that strongly hinted as to who he was, they remained ignorant. Perhaps, they were just tired or just too thickheaded to comprehend, but their lack of perception served to create a memorable account. As the three men approached an inn, Cleopas invited the stranger to sup with them, still totally unaware of his identity. Then, as they sat together eating their meal, the stranger took the bread, blessed and broke it into three pieces, and, taking one for himself, gave each of the men a piece. At that point, he pulled back his hood and sat there waiting for their response. Suddenly, as Matthias put it with misty eyes, “Our eyes were opened and we knew who it was: Jesus of Nazareth, the risen Christ.”

After this announcement, Jesus told Cleopas and Matthias to return to Jerusalem and join the eleven disciples in the upper room, and here they were. Because James and I got an abbreviated version of the first telling, I’m certain Cleopas and Matthias left out a few details. But we heard the most important portions of it: Cleopas and Matthias claimed to have seen and talked to the risen Lord. Years later, Luke’s gospel would fill in the gaps.

Not one of the disciples, including James and I, questioned their account because of the satisfaction it gave our mother, but I could still see doubt on their faces. I felt it myself. It seemed strange to me, and I’m certain to everyone else, that Jesus would appear to two men who had been inactive in his mission and not appear to his mother and disciples—those people closest to him in life. For that matter, Mary Magdalene, Lazarus’ sisters, Peter, and John were there at his very tomb and, with the exception of grave clothes, saw nothing at all.

While we ate our evening meal with our visitors, Mark’s mother not too subtly asked Cleopas and Matthias if they were staying for the night. This should have been obvious to her. After all, they wouldn’t travel to Emmaus at night. When they offered to find an inn in town, an impossible venture this time of year, Mark frowned at his mother, insisting that they stay. Despite the dubious nature of it, their report of Jesus first appearance had filled us with hope. Mother Mary, as everyone had come to call her, was jubilant now. She had adopted Mary Magdalene and, to James and my dismay, also John. John had ingratiated himself into both our mother and Mary Magdalene’s affection. I still don’t understand why Jesus designated John as our mother’s son. This grievance, of course, I kept to myself. James and I were just happy to see her smile again. Perhaps, looking at it from Mary’s perspective now that she had been adopted, I had another sister, which would make my thoughts of her improper—a state of affairs that also affected John. We were, in fact, that night, one big, happy family and, in a very real sense, I understand now, the founders of the ecclesia that would incorporate the Seventy in Galilee and the other converts who hadn’t fallen away.

******

Just when everyone had begun to yawn and look longingly at their pallets, we heard footsteps in the room below and feet clomping up the stairs. Our first thought—fear, which we demonstrated with frightened looks and gasps, was that Caiaphas’ men were coming to arrest us. Who else could it be at this hour?

“You left the door unlocked!” Mark exclaimed to his mother.

“I did no such thing,” she said, her hand flying to her mouth. “The door was locked!”

“Wait!” James looked around wildly. “I didn’t hear the door slam. How is that possible?”

Suddenly, to our wondrous shock, emerging calmly from the staircase as if he had just been out for a stroll, Jesus appeared in the upper room.

James and I raced to him, breaking into sobs.

“My son! My son!” cried our mother, rising shakily to her feet.

The other witnesses stood in shock, as if they had just seen a ghost.

Jesus embraced his mother. Looking passed her, he said, “Why are you all so surprised. You have heard the prophecy. It’s me, your shepherd. Touch the wounds on my hands and feet. A spirit doesn’t have flesh and bones. I’m alive!”

All fourteen of the men and the three women formed a circle around Jesus, the risen Christ. Everyone tried to hug him at once, but Jesus, who had been cradled in death by his mother now reciprocated, lifting her frail body up and holding her in his arms a moment, as she clung to him like a little child. We were all his children now. As he sat there with his mother on his lap, refusing to let go of his neck, he laughed with embarrassment or amusement. Everyone touched him just to make sure. No one dare speak, as if it would break the spell, until finally Jesus looked around the room, sighed, and asked, “Where’s Thomas?”

“He’s sick,” Mary Magdalene answered naively

“No, not sick,” James shook his head, “afraid. He’s staying at Lazarus’ house. I wish Lazarus and sisters were here. If you had come earlier, they would have been here, too.”

“…And Judas?” Jesus murmured.

No one spoke. Because of his great gifts, Jesus must already have known about Thomas’ cowardice and what happened to Judas. The truth about Judas, despite what Jeremiah had told us, was that we couldn’t be sure. For all we knew, he was out there still alive. James and I tried to explain to the others Jesus thoughts on this man, but, prophecy or not, the disciples minds were set. Now, with few comment from us, Jesus looked around the group, knowing all our minds. “My Father decided the issue, not Judas. If he had not betrayed me, someone else would have. His sacrifice was great and tragic. He was, as all us, my father’s instrument.”

“He betrayed you, master!” Peter protested.

“And he never understood you!” replied John. “Judas wanted a conqueror—a King David. He thought you would vanquish the Romans, returning Israel to its glory.”

“That day will come,” Jesus said enigmatically, “in a latter day. I came this time for the sinners.” “One day you’ll understand this!” He looked squarely at John.

“What’s that mean?” the disciple muttered.

John, who would one day record his revelations, gave him a puzzled look, but Jesus held up his hand as if to say, “Enough. This subject has ended.” In deed, Jesus miraculous presence was enough for us to mentally digest. Grinning self-consciously, Mother Mary climbed off Jesus’ lap and, in a most motherly fashion, asked him if wanted something to eat.

“All right,” Jesus said, sitting down at the table, “how about a piece of cheese, bread or broiled fish?”

Mark ran down to the kitchen. His mother poured Jesus a mug of juice. “I’m sorry we drank all the wine?” she apologized. “You deserve a fine feast!”

“I came late to the feast,” Jesus prophesized. “So it shall be for the Gentiles. I didn’t just come for the Jews. Do you remember what’s written about me by the prophets and in the Psalms? According to our scriptures, the Messiah will suffer and rise from the dead on the third day. You are witnesses to my return. Because of my resurrection, repentance for forgiveness of sins will be preached in my name to all nations, beginning here in Jerusalem.” “…. But not yet!” he added after a pause. “Until you’ve been clothed with power from my Father, stay in the city. When Thomas is among you, I shall return!”

No sooner had Jesus said those words, than he vanished before our eyes. Everyone gasped, taken back by the suddenness. His mother, however, recovered quickly, asking us, “Where did he go? Did he go back to his father?”

“No, he didn’t say that.” James shook his head in wonder. “He said he’d be back.”

“When Thomas returns.” Simon frowned thoughtfully. “He was disappointed Thomas wasn’t here. What concerns me is what he said about Judas.” “Tell me the truth.” He looked at James and me. “Is he really dead?”

“We dunno.” I shrugged. “We just can’t be sure.”

“Surely someone has an opinion,” replied Matthew. “Jeremiah found a rope tied on a tree near a cliff. As he said: ‘One moment he was there, and the next moment he was gone’. It therefore seems reasonable Judas jumped or hung himself.”

“If someone, in fact, was attached to the rope.” James raised an eyebrow. “Below the cliff was a mountain of trash and human garbage. He should have been lying on that pile.”

“That’s enough!” Peter slammed the table. “We just had visit from our Lord, who vanished in thin air. Let’s not spoil it with this talk. Judas is dead—period! End of subject!”

“I agree,” Mary Magdalene nodded pertly. “These were blessed moments!”

“Truly, blessed,” Philip said, looking into his mug. “Too bad we don’t have more wine. We could make another toast!”

“We’ve had enough toasts,” grumbled Peter. “We have serious business ahead!”

“I don’t know about you people,” Bartholomew said with a yawn, “but I’m ready to turn in.”

“Yes,” Philip agreed, “me too. This is gonna be an eventful week.”

“Right!” Simon nodded. “One of us should bring that slacker Thomas back to Jerusalem. He’s holding things up!”

“And we should tell Lazarus, Martha, and Mary,” said Mark. “They deserve to know.”

“Oh they’ll know,” I reassured him, “if they don’t know already. Jesus will make the rounds. Who knows where he will go next. Surely he’ll visit Lazarus’ house!”

******

As you might already suspect, Thomas wasn’t my favorite disciple. At least Judas was consistent. We sensed from the beginning he was bad news. But Thomas vacillated between support of Jesus and his hesitancy and fearfulness when he wasn’t sure. The scrolls he would one day write and send home by messenger shortly before his death, showed us a brave but misinformed man, who wrote nonsense about Jesus childhood and made preposterous claims. There wasn’t a whisper in the days following the resurrection that he would one day suffer such a heroic death. When James and I went to inform Lazarus and his sisters that Jesus had risen, Thomas was, in fact, silent. Though his hosts clasped their hands with joy and continued uttering praise for our Lord, he said nothing on our journey back to Jerusalem. James and I were so irritated with him by then, we didn’t care, but when we entered the upper room, the other eight disciples erupted in condemnation, scolding him severely.

“Stop it!” Mother Mary cried. “Jesus loves Thomas, too. Did he not ask for him?”

“Jesus forgives everyone!” Simon grumbled. “I bet he even forgave Judas. Thomas is a coward. He proved it when he refused to come.”

“Well, I’m here now!” Thomas said petulantly. “I told you I was sick. I was unable to come.”

“He was ill.” Lazarus spoke on his behalf. “I saw him vomit and turn white. Martha made a potion for him that seemed to make him better.”

“He was sick with fear!” Philip glared at him. “The only potion we needed was a little wine.”

Mark’s mother raised an eyebrow. “A little? How about a lot? You men got blind drunk!”

“Well, I didn’t need wine,” Thomas stuck to his story. “I had Martha’s potion.”

“It was just a few herbs.” Martha shrugged.

“Everyone shut up!” Mary Magdalene waved her hands. “Let’s tell them about Jesus!”

For several moments, as Mark and his mother prepared an afternoon meal, we expanded upon what we already told Lazarus and his sisters about Jesus appearance and what he said, including his promise to send us out into the world.

“He wants us to stay in Jerusalem awhile,” Mark added eagerly. “He said God would empower us, whatever that means.”

“Empower?…Empower?” Thomas mulled over the words. “That’s a strange thing to say.”

“Everything you can’s see and touch is strange to you,” scolded Mary. “Jesus told us to see with our hearts.”

“See with our hearts?” Thomas made a face. “How do you see with your heart? What rubbish is this/ That doesn’t make sense! You tell me Jesus rose from the dead, but the dead don’t rise until Judgment Day. Unless I see him for myself, I won’t believe.”

“Thomas, you fool!” Peter chastised him. “He was here. We saw the marks in his hands and feet. They were there where the Romans drove in the nails, and yet he arose from death as good as new!”

“No, better than new!” I cried. “He is the risen Christ, you numbskull. Do you believe we made this up. Count us, Thomas. Are seventeen people, who saw the same wondrous miracle, liars? Cleopas and Matthias, who were on their way to Emmaus, saw him first, and reported it to us. We had our doubts too, until we saw him for ourselves.”

“Humph.” Thomas blew out a puff of air. “You required hard evidence too.”

“No, not like you,” James wrung his finger. “Even when Jude tells you how many people saw him—more than once, no less, you still shake your head. We thought Judas might be addled, but you’re much worse. Judas, though misguided by Isaiah, would have been greatly impressed with such news. What fool doesn’t accept a consensus?”

Thomas appeared to equivocate. “… I didn’t say that I didn’t accept who he was or that you saw him. I just want to see him for myself.”

That moment, as we encircled Thomas, the doubter, we heard footsteps on the stairs. Whirling around in time to see him emerge from the top of the stairwell, we once again saw our master, radiant in his white tunic and robe.

“Peace be with you!” he raised a hand, as if in blessing. “Thomas,” he now beckoned, “come here. Let’s test out Peter’s words.”

“My Lord!” Thomas fell to his knees before him.

“Stand up, Thomas,” Jesus reached down to take his hands. “You, like the others, have a great task ahead of you.” “Put your finger here.” He directed him gently. “Feel the nail marks on my hand. They’re the same as the marks on my feet.” “Now reach and touch my side,” he added, lowering his tunic down a ways. That’s were a Roman drove in his spear. Dead men do live again, Thomas, if they believe in me and accept the gift of eternal life! Now stop doubting and believe!”

“My Lord, my God!” Thomas wept. “My eyes are open. I believe! I believe!”

“Blessed are those who believe and have not seen!” Jesus exclaimed.

******

From that day forward, Thomas seemed to be a changed man. He was still outspoken and irritating at times, but he was now as convinced as the rest of us that Jesus had risen from the tomb. After Jesus first three appearances, two of which were witnessed in the upper room and one on the road to Emmaus, the remaining sightings by other witnesses were less credible than Cleopas, Matthias, and ourselves. Why would Jesus appear to just anyone, who made such a claim? Jesus was as mysterious after his resurrection as he was before his death.

On a day following his third appearance, Peter had a dream in which Jesus told him to leave Jerusalem and lead his disciples back to Galilee. That same day, to James and my surprise, our brothers and sisters arrived unexpectedly to take our mother home. The ordeal of the crucifixion had aged her, and yet she was happy and at peace. One day her remaining children would join the Way, but they gave little indication of this then. On the Jerusalem road, Cleopas and Matthias departed for Emmaus, promising to join us the following week. Before turning north, we stopped briefly in Bethany to drop off Lazarus and his sisters. While resting a spell, I spent time with Micah, entertaining everyone with the tricks Ashira taught him. I would have loved to take him along this time, but suspecting how Peter’s wife and mother-in-law might react if he accompanied us to Capernaum, I left him once more in Ashira’s care. After reporting his dream to us, Peter had said nothing about Lazarus and his sisters coming along nor did he include Mark and his mother, Mary Magdalene, Cleopas, or Matthias on the list. Despite the specific command given to Peter in his dream, however, neither Mary Magdalene, Mark, or Mark’s mother would stay behind. They would remain with us, increasing the seventy chosen in Galilee to seventy-four. The truth was, of course, the original number was only intended for the missions made during Jesus lifetime. Now that he had died and been resurrected, all of the converts throughout Galilee and Judea would be gathered one day to become a growing ecclesia. For now, of course, we were very small, hardly a threat to established order once we left Jerusalem.

Our return to Capernaum was festive—one of the high points for us following Jesus return. While we chatted excitedly about the great adventure ahead, the two remaining Mary’s walked arm-in-arm in a daze. James, Simon, Matthew, Thomas, and I walked apart from the fishermen as before. Bartholomew was once more seated in a mule cart laden with provisions provided by Nicodemus. Until Jesus appeared again to us, it seemed natural that the fishermen return to their occupation of fishing, which left the rest of us idle, until Peter decided to teach us how to fish. The women would have no part of this, but James, Matthew, Simon, Thomas, Bartholomew and I agreed to give it a try. For the first few days, Peter showed us the basics of lake fishing: throwing out the net, gathering it in, and hauling it aboard the boat. Our lessons began in the morning, lasting for most of each day. Little actual fishing was done during our training.

One day, after our group had been in Capernaum for awhile, waiting for Jesus to reappear, two faithful followers, Azariah and his wife, Yoshabel, who had heard about the appearances but hadn’t seen it for themselves, listened with the other converts assembled by the lake, asking us questions on their behalf about Jesus’ last days and resurrection. The fishermen left their boats to attend the reunion. It was reassuring to see other members of the Way gathered again, but it was a far cry from the multitudes Jesus had preached to before. Azariah and Yoshabel, and many of the other followers, unlike Thomas, appeared to believe without seeing. Others in the Seventy-Four, who needed solid proof Jesus rose from the dead, listened awhile then walked away shaking their heads. Though James believed they would return, our numbers had temporarily shrunk. Of course membership was somewhat greater when the converts in Judea, Decapolis, Perea, and Samaria were considered, but, after the arrest, trial, and death of Jesus, there was no proof that people in these provinces and, for that matter, followers in Galilee, had stayed the course. Many lukewarm converts, who were ignorant of the resurrection, had probably fallen away. Offsetting our happiness and illumination therefore was our reduced numbers and the absence of representatives from congregations in other provinces, who must have gotten the word by now.

Because there were several families in Capernaum at least sympathetic to our cause, visiting members from other cities were given lodging in their homes. It was important at this time, as we awaited further instructions, that we remained together in solidarity. Thanks to Azariah’s leadership among the original Seventy, we still had what the Greeks would call an ecclesia or congregation. Peter’s wife, mother, and daughter, now that Jesus had risen, were more patient and cooperative. Together with some of their neighbors, they organized communal meals, which since the weather was still mild, were served on tables outside—festive occasions that attracted residents of Capernaum that had fallen away. We knew that we would soon be sent out into the world as missionaries. Bringing back those who had lost faith was a missionary act in itself and helped sharpen our skills. This time Peter and the other disciples accepted Mary Magdalene as one of the preachers, but insisted, for appearances sake, that Mary pair off with his daughter Bernice rather than John or me. In the near future Lazarus and his sisters would join our ecclesia. Those trickling in one-by-one in the days ahead, would include Cleopas, Matthias, Barnabas, Justin, and Abner, the first Pharisee, to be converted to the Way. Compared to our detractors, the supporters were few, and yet we all had a vision now, bolstered by Jesus’ appearances. I can’t speak for Barnabas, Justin, and those other followers absent during this period of time, but it’s my opinion that converts who believed without seeing, such as Mary Magdalene, Lazarus, his sisters, Azariah, and Yoshabel, were, in many ways, superior to the rest of us, who required solid proof that Jesus rose from the dead.

As we waited for Jesus’ reappearance, we were anxious and filled with expectation, impatient to begin service for our Lord. To get our minds off the wait, Peter kept us busy practicing with his nets, afterwards teaching us how to clean and repair them, then sand and paint his work-worn boats. One morning, after breakfast, he gathered Matthew, Simon, Thomas, Bartholomew, James, and I together to inform us it was time to put our training to the test. Mary Magdalene stood with Mark’s mother, watching from the shore. Climbing into Peter’s boats, still unsure of ourselves, the apprentice fishermen were once again separated from the fishermen, who sat in the first boat, as Peter sat among the recruits barking orders, watching our every move.

Rowing parallel to the shore toward Peter’s favorite fishing spot, we listened to his criticism for our handling of the oars. Looking back I watched the two women fade from view, wondering if Mary Magdalene still thought of me. Had her devotion to Jesus wiped away her affection toward me? Had John (who didn’t fool me one bit), who Jesus singled out, gained her fancy? Taking a sharp turn, by dropping our oars downward then shifting right, we entered a secluded cove most of Capernaum’s fishermen ignored. Often, as Peter admitted before, all sorts of outcasts, including criminals and lepers, hid here to avoid the public. At night, he and his men could see their fires along the shoreline, but in the day, they hid in the woods nearby, fearful of being seen. This morning, as we stopped and dropped our nets, then moved on, trolling the net in the hopes they would catch fish, there was no one about. After each boat performed this procedure for nearly an hour, dropping, trolling, then pulling up the nets, not one fish appeared in the nets. Peter shook his head, puzzled by this turn of events.

“Moses beard!” he grumbled. “Even, during a bad day, we usually get a few. This is the first time, we came up without any fish!”

“Let’s try a different spot,” I suggested.

Accepting my suggestion, Peter cupped his hands around his mouth, calling to Andrew in the other boat, “We’ll have to go deep today. All the other fishermen are out there. This time we’ll have to compete!”

“The last time we did that, we came up light,” Andrew shouted back.

“I remember.” Peter replied. “Soon it’ll be played out. We’ll wait awhile. It’s still early.”

“We could move in closer to shore,” Philip recommended. “They could be crowded in the shallows.”

“It’s worth a try,” Peter shrugged. “Back to your oars men!”

“I gotta make water,” Bartholomew groaned.

“Go ahead.” Peter pointed to the lake. “Just don’t break wind!”

Bartholomew, embarrassed by his situation, stood up awkwardly and did his business. Though the boat rocked to and fro, everyone, in both boats, broke into laughter. When we had manned the oars and began approaching the shore, we heard Peter gasp. Suddenly, as we glanced up from the oars, we looked out across the water, and saw a figure standing on the shore. A hood fell over his face and his hands were drawn into his sleeves, a pose that immediately made us suspicious.

Matthew looked back at me, saying breathlessly, “Look at him. He’s hiding his face and hands. That man’s a leper!”

“What do think, Peter?” Andrew called over. “You think he’s a leper?”

“Maybe” Peter replied. “This side of the lake is filled with them.”

In a booming voice, the stranger asked, “Friends, have you caught any fish?”

“No,” Peter frowned, “not so much as a minnow.”

“Throw your nets from the left side of the boat this time,” he advised us. “Give it another chance!”

“What’s the difference which side we throw it at?” Simon scowled.

“Just do it!” Peter ordered us.

After the two nets were thrown as the stranger directed, we trolled forward, coming closer and closer to the shoreline. This time when we yanked our nets they were heavy with fish. It took all our strength to bring them alongside our boats. Because there was so many men in each boat, there wasn’t enough room to stow the nets aboard, so we had to secure them to the rails. It was, Peter would later declare, the biggest catch they had ever had. Those moments, as we sat in our spots wondering if our boats might capsize, Peter ordered us to set some of the fish free.

“Thank you, stranger!” Peter hollered. “When we dump this load, we’ll return to this spot. We’ll be lucky to get his haul back.”

That moment, as our boats sat motionless, drifting inexplicably toward the bank, the stranger dropped his hood, and brought his hands out from his sleeves. Instantly recognizing our Lord and, even from a short distance, seeing the nail marks in his hands, we all shouted, “Jesus! Jesus! He’s back!”

“Come.” He motioned to us. “Let us eat.”

“You want me to bring some fish?” asked Peter, as we rowed to the shore.

“Yes, of course,” Jesus laughed softly, “the fire is ready.”

Soon, after hopping out of our boats and securing them on the bank and then approaching Jesus, we looked passed him and saw a fire burning near the edge of the woods. To our surprise, there was not only a spit waiting for us between two forked limbs, but bread, cheese, and skins of wine—our favorite beverage, sitting beside the fire. While the fish, mercifully killed with Peter’s knife, were cooked, Jesus reached down and took one of the loaves. As he had during supper in the upper room, he broke the bread, an action we followed, until all of us had a piece. This time he merely said a prayer, thanking his father for his bounty and such faithful men. While we sat around the fire ring eating our bread, fish, and cheese, taking turns with the skins of wine, he chatted with us. It was just like old times. The thought made me both happy and sad. After today, I thought, we might not ever see him again. When he had finished our meal, we lapsed into silence. I was certain the others shared my thoughts. Buoying our spirits was the knowledge we carried. We had been chosen by the Son of God—the Christ… We had been the first to know.

“Remember when I said to you, ‘Come and I’ll make you fishers of men?” he asked Peter.

“Oh yes.” Peter gave a nod. “I thought you were mad at first. Now we have eleven fishermen—all good men.”

“That’s right Peter.” He looked across the fire at him. “You are the Shepherd now.”

“Simon, son of Jonah,” he called him by his old name, “do you love me?”

“Of course, Lord,” Peter raised an eyebrow. “You know I do!”

“Then, feed my lambs!” he commanded.

Looking self-consciously around at us, he nodded again. “Very well, Lord.”

Again Jesus asked, “Simon son of Jonah, do you love me?”

Once more Peter replied, “Yes, Lord. You know I do!”

When Jesus asked the question again, Peter gave him a hurt expression, as he answered, “Lord, how many times do I have to tell you: I love you. You are the Christ, the Son of God and my friend!”

“Feed my sheep!” came Jesus refrain. “When you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted, but when you are old you’ll stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you don’t want to go.”

None of us understood that Jesus was prophesizing how Peter would die to glorify the Lord. Turning his attention to John, who sat beside him, slightly tipsy from his wine, he said enigmatically, “You shall remain until I return!”

John recorded these words in his first scroll. Had I not heard Jesus say it himself, I might not have believed Jesus would say such a thing. He merely said John would remain until he returned. John added some dialogue, which were garnishments. At the time, however, as he sat listening with the rest of us, this didn’t impress him very much. After all, thinking in terms of days, not years or centuries, this could mean anytime. So none of us commented on Jesus’ words. Neither his words to Peter or John made much sense. Even his commission to Peter required James and my explanation later after he departed. As the Shepherd, Peter must keep our spirits up and lead us bravely was how we understood it.

For a short spell after his statements, we thought about Jesus’ strange words. No one saw him disappear. One moment, as I looked through the smoke of the fire at Jesus, he was there, and the next moment he was gone. John, who sat next to him, and looking straight at him, shook his head in wonder. “Poof!” he muttered. “It was faster than the blink of an eye!”

“Now what?” Andrew looked over at Peter.

“We continue to wait.” Peter sighed wistfully. “What else can we do?” “Come on men!” his tone abruptly changed. “Grab your oars, we got work to do. Let’s get our fish back to Capernaum!”

******

For a while, our days in Capernaum were precious, for they were untroubled by complex demands and hidden threats. Our time in Galilee was a simple life without the prying eyes of Pharisees, scribes, or priests. One day our enemies would return, but for a while we felt safe and at peace. We weren’t lions for god; we were still his lambs. And yet our days here were also tedious. Like James, Simon, Matthew, Thomas, and Bartholomew, I wasn’t a fisherman. In their boats, Peter, Andrew, Philip, John, and James reverted back to coarse fisherman again, who looked down on anyone not working with their hands. All of us, during our idle times, shared an almost excruciating sense of expectation that often made us testy, even quarrelsome. Peter, who must have sensed we had grown tired of our simple life and the confinement of Capernaum, decided we should return to Bethany to spend time with Lazarus and his sisters. Whether or not his decision was based upon another dream, Peter never said. Since Bethany was in Judea and Jesus had wanted us to stay in Galilee, it seemed like an illogical move, but we could care less. At least we were doing something other than fishing and waiting for Jesus to return. Just to be on the road to visit our friends was enough to raise our spirits.

******

It had been nearly forty days sense Jesus’ first appearance. Where was he? We wondered. Was he appearing to other believers? Is that what was causing the delay? Perhaps, James suggested half-seriously, he had returned to his father to plan his entrance—a grand finale of angels, as he loomed above the earth. Why was he taking so long?

When we arrived at Lazarus’ house, Peter, in high spirits, called out, in imitation of Jesus great miracle, “Lazarus, come forth!” Everyone, except Lazarus who thought it was in bad taste, broke into laughter. Dashing out the door ahead of Lazarus and his sisters, yapping excitedly at our heels, Micah was the first one to reach us. As before, with Ashira’s magic touch, I was able to calm him down so he could sit between us in the house. Without delay, as we stroked the dog, Lazarus and his sisters were told about Jesus’ appearance in Capernaum. Our host could make no sense out of most of Jesus’ strange words, yet he gave us his opinion on what Jesus said to John.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling, he said to him. “I’m sorry, John, there’s no mystery here. You told me that Jesus is going to appear again and give his disciples instructions. If he said you would tarry until he returned, that could mean but one thing—”

“Don’t say it!” I cut him off. “I thought that to, but Jesus loves John.”

His hand on his throat, John shook his head. “I never thought that.”

“Perhaps he’s going to take you with him,” Bartholomew tried putting a good face on it.

Ironically, though it seems more understandable to me today, especially after John’s long life in exile, no one, including myself, believed that day that Jesus meant John wouldn’t die. Though it was a fantastic notion, however, I know now that this is exactly what Jesus said. His words merely required interpretation. After visiting this hermit in Patmos, I had begun thinking Jesus might be right. Jesus had given his beloved disciple immunity from death. After being arrested and repeatedly beaten by the Romans during Nero’s reign, he was spared execution, the punishment happening to all of the disciples except John and myself. John was a living testament to divine will. He boasted that he hadn’t been sick since childhood, claimed that his wounds never got infected, and had survived perfectly well after insect stings and the bite of snakes. Though his beard stretched almost to his knees, and his hair was white as snow, he was spry and only slightly mad after his long exile in Patmos. I’m certain John will outlive Luke and me.

I know now what Jesus meant. He had told us about his second coming, which would be marked by signs and portents. Mankind would suffer from famine, pestilence, and natural disasters. False prophets who claim to be the Messiah will deceive and mislead people, nations will wage war against each other, and one day the Lord would return to judge our sinful world—a scenario greatly expanded in the revelations of John. But Jesus reappearance to John has nothing to do with that dreadful time. As difficult as it is for others to accept, I now believe John will, in the not too distant future, be taken by the Lord as had been Elijah and Enoch, without dying—a personal return from our Lord. Of course, none of this could have been imagined by any or us that day in Lazarus’ house. During our visit with Lazarus and his sisters, Peter and John ignored Jesus’ prophecies about themselves. They were just two more fishermen and disciples, waiting for instructions. Most of the disciples were simple men. Jesus’ words were, as was the case many times, too abstract even for James and me. Our discussion was centered on one topic: Jesus’ final return. What did it mean for us? Would he commission only the remaining disciples or would he include all of the followers, including the original Seventy, to preach the word? Again, we asked each other, “Why was Jesus waiting so long to return?

As we continued chatting with Lazarus in one corner of the house, the three Mary’s assisted the servant Ashira in the preparation of our dinner, once again assuming the role traditional Jewish households assigned to them. During our dinner, we half expected Jesus to finally show up as he had in the upper room and share our meal, but it never happened. Nor, after dinner when the disciples left the house to wander expectantly through Bethany, did he suddenly appear. Looking to the sky, our heads filled with James’ words, we wondered if he might make one last grand entrance. Soon the sun would set, it would be night, and another day would dawn. But then, on the outskirts of Bethany on the crest of a hill overlooking the plain, a distant figure appeared, its shadow stretching toward the east, the sun at his back.

“It’s him!” John said excitedly. “It must be him. Who would be walking from that direction at this hour?”

“I suppose,” Peter muttered. “… Our Lord is mysterious. Come, my brothers, let’s go down to meet him!”

The hooded stranger could have been anyone—a vagabond or evil specter for all we knew, but Peter wouldn’t be upstaged by John. With reluctant feet we followed the two. The closer we came the more the stranger reminded us of the man near Peter’s favorite fishing spot, which could mean only one thing. Dropping his hood, he waved at us in a nonchalant manner, as if he was just out for a stroll. There was no fanfare in heaven or lightning in the sky. We followed him back up the hill to a meadow near the edge of town.

“Listen, my children,” he spoke gently. “You are my prophets, leaders of the faithful. Return to Jerusalem where it began, wait in the upper room. In but a few days you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit.”

Because Jesus wanted us to go back to Jerusalem, I asked, “Does this mean you’re going to restore the kingdom to Israel?”

“What my Father does in the far future is written in heaven. When you receive the gift my Father promised, which you have heard me speak about, you will be transformed. John, my cousin, baptized with water, but in a few days you will be baptized withthe Holy Spirit. After this you’ll be my witnesses in Jerusalem, Judea, Samaria—everywhere, to the ends of the earth!” Suddenly the air was filled with a strange unearthly drumming and, breaking through the clouds, shafts of light appeared, as if the gates of heaven had opened. A chorus hummed a melody alien to our ears. A multitude of angels descended in the beams of light. That moment, this time before our very eyes, as they loomed close, Jesus was gathered up by the angels, his face radiant and white robe and tunic shimmering with light. Two men in white, who John later claimed were the archangels Gabriel and Michael, now spoke simultaneously on Jesus’ behalf—deep booming voices not heard from mortal men: “Men of Galilee, why do you stand here looking into the sky. This same Jesus, now taken from you to heaven, will come back in the same way he has ascended…. Tell the world to watch for the signs!” “Now go,” they commanded, pointing to the horizon, “take the faithful and preach his message to the world!”

******

Overwhelmed by what our eyes and hears witnessed at Jesus ascension into heaven our minds were too dazzled for us to speak. Remaining mute those moments, as we returned to Lazarus’ house, we glanced back to where the firmament had opened to allow the spectacle. Jesus had been lifted to heaven in the grandest fashion. Mere words couldn’t describe what we saw. It was more than we could ever have imagined. Now, as Peter would later say, we had our orders. Our work as messengers—to tell the world about the Risen Lord—had officially begun.

At first, Lazarus, his sisters, Mary Magdalene, Mark, and Mark’s mother could scarcely believe our account. By our joyful, light-headed actions we appeared drunk to them, which, in deed, we were: drunk on the Spirit of the Lord. I can only explain my own experience, which was similar to my brother James. It was in deed an intoxicating feeling, but unlike the effects of wine. I felt light as a leaf—a strange weightless sensation that made me want to take flight. I was giddy, as if I had lost my wits, and yet I was filled with unnamed purpose, and suddenly, gaining control of my tongue, I began to talk rapidly, stuttering and slurring my words. All of us jabbered back and forth like this, filled with awe, attempting as quickly as possible to compare our accounts as if our version might be special and unique. None of us understood then that this was but a foretaste of the Holy Ghost we would receive in the upper room.

That night, as Lazarus and his sisters listened intently, when we had settled down and our minds were sober and clear, we were able to explain more clearly what we had seen. One by one for our hosts, we relived Jesus’ final appearance, also discussing what the angels command meant to our lives. We had been given special commissions to spread the word, but this time as witnesses of the Risen Christ, who would spearhead a much greater venture, not merely to Galilee, Judea, and Perea, but to the world. By telling us to take the faithful and preach the Lord’s message, the angels had included the converts as emissaries, who would follow our lead. We had seen the gate of heaven open for our Lord. More than all those blessed with Jesus visitations, we understood the meaning of Christ’s resurrection. We had been his disciples from the beginning…. We had been the first to know!

Chapter Fifty-Three

The Holy Ghost

After Jesus ascended to heaven, nothing we had seen before or after could compare with this event. I wish the other followers had been with us those moments, especially Jesus’ mother. Having given birth to him and been his mother and then suffer the spectacle of his death, his resurrection had been the fulfillment of her life, and yet this one last glorious appearance would have meant so much to her. Jesus’ last appearance before ascending to heaven was meant only for his disciples. Not one citizen of Bethany, including Lazarus and his sisters, claimed to have witnessed the display in the sky. Jesus had wanted converts to likewise return to their hometowns, and many of them did just that, but many of those who hadn’t been with the twelve during Jesus ministry, after hearing about this latest wonder, now stepped forth to join the growing ecclesia. Except for Lazarus and his sisters, who remained in Bethany, those friends and neighbors, who had been bolstered in their faith, left Bethany to join the congregation in Capernaum. Gathered together with us in Bethany for our return to Jerusalem were Cleopas, Matthias, Barnabas, Justin, and several early converts, including Azariah and his wife, and Galileans, more recently joining the Way.

Mary Magdalene agreed to return to Capernaum to be with most of the followers. Mark’s mother was assisted in her care of the smaller group returning to her house by Joanna, wife of Chuza, Herod’s steward, and Susanna, both early converts, who would pay for much of our provisions. Had it not been for Luke who mentioned them in his writing, present day believers would not have heard of these selfless devotees of Jesus. Little was known of Susanna’s past even among her contemporaries, except for the fact that Jesus healed her of an evil spirit, after which she quietly joined the Way. Because she had been among the constant stream of sick, lame, and demon-possessed souls seeking a cure, we were only able to identify this humble follower when she volunteered to help Mark’s mother care for our needs. Had not Luke, who included her with Joanna as one of our benefactors, not mentioned her in his writing, present day believers wouldn’t have heard of this selfless devotee of Jesus. From unknown sources, Luke also wrote that Joanna, who had also been among the anonymous people cured, had visited Jesus tomb when he was resurrected. Like Mary Magdalene, Susanna, Mark’s mother, Lazarus’ sisters, and many other faithful women followers, she would dedicate her life to the welfare of the apostles and disciples.

Because of the contributions of so many men and women, the word disciple had lost some of its importance. Already, as I reflect, there was a division between the chosen (apostles), the ordained (disciples), the appointed (servants), and the general population of believers. There was none of the hierarchy seen in Roman or Greek institutions nor was there the structure which resembles the Jewish synagogue. The most we had borrowed from the Gentiles was the term, ecclesia, which simply meant ‘assembly’ in Greek.

******

One day, not long after the ascension, as the expanded circle of the Lord convened in the upper room, the long table provided by our host was filled on both sides with our group. Those who didn’t get a place sat on chairs Mark’s mother managed to provide or sat on the floor. Because it was Pentecost, which was the Jewish celebration of the beginning of the early wheat harvest, we sensed that the Holy Spirit Jesus promised was imminent. What better time—a holiday in commemoration of new birth—would there be? James had asked. Everyone agreed with James. The air seemed charged with expectation. We could barely eat our meal or drink our wine because of our excitement. Everyone, even the women, who wanted to share the experience with us, sat quietly, their ears perked up for the sound of footfall or an angelic chorus, their eyes raised to the ceiling or gazing at the stairwell where Jesus first reappeared, and their minds focused on but one thing: the Holy Spirit.

Then suddenly, we heard that strange, deep humming, the eerie chorus of voices that had accompanied Jesus ascension, causing us to jump expectantly to our feet. Everyone gasped aloud. The women and a few of the men screamed. When the sound reached a peak, we placed our hands over our ears to lessen the noise. This time there was no band of angels descending to earth nor did our Lord appear in our midst. For this was his spirit, as he sat with the Father in heaven. Now, as we stood on our feet, we heard another noise—this one coming from the room below. Like a violent gale, it echoed in the stairwell, whistling and groaning as a storm off the sea. When it entered the upper room we expected to be blown asunder, huddling together, we held hands and arms, not knowing what next to expect. When the wind ceased, we felt a warmth not of the physical world—a warmness of the soul we later interpreted as the breath of the Lord. What seemed like tongues of fire danced over our heads, from one member to another, joining us into one common mind. It was, we knew at once, the Holy Spirit.

When I tried to share this with James beside me, I found myself babbling what sounded like nonsense. When James replied, what came out of his mouth sounded like gibberish too. Rejoicing in our experience we were all speaking different tongues. What exactly were the languages we spoke was not recorded, but I could have sworn I heard Peter shouting Greek words, which I might translate as “Praise be to the Lord!” and Andrew shouting back the same words in Hebrew, a language none of the rustic fishermen knew. Perhaps James and I had been speaking Persian or some other strange tongue, which explains why it sounded like gibberish to us. I recall picking up snatches of Latin and Syrian words, which, like Greek and Hebrew, I’m familiar with, that expressed similar exclamations to what Peter and Andrew said, but most of us were speaking languages James and I were unfamiliar with.

To describe those moments we received the Holy Spirit is difficult, since my mind, like everyone else, was filled with illumination that went beyond mere words. When it was over, we stood looking at each other, blinking like children awakening from our naps. Our ignorance of the mystery was over; we were reborn, as Jesus promised, baptized with fire, and instilled with the Holy Ghost—a term that would replace the original words, Holy Spirit, because Jesus indwelled in all of us. We had received the divine wind collectively, but each of us had experienced a second rebirth. The spirit had poured into us, filling us with purpose…. ‘What now?’ was my first thought. “Was this the beginning of a great spiritual odyssey in which we all went our separate ways?”

As if to answer my unspoken question, Peter led us all out of the building, his eyes blazing with purpose. To our surprise, a crowd was assembled on the street.

“What, by Abraham’s ghost, was all that commotion?” asked a graybeard, frowning severely.

Not knowing at that time that the man, a merchant, had asked him in Syrian, instead of our language, Peter answered him in the man’s native tongue. Had I not heard this I might not have believed it. When other witnesses to this miracle, asked other members similar questions—some in Greek, some in Latin, and even Egyptian—all of which I recognized from my travels, they also answered the questions in their native tongue. Andrew, Philip, John and his brother, Matthew, Simon, Thomas, Bartholomew, James, Matthias, Mark, Cleopas, Barnabas, Justin, and the three women (Joanna, Susanna, and our host Mary), and I followed Peter’s example and went into the crowd boldly recounting Jesus’ resurrection and preaching the simple message of salvation.

“Most of those folks are Galileans,” an old man marveled in a crackly voice. “How is it that they know our tongues?” There were, we would later recall, not only Greek, Syrians, Romans, Egyptians, Arabs, and Cretans which we understood, but also merchants and visitors from Parthia, Cappadocia, Pontus, Pamphylia, Africa, Cyrene, and Asia. None of the others, except James and myself, even knew about most of these countries, and yet for those wondrous moments we understood them all. It was as if everyone spoke one common language—with different words for different things, but with the Holy Ghost translating them into one universal tongue.

There were a few who came late to the crowd who accused us of being drunk, but the vast majority who witnessed this event were also changed that day. They had witnessed a miracle. Peter, now our shepherd, raised his voice, addressing the crowd: “Jews of Jerusalem and the provinces, listen to me. A few of you thought we were drunk on wine. No, my friends: we are drunk on the Holy Ghost. The spirit of the Lord has filled us. Not only did we speak in tongues, but His words filled our heads. Here, in fact, is was spoken by the prophet Joel:

‘In the last days, God says,
I will pour out my spirit on all people.
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your young men will see visions,
and your old men will dream dreams.

Even on my servants, both men and women,
I will pour out my spirit in those days,
and they will prophesy.

I will show wonders in the heavens above
and signs on the earth below,
blood and fire and billows of smoke.
Before the coming of the great and glorious day of the Lord,

the sun will be turned to darkness

and the moon to blood.

And everyone who calls
on the name of the Lord will be saved.’

“Fellow Israelites,” his voice grew impassioned, “listen to this: Jesus of Nazareth was a man recognized by God to you by miracles, wonders and signs, which God did among you through him, as you yourselves know, but he is much more. This man was handed over to you by God’s plan and foreknowledge, but you, with the help of wicked men,put him to death by nailing him to the cross. But God raised him from the dead, freeing him from its agony, because it was impossible for death to keep its hold on him. Listen to what our King David said about him:

‘I saw the Lord always before me.
Because he is at my right hand,
I will not be shaken.

            Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices;
my body will also rest in hope,
           because you will not abandon me to the realm of the dead
and won’t let your holy one see decay.
           You have made known to me the paths of life.
You will fill me with joy in your presence!’

“Fellow Israelites, King David died and was buried, and his tomb is here to this day. But he was a prophet and remembered that God had promised him that he would place one of his descendants on his throne. Seeing what was to come, he spoke of the resurrection of the Messiah, who wasn’t abandoned to death nor decay in the tomb. God raised our Lord up to life. We here, among you, are witnesses to this. As the Son of God, sitting to the right of his father, he poured his spirit out to us—the Holy Ghost, which you have seen and heard today. Though David, himself didn’t ascend to heaven as Jesus, he said of our Lord, ‘…Sit at my right hand
until I make your enemies a footstool for your feet.’ Therefore let all Israel be assured of this: God has made this Jesus, whom you crucified, both Messiah and Lord!”

Peter, a rustic fisherman, who could barely read, was filled with unlearned knowledge, further proof of that day’s wonders. When the people heard his message, after the miracles of the tongues, many of them came forward, greatly perplexed and moved, asking him what they must do. Answering quickly, Peter cried out, “Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Ghost, too!”

This gave them pause. Imbued with two thousand years of Hebrew tradition and the ceremony of the priests, this simple formula seemed to good to be true. To many it was too great a break with the old ways. This group, which included graybeard critics, snarled and walked away. For the larger group, however, who remained, muttering to themselves and shaking their heads after hearing Peter’s claims, it took but a little nudge from all of us. True to his role as a fisherman of men, he cast his net while the fish were in one spot, scooped them up, and led them, staff in hand, through town. On our way to a town square where there was a communal well, we were, with few exceptions, unmolested by critics, who mostly gazed with curiosity or frowns of disapproval while we passed by. Aside from a handful of hecklers following along, claiming that we were drunk or possessed by demons and one addled elder on the sidelines shaking his cane, it was a peaceful procession. Even a troop of soldiers on their way back to the Antonia, let us pass. Stepping aside they gave us the right-of-way, without a challenge. Joanna, Susanna, and Mark’s mother had slipped away to gather up a dozen or more empty skins, which we quickly filled with water, as the multitude crowded in the square.

Each of the eleven apostles, including Peter, and five disciples separated one line of initiates from the multitude so that there were sixteen lines—one for each apostle or disciple, aimed like spokes of a wagon wheel around the well. By now we had already attracted a growing audience that swelled in size at the town square. What a sight we must have been. As the harvest or, in fishermen’s jargon, catch were given the words and baptized into the Way, there were several onlookers, apparently moved by the proceedings, joining one of the lines. I recognized one of the hecklers, who had made fun of us for speaking in tongues and also a man I recalled hurling insults at Jesus during his procession to the cross. When it was finally over, Peter estimated that there were three thousand new members in our ranks. Most of the converts, after hearing the words and being baptized, were delirious with happiness and apparently experienced what the inner circle had experienced in the upper room. A smaller group appeared to be embarrassed by the excesses of the majority, who hugged and kissed each other and, what’s worse, rolled their eyes, shook, and babbled in tongues. Peter dismissed the disappointment of those unable to utter the ‘sacred language’, by explaining to them that there were different gifts given by the Lord: the skill of teaching the word, the ability to heal, or the blessing of speaking in tongues. All of the apostles and disciples would use this reasoning on disappointed believers or those new preachers who found this gift unnecessary, even offensive, to potential converts. A similar encouragement would also be given to members by Paul and Luke. Though I had experienced the Holy Ghost myself and spoke in tongues, I agreed with Peter that it wasn’t a requirement for the Lord’s blessings. The greatest gift Peter reminded all of the converts that day was that Holy Ghost, which they all shared, and the knowledge that they were reborn and saved.

“The Spirit may come to you at any time, without warning, giving you his wisdom. Listen with your heart and mind. He will tell you what to do. Though giving the world your counsel, remain apart from it. Preach to it and be an example, but remember that you’re his children now, not tools or servants of men. Therefore, when you’re called, go forth into the world and spread the gospel of our Lord. Be brave, vigilant, and wise. Jesus told us, the first to know, that one day, he would return in the flesh. Yet no one knows the hour or the day. Be ever alert, children. Watch and listen for the signs!”

With those ominous words was born the legend of Christ’s imminent return. Jesus had never given a timetable and neither did Peter, but Peter’s words, like Jesus’ words, left the impression on many believers that he might return at anytime. It was, of course, this notion that kept John, the Revelator, alive all these years. Jesus had once implied within our hearing that John would live on after us. Even Paul and Luke, who had the benefit of hindsight and the writings of the apostles, drew this conclusion. In many ways, the trials and tribulations of the ecclesia were nurtured by the belief Christ would soon return. During the persecutions of Nero, it reminded those awaiting death that it mattered little what they suffered in the arena: all of the evils of this world would soon be swept away by the Lord.

I know now, as I contemplate the blood of the martyrs, after so many years of beatings and close brushes with death, that Jesus was talking about a more distant time, which he had promised, Peter had quoted, and John recorded as prophecy in his great work. I knew that Jesus, as in so many of his sayings, spoke for the ages. And yet he many times spoke in parables and abstractions, which sometime confounded even us. Today, with so many interpretations of what he said by his own apostles, was it any wonder that Paul, Luke, and their disciples, would put their own version on his life. Information was added, deleted, or it seemed modified from what I had seen for myself. Through it all, however, the basic message of salvation and meaning of Jesus’ life is shared in all of the writings. This is all that matters to me. In the latter days, when I began preaching in Antioch, I concentrated on Jesus’ basic message of redemption. Though Jesus, himself, once promised believers they could, if they had enough faith, speak in tongues, I gave converts the same advice Peter once gave about this subject when they asked me, “What the gift will the Lord give me?” “If nothing else,” I would tell them, “be a witness to what you have heard and seen.” The best practice I tell new preachers now, in fact, is ‘Don’t bring up the tongues at all,’ a decision shared by my brother James and the other apostles.

All of us—apostles, disciples, and servants—followed Peter’s guidelines that were given him by the Lord. The gift of tongues, he had instructed us, is between those experiencing the Holy Ghost and the Lord, nothing more. This was, of course, true for all of the gifts given to devout believers, freely but selectively bestowed by the Lord. Many overzealous converts, who thought they were special, spoke nothing but gibberish, jerked around as if they had palsy, fainted dead away, or thrashed about on the ground. Some claimed to have seen prophetic visions. Others even attempted, with little success, to cure the sick, lame, and blind. Added to the list of gifts by recent members were playing with serpents and drinking poison as a sign of one’s faith—both of which, Peter had quickly condemned. Such practices, he scolded them, weren’t spiritual; they were stupid and vain. Those who lost control of their bodies, saw visions, and attempted healings had also missed the point. No one could decide what gifts he or she had. It was, Peter explained, the Lord who gave such blessings. Above all, he advised everyone, keep it simple. A believer’s main concern was sharing the good news (Jesus had risen and they could have eternal life); not performing wonders and showing off as the Pharisees often do.

Peter’s admonishments were based upon sound logic and what Jesus wanted. Though mentioning it in passing, Jesus never spoke in tongues nor did he tempt the Lord with poisonous snakes or poison. No one ever saw Jesus display his powers with undue showiness, whether in healing or prophecy. Jesus wanted preachers, not showmen. Nor did he want his children to abuse their bodies with whips as pagan priests often did or wander around like mystics, spouting gibberish, acting high, or lording it over others with their greater faith. As Jesus once said in the Parable of the Laborers, Peter reminded us, “the last shall be first and the first shall be last. Remember also what he told John and his brother James, when they asked to be first in his kingdom, ‘Anyone who wants to be great among you must become your servant. Anyone who wants to be first must be everyone’s slave.’” Both John and his brother smiled sheepishly at each other upon hearing this, but it was meant for his listeners and intended for the ages.

It was difficult for new converts to be humble in our sinful world. In addition to the misunderstandings shared by many members was their ignorance of the implication in Peter’s preaching of Jesus’ imminent return. Because of the anxiety I saw in most converts, who couldn’t understand why the Lord hadn’t come, I downplayed the timetable, along with the desire to have gifts. If they missed the Lords second coming, I would add half-seriously, that would mean they were in heaven, looking down on this sinful world. Peter agreed with my understanding of this. All of us, in fact, did our best to emulate our new shepherd’s style and fortitude. Though he would, out of humility, argue the point, we were, as apostles, disciples, and servants, in many ways Peter’s disciples now, as we were once the Lord’s.

******

That day after we ministered to the flock, I had no grand plans. My immediate concern, like everyone else, was the unwashed, unfed mob gathered in the square. There was much planning to be done, explained Peter, but the first order of business was to find quarters for the ecclesia. Newly saved, they were like freshly caught fish, still requiring the net. The congregation in Capernaum was stable, but very small in comparison. Peter, perhaps as another revelation from Jesus, now thought of one ecclesia. The great numbers harvested here in Jerusalem made this group its core. Already Peter had essentially demoted the women, who waited on us, to the role of servants. Mary Magdalene, who fancied herself a preacher like the men, had come from very humble origins, but the other three women had physically and financially supported our cause. Considering the fact that Joanna, the wife of Chuza, who was a wealthy member of Herod’s staff, had jeopardized her status, Susanna had given us her entire inheritance, and Mark’s mother, who owned the house we used as a meeting place, had virtually turned it over to us, Peter’s demotion of them was quite high-handed. Also striking me as high-handed was Peter’s decision to send the multitude to Bethany to begin anew until Christ’s return. What would poor Lazarus think of this? They were, he informed the new converts in a loud, hoarse voice, to get their affairs in order and return as soon as possible in front of Mark’s house. Whatever was left to be arranged would have to wait for another day. Sosthenes, a Greek-speaking Jew Peter had baptized, would lead them to Lazarus’ house, where, the elder would hand over a note scribbled out by John, asking Lazarus to find lodging for the members with families in town. When James and I tried convincing him that this was too much to ask, and that it might, like the rich young nobleman rebuked by Jesus, make converts shy away, Peter replied, “Good! It will separate the wheat from the tares.” Switching back and forth between figures of speech, Peter had likened us to fishermen or harvesters, but that day after the great haul of believers, we were herdsmen, with a great flock gathered needing guidance and control.

Today’s catch or bounty, without interference by priests, Pharisees, scribes, or Roman soldiers amounted to a miracle. Like Moses leading the children out of Israel without being stopped, it was, indeed, a wondrous event. How Peter managed this was nothing short of a miracle in itself. What worried us was how long this state of grace would last. The new converts had to be hurried out of town now, while they were in the mood and before Caiaphas’ and Pilate’s patience wore thin.

Jesus had implied at times that believers had to give up everything to follow him, but most people were not apostles, disciples, or servants literally following in his footsteps. When he rebuked the rich young nobleman, it was because he wouldn’t give up his wealth to join our group. The hundreds, now thousands, who had joined the Way, were believers, not necessarily followers. Unlike all the other members joining in the past, who went home to spread the word, as Jesus had planned, Peter wanted to hold onto this bunch. Jesus never expected this as he had he never expected converts to speak in tongues or experience the Holy Ghost. He had said many times, that when the seed is planted their faith would grow. It might not happen all at once for everyone. Few converts had the dedication of the apostles, disciples, and servants of Christ. Later when the ecclesia had matured, splintered and gone their own way, there would be visitations by preachers to bolster the spirit of the congregations, but, until the time of Paul, there was really only one ecclesia.

Chapter Fifty-Four

A Division Of Labor

If only I had the wisdom of this hindsight during those early days. Peter’s ambition had gone far beyond what Jesus intended as a more gentle process. I wondered what Jesus would think of his high-handed tactics. Taking his role as shepherd as justification for this drastic move, he had given Sosthenes the order to lead the three thousand out of town, without a backward glance. While the elder led the multitude out of Jerusalem, a specter I can only imagine, the inner circle retired to the upper room. Before rejoining the flock, Peter had important business to finish. The first order of business, he insisted, was to find a replacement for Judas, so that our number would again be twelve. There were several likely candidates, all of whom were assembled with us today: Mark, Barnabas, Cleopas, Matthias, Justin, and Azariah, who had come with his wife Yoshabel. Though it might have seemed unfair to Mary Magdalene that the replacement couldn’t be a woman such as herself, Jesus had picked twelve men. Fortunately for us, Mary was Capernaum or she might have objected to this injustice.

My first reaction, which I blurted out without thinking, was, “What does it matter how many apostles there are. Isn’t this just a formality? We’re all going out to preach.”

“My thoughts exactly!” James frowned.

“This is important, Jude!” Peter said huffily. “There must be twelve apostles. The Lord spoke to me about this. We have to have order in ecclesia: apostles, disciples, and servants. You men outside the twelve, not selected, remain disciples, while our women shall act as servants, taking care of the sick and hungry among our members.”

I had wanted to continue this argument. The number twelve might have been symbolic for the twelve tribes of Israel, but why not the number ten for the Ten Commandments? For that matter what was wrong with the number eleven? Unless Peter was talking about a dream or vision, I don’t remember Jesus suggesting we fill the vacancy left by Judas. No one else in our group had made such a suggestion. This appeared to be Peter’s opinion.

At first, he was going to simply take a vote by the show of hands, but this brought groans from some of the men, since there were women in the room. It seemed to Matthew, Simon, Bartholomew, and I that the women should also be allowed to vote. Quite tactlessly, we believed, John’s brother raised the notion that only the original disciples should decide who the replacement should be. It didn’t matter to James that Joanna, Susanna, and Mark’s mother had experienced the Holy Ghost and made great contributions for the welfare of our group or that Mary Magdalene, not present to speak for herself, had actually done some preaching, too; they were still women, so they couldn’t vote. Instead of arguing the point, my brother James suggested that we pick a candidate from a jar blindly, which would allow the Lord to decide. Because this removed the women as a factor in our decision-making, the naysayers agreed. Somewhat perturbed with the men’s attitude, Mark’s mother went downstairs, found a vase, knife, sheet of parchment, quill, and ink, and set it curtly on the table. With John’s assistance, six squares of parchment were cut out, names of the candidates were written on each slip, folded, and dumped into the vase. Since he was our shepherd it was up to Peter to make the pick. Rolling up his sleeve, he mumbled a prayer (perhaps praying that his choice would win), reached in, and selected a slip. Pulling it out, he squinted, handed it to John, who called out with a touch of disbelief, “Matthias!”

“Humph?” Peter raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Matthias it is!” “I would’ve picked Barnabas.” Matthias replied humbly. “He was one of the first converts!”

Barnabas, who had seemed relieved he wasn’t chosen, shook his head and embraced the twelfth member, as did Mark, Cleopas, Justin, and Azariah, who heartily congratulated the new apostle, making me wonder if they weren’t relieved too. Frankly, considering the fact that Azariah had sold off his property and goods before leaving Capernaum, I would have picked him. Matthias, though a likeable, easy-going fellow, was a man of few words and seemed half-asleep at times. Azariah, on the other hand, was a firebrand, who brought many members on his own into the Way. Matthias had, in fact, been right when he said Barnabas was a better choice. Whereas he left little mark on the original ecclesia, this big, bold Galilean would one day join Paul in work in establishing more ecclesias, a chore the little Pharisee couldn’t have done alone.

While the remaining apostles joined the disciples in welcoming Matthias into our group, the new apostle thanked us for our congratulations but didn’t seem that happy, himself, he was in the Twelve. Turning to the next order of business, as the women served us a snack of goat cheese, grapes, and fresh bread, his words reflected the plight of women in the Way. Like Peter’s orders, given by proxy to Lazarus, the instructions he now gave Joanna, Susanna, Mark’s mother, and Mary Magdalene in absentia once again struck me as high-handed. As servants, the lowest rung of stewardship in the ecclesia, it would be their responsibility, after picking their own selection of helpers from the converts, to insure that the multitude found quarters and were fed regularly. The status of the women in our midst—Mark’s mother, Joanna, and Susanna, three self-reliant and highly respectable women, was totally ignored, as was Lazarus, a disciple not even considered as replacement for Judas, and his sisters (not even mentioned as servants of the Way). Aside from the greater issue of transplanting thousands of converts, who were expected to give up everything as had Azariah and his wife, and be gathered into one, mixed bag of Jews speaking different tongues, was a tremendous burden on Lazarus, his sisters, and their town. Now four women had the monumental task of overseeing the welfare of the ecclesia.

It was unclear during our meeting with Peter, whether our ecclesia would stay in Bethany or move to Capernaum. So far, during our meeting in the upper room, Peter had selected a replacement for Judas and made Joanna, Susanna, Mark’s mother, and Mary Magdalene, in absentia, caretakers of his flock. (Nothing was said about the roles of Lazarus’ sisters). On the face of it this seemed like a demotion for the four selected women and would be hard, thankless work, but it also gave them an element of power. While the men were out preaching the word, they would, judging by what Peter said, be in charge of the other women, who would cook, clean, and take care of the children, while the men were away.

After clarifying this division of work, Peter turned to the final and most important matter in the upper room: the work ahead for the apostles and disciples. Put simply, the question was what came next?

“My brothers and sisters,” he said, looking around the table, “the harvest was good, but not great. In the field of the Lord, there’s much to be done.”

“So,” Andrew teased, “we’re farmers again, not fishermen, gathering wheat instead of fish.”

“Herdsmen too,” Philip snickered, “tending his sheep.”

“And don’t forget,” John teased, “pickers too in the orchard of the Lord!”

John’s brother giggled foolishly. Everyone, in fact, except Peter laughed.

“This is serious,” he scolded, “you mustn’t make light of it. You know better than that, Andrew. You too Philip. John and James—of all people to make light of this! This is serious business: the reason why we were chosen. All of you wipe those smiles off your faces. This will be no easy task. Galilee, Judea, Perea, Syria, Decapolis, and Egypt are just a few of the places we must spread the message.”

“Will we go out in twos as we did before?” I had the presence of mind to ask.

“Yes,” Peter replied with a nod, “why not? It depends on where the Lord leads us, but I think that’s a good idea.” “Right now,” he added, glancing over at Azariah and his wife, “Jesus wants us to prepare the three thousand. That’s going to be a big job!”

“Wait a minute!” Simon suppressed a grin. “Did Jesus just tell you that? Are there really that many new converts?”

“Yes, I hope so,” he answered dubiously. “There were at the last count.” “We have to hold them together.” He clasped his fingers as he made his point. “Make them one community of believers.”

“Nurture them,” James said thoughtfully

“That too,” Peter agreed, scratching his beard. “We must make them fishermen and harvesters for the Lord,” he mixed his figures of speech. “Right now, after being pulled in, they’re safe in our net. Soon, as the net weakens, many will slip away. Like the farmer sowing wheat from the tares, what is left will be worthy of the Lord.”

“What about those members in Galilee?” John’s brother asked. “Are they going to pitch in? Shouldn’t they be here to help us with that horde?”

Looking over at Azariah and Yoshabel again, Peter chose his words carefully. “You’ll have plenty of volunteers among the new converts. Those in Galilee will stay where they are. They’ll need guidance, too, of course. I’m glad Mary Magdalene is still there. She’ll be a great leader among the servants. I plan to send Azariah and his wife back to manage this congregation.” “How would you feel about that mission?” He grinned at the couple.

Yoshabel looked at him in disbelief. “What?” she cried. “Are you serious? We sold everything—our home and goods before coming here. We’ll have nowhere to stay!”

“Don’t worry,” Peter cocked an eyebrow. “You sold them to Ezekiel, a backsliding member. I’ll have a talk with that man. The Seventy, which has now grown, will need your house as a meeting place. Until I get your home back, you can stay with my mother. Your husband has managed our congregation in Capernaum very well. You, Yoshabel, have a powerful voice too. Together, as a team, you’ve kept them in line. I need you both there to shepherd that flock.”

Azariah smiled with pleasure. “How about that?” He looked around at the group. “We’re shepherds!”

“No,” Yoshabel corrected him. “You’re a shepherd. I shall be like Rachel a shepherdess!”

“We’re all shepherds,” Peter said wistfully. “In the field of Lord, we are also sowers, who must sift out the tares. Together in His service we must be many things!”

Now, as he looked over at James, I felt a prickling at the back of my neck as if something else, even more surprising than Azariah and Yoshabel’s elevation, was about to occur. Walking over to my brother, he placed a hand on his shoulder, and said more solemnly this time, “You’ve been a faithful member of the twelve, always steering us back to reality and keeping us in conformity with the Lord’s words. I know you would be a great voice out there. You’re knowledge of the scriptures and understanding of the Pharisee’s and scribe’s minds could be used as a weapon against their barbs, but it could also be used to bring the fainthearted who returned to Jerusalem back into the Way. That is why I’m asking you to stay in our holy city as its shepherd. Those, who can’t separate themselves from the old faith, need guidance. Those, who simply fear losing their homes, goods, and livelihood, also need an example to follow.” “What do you say, James?” Peter embraced him, and then holding his shoulders firmly, stared deeply into his eyes. “Will you be the shepherd in Jerusalem? Your friend Nicodemus, your old teacher, lives here. Now you’ll be their teacher and bring back to the Way!”

Everyone stood in shock. I was, of course, especially stunned. My older brother, who I grew up with and grew to respect and admire as a member of the twelve, who shared my doubts, misgivings, and joy in the service of our brother and Lord, would stay behind in the upper room, as we went forth to spread the word. I felt conflicting emotions for him then: pity, admiration, and, because of the lingering threat of the Sanhedrin, fear, and yet I was quick to compose myself and give him an encouraging smile.

“Yes, I will be honored,” James replied with little hesitation.

“Good!” Peter slapped his back. “We now have three new shepherds: Azariah, Yoshabel, and James.”

Peter, who saw the other women as mere servants, had made an important exception with Azariah’s wife. Yoshabel, who fancied herself as a shepherdess now, frowned, but everyone else, including myself, came forth to congratulate James and give Azariah and Yoshabel our approval.

Taking him aside afterwards, I talked to James privately. I was greatly disturbed with Peter’s action. As all his other moves today, it struck me as high-handed.

“James,” I began, looking self-consciously over at the group. “I don’t like you being left behind.”

“We’ll keep in touch,” he reassured me, gripping my hand.

“Of course,” I sighed, gathering my thoughts. “…. Peter has taken a lot upon himself. He speaks with the authority of Jesus, but he presumes too much. Jerusalem was unkind to us: it took our brother and tried to persecute us, too. For most of the converts forced to leave, it’s their home and many people look to it as their spiritual abode, but I’ve grown to hate it. As Jesus told us, it murdered its prophets and it murdered our Lord. You be careful James! Don’t forget what happened here: the arrest, trial, and crucifixion of our brother and the attempt by Caiaphas and his cronies to entrap his disciples. Don’t tempt the Pharisees, scribes, and priests. Gather together the converts here, but don’t trifle with the Sanhedrin. Avoid the temple, where you might be tempted to speak. You are, like the rest of us, a marked man. The powers that be are just biding their time!”

“Don’t worry,” James replied calmly, “they didn’t bother us during that commotion in the street or by the well. They let the three thousand exit the city unmolested. If they were going to do anything they would have done something by now. The upper room will remain my base. It was here that our brother and Lord met with us, returning in the Spirit. It was here that Peter truly became the Rock. He’s a true leader now. Jerusalem is not our home, no more than Nazareth is our home. Capernaum, where the fishermen cast their nets, where Jesus gave his great sermon, and where he sent out the Twelve and the Seventy, is our home. But there’s no place completely safe. There will always be graybeards and angry young men plotting against us, even in Galilee. We are a threat to them, Jude. We bring people a simple message all can understand, without the need of temple sacrifice. People no longer need graybeards and priest to interpret the Torah and intercede for them. The good news has made it possible for everyone, Jews and Gentiles alike, to be reborn with eternal life, without ever setting foot in the temple and without rituals that they don’t understand. For these reasons, Jude, I—all of us—will never really be safe!”

“Whoa!” I marveled. “…. You said it all!”

James had grown from a doubter, as Thomas continued to be, to a seeker as myself, and then, as I witnessed that moment, a potential bulwark of the Way. Jerusalem, after all, though having negative connotations for us, had one positive reminder that superseded the arrest, trial, and crucifixion: the Resurrection of our Lord. In this way, it occurred me, James was, more than any of us, blessed. He was going to be Peter’s shepherd in the holy city, a place where Jesus had risen, triumphing over death—a city, though hostile to the Way, where our faith was really born.

******

Late in the afternoon, after the women served us an early supper, we began our trek to Bethany. As Mark gave James the key to the house and glanced back at his childhood home, I noticed a look of uncertainty on his face. James, however, beamed with purpose and pride. He had been stationed in Israel’s holiest city to nurture members of the three thousand who couldn’t make the commitment. Alongside of him, stood Asa and Benjamin, two young men who didn’t accompany the exodus from Jerusalem and were appointed by Peter as James’ disciples. No one among the apostles, disciples, and converts, whether they lived in Jerusalem or somewhere else, knew if they would ever return to their homes. Like other members of the original twelve, I was used to being away from my family, but members like Mark, who hadn’t been on the road those years with Jesus, must have felt some misgivings. Susanna, a demoniac, had become an outcast in her city and Joanna, also reportedly cured of her demons and now a fugitive from her husband, grinned happily as we exited the gate, but Mark’s mother, like her son, looked back with trepidation as we left.

None of us knew what the future had in store for us. Yet I shared with most of the twelve, a sense of destiny and purpose. We were, we knew, on a course Jesus warned might be fraught with danger and travail. This, I feared, was especially true for James, who had stayed behind. Despite the hazards we might face, however, it was going to be a wondrous journey, in which, filled with the Spirit of the Lord, we would preach, act as leaders, ourselves, and even, as Christ had done on occasion, use our gifts of healing.

When we approached Lazarus’ town, the sun was in decline, but Peter’s spirit was high. He seemed tireless now, chatting with us constantly on the road. Filled with great energy and faith, nothing was impossible for the Shepherd. Almost immediately, though, as Bethany loomed into view, we could see trouble ahead. Near Lazarus’ home, which sat at the edge of town, there were hundreds of men, women, and children standing idly around, none too happy because of the wait. Romping amongst this multitude, Micah caught sight of me and was suddenly frolicking at my feet. Having spotted us from his window or door, Lazarus also ran out to greet us. Not far behind him, moving through the idlers, Martha, Mary, and Ashira likewise appeared. More and more people wandered in from the nearby town those moments, drawn by the shouts of friends, with looks of fear, expectation, and disdain. Some, Lazarus reported, had returned to Jerusalem or, turning back at the gate, never actually left, but most of them had stuck it out. For the first time I could remember Lazarus showed irritation. Many of the so-called believers in Bethany had refused to give the new converts lodging, he explained. Some of them, after looking out and seeing this mob, wouldn’t even open their doors. Peter’s mood now darkened as he looked at the multitude gathered near the house.

“It looks like most of the three thousand!” He clasped his forehead. “How can that be? What’s wrong with your town? How could they be so cruel?”

“They were overwhelmed,” Lazarus began explaining. “Bethany is a small town.”

“So is Capernaum,” Peter shot back. “That’s no excuse. They’re not that small. Where is their charity? Where is their faith?”

“I don’t know.” Lazarus shrugged his shoulders. “Hundreds of people arrived all at once. Our citizens weren’t ready. I think you caught our citizens by surprise.’

“Well, to blazes with them!” Peter shook his fist. “Capernaum, my town, wouldn’t have acted that way! No sir! My people don’t behave like that! They opened their doors to converts. They would never have shut them out!”

“I’m sorry,” Lazarus spoke frankly, “but what do you expect. There’s a lot more of them than you have in Capernaum. Most of these people aren’t cut from the same cloth. Unlike your Galileans, they speak different languages. Some of them were beggars, outcasts, even a few prostitutes. The townsmen were probably too scared to let them into their homes. Many of those who returned to Jerusalem, who were wealthy merchants and their wives, were also frightened off. Martha, Mary, and I have done all we can for them. We’ve given them all of our available food, water, and blankets. Until you take them back to Capernaum, where they might be more welcomed, they’re going to get very hungry out there. Fortunately, the sky is clear and it’s a warm day. But this is spring, not summer. At this time of year the weather’s unpredictable. Before rain clouds gather, Peter, you must either let those people go home who have homes or take them back to Capernaum. Tonight will be hard enough for them without food and shelter. Who knows? Tomorrow, even tonight, it might just rain!”

Peter was growing impatient. “Thank you for your help.” He placed a hand on Lazarus’ shoulder. “I’ll take it from here!”

“Take what?” Lazarus frowned. “This is a serious situation Peter. You blame my fellow citizens, but you should’ve planned this better. Where are you going to get food for these folks tonight? We have nothing left for them to eat!”

“Humph!” Peter set his jaw. “All things are possible with the Lord!”

“Oh really?” Lazarus frowned. “Jesus taught us not to tempt the Lord. He wants us to do what is in our means. This isn’t in our means, Peter. You really think he wanted this?”

“I don’t think, I know!” Peter replied, folding his arms.

“Oh,” Lazarus recoiled, “you presume to know the mind of God? You sent me a horde of footsore, hungry people, who deserved a lot more than this after making such commitment. You expect ordinary people—not Jesus’ inner circle who are tried and tested—to open their doors to strangers, many of whom are beggars, low lives, and women of ill-repute. They can’t tell by looking at that mob who may or may not rob them of their goods. Jesus never told you to tear people from their homes and livelihood and make vagabonds of them. I heard him speak often enough to know that!”

“Enough!” Peter waved dismissively. “You’ll just have to trust me. The Lord guides my steps. I do as he bids.”

“The Lord isn’t this capricious.” Lazarus shook his head. “Moses had a plan. You remember that story? He didn’t dash off recklessly. God was with him each step of the way—”

“The Lord is with me each step of the way,” Peter cut in. “He’s with me right now.” “By the way,” he added testily, “you got it wrong. After all this and what happened to you personally, you don’t seem to understand who I’m talking about. No one knows the mind of God. It’s his Son, Jesus of Nazareth, who I listen to, speaking on behalf of his father who guides my steps. Now, after what happened in the upper room, we know that his Spirit—the third part of the Godhead, is with us. You will understand this when you receive the Holy Ghost!”

“The Holy Ghost?” Lazarus wrinkled his nose. “…. You mean the Spirit of God? What’s the Holy Ghost?”

As I eavesdropped on them that hour, scratching Micah’s head to keep him quiet, I almost burst into laughter. I knew that God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost would be difficult to explain to most believers. Even Lazarus, whom Jesus raised from the dead, still didn’t quite understand. Peter was asking a lot of him. Despite the divine force behind Peter’s actions, I couldn’t blame Lazarus for being upset. He was normally easy-going and calm, but, after his ordeal with the converts, he was at his wits end. Peter had made him look bad with his fellow townsmen and given him an impossible task. Nevertheless, at the same time, with a degree of incredulity at times, I knew that Peter did, in fact, speak for the risen Christ. Unlike many fair-weather believers, who might not understand why Peter wanted to gather them all into one community, Lazarus’ faith was strong, yet steeped in a mystery he was just now coming to grasp. He thought the sacrifice demanded upon the multitude was unreasonable and, after seeing so many people go away from Jesus’ sermons to share the news with family and friends, thought it right and proper that, like his sisters and himself, they should return to their lives. But Jesus had also told us not to worry about our needs and that we should be willing to give it all up to serve him. It’s true, as Lazarus maintained, that he sent converts off to propagate the faith, themselves, and need not sacrifice family and work, but he had made it clear to many of us that sacrifice was necessary for salvation. Seen in retrospect, Jesus expectations for the Way’s general population had never been clear. Perhaps, as Peter received continuing revelations from him, the Lord told him he expected more from this particular group.

As I listened to their conversation, I stopped snickering. My smile faded, as I looked out at the crowd. Bored by my inactivity, Micah whimpered faintly, nuzzled my face, and licked my cheek. I envied his innocence that moment. Jesus had expected only one thing of him: be my dog. The rest of us, I sensed, would be tested sorely and face trials and tribulation. Sanctified by the Lord or not, I saw the futility in the three thousand’s position. Except for the few who found lodging in this snooty town, it appeared as though the remaining converts would go to sleep hungry tonight. Though they might have good reason not to let some of the Jerusalemites into their homes, residents in Bethany could have at least taken in their children. At this point, I envied James for being away from this mess. Our fledgling ecclesia appeared to be having its first crisis. As I strolled amongst the converts awhile, I listened to their complaints and doubts. I pitied them for placing themselves in Peter’s hands. Most of these people appeared to be having second thoughts right now. Who could fault them for wanting to go home? Though they had accepted the Lord as their Savior, Bethany—the town where Lazarus was raised from the dead, had rejected them. Considering its importance in Jesus’ ministry and the fact its citizens were converts, themselves, this seemed unconscionable, and yet who could fault them for distrusting this mob. Many of the new converts, I noted as I mingled among them, did, in fact, look like riff-raff and fallen women. A few that I spotted had shifty eyes and that crafty look I had seen in thieves. Lazarus was right, I told myself. Peter should have taken this into consideration and planned better. Out in the open, without food, they were in a hopeless situation. Seen another way, the citizens of Bethany were forced, by common sense, to behave selfishly and uncharitably, in a way Jesus would have scorned. I not only felt sorry for the multitude and Lazarus for being in the middle, I felt sorry for Peter. He had asked too much of these fair-weather believers and created a crisis for the new converts and himself.

Now, on the subject of weather, the worst scenario occurred in Bethany. Looking up at the sky that moment, I observed a cloud mass creeping in after only a few moments blocking out the sun. “Moses beard!” I gasped. “A storm front!” Startled murmur erupted all around. After glancing up repeatedly in disbelief, I noticed the storm front darkening from gray to almost black, consuming the entire sky. Soon, I felt a drop on my nose and, after that, another. At first it was only a few drops of moisture, but then, as if Lazarus warning had caused bad luck, it began to rain: light sprinkles at first, then a heavier shower, until finally it turned into a downpour, quickly drenching the land.

While hundreds of hapless converts ran around looking for shelter beneath the few trees on the hill, most of our small group, including Micah, ran for cover into Lazarus’ house. The fear of being struck by lightning in such a deluge seemed to overshadow everything else. Peering out of the open door, I stood between Martha and Mary watching Peter stand there in the rain, looking up angrily at the sky.

“This isn’t good Lord!” he shouted at top of his lungs. “My people are hungry and tired. Now we have a storm. They’re wet. I’m wet. Is this a test? Have I disappointed you somehow? Have I overstepped my bounds? ”

“Is he cursing God?” Mary asked stupidly.

“No, silly,” replied Martha, “he’s praying. He’s praying to Jesus, not God.”

Like many believers, including Lazarus, the two women didn’t quite understand. “Jesus is God,” I reminded Martha and Mary. “I know that now. Peter’s feeling guilty now. That’s why he’s worried about disappointing Him and overstepping his bounds.”

Needless to say, I was quite worried. This seemed to be more than a spring shower. Why had it so suddenly appeared? As Peter lapsed into silence, muttering to himself, I wondered if his concerns might be justified. Hadn’t Jesus, as Lazarus pointed out, always warned us not to tempt God? Peter had certainly done that today. These thoughts were unworthy of me, however. I was no better than Thomas now. When the rain was so thick and we could barely see Peter and the poor people caught in the downpour, his booming voice was heard again, this time praying loudly in a plaintive voice. We could hear in the midst of the rain, “Please Lord, forgive my doubt. Help your children. They’re hungry, tired, and wet. Stop the rain. Feed them as Moses fed the children in the wilderness. Because of our enemies, this land is a wilderness, too. Save them from the storm!”

In deed, as Lazarus saw, Peter seemed to think of himself as another Moses. By now the apostles, disciples, Lazarus, and women were crowded by the door or looking out the window, waiting for what came next. Peter had, like his apostles, been given the gift of healing. Did this gift include something like this? For several moments, as he prayed silently, after several of the people outside rushed into the house until it could hold no more, and when the very roof seemed as though it might cave in, the rain finally stopped. Sunlight streamed through the clouds, onto the land and into the house. Running outside to witness the aftermath of this event, the apostles, disciples, and women embraced Peter on all sides. Many of the converts who could elbow their way through us, tried to clap his shoulder, grab his arms or hands, or grip his robe, and one old woman, even grabbed his leg.

“Enough!” He said in laughing voice. “Ho-ho, I’m merely man. You have witnessed the power of the Lord—Jesus whom his adversaries crucified, but who arose from the dead. Remember this whenever you doubt him. If you pray hard enough brothers and sisters, you too can stop the rain. You can move mountains. All things are possible if you’re saved by His blood and believe!”

Hundreds of men, women, and children surrounded our circle. There is some controversy over whether this was really a miracle, however. According to Lazarus, it wasn’t uncommon for it to rain in the spring. Rather than being a miracle, which made the downpour seem capricious for the Lord, it could just as easily been a coincidence this time of year. Thomas, the doubter, as was his nature, was the first to express this view. I saw some of the others, including a few nearby converts nod in agreement. I wanted to believe, as Peter explained, this was the power of the Lord. One moment it was a deluge, and the next moment, it stopped. The sky was clear and the sun burned brightly as if it had never rained at all, but Peter’s ability to sway this many people was quite remarkable—miraculous in itself.

The apostles, even Peter, were obviously uncertain how to record this event, which is why it’s not found in their writings, except, of course, mine. If the rain hadn’t been a test of our resolve and its conclusion a miracle invoked by prayer, its sudden cessation, if nothing else, was an incredible coincidence for the multitude, which helped bolster their faith. What followed this event took longer to occur and appeared to require a second prayer, which Peter uttered after gathering the multitude on the hill where Jesus appeared for the last time. These people, after all, were still hungry, and they needed to be fed. They were fidgety and out of sorts. Many of them, despite Peter’s apparent miracle, were probably ready to return home. When Peter went on to tell the story of Jesus birth, mission, death, and resurrection, something else remarkable occurred. As if his prayer had a delayed reaction, a large group of men and women, including the few converts finding lodging in town, arrived with baskets of bread and cheese, very possibly everything they could spare. At least, if this wasn’t an outright miracle, Peter had shamed the people of Bethany into supplying us with food.

Peter’s self-confidence had been restored that hour. The remaining words following his account of Jesus life, deeds, and victory over death, were followed by a benediction for the multitude in advance of their departure the next day for Capernaum. As the chief witness to the risen savior, his speech would become the format for the testimony given by the apostles, disciples, and the new converts in the field.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Return To Capernaum: The Ecclesia

The multitude, which, after defections, was still significant, but much less than three thousand, must have resembled the rag-tag bunch led by Moses out of Egypt. Peter even had a staff presented to him by Sosthenes, the Greek-speaking Jew: a strange-looking length of wood carved from myrtle with the head of a ram at one end. Strutting forth, with staff in hand, waving his free hand in the air as he shared a sudden thought, he looked every bit the patriarch at this stage in his career. The remaining eleven apostles, indistinguishable from the disciples and the least member of the procession, had been relegated to mere followers. I had to remind the others what Jesus had once told John and his brother James, ‘the last shall be first in his kingdom,’ and Jesus example of humility when he washed our feet. These words, however, weren’t enough to satisfy Andrew, who had never seen his brother so puffed up and arrogant. John, who felt Jesus had singled him out, was especially at odds with Peter’s attitude. I knew that Peter’s apparent posturing was more than mere bombast. He believed, with good reason, after yesterday’s good fortune or miracles that Jesus, as always, was with him. He had been given the staff of the shepherd, and Peter planned on using his prestige for Christ and the Way.

Before we left Bethany, I said goodbye to Micah, once again leaving him in Ashira’s care. Had it not been for the leash she fashioned for him, he would have broken free and followed us. Understandably this time, Lazarus and his sisters were not as sad as Micah to see us leave. Except for the smile my friend Martha gave me, the threesome gave us a cold send-off. For that matter, not one resident of the town came out to say farewell.

Our trek back to Capernaum was interrupted by frequent stops, some of which saw the departure of more converts, but defections had decreased greatly when the multitude was fed and given enough rest. Fortunately for us, there was no more rain. The food we brought with us had to be rationed out, which, given human nature, was no easy task. During such times, the few criminals and miscreants in our midst would be found out and cast off, one man being given a drubbing with Peter’s staff. Other than these exceptions, the new converts managed, with the addition of more food and moral support from townsfolk on the way, to arrive in Capernaum no worse for the wear. There had been no deaths, births, or mutinies during our journey. Meeting us on the outskirts of Capernaum, were members of the original Seventy, who rejoiced upon hearing of Azariah and Yoshabel’s elevation to shepherd and shepherdess. I’m not sure if Peter was totally serious about their titles. Like many Jewish men, he saw no place for women in positions of importance. Surely, he, as the chief shepherd, would be the leader in his town.

At first, in fact, there was little or no organization in the community of believers. Peter turned over the issue of lodging to Azariah and his wife, a much easer task, because of his influence. All of the men, women, and children found families to take them in, except Sosthenes and his wife, who would be crammed into Peter’s house with his inner circle.

The inner circle now included both men and women: the apostles, the disciples, Susanna, Joanna, Mark’s mother, Peter’s family, and Mary Magdalene, who was in the welcoming party as we entered the town. Until Peter retrieved their house from Ezekiel, Azariah and Yoshabel would also live with his family. This living arrangement, which included Mary Magdalene, was worse than it was for even the converts, who at least were spread out in the town. Joanna, now a fugitive from Chuza, her husband, who had been furious at her conversion to the Way, proved at the very beginning of our stay, to be a great help to Esther, Dinah, and Bernice, as did Mark’s mother and Susanna. Mary, however, Esther informed her husband, spent much of her time daydreaming instead of lending a hand. Earlier, Mary had been coaxed by Peter into returning to Capernaum. It was a sore point for her now after she heard of the wonders she had missed. Except for her, the other women and the men complained very little about the living conditions. Thomas, as expected, was the greatest complainer in our group. Though he would one day set out bravely on his mission, it seemed he would always be a doubter, as well as grumbler. None of Jesus’ original men, in fact, had changed that much. Bartholomew, who still had his mule and a new cart, would always be a burden on our journeys. He would remain one of my chief responsibilities until the apostles were given their orders. Matthew, always ready with an unasked for opinion and Simon, still the hothead, never really fit in. Despite this fact, they gave up their careers, as did James, to follow our Lord. With the exception of Peter, who was the peacemaker as well voice of authority, the fishermen were still somewhat stand-offish from the rest of us. Andrew, Philip, and John’s brother James would always be rustics at heart and John?… What can I say about John?

Gradually, the community of believers, which was called the Way by many of us but ecclesia by Greek-speaking Jews, settled into a routine decided by Peter, who believed, as did Jesus, that we must earn our keep. This requirement that accompanied daily prayer and fellowship, included assisting in farm duties, herding of sheep, curing the fishermen’s catch, clearing out the hosts’ gardens, painting and repair of houses, and even—for the women housed in other homes—tending to their benefactor’s children when the need arose. In that first year as the ecclesia became known throughout Judea, Galilee, and Perea, the success of our community attracted more believers from other cities, but for several months, we remained a loosely organized group depending on the goodwill and hospitality of Capernaum . In spite of the animosity of the great majority of Jews, our small congregation had survived and continued to grow, earning its keep among householders, as Capernaum and its citizens became more and more associated with the Way.

******

Our move to Capernaum gave Peter even more power. Housing our members in the homes of Capernaum’s citizens was no longer sufficient or efficient and, as our numbers began to grow, the lodging of so many believers in various homes was a great burden on the town. Peter believed that Jesus wanted one unified group: a sanctuary and supportive ecclesia for believers that took care of both their spiritual and human needs. To accomplish this, he explained to his inner circle, we needed a structure similar in function to the synagogue and a building for members to live in apart from the world. So as not to imitate in any way the old religion, however, this building would be a simple place of worship. Beside it several houses for our members, grouped together with gardens, would be built by carpenters and masons in the ecclesia. Though it was true the ecclesia was a religious center for the propagation of our faith, and the new houses would give living quarters to most of our members, the complex would also be a refuge for the poor, and a shelter for all manner of people, including beggars, miscreants, and women of ill repute. A troubling pattern, difficult to stop, developed, where undesirables, mingling with legitimate converts, accepted the rites to join the ecclesia simply for free handouts and a roof over their heads. Guided by Jesus compassion for the poor and downtrodden, Peter believed, if cleaned up and given proper instruction, this group would turn into model members. Jesus had stressed the need to feed the poor and how important they were in our mission, but he expected those saved to repent and change their ways. In addition to being a place of fellowship and a safe haven for true believers as well a opportunists, its purpose was to protect converts from the corruption of the world and, once they began living within the community, control their every movement. When people joined the ecclesia they had to reject their previous lives, even their families if their wives, husbands, or parents chose the old faith.

All of Peter’s grand plans required the greatest sacrifice. One of the requirements for being a member of our community was sharing wealth, which meant that members were expected to turn over their coins, property and goods to Peter for the welfare of all. While all earthly items were sold after being turned over, money given to the Shepherd went straight into our treasury, the community’s purse. In this way, our ecclesia was able to feed and shelter our members. The remaining requirements on the proclamation, as a series of oaths and pledges, essentially told members they must give up their old ways and accept Peter’s interpretation of the Way. From a loosely organized group living throughout Capernaum, many of whom, like Lazarus and his sisters, didn’t clearly understand what all this meant, we had become, what Peter fancied, the ‘Community of the Way’ with a common faith. Giving up so much was overwhelming and, in many ways, an unreasonable demand for converts, that caused many of them to turn away when they read the proclamation written by John.

In Peter’s mind, through revelations, to be apart of the community one had to turn their backs on the sins of the world, give up worldly things, and place all their energies and attention on the welfare of all. When born the first time from the womb, you came naked into the world. When reborn into the faith, you continued naked of worldliness, a new being, clothed by the Spirit of the Lord. We, the apostles, who had already given up everything to follow Jesus, never thought much about any of this. We took our roles for granted and would never have had such abstract thoughts. John, a clever fellow with words, had given Peter some of his ideas, which I’m not certain he believed. John, like us, was disturbed by some of Peter’s demands. Many of the friends we had made in Judea, Galilee, and Perea were good people and yet they would be considered worldly by the community’s standards. There were several notable rich men, like Nicodemus, who appeared to be followers too. Many converts, in fact, had returned to Jerusalem and other cities to practice the new faith without censor. When the ecclesia became the Community of the Way, however, the requirements to be a member became much more strict. All peoples, from the poorest idler to rich merchants and prosperous farmers, must give it all; there were no exceptions. Despite the great demands of the ecclesia, the majority of its members were steadfast in their belief. Against the odds, with the Lord’s help, it proved to be a tremendous success.

Only one incident marred this success in my mind. As usual, Peter had followed the Lord’s will, but I still find this action difficult to accept. This time the information I report is second-hand. Though I had witnessed and overheard the previous words and actions of the Shepherd, the following account was related to me by Mark, who, as Peter’s scribe now, was nearby when it occurred.

John had grown weary of Peter’s bossiness and decided to go fishing with his brother James. Andrew and Philip had joined them in the boat, while the rest of us, after working in Esther’s garden, lounged idly by the shore. Because Mark became one of Peter’s disciples, the notes he wrote down never became part of his gospel. Peter would have known he was spying on him. After the Shepherd met the Lord, I gave Luke the notes, which he incorporated in his Acts of the Apostles. Mark had no thought of capitalizing on the event. It shook him greatly. Matthew, Simon, Thomas, Bartholomew, and I, however, heard the commotion in front of the ecclesia from a distance and paid it no mind. Peter was always shouting—barking out orders or scolding someone for a minor offense. After overhearing Peter question a couple in our community, Mark wrote down what had happened and ran immediately to the lake to share it with us. This wasn’t a minor offense, as were the other incidents in our community.

From Mark’s hastily written note, I extracted the following account, which is close to what I recently read in Luke’s work:

Peter was questioning Ananias and his wife Sapphira when Mark’s ears perked up. Ducking behind a tree, as Peter stopped them near the ecclesia, he reached into his pouch for his writing materials. It appeared as though Ananias and Sapphira, who were supposed to have turned their wealth, were holding back from the community. They had sold their property, as they agreed to do, but had kept some of the money for themselves. It didn’t matter that they gave almost all of the profit to Peter. They didn’t give it all.

As Mark reported, Peter pointed accusingly at Ananias that moment and roared, “Ananias! How is it that Satan caused you to lie to the Lord and kept some of the proceeds from your land? What made you think of doing such a thing? You’ve not only lied to me, you’ve lied to God!”

Whether or not the Lord struck Ananias dead or Peter had scared him to death, Ananias fell dead in his tracks. By now, some of the members had been drawn from the ecclesia, arriving just in time to see Ananias twitching on the ground. With dispatch, Peter ordered them to take him away and bury him. Fearful because of the look on Peter’s face, the men and women, without protests, carried Ananias away. Unaware of the seriousness of this affair, as Mark sat in Peter’s house, remaining mum in front of Peter’s wife, mother-in-law, and daughter, we walked further down the shore, watching the fishermen cast their nets.

After an hour or so, as Mark explained, disturbed and fearful by Peter’s action, he slipped out of Peter’s house, retracing his steps back toward the ecclesia. This time at the door of the living quarters, Peter cornered Ananias’s wife. Mark again read from his notes this conversation with a trembling voice:

“Where’s my husband?” Sapphira asked.

“Being prepared for his burial,” Peter answered coldly.

“Why?” she screamed. “What happened to him?”

“He cheated the Lord,” replied Peter, holding up a balance sheet. “Tell me, Sapphira, is this the price you and your husband got for your land?”

“Yes,” she answered shakily, “that’s the price.”

It struck me as ludicrous that Peter, who relied on John’s accounting, was flaunting such figures. John, who had been with the other fishermen, would have wanted nothing to do with this interrogation. Once again, as Mark reported, as he stood in plain view, several men and women ran to the scene.

“Sapphira!” Peter bellowed. “How could you test the Lord? Listen, do you hear footfall? The feet of those who buried your husband are at the door, and they are going to bury you too!”

To Mark’s renewed horror, Sapphira fell dead on the ground. When the same members, who had carried Ananias away arrived, carried her out and buried her beside her husband. Those very moments Mark reported these terrible events, we heard voices throughout the community. Great fear for the wrath or God and the wrath of Peter seized the ecclesia. Peter had struck Ananias and Sapphira dead because of their greed. Matthew, Simon, Bartholomew, Thomas and I, who heard this personal account, were the first to know the details of this showdown. Even now, in my old age, it sends a quiver up my spine.

******

After that day in Capernaum in which behavior common among many believers in Judea, Galilee, Perea, and Decapolis caused two foolish people to be struck dead, Peter justified his actions brusquely, giving the Lord credit for their deaths. Ananias and Sapphira had been only modestly wealthy and were smited. By the standards expected of this unfortunate couple, Nicodemus, Joseph of Arimathea, and Elisha, men who Jesus had respected and admired, would have been struck dead ten times over. Jesus once explained to Peter and the rest of us that it wasn’t riches themselves that corrupted men, but the love of riches. One could not serve two masters—the Lord and mammon, he explained. For you will either hate the one and love the other or hold to one and despise the other. Nevertheless, Jesus had counseled us to be patient with sinners. That day when the young rich man refused to give up his wealth to follow him, Jesus looked on at him with great pity, exclaiming that it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than a rich man to go to heaven. He would never have did as Peter had done, however. Otherwise, many of rich followers like Nicodemus would have been struck dead. Either Peter hadn’t gotten this point or, in accordance with one of his revelations, Jesus had changed his mind. Nevertheless, as dreadful as it was, a singular point had been made. After what happened to Ananias and Sapphira, no one dared argue with Peter on this matter. In fact, from that day forward, there were no more people holding back on their donations and those who found Peter’s rule to harsh slipped away from the ecclesia never to be heard from again.

Our community, which had attracted initiates throughout Galilee, Judea, Perea, and Decapolis, remained small but stable, and yet the living quarters were filled to the brim. Until, another building was constructed, the outreach to new converts was halted. There wasn’t any more room as it was. So, satisfied that the ecclesia in Capernaum and convinced he had done all he could personally do, Peter turned the leadership over to Azariah and his wife Yoshabel, and, for the last night in his house, gathered the apostles and disciples together in one group to give them their final instructions. Would the question we had asked in the upper room, “What comes next?” be finally answered.

For a few moment as we sipped the wine Bernice had poured for us, Peter savored the resinous fluid, smacking his lips, then taking another longer swig. Suddenly, after months and months of being our taskmaster and a virtual ruler in Capernaum, the old Peter was back. Already, he appeared to be tipsy. Heaving a sigh, he looked around at us. “The Lord wants us in Jerusalem,” he replied solemnly.

There was a delayed reaction as this sank into our minds.

“What?” Simon cried. “Are you insane? It’s bad enough we left poor James there, but he’s only one. If we all converge on Jerusalem, it’ll bring back old wounds. Caiaphas might sick his men on us again!”

“Yes, Peter,” Andrew looked at him in disbelief. “I thought we were getting our assignments. Weren’t we going to go out and preach the word?”

“Barnabas, who visited Jerusalem recently, brought me a report,” Peter began, taking another sip. “…. James has had some success with bringing back slackers. He’s made several more disciples and turned the upper room into an ecclesia, but that room is small. Only a small, brave few actually attend their meetings. The others, who broke with the three thousand have nowhere else to go. In short, my brothers, they’re lost sheep. We must help James, who has hands full holding onto his circle of believers. Jerusalem is still sacred to us. It’s where it all began!”

“This is madness,” Philip grumbled. “Jerusalem is filled with priests, Pharisees, and scribes. Until Caiaphas and Pilate are dead or gone, let’s steer clear of it. James should never have been left there in the first place. If Barnabas is so bold, send him back with a message for James to get out!”

Everyone, except Peter and Barnabas, nodded their heads in agreement.

“You think I want to go there?” Peter exclaimed irritably. “This is Jesus talking, not me.”

“Oh, he’s in your head again?” Simon sneered. “Will he protect us from losing our heads?”

“Yes!” Peter frowned. “We must obey him. When we’re done tending the sheep, we’ll leave, return to Bethany, and map out our routes.”

“This isn’t a good idea,” Thomas groaned. “We were lucky last time. Now that the ecclesia has grown, Caiaphas will be ready us. He’ll want our blood!”

“Nonsense!” Peter socked his fist. “The last time we were in Jerusalem nothing happened. The priests left us alone. The Romans soldiers smiled at us. You men have grown soft here in Capernaum. You’re afraid to leave!”

“Soft? Afraid to leave?” I stepped in. “What we have gone through here in Capernaum was anything but soft. We’re not afraid to leave this town, Peter. I’m certainly not. I can’t wait to begin my ministry and leave this town in the dust.”

“That settles it!” Matthew said, as if we were a consensus, “let’s take a vote!”

“I vote no!” Bartholomew jumped in.

“That goes for me!” John agreed.

“Me too!” His brother agreed.

“I’m not going back there,” Barnabas said resolutely. “I vote no, too!”

Matthias, Cleopas, Justin, and Mark added their votes to the tally. The remainder of the apostles also voted no. A mutiny had commenced. Peter, who was on the way to becoming drunk, had temporarily lost control. Now that he had apparently set aside shepherd’s staff and become the first among equals as Jesus intended him to be, the room was filled with dissent. Then, as if a cold pale of water had been thrown in his face to wake him up, Peter’s eyebrows shot up, his mouth dropped, and roared, “Who do you people think you are? I don’t want to go back to Jerusalem. I didn’t want Ananias and his wife to be struck dead. I do as the Lord commands!”

“You knew Jesus,” I challenged his logic. “Ananias and Sapphira didn’t deserve to die. They’re no different than other fair-weather followers. They were simply greedy. Jesus wouldn’t strike them dead for that.

“Jude,” Peter shook his head, “I don’t disagree with you: Jesus, the man, was gentle and kind—a man of peace, but I’m not talking about Jesus, the man. I thought you understood what we have now. It’s no longer merely God and the Holy Spirit. There are three parts of God. Your brother James called this the Godhead: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost. Jesus, the Christ, told us he would return. He won’t come back as Isaiah’s suffering servant next time; he will come back a warrior, smiting the unbelievers and sinners, not merely restoring Israel as the prophets promised but establishing his kingdom on earth. There can be no fair-weather believers like Ananias and Sapphira in our ecclesia, who aren’t fully committed. This is a time of growth and enlightenment.” “All of you,” his voice raised a notch, “this is important. Don’t try to figure this out. You’ll never understand the Lord’s purpose. Why did God destroy Sodom and Gomorrah? There was surely young children destroyed in those cities, who were by definition innocent. What about all those innocent beasts? What wrong did they do? At times God appears to be pitiless. He ordered the Israelites to slaughter men, women, and children in Canaanite cities so they could take over their land. Was that fair? You ask. Seen another way, God isn’t merely unfair, he’s unpredictable. One moment, he’s striking someone dead and another He appears to be turning his back. Why does He allow evil to exist alongside of good? Many times, I learned from James our scholar, God allowed our people to be persecuted by the Egyptians, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, and now the Romans, making it seem as if Satan, not God, rules. Instead of just swooping down and changing this evil world, He sent his son down to be crucified like a common criminal on a cross to make this change. We now understand what his death and resurrection meant. His death replaced the temple sacrifice, which has failed our people, with the promise of eternal life—something the priests never believed in and the Pharisees and rabbis were unable to define. That people are saved by the blood of Christ is what most of them understand, but not much more. Many of our members can scarcely comprehend the Godhead, let alone the meaning of this sacrifice. John, the Baptist, called him the Lamb of God, who would take away the sins of the world, and yet even he sent a messenger from his cell to make sure who Jesus was. Though Jesus simplified the faith of our people, he has made God much more complex. It’s going to take awhile to make believers understand his three forms. So, after much greater examples of God’s wrath, you ask why Ananias and Sapphira were struck dead. Don’t ask me, ask God. Better yet, ask Jesus, His son. Added to confusion is the Holy Ghost we all experienced. If you, my brothers, are asking questions, can you imagine how confused the converts are? We’ve always known that God is inscrutable; no one knows his mind. Well, Jesus is part of the Godhead, as James called it. If God is mysterious, it follows that Jesus is inscrutable, too. He’s no longer the Lamb; He’s God, whom we shouldn’t question. When He returns, he’ll come in glory, not as a humble preacher, expecting we, his apostles and disciples, to have been obedient and steadfast in the faith.” “Remember my brothers.” He looked at each of us. “Jesus told us that we don’t know the day or hour. Not even the angels in heaven know when He’ll return…. When he does, you must be pure of heart and mind. He wants us to be perfect. Don’t be caught imperfect, filled with questions and doubts.”

Expecting more disagreement from some of us, his stern expression softened to a smile, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction, when no one spoke. Peter had, as quickly as he lost it, regained control. Andrew and Philip reached over to slap his shoulders. John and his brother James gave him a begrudging nod, and Mark, who had been afraid of Peter, broke into a beaming smile. Though Matthew, Simon, Thomas, and Bartholomew joined the fishermen in their silent acceptance, I was slower to respond. Jesus had made him the Rock and our leader. He gave him the power of life over death. I didn’t have to like it, but I must bow to His will.

******

Our trek to Jerusalem began as a solemn affair. For this undertaking Peter insisted that the women stay home. There was, he rationalized, no reason for them to come along. I knew, of course, it was more than this. It was simply too dangerous for them to be in our company, and, in Peter’s mind, women weren’t suited to preach. Our people, especially conservative Jews, would resent them speaking out, and, with the exception of Matthew, Simon, Bartholomew, Mark, and myself, the apostles and disciples resented the women’s presence as well. Mary Magdalene and Susanna, both spirited souls, were offended by this slight, whereas Joanna and Mark’s mother seemed quite relieved. Before we departed, Peter tried to cool off Mary Magdalene and Susanna’s resentment, reminding them of the importance of their service taking care the community, but the pair wouldn’t speak to him. In what might be seen as a second mutiny, the women, including Joanna and Mark’s mother (even though they hadn’t wanted to go) were reluctant even to see us off. Peter’s words had appeared to slight them too. If based upon our holy scriptures, Mary Magdalene correctly saw Peter’s attitude as unfair. Deborah and Miriam were leaders in Israel, and Huldah and Isaiah’s wife Anna were prophetesses. There were countless women in the Torah and Prophets who had done great deeds. All Mary and Susanna wanted to do was preach! Esther, Dinah, and Bernice had listened to Mary’s argument against this state of affairs, scoffing at her foolishness. Considering the fact that they were Peter’s family, however, they didn’t count.

Seeing us off on our mission to Jerusalem where Azariah, his wife Yoshabel, and hundreds of well-wishing converts lining the road. It was difficult not to envy this crowd, safely tucked away in this small Galilean town. As I looked back, I tried not to think of Mary Magdalene in a romantic sense, but it was no use. She would haunt me constantly, teasing my manhood, making me wish at times that I was an ordinary man, with a wife and family and a quiet life ahead…. But I wasn’t an ordinary man. I was Jude, brother of the risen Christ, a member of his inner circle, and apostle of the Lord. Blessed though I was, I was cursed for ever joining the Twelve. Those moments, from a distance, watching us leave, stood the four women of our circle. Joanna and Mark’s mother waved finally as did Susanna, but Mary stood her ground, resentment burning in her eyes. Someday she would become, as Susanna, a firebrand for the Lord, but right now, with the sunlight on her tanned face and hair blowing in the breeze, she was simply Mary Magdalene, the loveliest women I had ever known.

Chapter Forty-Three

Return to Jerusalem

With much fewer stops than normal for such a journey, we trudged in single file, Bartholomew, his mule, and cart, bringing up the rear. At times, Peter walked back, ordering us to bunch up or at least walk in twos.

“Come on men,” he shouted, waving his staff. “It’s not safe to lag behind. You Jude, keep on eye on Bartholomew. Take his reins. He looks like he’s asleep in his cart. You there Matthew, Simon, and Thomas fall in with Jude. The rest of you do the same. Keep up, and walk together. No more single files!”

“What’s the hurry?” grumbled Andrew. “Why’re we moving so fast?”

“Because I said so!” Peter snapped. “You men are dragging your feet. The sooner we get to Jerusalem, the sooner we get started. We’re not staying men. We’ll be there just long enough to whip those fainthearted, fair-weather, slackers into shape!”

“I still don’t understand,” complained Thomas. “All Ananias and Sapphira did was hold back a few coins. Those people in Jerusalem are cowards. They ran off like frightened sheep. Why didn’t the Lord strike them dead?”

“You’re not only a doubter, Thomas,” Peter scolded, “You’re dense. I thought I explained this very clearly. Our Lord isn’t the same person he was before he rose from the dead. He was transformed. Do you blame God for the Flood? There, except for Noah’s family and those animals on the ark, the inhabitants of the earth were destroyed. All the Lord did this time was strike two people dead.”

“In that case,” Philip replied thoughtfully. “The Lord made an example of them.”

“Humph!” Thomas grunted. “Maybe so.”

“The Flood wasn’t an example,” Peter shook his head. “That was God’s wrath.”

“What about Egypt?” asked Simon. “Was that God’s wrath? The Lord killed the first born in Egypt, including the Pharaoh’s son. What harm did the first-born do? The Pharaoh’s stubbornness to let the Israelites leave Egypt was his fault, not theirs.”

“Moses warned the Pharaoh,” Peter reminded, “but the Lord hardened his heart. I can’t explain why he kills the innocent with the guilty, but that time it was wasn’t wrath. God had to show the Pharaoh that he meant business.” “You see now.” He turned to Thomas. “Considering the God of the Torah, I was, as the instrument, merely following His will.”

“His or Jesus?” Thomas stared stupidly at him.

Peter was speechless. It was plain to him and many of us, in spite of his efforts to explain it to people like Thomas that the nature of our religion would come to believers much more slowly than its actual acceptance by members of the Way. Two things loomed in my mind, as I considered the implications of Thomas question. How would we convince believers that there weren’t two or even three gods? And how could we separate for them the wrathful God from the savior they had come to love? If even their savior struck people dead for offenses, how was he any different than his father, whom Thomas separated as God?

Thomas had asked an important question. One of the heresies in my heart early in Jesus’ ministry, which had surfaced during the arrest, trial, and crucifixion of Jesus, was the thought that Jesus had, in fact, been talking about a different God. Because the God of the old religion was so different from the God Jesus portrayed, it seemed this had to be true. Now that Jesus was part of the Godhead, however, this notion had to be wrong, and yet I was troubled by Jesus duality: the loving Christ and the Christ dispensing the punishment of death.

After an overnight stop at Cana where we ate the snacks prepared for us by Esther and Dinah, rested, and, at the break of dawn, filled our water skins, we managed, after many Roman miles, to reach Bethany. As we approached Lazarus’ house, Ashira was playing with Micah in front. I was touched by as well as envious of this scene. What a fine dog and exceptional young woman! I told myself. Had my affections not been captured by Mary Magdalene, I might have fallen for Ashira. How fortunate, I thought, was she not be weighed down with our burden. Her only cares were to wait on Lazarus, her master, assist his sisters in the house, and play with my dog. A flicker of jealousy mingled with my fondness for her. When Ashira ran inside to announce our arrival, Micah scampered toward us as we approached. Barking happily as he yapped at our heels, he allowed each of the men to pat and tousle his neck and head.

Lazarus and his sisters, who would have to accommodate this bunch again, were less friendly, and yet proved once more to be attentive hosts. As soon as we settled down in the house, Peter gave them a report on the ecclesia. After this, while Martha, Mary, and Ashira prepared our dinner, Peter also told Lazarus are plans in Jerusalem. Lazarus was impressed with our success in Capernaum. The three women paused in their labors to here this glowing account.

When they heard about our decision to return to Jerusalem, however, they were alarmed and tried talking us out of this foolishness. Why did we want to push our luck? Lazarus asked Peter. Martha and Mary heartily agreed. After keeping he and his sisters safe in their town, Lazarus was also amazed when he heard that James was left behind as the shepherd in Jerusalem.

“I don’t understand.” He shook his head. “Why bother with that city? They hate us there. I talked to Elam, a merchant passing through. From what he told me, there isn’t a community of believers in his town. He’s a secret believer himself like the other members who refused to leave. When he visited James during the Sabbath, he found a mere handful in the upper room, fearful of leaving the house. Just yesterday, Nicodemus also paid me a visit. He’s certain it’s just a matter of time before James and his small flock are arrested. Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin are just biding their time. After being coerced by them into crucifying our Messiah, Pilate has left the believers alone, but this won’t prevent them from being punished for religious reasons. To Rome this is none of their business. As long as we don’t revolt, we’re tolerated as just another Jewish sect.” “This means,” Lazarus reminded Peter, “Rome won’t interfere in the trial and punishment of religious criminals as long as they aren’t put to death, but that punishment includes thirty-nine lashes and a long period in jail!” “In other words,” he stressed the point, “after being beaten half to death, you’ll rot in jail for as long as they want!”

“Lazarus.” Peter had waved dismissively. “Let me remind you as I reminded my thick-skulled men. We had no problem the last time we were there. The Lord protected us. Moses Beard! In plain sight, we baptized three thousand people that day, and then led them safely out the gate. If something was going to happen, it would have happened then, not when a mere dozen or so enters town.”

“But Peter,” Martha spoke up. “Didn’t Jesus once say, ‘You shall not tempt the Lord!’?”

“Yes, I remember.” Mary beamed foolishly. “Jesus was always saying strange things.”

“I’m sick and tired of that being quoted to me,” snapped Peter. “I’m not tempting the Lord. I’m doing his will.” “Tell me, Mary—no all three of you,” he frowned at Lazarus and the women. “Do you truly understand our Christ?”

Lazarus scratched his beard. Mary thought a moment. “Well, he was the Messiah, wasn’t he?” she answered. “Sent to save the world.”

“And God’s son,” Martha piped.

“Not was, Mary and Martha, is.” Peter stared at them in disbelief. “He is the Messiah, whom we call the Christ. He is the Son of God. As you must know he rose from the dead. What you don’t seem to understand is the Godhead: the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.” Holding up three fingers then turning them to the side so it appeared as if he was holding only one finger up, he added, “Three natures of God. So you see, my friends, Jesus is God!”

The two women looked at Peter as if were speaking Egyptian. Lazarus, who should have known better, shook his head in puzzlement. “But Jesus prayed to his father,” he finally uttered. “How can you pray to yourself?”

“Good grief!” I blurted. “You of all people, Lazarus! He prayed to his father and you rose from the dead, resurrected just like him. Even then I knew my brother was divine. It’s not important how it’s possible. All that matters is that it’s true. You think it was easy for me to have a brother like that. When you grow up like I did with someone like Jesus, you’d think it would be harder to accept his divinity. I knew him as a flesh and blood child. But Jesus was always singled out by God. He was born his son, with powers even as a child. He was and is without sin or flaw—a perfect man and now, after his transformation, he’s our Lord. When you pray, you are praying to him, God, and the Spirit at the same time. Forget trying to understand this. Just accept it for what it is. If I, Jesus brother, can do it, so can you!”

Lazarus, Martha, and Mary’s eyes were filled with tears. Peter came forward, grinning with pride. “There, did you hear that?” He looked back at the threesome. “Jude,” he then whispered to me, “you’ve come a long way!”

Suddenly, the lingering animosity I felt for Peter vanished. Everyone gathered around him after our meal. As I sat there in Lazarus’ house, with Micah on one side of me and Ashira on the other, feeling great peace and satisfaction, listening to him recount Jesus exploits, I was reminded of his growth as our leader and what he had become. This was Peter, the Rock, our Shepherd. I understood why Jesus had chosen him. He had inspired me to give testimony to my belief. Looking ahead to our return to Jerusalem, I would need such inspiration and Peter’s abiding strength.

******

Tomorrow, when we entered the holy city, would be a big day. The other men still thought it was a bad idea. Secretly, in spite of my speech, I agreed with them, but I tried to bolster their spirits, especially Bartholomew, who would stick out like a scarecrow with his cart and mule. That night, before we found our pallets, after a discussion with Lazarus on the membership remaining in Bethany, we were disheartened to discover the same pattern here as in most of the towns: a tepid, tight-lipped group of believers without a shepherd to guide them, ignorant of Christ’s full nature and, in some cases, still clinging to the old religion, instead of practicing the new. An exception was, of course, Capernaum, and, though hardly a success story, Jerusalem did in fact have a shepherd. Finally, with Capernaum and Jerusalem leaders in mind, Peter made a move he should have done in the first place, ordaining Lazarus as Bethany’s shepherd.

To make it sound special, Peter tapped him with his staff, and said a prayer, something he hadn’t done for Azariah and Yoshabel. Lazarus recoiled at the thought. Judging by our latest reception from the citizens of Bethany this would be no easy task. The ordeal of the three thousand from Jerusalem had soured them, making us persona non gratis to many townsfolk. fickle, unpredictable group. The very notion of controlling these fickle converts filled him with dread. As Peter performed the ceremony, a look of horror fell over Lazarus’ face. He wasn’t well, Martha offered her objection. Lazarus couldn’t stand the strain. Peter disagreed, however, citing something Jesus told to me about Micah and everyone else he cured. Lazarus was, thanks to his own resurrection, practically immortal, Peter explained to him. Like it or not, he would, he insisted, bring these timid, fair-weather slackers into line. Playing on Lazarus’ conscience, he reminded him that Jesus could have let him rot in his tomb, but he raised him from the dead. He did so for a purpose! Peter wrung his finger. That purpose was here!

With that said, Peter dismissed his hosts, who retired with troubled expressions to their chambers. The apostles and disciples also retired to our pallets in the main room, filled with expectation and misgivings. As they retired, I whispered my thanks to Ashira for taking care of my dog, then settled down with Micah by my side. Staring up into the dark ceiling, as I stroked his head, my mind swirled with imagery, from my first moments as a disciple to my days as an apostle of the risen Lord. I also thought of the women who had become important in my life: Deborah and then Mary Magdalene, who had captured my fancy, and now Ashira, who I admired very much. Though feeling those old yearnings, I no longer doubted my destiny. I had chosen my path. Where the Lord would lead me, I didn’t know. I had confidence in his shepherd, and I also had confidence in myself. After contemplating my future awhile, I managed finally to fall asleep. When I awakened, I recalled flashes of dreamscape. Voices had shrieked, frightened, disembodied faces loomed out at me. Fragments of that familiar nightmare of the three crosses then appeared, this time empty of victims, and set against a background of flames. In the inferno, I could see the black silhouettes of men and women—a panorama of judgment against the wicked. Even as a dreamer I understood the meaning of my dream. As Peter had implied, Jesus would come back to reward the faithful but also send sinners to hell.

When the nightmare ended, I bolted upright, staring fearfully around the room. What a dreadful dream! I thought, shuddering at the thought. The entire house was still asleep. Satisfied that all was well, I sighed with relief, lay back down, and tried banishing the images from my head. The duality that Pete saw in Jesus had left an impact on me. Jesus was my brother, then the Messiah or Christ, and now he was God’s Son, who would come back to judge the world. As sunlight beamed in shafts through the window, I watched the motes drift in the glow, recalling more bits and pieces of my dream. I saw Caiaphas’ and Judas’ faces looming among dozens of screaming heads and other images that made less sense. Always during times of crises, I had troublesome dreams, either fearful or seemingly prophetic in some way. This one was the worst of them all.

Today we would return to Jerusalem. Considering the things Lazarus told us, this seemed like a fool’s errand. Concern for this enterprise, quickly replaced the memory of my dream. Soon, if we made it through town without being waylaid by Caiaphas’ agents, I would see my brother James again. Finding out that James was all right, was the one good point in this venture. From this point, I dare not to imagine.

When we had eaten breakfast, filled our water skins, and bid farewell to Lazarus and his sisters, we found ourselves on the road again, mere hours from Jerusalem’s gate. I sat beside Bartholomew in the mule cart, holding the reins as he groaned with discomfort. He was, I was reminded, much too old for this. Looking around at the other men, it occurred to me that Mark, barely out of his teens, was too young. While Bartholomew should be retired somewhere enjoying his last years, Mark was still at the beginning of his life. Instead of being saddled as Peter’s scribe, he should experience life and then get married and have children, after finding work in a trade that didn’t require such sacrifice. All of these men, except me, had given up their livelihoods and futures to become apostles and disciples for the Lord. Before I decided to follow Jesus, I had been a shiftless, unemployed hanger-on, and yet even I missed being just an ordinary man…. We the chosen few weren’t ordinary. Not even Thomas doubted this.

******

As we entered Jerusalem, and looked ahead at the looming temple and Antonia in the distance, Peter counseled us to keep our mouths shut and act like any other pilgrim entering the city. This however wasn’t the Sabbath or the Passover. Few other travelers were arriving in Jerusalem in the late morning. With Bartholomew’s hulking body in his mule cart trailing our procession and Peter striding ahead with his staff, we attracted attention as we passed through the gate. Our shepherd looked very much like a patriarch or prophet, especially with his striped Galilean tunic and robe, which Lazarus had advised him not to wear. All of us, dressed as we were, looked like Galileans, not Judeans, who most likely wouldn’t be visiting Jerusalem this time of the week and year. I had a bad feeling about this. Almost immediately, in fact, we were challenged by a Pharisee who recognized Peter strutting down the street.

“You there!” the graybeard shrilled. “I know you. You’re that fellow causing so much trouble!”

“Perhaps,” Peter replied good-naturedly. “If by trouble you mean spreading the good news, I am he!”

“Well, you better watch your step!” warned the man. “They won’t sit idly next time. Caiaphas got the Sanhedrin all stirred up. Take my advise—all of you, go back whence you came!”

It occurred to us, because of our own doubts, that he might be telling the truth. Peter inquired, after studying his nervous composure, “Are you a well-wisher or critic? What do you care what happens to a band of Galileans?”

“My names Othniel,” he prefaced his answer. “I’m a friend of Nicodemus. I wasn’t there during Jesus trial. I was away on business. If I had been there, I would have stood with my friend. What happened that day was a crime—an insult to our faith. What they did to your teacher was illegal. Because Nicodemus stood up to the high priest, he has few friends in Jerusalem. I’m not one of your converts; I’m too old to change, but I wish I could’ve known your teacher. Nicodemus told me all about him. He’s one of you now…. I saw it in his face.”

“Listen, my friend,” Peter reached out to grip his frail shoulders. “You’re not to old to change, and you can know our teacher. He’s not dead, sir. He rose from the tomb. He’s the Christ and Son of God. All you have to do is believe that and open your heart and the change will begin. You’ll be reborn!”

“It’s too late I tell you,” Othniel raised a trembling hand. “All my life I’ve lived by the law of our fathers. Nicodemus tried explaining what this rebirth was. I just don’t understand. In a few years, maybe months, I’ll be in my grave. What happens after that has never been clear!”

“And that’s the trouble,” Peter jumped on his words. “The Pharisees and rabbis are seeped in the law and can’t see the Lord’s grace. Common people don’t understand their interpretation of our religion. They understand priests, who offer no afterlife, even less, but the new religion we bring is a clear message of salvation and eternal life. I can see the resistance in your eyes, Othniel. You don’t understand, but you can. Just open your heart. Jesus taught me that sacrifice is basic to our people’s covenant with God. Priests sacrifice lambs to please Him, because this is what our ancestors have done since Abraham. Recall now, Othniel, when God told Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac, but withdrew his command. That great patriarch would have done it, however, just like, in a much greater since, God allowed his son to be sacrificed on the cross. For you see, Othniel, Jesus was the sacrifice. John the Baptist first words to Him when he saw him at the River Jordan were ‘Behold the Lamb of God!’ because Jesus is the fulfillment of scriptures, replacing the temple’s sacrificial lamb. You won’t be giving up your faith, Othniel; you’ll be fulfilling it by accepting His Son!”

It was a brilliant speech, but the old faith was rooted in Othniel’s mind. Worried because of Peter’s impulsiveness, we looked around expecting temple agents to arrive any moment, brandishing spears. The old Pharisee wrung his hands at Peter’s heresy, turned and began ambling away, stricken yet fearful with Peter’s words. “No, never!” he cried in a warbling voice. “Two thousand summers of history can’t be wiped away with words!” Turning back fleetingly, though, we could see tears in his eyes. Peter had preached to the first potential convert in Jerusalem after our return—a Pharisee no less, and he did it near the temple within earshot of the priests.

“We’ll see him again,” he assured us. “That was one of them, and yet he took a risk warning us. He listened, as seeker, not a critic. His faith has failed him. I saw it in his eyes!”

“It’s always the eyes,” Andrew said thoughtfully. “I saw it in many people, that burning look of hope.”

“Or a look of peace,” suggested Philip.

“Oh really,” Thomas wrinkled his forehead. “That’s not true for everyone. What if they’re blind?”

“Yeah,” Simon agreed. “How many blind people did Jesus heal? Before being cured, he made sure they believed. It’s true, though, after being baptized, they look around like children, born again into the world.”

“I’ve baptized people with shifty eyes.” Matthew shrugged. “Some of them wouldn’t even look me in the face.”

“Hah!” John sneered. “Jesus never said anything about eyes. Judas had searching, burning eyes. Look what he did. I’m sorry Peter, many of our so-called converts clapping their hands and talking tongues ran back to Jerusalem like frightened lambs.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Peter replied over his shoulder. “That’s why we’re here—to shore up their faith.”

“Where are we going now?” asked Bartholomew from his cart. “I’m worried about my mule.”

“Don’t worry,” Peter called back, “we’ll take care of him.”

“He can’t stay on the street,” Bartholomew fretted. “He needs food, water, and rest.”

“We can take him to Nicodemus’ stables,” recommended John.

“We?” His brother scowled. “That’s on the other side of town.”

“Uh…. I’ll take him over there,” Mark offered hesitantly. “They won’t notice me if I pull down my hood.”

“That’s ridiculous!” James shook his head. “This is your town, Mark, not ours. If anyone stands out more than Peter, it’s you!”

“How about Lois, your mother’s servant?” proposed Philip. “They’re not after her.”

“No,” Mark shook his head. “She’s a convert now. James won’t let her risk her neck.”

Peter reeled around. “Enough!” he shouted. “Why are you men so jumpy? If you’re so worried, I’ll take him over there, myself!”

“No, I’ll do it!” I called out reluctantly. “…. You men head over to James’. I know where Nicodemus lives.” “Bartholomew,” I directed boldly, “climb off your mule. I’ll take over from here.”

Like the other men, I was frightened of being in Jerusalem, and yet I found myself volunteering to place myself in harm’s way. Already, after what I said to Lazarus, I had gained Peter’s respect. Now, as I changed places with Bartholomew, Peter patted my shoulder, murmuring, “Jesus would be proud of you. Go quickly, my friend. Tell Nicodemus about what has happened since we last met. When the mule and cart are safely in his stables, return to Mark’s house with Nicodemus’ chamberlain if he’ll lend him. Don’t pull down your hood or avoid eye-contact with citizens. That looks suspicious. Most people don’t know who you are, so be calm. The Lord is with you!”

Upon climbing onto the cart, gripping the reins, and looking down at the men, I saw a mixture of respect and resentment in their eyes. Here was Jesus’ little brother trying to be brave, some of them might have thought, when they must have suspected, by the expression on my face, that I was terrified of traveling through town. Matthew, Simon, and Thomas gave a nod of approval and Bartholomew, of course, was thankful I would take care of his mule. In truth, it was for Bartholomew, not Peter, that I risked my neck. Unlike the times before, when I rode on such a beast during my travels, I felt conspicuous and foolish sitting in the mule cart, and yet I was buoyed by the logic of what I was doing. Unless Peter, who was a much bigger target than me, did it himself, someone had to do the deed. Why not me?

On the way to Nicodemus’ house, trying not to look scared or nervous, I encountered Roman legionnaires riding or walking the opposite way, who occasionally waved or nodded their heads, a Pharisees, and a few scribes in the street, and, standing on the sidelines, watching me pass, stood an old a priest, but it was mostly just ordinary souls about, displaying nothing more serious than a scowl or frown. When I arrived at Nicodemus house, Ethan, his chamberlain greeted me warmly, explaining that Nicodemus was bed ridden but would have a servant take care of the mule. When I visited the old man in his chambers I was shocked at his deteriorated condition. Surely, I told myself, this was more than a mere cold. After his frail, rasping greeting, I related to him all that had happened since the resurrection. He was greatly impressed with the success of the community of believers, which Peter sometimes called the ecclesia instead of the Way. Just as Lazarus had in Bethany, however, he showed concern that we were here in Jerusalem.

“Jude,” he said, reaching out for my hand, “it took courage for you to come. What Jesus’ followers did in Jerusalem last time was a great miracle, more so because you were unharmed. As you reported, Peter preached in the town square and your men brought thousands into the faith. Not one hand was raised against you. When many of those people became fainthearted and returned to Jerusalem, Peter sent James, your brother, to find those lost sheep. Now, because of James’ bravery, there is, despite such defections, a presence here of members of the Way. But that was yesterday. Today, I have it on good authority, that they’re looking for a reason to attack, with a vengeance, believers in the city. Just because the Romans won’t allow them to execute criminals, doesn’t mean Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin won’t met out dreadful punishments. Many people considered heretics and blasphemers have died in their prison after their beatings, hidden away from Pilate’s eyes. All they need to arrest you men now is the merest excuse!”

“My dear friend,” I replied, holding his hand, “we are here because of Jesus, the risen Christ. Peter told us not to worry. We have work to do. The Lord will watch over us and let us finish our task. As I rode through the city, no one bothered me. They didn’t bother us today when we passed through the gate. Frankly, I’m amazed sometimes at how easily we pass through Galilee and Judea without problems. I fear that one day, perhaps soon, that may change, but so far we’ve had good fortune.” “Ethan told me that you have a cold,” I suddenly changed the subject. “That’s not true, is it Nicodemus?”

“No.” he shook his head faintly. “I’ve never felt so weak. I think I may be dying. I can barely walk. I have no appetite and find it difficult to pass water. My time is near.”

A flash of illumination in my head told me otherwise. “You’re wrong Nicodemus,” I said patting his knuckles. “It’s not your time. You too have work to do!”

“Ho-ho,” he laughed thinly. “What work can a broken down old Pharisee do for the Lord?”

“That’s for Him to decide,” I replied with great anticipation. Feeling the Holy Ghost again, I felt light-headed. Everything around me, including Nicodemus small, withered frame, loomed toward me brighter, with more meaning, until a voice came into my head, “Jude, bid him to rise!” Without hesitation, as the Lord instructed, I cried out, “Nicodemus, in the name of our Savior, get out of that bed! All your life, you’ve held on to the old religion. You have been cured in the blood of the Lamb!”

At first, the old man just lay there staring at me in disbelief. Then, as Ethan entered the room, obviously having heard my prayer, both the chamberlain and I coaxed him to climb off his pallet and stand on his feet. His wheezing had stopped. The glassy look in his eyes had disappeared and his limbs no longer shook.

“He cured you master!” Ethan cried. “It’s true! It’s all true. Jesus has risen. Through Jude, He made you well!”

“Thank you.” Nicodemus murmured, in a momentary daze. “You have changed my life, Jude. I thought all was lost those dark days. Even after he rose from the tomb, cast off from friends because of my support of Jesus, I was held in shackles to the law…. Now the scales have fallen from my eyes. More than my health was failing, I was blind, but now I see. I’ve been a stubborn, self-absorbed fool!”

“Come with me Nicodemus!” I replied. “I want Peter and the others to share this miracle with us. Why the Lord let the least of his apostles to do such a thing, I don’t know. There is a reason why Jesus wanted you whole again. He wants you to be a disciple now. Come, join us. What do you need with fair-weather friends who abandoned you for what you believed? Fearful of the truth and the fact they murdered God’s Son, they are more afraid now that he has risen.”

“Ethan.” Nicodemus turned to the chamberlain. “Help me get dressed, get my carriage ready, and get my money chest. We shall pay the apostles and disciples a visit. Won’t they be surprised!”

Nicodemus soon reappeared, after quick preparation, without his phylacteries or Pharisee’s cap. The symbolism of this gesture was not lost on me, as he swaggered cheerfully, with purpose in his eyes, out the door. Ethan accompanied us down the walkway, beaming with happiness. Until this hour, his master’s fate looked glum. Now Nicodemus was his old self, with a spring to his step he hadn’t seen in years. After having his servants load the carriage with a chest of coins, Nicodemus insisted on donating to our cause, he invited Ethan to come along. Looking out of the carriage at the people on the street, I wondered how many of them might secretly support the Way. The three of us, including the driver, Ozimandis, emerged from the carriage, which was left unattended on the street. Nicodemus insisted on his coachmen attending the meeting in the upper room. The apostles, disciples, James, and a handful of Jerusalem followers, listened to Nicodemus’ account of the miracle performed at his sick bed. The respect I earned that hour, tinged I’m sure with a measure of envy, appeared to elevate me in everyone’s eyes. All of us had performed miracles to cure the sick, but not on someone as famous as Nicodemus. Even Peter hadn’t done that.

******

Though Nicodemus wanted to accompany us in town as we sought out fair-weather believers and attempted to bring in additional converts into the Way, Peter wanted to begin our efforts less conspicuously. This well known Pharisee had already angered the Sanhedrin during Jesus’ trial. The religious conservatives and temple priests would spot him immediately. Because of his standing in the city, in spite of his loss of prestige, his defection to our community would be seen as a great victory for us and as a grave insult to the Sanhedrin and priests. These reasons made sense to everyone except Nicodemus. After his miraculous cure, he was pumped up with energy and fearlessness, insisting that he must go to the Sanhedrin directly and give testimony to his faith. This, of course, was insanity. In deference to his status and age, Peter strengthened his argument with Nicodemus’ own words. Had he forgotten his warnings to Lazarus? Everyone with him would be arrested immediately when they went after him. According to Peter, an admission that alarmed us very much, we expected trouble, maybe even arrest. The purpose of coming to Jerusalem was to shore up fainthearted members’ faith and make as many converts as possible before such a thing occurred.

“Uh, pardon me,” Philip tried sounding calm, “you told us not to worry. Are you saying we might be arrested? I thought the Lord was watching over us.”

“Yes, Peter,” Andrew sighed heavily, “that’s what you said.”

“I never said there wasn’t a threat,” Peter seemed to equivocate. “I meant he will protect us.”

“How can he protect us in the temple dungeon?” challenged Simon.

“Or shield us from rocks?” Matthew asked. “All it takes is a few malcontents and we might be stoned!”

“No,” James disagreed, “you won’t be stoned. There are Romans patrolling the streets. Don’t forget their control of temple punishment. The Sanhedrin can’t execute you without a trial that’s sanctioned by the procurator. Though he hates all Jews, Pilate would view us as a bunch of troublemakers only if we defied Rome. This is just another religious matter, far less serious to them than the incident with our Lord. None of my people have been molested yet. If you go out, preach only Jesus’ message. Caiaphas might try to make the case he made before that we’re a threat to peace. Make no controversial statements or claims, and the Romans will leave you alone.”

“Oh really.” Thomas scowled. “The Romans didn’t stop Caiaphas’ ruffians from roughing up Peter, Jude and you after the trial. We’re just pushing our luck now. What if temple agents murder us on the sly?”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Matthias finally spoke. “We’re shielded by the Lord.”

“Right!” I gave my approval.

“No, it’s true,” Ethan gave his opinion. “I know those men in the Sanhedrin. They follow Caiaphas’ lead. They’ve just been waiting for the moment. The Romans might not act, but the high priest and Sanhedrin will, if threatened enough.” “Sir,” he added, turning to Nicodemus. “I’m happy that you’re well and in good spirits, but Peter’s right. This could be dangerous. You’re appearance in their company would be like a bright yellow banner. It would be a battle cry against the temple and their way of life.”

“Then it’s settled,” Peter smiled consolingly at Nicodemus. “We welcome Jesus’ friend into our ecclesia but it would be better if he stayed put. You have, like us, made yourself a marked man. Thomas is partly right this time. Let’s not push our good fortune unnecessarily. Ho-ho! Our purpose is to preach the word, not get thrown in jail!”

“Very well,” shrugged Nicodemus. “I bow to the majority, but I still want to help. I brought my money chest to the upper room. Please use it for our members and for the poor.”
“Nicodemus!” Peter exclaimed, embracing him in gratitude. “Your generosity is beyond our greatest expectations. Jesus looks down this moment with a special blessing for his disciple. As you wish, we’ll divide your gift among our congregations and the poor!”

As I listened to Peter voice his appreciation, I thought of Ananias and Sapphira who had been struck dead for holding back their wealth. Here was Nicodemus who turned over a chest of money, but who still had untold riches in his investments and estate. Though I had decided to accept Peter’s explanation for his behavior, it was one of the few matters that tested my confidence in him. It was my curse and to dwell unnecessarily upon such matters. Thomas might be called the doubter, but I was a doubter too. I had always had problems with resolving the God of the Hebrews with the loving Lord Jesus brought into the world. Countless people and nations had been destroyed by our Hebrew god. Now, he was back, at least in the case of Ananias and his wife…. After being the prince of peace, as Isaiah called the suffering servant version of the Messiah, a side of him has surfaced, reminiscent of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. According to Peter, who has had revelations from the Lord, He might come back at anytime, but this time to judge our sinful world. Jerusalem wasn’t ready for such news. I prayed that Peter would keep this message to himself

Chapter Forty-Six

Solomon’s Porch

Peter decided we would begin early the next day. Evening was already approaching, and he wanted a fresh start when people were going to the market or temple or were out for a stroll. That evening we ate cheese, cured fish, olives, and sweetmeats brought by Nicodemus. Because there wasn’t enough room for so many people in Mark’s house, Nicodemus, his chamberlain, and coachmen returned to the Pharisee’s estate before sundown. James’ disciples and the few members that hadn’t already left to join their families at home, also slipped away. James was ashamed of his fainthearted and fair-weather congregation. It was plain to all of us, despite our fears, that Jerusalem required our attention. “How would it be,” Peter asked us, “if our holiest city remained locked in the past?”

The next morning, with the usual smattering of grumbles and sighs, we followed Peter out of the house and into the city. James accompanied us, as did the disciples, Barnabas, Justin, Cleopas, and Mark. Tapping his staff on the cobblestones below, our Shepherd couldn’t be anymore conspicuous. Once again he had the air of patriarch or prophet. His scraggly graying beard, striped homespun robe, and staff made him resemble someone like Moses or Elijah. To melt into the population and not be obvious was simply impossible for Peter. Occasionally stopping to give us encouragement or greet someone in his path, his gruff, authoritarian voice also gave him away. Before he was even visible in the crowd, they knew he was coming. Because of his presence, there was no way for us to escape notice on Jerusalem’s busy streets.

We were at the mercy of our leader. He was leading us to a place for us to spread the word and bring converts into the Way. Where that would be was anyone’s guess. To add to my personal discomfort, I was forced to watch over Bartholomew, now forced to walk on his own two feet. After leaving his mule and cart in Nicodemus’ stables, he too, cane in hand, hobbled with my assistance at the end of the procession, a frown frozen on his face.

Even without Peter’s appearance and conduct, there was nothing ordinary about our group. Added to the fact that we were dressed as Galileans, were the anxious and fearful expressions of the apostles and disciples, our self-conscious and guilty demeanor making us stand out that much more. Reinforcing our fears were the hostile stares of passer bys. Using Moses’ words for himself, after his flight from Egypt, we were strangers in a strange land. We had, considering our revolutionary message, entered enemy territory. Almost immediately, as we made our way through town, we attracted glares, startled looks, and even a few jeers.

Then quite suddenly and explicably, as we approached the temple, Peter stopped in front of Solomon’s Porch, located on the eastern side of the women’s court. Their curiosity already prickled by our procession, a group of citizens surrounded us on the steps. Except for our brave leader, we were terrified, expecting temple agents to arrive any moment to challenge us or, at the very least, a volley of protests from the crowd. When Peter began recounting, as he had before, his life wife Jesus, giving testimony of his miracles, and then offering the simple formula for salvation that we had preached since the beginning, we tried being brave, ourselves, but Peter’s words began to sound more and more controversial with each breath. He compared the Lord’s gift of salvation and simplicity of achieving eternal life with what the old religion offered, which sounded like heresy when he went on to attack the Sadducee priest’s disbelief in heaven and the Pharisees narrow-minded view of the law. These points, plus his criticism of the high priest and Sanhedrin for their criminal actions against the Christ and their desire to persecute the faithful, were being spoken in the temple, not in the town square or the street. So far, however, Peter was still within the framework of Jesus’ message. Once again, I prayed he wouldn’t venture, in fishermen’s jargon, into deep water. Those dreadful things Jesus, himself, predicted would be too much for these people.

More and more of them arrived at Solomon’s Porch, including priests, Pharisees and scribes, until, as Peter stood with the apostles and disciples on the highest step, we looked out at a large mob encircling the steps. I tried acting brave for Bartholomew’s sake, but he wasn’t fooled. Like the other men, I was filled with dread. It seemed as though Peter was daring the authorities to arrest us. Suddenly, however, just as the voices of graybeards and temple officials were raised in protest, something remarkable occurred.

“It’s him again!” Pharisee pointed accusingly. “Look at him. Now he’s blaspheming the temple!”

“We missed our chance to nab him!” A priest socked his fist. We should’ve arrested the lot of them!”

“That’s Peter, the one they call the Rock,” a scribe identified him. “He’s their leader now. All this fuss over a crucified Jew!”

“He was more than a crucified Jew!” argued a man. “Did you hear him speak? Were you listening to Peter? Jesus isn’t dead; he’s risen. We, citizens of Jerusalem, turned our backs on him.” “No more!” he cried, shaking his head. “This time I won’t turn my back. I’ve seen his miracles and heard his words. I’ve been a fool and coward.” “No more!” he repeated, rushing forward, up the steps.

Peter reached out to him. Several more voices rang out. “No more! No more!” they chanted. A few people even asked to be baptized then and there, and one woman arrived with an unconscious child in her arms. Quickly, as their numbers grew and they rushed upon us, Peter counseled us to keep our heads and, if they weren’t converts yet, say the words to them.

“I’ll tend that child!” Peter motioned for the distraught woman to come forward. “You men start circulating—now!”

“But we don’t have enough water!” Thomas held up his water skin.

“Here’s what we do,” Peter instructed us. “We’ll lead them back to the well were we baptized the three thousand. Tell those who haven’t received the rites to meet us at the square in town. I recognize some of these folks, backsliders who returned home. Many of these people who already received the rites merely need confirmation in their faith. Find this out when you mingle. Tell those who were fainthearted that the Lord is still with them. Pray with them. Let them know, though, that they must be strong. Life is cruel and unjust. After the sting of death, they’ll live in heaven and have eternal peace!” “Go!” He made scooting motions.

I wasn’t sure the other men would remember his exact words, but I would say them verbatim. I could have worded it differently, but I was in no mood to be creative. As numerous citizens—men and women, old and young, surged forward, the rage of the religious leaders worsened.

“Stop, you blasphemers!” A second priest shook his fist. “This is our sacred temple. This is an unholy rite!”

“Don’t just stand there!” a Pharisee said indignantly to the priests. “Arrest these men. The Romans gave us this right in such matters. What’re you waiting for; take custody of these men!”

Though several more Pharisees and scribes made similar demands, calling us everything from heretics to Satan’s spawn, the temple officials were hesitant to act. In the words of an elder priest, “This was a matter for the Sanhedrin and high priest,” which was, in fact, the requirement for making such arrests. Taking advantage of this requirement, we continued to mingle in the crowd. Already, though numb with fear, I had spoken the words to one man and given him directions to the well and then reaffirmed a women slacker in her faith. Bartholomew stayed by my side, talking to people nearby. The other apostles and disciples did the same, once again moving out in pairs for protection, no one stopping until we heard someone call out, “Follow the Shepherd to the well!” There was too much commotion for me see Peter bring the unconscious child back to life (if she was, in deed, dead), but there was a batch of oohs and awes and a woman shouted, “She’s back. My daughter’s back!”

Trying our best to ignore our enemies, we moved through the crowd, reassuring fainthearted believers or saying the word preceding baptism to initiates on the way. Finally, after growing almost hoarse, we arrived at the town square. Many members of the crowd had cursed us and a few of them had even spat on us, but a larger number of citizens who shied away from confronting us were simply curious. I had no idea how many backsliders were brought back into the Way, but I counted roughly four hundred people lined up for baptism. Now that the preamble had been spoken all that we had to do now was sprinkle well water on each one of them and say the final words, now altered by Jesus’ resurrection. Following Peter’s example, the apostles and disciples, recited to each convert sprinkled: “I baptize you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!”

While these rites were conducted on each line of citizens, an apostles and disciple presiding over each column, Peter was forced to forgo assisting us in order to cure a line of men, women, and children that were sick or lame. How it was possible that there were suddenly that many people requiring a cure, we couldn’t imagine. The word must have gone out soon after we arrived at the temple. This, more than even Peter’s preaching, riled the Pharisees, scribes, and priests. At one point, when it appeared as though there would be no more people requiring baptism, we joined Peter in his efforts. I had, through the Holy Ghost, cured Nicodemus, but I was still uncomfortable performing this rite. Nevertheless, a blind girl approached me, led by a small boy. It was quite likely that many of the people requiring cures might even be converts. Regardless of their status, there would be no baptism for this group due to lack of time. Very soon, Peter warned us, the temple guards might be arriving if the Sanhedrin was assembled. So quickly, though reverently, I asked the girl if she believed Jesus was her savior, repented of her sins, and wished to have eternal life.” After which, she replied in the affirmative. At which time I mumbled swiftly, “I baptize you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!” Instantly, the glaze on the girl’s eyes vanished to expose bright blue eyes. She thanked me profusely as did her brother, but there was no time to waste. Right afterwards, I was forced to perform a variation of the rite for an old man, who appeared addled in the head.

Assuming he had a demon, I recalled the exorcism ritual, saying expeditiously, “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I cast out your demon. Demon be gone!” Unlike the girl, the old man said nothing at first. I thought I had failed, until a woman, probably his wife, arrived with arms outstretched.

“Esme!” the old man said to her. “Is that you?”

“He speaks! He speaks!” she rejoiced, giving me a hug. “He lost his voice for cursing God, but you gave it back!”

“The Lord did that! I corrected her with a frown. “I thought your husband was possessed.”

Feeling silly, as the couple walked away, I laughed hysterically at myself. The Lord knew what I meant even though I didn’t. A citizen with a paralyzed arm and then another with a gangrenous sore followed the old man, each one, after I performed the rite of healing, were miraculously healed. Looking askance, I could see the other men fumble with their words, and yet achieve similar success. James, who must have done this before, cured a deaf man and lame woman expertly with dispatch, but not all of the apostles and disciples had our polish. Beside me, Bartholomew, barely audible, muttered under his breath, yet managed to cure a man of palsy. John and his brother were given the awful task of curing a pair of men, who had leprous spots all over them, and the other fisherman brought back to health an old man, youth, and young boy. Not able to discern what diseases, maladies, or malformations the apostles and four disciples cured, I assumed they had as many cures as myself. Peter, of course, had worked Jesus’ ‘magic the most’, and, because he moved much more slowly than us, Bartholomew had done the least, but, as a separate count from the baptisms, Peter and I agreed we had, through the Holy Ghost, cured at least a hundred people that day.

By the grace of our Lord, perhaps, there were no more people needing cures and no more asking for baptism. So far, so good! I thought. I was proud of Bartholomew for persevering without his mule and cart. All of us were miracle-workers now, after forgoing our safety for the Lord, even Thomas, who was the most frightened of us all. Standing around the well as the crowd gradually dispersed, we drank water, splashing it onto our heads and necks, listening to a few detractors express their disapproval of our use of the well, too exhausted almost to think, until inevitably, as we expected, a crew of temple guards finally appeared.

“In the name of Caiaphas, the high priest,” bellowed a familiar guard, “we arrest you for profaning the temple with blasphemies.” “Take them!” he ordered, waving his sword.

It was, we recognized immediately, Malchus the captain of the guards whose ear Jesus healed in the garden after Peter cut it off. With a conflicted look on his bearded face, he murmured discreetly to us, “I’m sorry men: orders are orders!”

“You’re just doing your duty,” Peter consoled him, as they placed shackles on our wrists.

“Speak for yourself!” grumbled Simon. “I worked for the temple. This is considered a serious crime.”

“Yes,” Thomas groaned. “This isn’t good!”

Peter turned to us as they led us off, with the words, “Be brave soldiers of Christ! The Lord is our shield!”

“Your Jesus couldn’t protect himself,” a guard taunted. “Where was his shield!”

“Shut up!” Malchus thonked him with his rod. “You’re unworthy to speak his name!”

Laughing hysterically at this irony—the chief temple guard taking our part, I tried not to suffer the other men’s fear. Of all of Caiaphas’ men, Malchus who had been in charge of Jesus’ arrest, had been picked for this chore. Peter was actually cheerful about all this, chatting with Malchus about that fateful night.

“I’m sorry about that incident,” Peter said contritely. “You’re no worse for it, though. I can’t even see a scar.”

“Oh it hurt like the furies!” Malchus laughed. “Then—praise the Most High, Jesus stuck it back on and it stopped. I had my ear back and a story to tell. My men thought he might be a sorcerer.”

“That’s what we call a testimony,” Peter began to preach. “You know he wasn’t a sorcerer, Malchus. You were a witness to a miracle, my friend—the work of our Lord. For that you’re truly blessed. All those cured now by the Holy Ghost are blessed!”

“Careful,” quipped Malchus, “you might convert me too.”

“Would that be so bad?” asked Peter. “…You’re not far from the Kingdom, Malchus. I saw it in your face that night. I see it now.”

Looking back at his men and the prisoners, Malchus barked, “Watch those chains. Don’t pull them along. Let them walk on their own!”

Because I was right behind Peter and Malchus, I heard everything they said. Peter had just preached to the captain of the temple guard! This incredible conversation, which is recorded nowhere else, gave me a degree of courage. I’m not sure if Bartholomew, who was shackled beside me, overhead their muted conversation, but I had perked up my ears. If the captain of the guards was on our side, I reasoned, how bad could it be?

Chapter Fifty-Seven

The Sanhedrin

After being led to the court where members of the Sanhedrin were gathered, we were lined up in front of the grand inquisitor. Sitting on his throne, with Annas, his father-in-law and previous high priest, standing beside him, Caiaphas had a look of satisfaction on his serpentine face. One expected a forked tongue to pop out of his mouth as he spoke. To me, even more than the cowardly Pilate, this man was the incarnation of evil. Sitting in back of us, as his lickspittles and sycophants, were only a handful of graybeards. Undoubtedly it had been impossible to gather the entire Sanhedrin this hour.

“Do you speak for these men?” Caiaphas looked squarely at Peter.

“Yes.” Peter nodded his head.

“Then tell me, Peter,” the high priest cocked an eyebrow. “Why were you practicing the black arts of that crucified teacher in Israel’s most sacred shrine? Don’t you know this is the greatest blasphemy. In olden times you would be stoned for such practice or lose your head, but doing this in the temple was much more serious. You’d be burned at the stake!”

“You don’t have that kind of power,” Peter reminded him. “Only Rome can execute criminals. What happened to Jesus was possible because of Pilate’s fear. The Romans see us as just another Jewish sect. What happened to our Lord was illegal. You know it—all of Jerusalem knows it. These proceedings have as much to do with your fear of his words as this so-called blasphemy in the temple!” “The fact is,” he reiterated, “you can’t put us to death!”

Caiaphas began to rant: “Jesus is dead. You’re faith is dead. So you’re invoking the magic of a dead man. The very nature of your belief is therefore suspect. Clearly, you heal in the name of Satan or Beelzebub, king of the demons. Some of those people, it was reported to me, were, in fact, possessed by demons. Most of them were inflicted because of their sins. Who are you to undo the Lord’s punishment to sinners? This time you people have gone too far!”

Peter replied boldly, “What I preached is based upon the words of Jesus whom you put on a cross and rose from the dead. Nothing what he said and what I repeat is an affront to our temple or faith. That we cure in His name, as He did, is a demonstration of God’s grace, for surely, as God’s Son, his miracles and words have proven who He is. It is my right, as any Jew, to preach at Solomon’s Porch. I would think that you knew this. Doctors of the law and priests discuss matters of the law and prophets in the temple. How much more deserving are apostles and disciples of the Risen Lord?”

Caiaphas let loose a stream of oaths under his breath that Annas must have overheard. To Peter, after jumping to his feet angrily, he shouted, “Enough! Take these men to the dungeon. Give them all thirty-nine lashes, then let them sit in the darkness dwelling on their sins.”

“You can’t have them whipped,” Annas murmured to his son-in-law, “not without a full vote. There aren’t enough men here. You know Roman rules. Let them sit it out awhile, until the others arrive.”

“Oh very well!” Caiaphas grumbled. “I can wait. What’s taking them so long?” “Malchus,” he interrupted himself, “get them out of my sight! When all of the members are here, we’ll take a vote. Then I’ll have them whipped!”

As Malchus and his men led us away in chains, he shook his head in dismay. Everyone had heard about temple whippings. This action would probably kill Bartholomew and make convalescents out of the rest of us for several weeks, if, in fact, we ever got out of jail. This time, we despaired, it seemed our luck had run out, and we expected the worst as Malchus and his men placed us in a stinking dungeon crawling with roaches and rats. That hour, as Peter led us in a prayer, we waited for the footfall of guards, who would return to drag us to a place of punishment for our beatings. Though my mouth moved, I scarcely recalled our prayer. Then, as we huddled together in the darkness, we heard the door of our prison creek at the hinges. Light streamed into the chamber, and the silhouette of two men stood there momentarily, then vanished before our eyes.

“Malchus set us free!” I cried.

“Really? Thomas replied. “I saw two shadows, men without helmets. They didn’t look like guards to me.”

“What does it matter!” Peter prodded us. “This is our chance. Go-go-go!”

“Thank you Lord!” John spoke on our behalf. “Peter was right. The Lord is our shield!”

“Our protector and guiding light!” his brother James added with great inspiration

Soon, Thomas’ opinion proved to be correct. Looking ahead we saw two white clad men, beckoning us to follow them down a corridor of the prison, through an open side door, and into the light of day.

“Now return to the square!” one of the angels commanded. “A great multitude awaits you. Your work isn’t done!”

“That’s insane!” cried Matthew. “We’re free. Let’s get out of this town!”

“No,” insisted Peter, “you heard them. They speak for the Lord!”

“Oh yeah,” grumbled Andrew, “why doesn’t he speak for himself!”

Andrew had a good point. Why didn’t Jesus give us such a command? Why did he send two angels? Though thankful and spiritually moved, I was annoyed with Peter for dragging us back into harm’s way. This time, when we showed up at Solomon’s Porch, there were hundreds of citizens, all eager for admission to our fellowship. News had obviously traveled fast. Peter explained to us that there was no time to give all these people the rite. To say the words and baptize them all would take many hours. By then the temple authorities would have arrived, blazing angry. Following Jesus example of planting the seed and moving on when the audience was too immense, he would preach to this large crowd as we stood on each side of him in support, waiting for the guards to arrive.

Raising his arms as if in blessing, a rush of impassioned words flew out of Peter’s mouth.

“Citizens of Jerusalem,” he shouted at the top of his lungs, “you’re fortunate to live in this age. The Christ foretold in the scriptures came with a message of peace and salvation, and yet Jerusalem, a city that murdered its prophets, once more struck down its righteous messenger—this time the Son of God. Yet Jesus, who was crucified at the bidding of your high priest, has forgiven Jerusalem. All you have to is close your eyes, ask him to forgive you for your private sins, accept him as your savior, and he will grant you eternal life. You’ll be born again as a believer of the Risen Christ. It’s that simple!

“Many of you have been misled by Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin into thinking Jesus was a heretic and blasphemer. That’s what they want you to believe, but they’re wrong. They’re out of touch with you. Someone has come along to offer you something much better. Jesus, the Redeemer, came with a simple message: repent and be saved. The priests ask you for money for sacrifices. For what? Surely not for salvation. They don’t believe in heaven. They want you to believe that the Messiah will come and restore Israel to its glory, but that will happen only when Jesus returns. Until then, you can have his kingdom within yourselves: peace and satisfaction knowing that when you die you’ll not rot in the grave, as the priests would have you believe. The priests have made a slaughterhouse of the temple, where animals are bought and sacrificed to propitiate sins, but only the Lord, because of your personal prayers, can do this. Jesus, who was crucified, was our sacrifice. John, the Baptist, upon seeing Him at the River Jordan cried out, “Behold the Lamb of God!”, in those words tying the old and new halves of our religion together, making them one. This way you can have both: the Torah, written by the prophets, and the words of God’s Son. Because Jesus is the fulfillment of the Torah his portion is, of course, the best half. Those who choose only the Torah receive their reward for faithfulness only on earth, but for those believing in the Christ, their reward is eternal life. What does it matter what you get in this world? Despite the looming shadow of death, the priests look to a new Israel, rather than everlasting life. They would have you believe the same!

“…. But we mustn’t blame just the priests. Those religious leaders—Pharisees, rabbis, and scribes, who also look for a conqueror, instead of a man of peace, aren’t much better. They have placed stumbling blocks before you: rules for every fabric of your life, some of which make no sense at all. Who can figure out the complexities of the law? Whereas Jesus offers you an easy path to eternity, these men quarrel over every jot and tittle of the Torah, instead of offering a path of righteousness to follow. They don’t preach the good news. They would rather confuse you with rules for every aspect of your lives. The law, when not tempered with goodness and love, is like flour without yeast. As bread rises in the oven, Jesus came as the yeast, to raise our expectations, giving us a gift greater than any riches a restored Israel can bring to earth. No matter how long you live in such a kingdom, you shall die one day and face judgment. All people perish—the rich and the poor alike, but those saved by the Risen Christ shall be born again and live forever and ever!”

“Go home my friends,” Peter told his audience, “kneel before the Lord and say these words, ‘Lord I’m a sinner, forgive me, fill me with your grace, and grant me eternal life!’”

In anticipation of our imminent arrest Peter raised his arms once more, crying out, “Go in peace, children of Israel. The Lord will come into your heart. All you have to do is ask!”

No sooner had he finished his blessing, than we heard Caiaphas, bellowing in the distance, “There they are, those fools, right back on Solomon’s Porch. Grab them, and place them in shackles. This time they’ll pay the price!”

Though I was trembling with fear, my first thought was, ‘Where’s Malchus, the captain of the guards?’ Had he been blamed for our escape? For such an offense, he would surely be punished. During our miraculous release, he and his men were nowhere in sight. He might even be in worse trouble than us. My thoughts turned to Bartholomew as we were shackled and pulled through the crowd. If we would be beaten with whips as Caiaphas promised, he wouldn’t survive. Even if he lived, he might not last through a prolonged stay in jail. A thought came to me then, giving me a glimmer of hope. The angels had saved us before. It stood to reason they would do so again. After all, it was their idea that we return to Solomon’s Porch.

“What harm have they done?” asked an elderly woman. “The preacher gave us hope. What has the temple given us? Nothing! Let him go! Let them all go!”

“Citizens, listen to me,” a young man stood on the steps and shouted. “Peter spoke the truth! I believe everything he has said. Jerusalem kills its prophets. Every time, a new voice is raised, you priests have him killed!”

“Shut up, you!” barked the new captain of the guard. “All of you people—move! Get out of the way!”

“Move them along quickly,” Caiaphas ordered the captain. “If that young man persists, arrest him too!”

Peter looked back at us as we began our trek, consoling us with brave words. “Be strong soldiers of Christ! Remember the Lord is our shield!”

“What kind of shield is he now?” groaned Thomas.

“Yeah,” Simon grumbled. “We should’ve kept going when we had a chance.”

“Are you all right, Bartholomew?” I asked, as he staggered in his chains. “Here, hold onto my shoulder. Don’t look down. Whatever you do, don’t fall. Their leader isn’t like Malchus; he’ll beat you with his rod.”

To our surprise, the crowd had awakened to our dilemma with protests, but it didn’t prevent our arrest and capture. Though countless people spoke up for us, we were dragged swiftly and successfully to the Sanhedrin’s court within moments after being caught. As we entered the chamber, I was filled with trepidation, and yet my first concern was for Bartholomew, who could barely stand on his feet. The room around us reminded me of some of the circular lecture chambers of the Greeks I had seen in my travels. On second glance, as I noted dozens of Pharisees, scribes, and priests surrounding us in row after row of seats, it also reminded me of a Roman amphitheater I saw in Caesarea. Below their imperious stares, we, Jesus apostles and disciples, stood in the arena at the mercy of these men. Before us sat Caiaphas on his throne and next to him stood his father-in-law Annas, this time standing a few paces forward, as if he was ready to speak. Caiaphas had a snarl on his reptilian face, but Annas studied us with curiosity, smiling faintly as if amused by what he saw.

“Are you mad?” Caiaphas asked Peter. “For whatever reason, you somehow escaped. You might even have made it through the gate, but you didn’t. You returned to Solomon’s Porch. You and your men corrupted hundreds of our citizens with your blasphemy, sprinkling water over them in your unholy rite, and yet you had to have one last word, Peter… Why?”

“We serve the Risen Lord, as you serve the temple,” Peter answered calmly. “Our people have been looking for a savior for centuries. The prophets spoke of him. In our scriptures it was quite clear—a redeemer was coming, and yet when he came, you rejected him. You crucified him, and now you’re trying to bury his name…. But he’s back. I saw him.” “We all did.” He glanced back at us. “Jesus, the Son of God, the Promised One, rose from the dead!”

“Enough!” Annas raised his hand. “You’re fortunate we’re bound by laws. Caiaphas was right. That’s the sort of thing you were spouting at the temple. You realize how blasphemous that statement is, Peter? You’re lucky we’re just going to have you whipped and thrown in jail. If you had done this before our oppressors came, you’d all lose your heads!”

“Your laws didn’t protect Jesus,” Peter said boldly. “I must remind you: what you did to him was illegal. Jesus, however, was the Christ—a threat to the priests. We are merely his followers. Pilate dismissed us as another sect. You’re not bound by our laws in this matter. You’re bound by Roman laws and by fear. In spite of your fear, you can’t put us to death. You say that we blasphemed The temple. That’s a lie—an excuse to shut us up. Now, after crucifying a righteous man, the Promised One, you’re afraid we might have been right. But you can’t bury the truth, Annas. The truth will set our people free!”

Caiaphas jumped to his feet then, waving his hands. “I let you speak for the Sanhedrin, Annas,” he exclaimed. “Your time is up. Words don’t impress these reprobates. They’re beyond redemption and hope. I’m going to make an example out of them. It’s time to take a vote!”

“We haven’t heard arguments,” Anna reminded him. “I thought you wanted to do this properly. We have the full Sanhedrin now. Let’s do this right.”

“I let you speak, father-in-law,” Caiaphas replied sarcastically, “and you gave that heretic a chance to spew his blasphemy. This isn’t a sophist’s game. I’ve heard enough.” Looking confidently out at the Sanhedrin, he called out loudly, “Everyone voting for punishment raise their hands!”

To our dismay, it seemed unanimous. Hands shot up eagerly around the amphitheater. One of the graybeards, who summed up their sentiment, rasped, “Whip them to shreds! Make them bleed!” Already the guards were moving forward to take us to the whipping posts. During those dark moment, however, one of the Pharisees in the topmost row, a short man with a black beard frosted with gray, rose from his seat, walked down the side steps, shouting, “Stop! Stop!”

“Gamaliel?” Caiaphas frowned. “How do you vote?”

“For the sake of justice,” replied Gamaliel, “I vote no.”

“No matter.” Caiaphas motioned impatiently. “The vote’s almost unanimous, nearly a hundred percent. Go back to your seat.”

“Just a minute, high priest,” the Pharisee pointed his finger. “My colleagues may have lost their voices, but I know my rights. I was in this room listening to Peter. I heard from a servant about his sermon in the temple, too. He said nothing against the Most High. Other men had have criticized the priests and the temple; that’s nothing new. You priests don’t believe in heaven, but we Pharisees do. The burden your temple sacrifice place upon poor men and women is well known. As far as Peter’s message to those people is concerned, it had many of them spellbound. He and his cohorts didn’t attack the temple. They seem to pose no threat. I remember a man name Theudas, who also claimed to be the Messiah. He was a lunatic, however, not a harmless teacher like Jesus. Hundreds rallied around him, until he was killed and his followers were dispersed. Nothing came of his efforts. After him came Judah, the Galilean, leading a band of men in revolt. He too was killed and his followers were scattered. So I say to you Men of Israel, consider carefully what you do to Peter and his followers. Especially, after the last illegal act performed by the Sanhedrin, I advise you to be prudent. Peter doesn’t claim to be another messiah, like Theudas. His men aren’t revolutionaries following another Judah the Galilean. Peter was right: most of your concern is based upon fear. Rome doesn’t care about another Jewish sect. Why do you?” “Leave these men alone!” his voice rose a notch. “Let them go! If their purpose is of human origin, it will fail, but if it is from the Lord, as Peter says, you won’t be able to stop it. You’ll find yourself fighting against God!”

Gamaliel, obviously a man of great importance to the Sanhedrin, had impressed the other Pharisees greatly. His words had an immediate effect. From agitated graybeards and hothead young men, who frowned severely, muttering amongst themselves, their faces became uniformly placid. Absorbed in his dark thoughts, Caiaphas failed to see the change. I would learn later that Caiaphas hated Gamaliel almost as much as Nicodemus. Staring at the Pharisee with undisguised loathing, he curled his lip. His predator eyes flashed with mounting rage.

“You’ve always been one for words.” He spat the words. “Why are you turning your back on the Torah? One would think you were a follower of the crucified Jew!”

Growing impatient with the proceedings, Annas took the initiative. “What do you say?” He scanned the room. “Those who want Jesus followers punished raise your hands!”

Gamaliel turned and gave his colleagues a hard stare. “Think carefully at what you do!” he reminded them. After this statement, the high priest waited anxiously for their response. For untold heartbeats we waited for the tally, and not one hand was raised to condemn. Annas, with a look of resignation, turned to his son-in-law, murmuring, “The Sanhedrin has spoken.”

“What?” Caiaphas cried in disbelief. “They said nothing, Annas, except that traitor, Gamaliel…. They just sat there. Did he place a spell over them? Not one hand was raised.” Unable to grasp what this meant, he cried out in a strangled voice, “What’s wrong with you men? These heretics blasphemed the temple. They want to destroy what we believe and replace it with distortion and lies. Jesus wasn’t our Messiah. Our Messiah will come in glory, not nailed to a cross. They preach the words of a dead man. They worship a ghost. Purest sorcery cured those people. Gamaliel has fallen for their lies. Are you men bewitched too?” “Our God must be testing me to allow this to happen.” He gripped his forehead. “…. Not one of you voted to condemn them… Not one!”

“My son,” Annas took on a paternal tone, “Gamaliel may be right. I never approved of that trial. Jesus had committed no crime. When he was crucified a legend was born.” “Come,” he said motioning to the entrance, “let us adjourn. There’s no point in belaboring the issue. The Sanhedrin has made up its mind.”

Without another word, the high priest left the dais, and, looking straight ahead as if in shock, exited the room.

“Peter.” Annas turned to our leader. “Take your men and leave. If you wish to stay in Jerusalem, preach somewhere else in the city, not in the temple. You have made an impressive case for your Jesus, but you’ll never convince the priests, Pharisees, and scribes.”

“Thank you.” Peter reached out to shake his hand. “I’m glad you believed Jesus was innocent. He died a terrible death, but he rose from the dead. Believe me, Annas, he’s risen. I saw him. Many people have seen him. He brings salvation to the world!”

Annas seemed to recoil at the thought. After hesitating a moment as if afraid to contaminate himself, he shook Peter hand. “Well, I haven’t seen him,” he replied thoughtfully. “I heard rumors about those sightings. One of our scribes even claimed to have seen him. I doubt very much he would appear to me.” “It’s a nasty business crucifixion,” he added with bitterness. Only the Romans would think of such a death. Pilate should have turned the Sanhedrin down. He could have stopped Jesus execution. I was hoping he would. Instead he let that murderer Barabbas go free!”

After these final words, Annas joined the Pharisees and scribes leaving the chambers. Peter waited for them to file out, an expression of wonder on his face. Looking across the room at our deliverer, as the last of Gamaliel’s associates left in the room, he met his gaze, giving him a nod.

“I wasn’t there during the trial.” Gamaliel sighed heavily. “As providence would have it, I was away on a trip. I scarcely remember where; I travel so often. I regret it deeply now. I would have voted against condemning Jesus, but then I would suffer the ridicule of Nicodemus, my friend, who voted no. Now that I’m back in Jerusalem, I would like to hear more about this miracle worker.”

“We would love to share his story with you,” replied Peter.

“Perhaps later, my friend.” Gamaliel shrugged. “You still have enemies in Jerusalem. Caiaphas is a devious man. The Sanhedrin failed to side with the high priest. He won’t forget this slight. In his mind, it was all because of a crucified Jew…. We know it was much more than that!”

“In deed it is!” Peter clapped his shoulder.

“I live in Jerusalem now.” James announced eagerly. “I’m Jesus’ brother. Not only could I share with you Jesus sayings, but his entire life. I knew him as a child. Our parents told us all about his birth and early childhood. His birth, life, and death were foretold by the prophets.”

“All right,” Gamaliel nodded, “if your leader Peter agrees.”

“I think that’s a great idea!” Peter nodded. “James would be considered an expert on Jesus, and Jerusalem, after all, is his home.”

“Very good.” Gamaliel grinned warmly. “Until this matter dies down, though, be cautious—all of you. Caiaphas is not only devious, he’s vindictive.” “Because of this, James,” he advised my brother, “you must all lay low for awhile. In a short while, I’ll send my carriage for you under guard.”

James gave the Pharisee directions to Mark’s house. True to his nature as a scribe, he scribbled them down on a wax tablet he brought with him. Gamaliel was impressed with his enthusiasm, as he took the tablet. Stuffing it into a pocket in his robe, he exclaimed, “Excellent, my young friend. Nicodemus has spoke well of you. He said you were his best student!”

******

James beamed with pride. Suddenly, after being set aside in this difficult city with only a handful of disciples and followers, he had, after our success at Solomon’s Porch, a huge congregation to lead, and he now had the esteem of a great Pharisee. I didn’t begrudge his new status. I was proud of my older brother. He had come a long way from the hesitant, conventional disciple in the early years of Jesus mission to become, after the resurrection, the apostle and shepherd of Jerusalem.

For the rest of us, our future was not so well known. We knew that when we left Jerusalem, we would be going off on our own. This is what Jesus wanted. It had become our purpose in the world. Walking with Gamaliel to his carriage, we listened to his comments on the Sanhedrin. It was, he said confidentially, a mere shell of what it once was, having little real authority because of Roman rule and too often influenced by the bias of the high priest. Considering that Pharisees had different interpretations of the Torah and the nature of our faith, including the belief in heaven, which the priests rejected, Gamaliel believed their differences were at times insurmountable.

“We are,” he confessed, as he climbed into his coach, “much more like each other. The followers of Jesus and the Pharisees share the expectation of heaven and pray directly to God. Like the rabbis, we found the rituals of the temple simply not enough. Unfortunately, we have two things that keep us apart: our interpretation of Isaiah’s Messiah and Jesus claim to be the Son of God. In the first instance, this great prophet gave us two separate Messiahs—a conqueror that would set things right for our people or a man of peace, bringing not the restoration of Israel, but a new faith. We, the Pharisees, scribes, and priests look for restoration, not a savior. In the second instance, this notion that Jesus was the Son of God will be unacceptable to most Jewish people not merely its religious leaders and priests. There is nothing in the Torah or Prophets to support this claim. To the Jews, who worship Yahweh, this sounds like two gods. In fact, with the addition of your Holy Ghost, it might be interpreted as three.”

“Well, that’s just too bad.” Peter spoke politely. “The reason Jesus claim of being the Son of God isn’t in the Torah is because this is a new religion. There aren’t three gods, Gamaliel, but three natures of God, combined into the Godhead: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost.”

Looking out from his coach, he gave Peter a look of horror, but then, just as quickly, smiled tolerantly at this blasphemy. He must have been aware of our beliefs. Jesus’ claims and what we believe was common knowledge in Palestine. Hearing them for himself, however, was obviously a shock to this Pharisee’s mind. In his thinking, Peter had just said the most outlandish heresy. Despite this, he didn’t rebuke this latest assertion. I would have thought that the addition of the Holy Ghost to the Godhead would have shocked him even more, but instead he bobbed his head cordially and signaled for his coachman to proceed. It occurred to me then that Gamaliel had been deeply affected by the crucifixion, which he considered illegal and unjust. Though he believed we were a heretical sect, his very words of caution to the Sanhedrin, implied he wasn’t sure. Even if this were not true, the fact remained: the incident at the temple, which resulted in our arrest a second time, could have had dire consequences if it had not been for him.

******

After seeing Gamaliel off, we went straight to Mark’s house for our final night in the city.

It was now evening, too late for planning our next moves. James’ timid disciples, Asa and Benjamin, made up for their cowardice in not accompanying us, by offering their wives’ services assisting Lois, Mark’s servant, preparing our evening meal. When we entered the upper room our supper was waiting for us, piping hot. Though a disciple now, Lois dutifully cooked the meat and vegetables. In addition to helping her serve the food, the two disciples’ wives managed to bring us barrel of wine, that had been donated by converts. Needless to say, considering the road ahead, we gorged ourselves on fine food and got thoroughly tipsy before dropping onto our pallets. Seen through Jesus eyes, this might have seemed like an inauspicious beginning, but Jesus was no longer with us…. We would, when we finally went forth, be on our own.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Looking Ahead

When I awakened the next morning, once again beside his brother James with Bartholomew nearby, I lie there a few moments, my head banging like a Syrian gong. Bartholomew was snoring loudly and James, as lay on his back, still had a wine mug in his hand. I don’t remember how much wine I personally drank, probably no more than the others, but I felt foolish for over doing it. James, normally a moderate drinker, also got drunk. I didn’t blame him. Like Peter, who would oversee the congregations in Galilee, Judea, Perea, he was responsible for hundreds of new converts, whereas the rest of us had only ourselves to account for now. Tomorrow, and the days following would, of course, would test us as apostles and disciples. So, it seemed right and proper that we had one last bout. Who knows what lie ahead on our separate paths?

I would regret parting with my longtime companions, especially my brother James, who, as Jerusalem’s shepherd, must stay behind. Since Peter agreed that it would be a good idea if we went out in twos, I got him to agree, even before our final meeting, that Bartholomew would be paired with me. I explained to him that Bartholomew needed someone to watch him on the road. Considering the impatience shown by many of the men, I didn’t trust any of them to watch over my friend. The mule would also need caring for during our journey, and we would have to stop frequently to give him a rest. Knowing how problematic Bartholomew would be, Peter seemed impressed with my selflessness. In view of the obvious benefits it had, though, it was to my benefit to make such an arrangement. In spite of the difficulties in watching over Bartholomew, being his partner had important advantages: I could ride next to him in the cart when I got tired, we could carry more supplies, and, when weary of the cart, I could switch to riding the mule. It was much better than walking everywhere we went.

Because of the intake of wine during our last night in Jerusalem, the apostles and disciples fell asleep in various corners of the room. Upon awakening, I remembered my conversation with Peter about Bartholomew after our feast, but scarcely anything else. The next thing I recalled was waking up again with a ringing head and queasy stomach, this time with Peter standing over me, nudging me with his sandal. “Get up,” he was saying, moving to the next sleeper, “there’s no time to waste!” I could have sworn Peter was tipsy, like myself, last night, but he was up and about now, pumped up with the same energy he brought to Jerusalem. Using the same rude tactic he used on me, he managed, within minutes, to rouse the entire house. On each side of me, groaning and grunting like everyone else, James and Bartholomew rubbed their eyes, staring up uncomprehendingly at first, then cursing under their breaths. I had seen Bartholomew drunk many times, but it was uncommon for James to drink so

much wine. The three of us had at least made it to our pallets before blanking out. Before Peter had finished rousing the sleepers, I noticed Andrew nearby, his nose pressed into the table, his goblet still clutched in his hand. Peter shook him roughly, and then went on to awaken the others, some of whom were also slumped onto the table while others were sprawled in various positions and places on the floor. After I struggled to my feet, I looked around at this shameful scene and laughed.

“Peter,” my tongue rolled thickly in my mouth, “look at-em! How’re you gonna get’em on the road?”

“Don’t worry about them.” Peter wrung a finger. “Worry about yourself!”

“Jude,” James called to me, “I shouldn’t-a drank so much. It must be late morning.”

“It is!” Peter snapped. “I let you men sleep in. I slept in a bit, myself.” “Up! Up! Up!” He clapped his hands. “Get washed up, men. Clear your heads, and let’s get some food in you. It’s not that late. There’s enough daylight for you to get on the road, maybe make it to the next towns. It’s important that we get started. Get up, you slackers, we have much to do!”

Even in my dulled state of mind, Peter’s expectations seemed unrealistic. I saw him drinking goblet and goblet last night, and here he was barking orders, a bundle of human and spiritual energy, unfazed by all that wine. The rest of us were hung over and barely awake, and yet he wanted us to jump up and greet the day. No one dared argue with him. In fact, none of us were in physical or mental condition to argue to do such a thing. Somehow, he managed to get all of us onto our feet and give us our first set of orders for the day: get cleaned up and, if there was a clean tunic in our packs, put it on. Because he felt they would be less conspicuous, he sent Mark, Justus, Barnabas, and Cleopas to fetch water to wash our selves. Though this seemed quite unfair and risky to the four men, Peter shamed them into accepting the chore, by picking out four more men, including myself, who would brave the street. After they slipped out on this errand, Peter ordered us to tidy up the upper room. There were dirty platters, goblets, and pieces of food lying on the table. Someone had vomited in the corner, which had to be mopped up. All of our packs were lined up along the wall, ready for travel, and, apparently as a second thought, Peter sent me on a special mission.

Taking me aside, he thought a moment. “…. You know Nicodemus better than me.” He pursed his lips. “We need a good map, Jude. Do you think he might have such a thing—one of those Imperial Roman maps we can use to plan our routes?

The thought of going out there again, especially by myself, was unsettling, yet somehow I found my tongue. “I guess so,” I sighed. “He’s a man of the world. He certainly should!”

“Well, we need it,” he replied, patting my shoulder. “If you can, bring Nicodemus or his chamberlain with you. I don’t know Latin. He-he, I barely know how to read.”

“Well, I read it,” I frowned slightly. “Greek, too. So does James.”

“All right.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But we still need more of his supplies. He brought a lot of provisions, but that won’t last. We’ll can use Lazarus and my house to store reserves.”

“All right.” I nodded. “Why not? Nicodemus and Ethan are members now. They’ll want to see us off.”

Despite my agreeableness, Peter seemed quite pushy. He expected everyone, even a venerable Pharisee, to hop to it upon his command. Once again he was taking advance of Lazarus, too. There was no use pointing out how presumptuous this might appear. At times, Peter had no tact whatsoever, behaving as if he was immune to danger and couldn’t be stopped. This morning was such a time, and yet I clearly understood the urgency. We needed plenty of supplies. A good map was essential to our plans as missionaries spreading the word. We couldn’t simply go out blind, roaming every which way, hoping to find fertile ground. We needed to plan our moves, and we needed a place to return to rest and re-supply. After the disciples returned with our water, it was poured into eight bowels Peter found in the kitchen. All seventeen men quickly washed themselves, combed out their matted beards and hair, and sat down at the table to await their morning meal. Since I had a special mission, I moved swiftly, grabbing a hank of bread and piece of goat cheese before clomping down the staircase and rushing out the door.

“Time is of the essence!” Peter reminded me. “We needed Nicodemus’ map and, if possible his presence, as soon as possible. He’s seen much of the world.” “You must hurry!” he added, pointing to the staircase. “We must be on the road before noon!”

“Noon?” I looked at him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Yes!” He frowned irritably. “Now go!”

Making scooting motions with his hands, he barked, “Don’t tally Jude, go!”

When I exited Mark’s house, I looked both ways before entering the street. Despite the miraculous nature of our release from Caiaphas’ clutches, I was still wary. I would be glad to put this city behind me—the sooner, the better. Nevertheless, Peter’s expectations of being on the road seemed unrealistic. I could understand why he wanted us to get out of Jerusalem, but we could, if it was necessary, stay with Lazarus again, and leave from his house early the next morning. We had to look at the map and make some sort of decisions as to where we might end up, which would surely take awhile. As I scurried toward my destination, I felt conspicuous on the street. It struck me, as quite likely that Peter’s sense of urgency to leave Jerusalem, which I shared with him, wasn’t the only reason he wanted us to get on the road. Could it simply be that he didn’t want us to push our luck? Perhaps, because he was pumped up with such overwhelming purpose, his thoughts were befuddled. In any case, his excuse that we must reach our first towns seemed irrational. If we left in the late afternoon, as I suspected we would, it would soon be night, and we would each have to find a town to stop at if we didn’t make camp. That wasn’t sound thinking. It made no sense at all. So what was the rush?

Hopefully, I told myself, as I approached Nicodemus’ house, Peter would understand his folly and suggest we stay at Lazarus’ house until the next morning. If he didn’t, I would suggest it myself. Soon, after I raised the iron ring and rapped on his great oaken door, Ethan, the chamberlain, appeared himself. In the background, in casual household dress, stood Nicodemus, rubbing his hands expectantly.

As I entered the house, both men embraced me like a long lost friend.

“My master’s health has never been better,” exclaimed Ethan. “He’s not the same man!”

“The Lord did this, not me,” I reminded him. “I was merely honored with the task.”

“Well, there’s a look of great purpose about you,” noted the Pharisee. “What brings the brother of our Christ to my house?”

“A map,” I answered promptly. “We need it to plan our missions. Peter wants a Roman map, if you have one—a map that covers the Roman world.”

“I have one indeed,” replied Nicodemus, “I’ve collected quite a few, but the names on my imperial map are in Latin.

“Imperial map?” I nodded with understanding. “I can read Latin, as well as Greek. Peter would like you to come to the upper room,” I added quickly. “Both of you, in fact.” I glanced at Ethan. “You should be here for our send-off.”

“Of course,” Nicodemus said, turning to a servant. “Tell Ozimandis to prepare my coach,” he ordered gently.

“Oh yes,” I said hesitantly, “…. Peter wonders if you could bring more food.”

“No problem.” Nicodemus snapped his fingers. “Ethan, tell my cook to load the coach as he did before, this time with two weeks of stores.” “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “That’s all my coach will hold. I caught a glimpse of your packs. They won’t hold more than seven days for each of you.”

“That’s plenty,” I smiled. “You’re more than kind. This must be an imposition to you, Nicodemus. I’ve never seen Peter in such a hurry. We have to get out of Jerusalem, but it’s more than that. Maybe you could talk some sense into him. He needs to calm down.”

“Peter is listening to the Holy Ghost,” replied Nicodemus. “He told me this. I can’t imagine what that would be like. All of a sudden, a voice enters his head, telling him to do this and do that. What do you expect?”

“I dunno.” I shrugged. “I felt the Holy Ghost, myself. I don’t hear him talking in my head.”

“From what I gather,” suggested Ethan, “you don’t hear Him, you feel Him.” “…. He motivates you,” he searched for words, “… like when an inspiration enters your head. Where did it come from? Why did it suddenly appear?”

“That makes sense.” I pursed my lips. “Often, I feel compelled to do things, which seem more like an urge. Words pop into my mouth from out of nowhere…. Perhaps that’s the Holy Ghost.”

“You’re both right.” Nicodemus bobbed his head. “It can be a feeling and an urge, but for Peter it’s more like a revelation. God spoke to Moses and Elijah directly. Peter’s especially blessed. “Come on men.” He motioned toward the door. “Let’s not keep him waiting. He’s a firebrand now, lit by the Spirit of the Lord!”

******

When we arrived in the upper room, Peter and the other men were waiting expectantly. Soon, if Peter had his way, we would be on the road, each with our own path in the world. Almost immediately, with Ethan and my help, Nicodemus spread the big map out on the table. Several goblets were necessary to keep it flat, while the Pharisee pointed out to us the important provinces and boundaries of the Roman Empire. It seemed plain enough to James, Matthew, Simon, and I, who knew Latin, but for the fishermen, who hadn’t traveled beyond Galilee and Judea, it appeared to an overwhelming odyssey. The many cities and towns shown within the empire were mind-boggling enough, but Nicodemus’ map also included far away places, such as India, Persia, and Seres. Despite Peter’s sudden spiritual wisdom and insight, he was as ignorant at the other fishermen about the world. His fascination with the territory available to us was almost childlike in scope.

“This place you call Seres.” He pointed at the map. “Tell me about those people. Are they civilized? It’s at the edge of the world!”

“I’ve never been there,” admitted Nicodemus. “It’s a most mysterious place. They have, I was told by a merchant, yellow skin and slanted eyes. They don’t like foreigners very much, but Roman merchants, like my friend, bring back carts of silk, a thread almost as valuable as gold.”

“And what about this place?” Peter pointed to India. “Have you been there?”

“No, of course not.” Nicodemus said impatiently. “I haven’t been to Persia either. My business travels kept me safely the empire. Seres, India, and Persia are outside of Rome’s protection.” “You’re not considering those places, are you?” He frowned.

“I had a dream last night,” Peter confessed, scratching his beard. “I looked out and saw a great wall. It stretched endlessly over rolling hills. I couldn’t see the people’s faces—they were mere shadows, but from the top of the wall they shouted at me in a strange, musical tongue—”

“So it wasn’t a revelation.” Nicodemus sighed with relief.

“No, just a dream.” Peter laughed at himself. “There were no revelations about our destinations. This troubled me, until I recalled the randomness of Jesus exploits. I’m afraid each one of us must decide upon his path.” “That might not have been Seres in my dream.”

“Stay inside the boundaries,” advised Ethan. “I wouldn’t advise Gaul or the German frontier either. Stick to safe and secure lands. There’s plenty of fertile ground over here.”

“What about India and Persia?” Thomas blurted. “Those must be out of bounds too!”

“Yes, of course.” Ethan nodded. “If it’s outside Rome, forget it!”

“That’s good advice,” agreed Nicodemus, “and I would go a step further. You’re main concern, after all, is the Jews, is it not? I heard about what Jesus told you: first the Jews, then the Gentiles. As far as Gentiles are concerned, there’s plenty of them in Galilee, Judea, and Perea. The provinces of Syria and Cilicia also have countless villages to spread the word. Avoid Rome if you insist on visiting Italia. Roman citizens are a fickle lot. Small towns, like the ones in Judea and Galilee, are better than cities, where all manner of rabble abide.”

“That makes sense.” Andrew pursed his lips.

“Yes,” John agreed heartily. “Look how what they did in Jerusalem.”

“I hate big cities!” His brother scowled. “Jerusalem’s the worst!”

“Simple people, for a simple message,” I chimed. “Jesus loved the poor and downtrodden the most.”

“That was the Jesus we knew.” Peter said thoughtfully. “The Jesus in my head is a different sort. He didn’t tell us where to go. That’s for the Holy Ghost when the moment comes, but there won’t be any easy roads to travel.”

The men groaned. I could see bewilderment in some of their faces. I understood what he meant, but dullards like Thomas, Andrew, and Philip were totally confused. Despite my comprehension, I looked at him in disbelief.

“So.” I took a deep breath then exhaled. “You mean, ‘as he Spirit moves us.’ The Lord will tell us, Himself, where to go, right?”

“Right.” Peter gave him a nod.

“And how will he do that?” Thomas made a face.

“I don’t know.” Peter shrugged. “…Perhaps in a dream or a flash of knowledge, like knowing suddenly when to drop your net. After his return, Jesus has told me what to do. He will also tell you. His words, in dreams or wide awake, keep popping up in my head. Yet he once told me to follow my heart, not my head, on lesser matters: what to eat and when to make camp, that sort of thing. You men will have to use common sense at times. But on the larger matters, such as how far you must go and where to spread the word, it will be the inner voice that you must heed.”

As if he had read our minds, Matthew asked, “What if it never comes?

“Yeah.” Thomas blinked. “Sometimes my heads a blank.”

Philip snickered. “You’re heads always a blank!”

“What your saying,” I said solemnly, “is we must wait until we get the call.”

“Exactly.” Peter placed a hand on my shoulder. “Right again, Jude!”

“I just thought of something,” Simon looked around the table. “What if we hear the

voice, but it tells us to go to India, Seres, or some other awful place like Persia or Britannia—the land of the blue painted men?”

“Then,” Peter said, drawing in a breath, “you must go!”

“You’re not serious.” Ethan stared at him in disbelief. “At least stay within the empire. Outside its borders Rome has many enemies. The Bretons, Germans, and Persians hate us. I’m sure those other people hate us too. I have heard stories about how foreigners are treated in far away lands. Unless you’re in disguise, you might be stoned or torn limb from limb. The Bretons burn people in wicker cages and the Germans disembowel their victims.”

“You’re frightening them,” Nicodemus scolded his chamberlain. “I’ve heard those stories, too. Many of them are untrue.” “The point is,” he said, looking around the table, “you’re going into regions where we know little about the people. You’re going into the unknown, always a fearful place.”

“All right.” Peter raised his palms. “Outside the borders, it’s a dark, unfriendly place, but the fact remains. Jesus told us we would suffer for his sake.”

James, my brother, summed it up simply: “He is Lord. We are his servants. If we’re called, we must face the unknown. Everywhere we go, whether it’s in Galilee, Judea or out there, we face the unknown. That’s the price we pay for being messengers preaching the word.”

******

Peter now ordered us to study the great map. For those of us who could write, it was advisable to sketch out the boundaries, important cities, and mountain ranges, and make special notes based on Nicodemus’ comments. We were to disregard Ethan’s gloomy forecast, he insisted, though I jotted down that information too. Despite what I had feared—that Peter would point to various countries and cities, saying you go here and you go there, we were left with temporary reprieves. No one had to go anywhere yet, until they were called, as Jesus had once been called by John the Baptist, and, as Jesus and now Peter were guided by the Spirit, told where to go. Like Matthew, Simon, Thomas, Bartholomew, and my written observations, John’s notes would provide the fishermen and himself with guidelines. Peter, who would be entrusted with Nicodemus’ map, of course had the greatest burden to bear. As he had throughout his leadership, he would also continue getting directions from the Lord.

After discussing the pitfalls ahead with us and giving his advice on how to behave in the Gentile world, Nicodemus bowed to Peter’s fortitude. After one last meal together before leaving Jerusalem, he graciously gave us his blessing, promising to pray daily for our safety. Ethan apologized for his intemperate words, but his warning remained stamped in our brains. I had one last mission in Jerusalem: retrieve Bartholomew’s cart and mule. On the way back to his estate, the Pharisee said little. He was, as was Ethan, still troubled by Peter’s stubbornness. I knew Peter was correct. Jesus had made it plain it wouldn’t be easy. I wouldn’t attempt to press this point with them, for, indeed, I shuddered at the thought. When we I was ready to leave with the cart and mule, Nicodemus said something to me that would haunt me in the days ahead.

“Remember, Jude” he called to me as I took the reins, “there are two inner voices—the Lord’s and Satan’s. You’ll know which one to chose. As brother of our Lord, you might think you have to do more than others. This isn’t true. Don’t test God to prove your worth, that’s purest folly. Perhaps because he takes it for granted, Peter neglected to mention the most important communication between the Lord and us: prayer. Pray for wisdom, my son. If not in revelation or sudden inspiration, He’ll answer your prayer and tell you what to do. I may not see you again in this world, Jude, but we’ll meet in His Kingdom. You’ll have a long life. I know this to be true. Sooner or later the call will come. Until then, pray and wait patiently for His voice.”

******

Soon after I arrived at Mark’s house, we were loading the cart with supplies, most of which would be stored at Lazarus’ house. Nicodemus had given us far more food than we would need. What we didn’t cram into our packs, we would give the poor or give to Esther and Dinah for the converts in Capernaum. Fearful that we might become drunks during our idleness, wine was left out of our packs. On the way to Bethany, however, Bartholomew discovered a jug under his seat overlooked as we emptied the cart. This discovery cheered me greatly. Also adding a spring to my step, as we traveled to Bethany, was a decrease in the sense of urgency. As I had hoped, we wouldn’t begin our missions until the morning. Perhaps Peter had another revelation or simply had second thoughts. It had been decided, after studying the map, that until our calling or when the Spirit moved us further afield, we would remain in familiar grounds: in Galilee, Judea, Perea, and Decapolis.

As we approached Bethany, Lazarus, his sisters, and many of the followers came to greet us. Running ahead of them as before was Micah, my faithful dog, with Ashira no far behind. After the recent horde of converts Peter brought to his town, Lazarus must have been on the lookout. One moment Bethany loomed into view and the next moment they were there in the distance, a small crowd on the edge of town. Though he tried putting a good face on it, Lazarus must have been weary of our visits. Even though new converts had been settled in Capernaum by Peter, there were, on each side of Lazarus and his sisters, dozens of hangers-on left, who were undoubtedly a great burden on their household and Bethany’s small congregation. The fact that we brought so much food with us lessened the strain on his resources. Peter now decided to turn the food over to Lazarus, instead of taking it to Capernaum, a supply that would supplement the food eaten by his men. It was, however, small comfort to Lazarus’ sisters who would have to wait on us hand and foot. Here we were again, arriving without warning. Lazarus and his sisters never knew when we were going to appear. Already, their house had become a second home for Jesus’ apostles and disciples. Now, I suspected, because of Bethany’s location between Galilee and Judea, it would become a way station for preachers passing through.

That evening Lazarus’ sisters prepared a feast for us. After our meal, as the women cleaned up the kitchen and we sat around the crowded room, we were encouraged by Peter to dredge up our own reflections of the week’s events. As Micah nestled beside me, his head on my lap, I found it easier to suffer these narrations. After hearing the account Peter gave to our hosts and listening to the fishermen swap tales, I eyelids grew heavy. Micah was already asleep. Each of us gave a similar account, which was basically the same: from our first arrest and miraculous escape from jail, until Gamaliel’s intercession, which caused Caiaphas into set us free. Out of politeness I joined the discussion, but found the exercise tedious. We had talked about this in the upper room, and we talked about this on the road. Earlier, as soon as we arrived, we told the crowd waiting for us our story, and now we were giving our reports again. Would more versions of the story make it anymore more true or real? I was growing tired of the subject and envied Micah his slumber. Looking across the room, I caught sight of Martha, Mary, and Ashira leave the kitchen, dabbing sweat from their foreheads as they slipped out of the house. Jumping up with sudden inspiration, I scurried after them. Because we frequently stepped out to use the cloaca, no one questioned me. My real purpose, of course, was to stretch my legs, get some fresh air, and chat with the women a spell.

Quick to awaken from his nap, Micah followed me as I slipped out the door. As Micah and I left the house, we found them standing by the lake, staring vacantly at the water, exhausted by their labors.

Though Mary recoiled at his affection and Martha gave Micah a timid pat, Ashira reached down happily to scratch his neck.

“That was a wonderful meal,” I cried cheerfully, “you cooked all my favorites: fish, lentils, and greens. Those pastries were fantastic!”

“Thank you.” Martha said graciously. “We had little time.”

“Yes,” agreed Mary. “It was too short of notice to have lamb.”

“Oh, he’s just being polite.” Ashira smiled slyly.

“No” I smiled at her. “I really did!” “Lamb is overrated.” I tried sounding convincing.

“It really is. That fish was cooked to perfection. I loved the lentils and greens.”

To be honest they hadn’t prepared my favorites. I preferred lamb or fowl. The pastries were, in fact, quite tasty, but the fish was overcooked, the lentils unseasoned, and I didn’t care for greens. Considering the time frame, though, it wasn’t bad. The three women had little time to prepare a special meal. Mary was in a testy mood. Martha and Ashira, who did most of the work around the house, including preparing our meal, just looked tired.

“You men are fortunate,” Mary murmured softly. “Men can be apostles or disciples but women must be servants. That’s what Peter calls the women in your group. Lazarus thinks that way too. Sarah, Miriam, and Hannah were prophets. Deborah was a judge of Israel. Without Eve, where would you be?” “Women are the slaves of men,” she decided sadly. “It’s always been like that. It’ll never change!”

“You are the master of your destiny,” I replied thoughtfully. “Women are just as important as men, sometimes more. My mother ruled our house. She still does.”

“That’s not the same.” She shook her head. “Your mother’s the mother of our Lord. That makes her special.”

“Listen Mary,” I spoke discreetly, “you’re special too. I saw that the first time I spoke to you. The Lord decides who’s a disciple and who’s a servant, not Peter, not anyone else.”

“Really?” Martha awakened from her lethargy. “…I’ve wanted to believe that, but Lazarus thinks I’m foolish. Mary’s right. We’re expected to find husbands, have babies, and be some man’s slave. What if we want to preach? What if we want to serve the Lord?”

“Then you should!” I turned, gripping her shoulders.

Of the two sisters, Martha had always been my favorite. I was glad to hear her say such a thing. Recalling my experience with Mary Magdalene, I addressed all three women now: “Jesus, my brother, picked men to be his first disciples, but everyone can serve. Mary Magdalene and I preached to citizens in Capernaum. One day I’m certain she will be a great tool for the Lord. You, Martha, Mary, and Ashira, can be too. Don’t let Peter or Lazarus tell you differently. Jesus resurrection freed us of the old order. Don’t forget Lazarus’ resurrection. Because of that, you Martha, have a special place in Jesus’ heart!”

“Lazarus is like our father.” Martha shook her head. “He keeps under his thumb.”

“We’re imprisoned in his house.” Mary folded her arms. “He won’t let us be on our own.”

“I’m just a servant here.” Ashira looked down at the ground.

“Well, this isn’t right,” I grew irritated. “You make Lazarus sound like a tyrant.” “Tell me,” I asked, looking back at the house. “Do you want to serve the Lord?”

“Yes!” Martha and Mary answered and Ashira nodded her head.

I thought about this a moment. The question I asked sounded innocent enough, but it could be interpreted in a wider sense. Despite my sympathies, I was wrong to encourage this line of thinking. Once again my mouth had gotten me into trouble. How could I retreat from my opinion? Should I retract what I just said? I would be betraying both Lazarus and Peter if I didn’t fall back, and yet I somehow I must be truthful without crushing their hopes.

“…. Look Martha, Mary, Ashira,” I said carefully, “as long as you live in Lazarus’ house, you’ll be under his thumb. In accordance with the Torah, whether its managing sisters or servants, he rules the house. In general, our tradition has made women’s lives difficult, especially when they’re unmarried. Ironically, Ashira, your path is simpler. All you have to do is quit and find employment somewhere else. For you Martha and Mary, because your Lazarus’ sisters, it’s more difficult. Unless you can earn you’re own way outside of his house, as Ashira can, you’re trapped here. Your brother’s a good man. He loves you and wants to protect you. The best way for a Jewish woman to be protected in his mind is to be married. If your husband is as enlightened as my father was, you’ll at least have the freedom to speak your mind. If he’s not enlightened and like most Jewish men, you’ll not have such freedom…. Your best hope is to learn a trade, like Ashira, or find a good man. Otherwise, you’ll be a woman, alone, footloose, and at the mercy of the world.”

“What trade could we do?” Mary looked at me in disbelief.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “There’s not much open to women.”

Ashira, who seemed uncomfortable with this topic, stooped down and stroked the dog.

Recalling Mary Magdalene, I might have suggested that Mary try her namesake’s trade of selling doves, but thought better of it. For a while, Mary Magdalene had also been a prostitute—a fallen woman. Instead, I turned to the great women of the Torah.

“You’ve heard about Abraham’s, Isaac’s, and Jacob’s wives. They helped shaped the Patriarchs’ thinking. Had it not been for Isaac’s mother Rachel, his brother Ishmael, not Jacob, would have been the father of the Israelites. Don’t forget Hannah, who influenced her son Samuel, a great prophet, and Ruth, the ancestor of our Lord. There are countless examples of important women in the Torah.”

“But this is a man’s world,” Martha pointed out. “We can’t earn a living. Those women you mentioned had husbands. Even your mother relied on her husband. She couldn’t, like you men, strike out on her own to preach the word. That’s what Mary and I want to do.”

Despite my better judgment, I couldn’t argue with her. Lazarus’ sisters looked expectantly at me. Though she tried concentrating on Micah, I could see interest in Ashira’s eyes, too. A warm feeling came over me, similar to but subtler than my experience in the upper room. I knew it was the Holy Ghost…. Jesus was speaking to me on Martha, Mary, and Ashira’s behalf.

“…. Then… you must do it,” I replied hesitantly after a pause. “…. Preach the word! Pray about this, my friends. Jesus knows you hearts, but if you strike out on your own, know this: You’re journey will be hard and, at times, filled with pitfalls, yet your spirit will rejoice in your service. Working in the field of the Lord is the greatest trade. Nothing you ever do is more important than sharing the good news. Go home, think hard on this, and pray for guidance…. The Lord will tell you what to do!”

******

Though moved by the Spirit, I was filled with misgivings. Micah’s warm, furry body next to me, normally a comfort, failed to dispel my mood. I had just given Lazarus’ sisters and his servant my blessing to spread the word. What would happen if they confronted Lazarus, quoting to him my inspired words? What would he think? For that matter what would Peter think? In spite of my feeling of grace, I felt disloyal to our host. Peter, who considered women to be nothing more than chattels, would consider my advice reckless and foolhardy. When Bartholomew asked me what was wrong that night, I confided my foolishness to him. His response, as he drifted off to sleep, was what I wanted to hear.

“Did the Lord really speak to you?” he asked groggily.

“I felt him,” I searched for the right words, “…. It was the Holy Ghost.”

“Then what’s the problem?” he grumbled. “Do as he says.”

“Thank you!” I replied, closing my eyes.

Bartholomew was right. As Peter, I had been given an order. The Lord had spoken. With that thought in mind, after giving Micah a pat, I fell quickly asleep. When I awakened, after untroubled slumber, I readied myself for the journey ahead. At breakfast and the moments afterwards as Lazarus, his sisters, and the servant saw us off, and I gave my dog a hug, nothing was said about Mary, Martha, and Ashira becoming preachers. We barely made eye contact, but I knew it was on their minds. It had been decided by Peter that we would return to Capernaum, our home base, to await our callings. During the meantime, we would minister to the congregation there or, if the Spirit moved us, preach in Galilee, Perea, Judea, and Decapolis, until we received the call. I would at times ride next to Bartholomew in the cart or walk beside the cart on the road. Those days we spent in Capernaum would have been peaceful were it not for the future looming ahead. None of us knew when our orders would come…. Would they appear in a dream, a vision, or a sudden feeling like the Holy Ghost? After several days, my greatest fear was that I might not get any at all.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

The Callings

So far my path had been straightforward enough. After the ordeals of youth and travails of a young man, I found myself as a member of the twelve. Though I experienced the Holy Ghost, I hadn’t yet received my orders from the Lord. That would come later. The waiting would begin to wear on me, but I had nothing better to do. Unlike my brothers James, Joseph, and Simon, I had no occupation. I had been an adventurer and slacker. When Jesus met John the Baptist at the River Jordan, my life suddenly changed. Despite my misgivings at first, I decided to join his band. Wherever they went, I was there. Like the others, I was a witness to His miracles and deeds. I was chosen to help spread the word. Ever since Jesus called me to the twelve, I knew what was expected of me. Though there were dangers on the road, I worried little about tomorrow, concerned only with the affairs of the day. What followed our interlude in Capernaum, however, when the twelve finally splintered apart, and we went our own separate ways, is more complicated. Jesus was no longer physically in our presence. Peter had been in charge, ruling our actions with a stern, uncompromising hand. His guidance and inspiration, though intolerable at times, kept us together after the crucifixion. In the days following Jesus reappearance and our shared experiences with the Holy Ghost, which strengthened our spirits, he kept us focused on our mission. By Peter’s relentless enthusiasm and example, he led us, making us ready for the travails ahead. Now, as apostles and disciples, we were entering an undefined and shadowy period in our service to the Lord. Soon, at least for some of us, we would get our final orders, not from Peter, but from the Holy Ghost—the voice of God, Himself.

After Peter’s latest revelations, we would, when the call came, go out by ourselves or in pairs rather than as a total group. Despite what he said to Bartholomew and me, Peter was unclear on this. The only thing we knew for sure was the message we would spread. What we had learned from Jesus and from practical experience with Peter, our new leader, must be shared with the world. As seeds we planted in various places, the word would take root, congregations would grow. More disciples, as shepherds, themselves, would take the staff, until one day, the entire world would have heard the word and become believers. This was the strategy. Considering the rejection I had seen from many of our own people, however, this grand plan, which Jesus and now Peter believed would happen, seemed unreasonable. Not only did we have to contend with the religious leaders and practically every Pharisee and scribe encountered, we would have to contend with the Gentiles—the Romans in particular, as a group, rather than the few individuals drawn to our faith in the past. They were, as the fishermen might say, untested waters. Despite Jesus insistence that we preach to Jews first before going to the Gentiles, there was no way to separate Jews from Gentiles when confronting a crowd. Many cities in Syria, Perea, and Decapolis were cosmopolitan, in some cases with a majority of pagans, who needed to hear the message too. Considering Jesus vision of the world, how could we minister to and baptize only the Jews?

Not only the scope of our mission, but its content was worrisome. We carried with us a revolutionary conception of the Hebrew god that, on the face of it, had more in common with the pagans, who worshipped more than one god. When we did begin to preach in some far corner of the empire, we would have to explain this complex deity: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost. These three natures of God were still difficult for even us to digest. How could we explain this to simple people, if men such as Lazarus didn’t fully understand? For that matter, the notion of being born again had confounded even the Pharisee Nicodemus. How could we explain such concepts to ignorant people, whether Gentile or Jew? The Holy Ghost, the important differences from the old and new faith, and the very meaning of the crucifixion and the resurrection would also be difficult to explain.

After much thought, I remembered Jesus’ original message. It provided a simple list for people to follow: believe, repent, and be baptized into a new life. From the beginning, this formula had seemed to work well. Four of our disciples had joined up during the days following his greatest sermons, along with hundreds of Galileans and Judeans. His crucifixion and resurrection, which defined him as the Son of God as well as the Christ, changed all of this. Not only was our message controversial, the messenger had become controversial. There were now three deities combined into, which James called the Godhead, a concept even I had found difficult to accept. James and Bartholomew agreed with me that we must keep the message simple among rustics. Save them first and then enlighten them, we suggested to Simon, Matthew, and Thomas. The five of us also decided to keep this to ourselves. We had no idea what the fishermen were saying or doing right now, but I had a hunch they had watered the message down too. What mattered was what we would say or do after receiving the call.

This phase of our service in Palestine, in which we sharpened our preaching skills, was, after all, only temporary. The great majority of Palestinians, Peter reminded us, had heard the good news and just needed convincing. If that was true, I told Bartholomew, why bother with the details? In many cases we were preaching to slackers and fence-setters, who might never be convinced. Despite this fact, our current time in Galilee might be an exercise in futility, but it was good practice for the future and kept our minds sharp. For a brief time, this pattern of our lives was simple but worthwhile. The first thing I did when we returned to Capernaum, of course, was to find Mary Magdalene and share my thoughts with her. Lately, she had a dreamy, far off look about her. Clearly, as it should be, I had lost her to Christ. Though Peter told the men they would receive separate missions, which meant they might not go out in pairs, for the time being we reverted to our previous couplings when Jesus first sent us out. Mary, who was especially blessed by Jesus, needed no one but herself. After going out to check on the flock and preach to small crowds whenever they appeared, the apostles and disciples returned to Peter’s house to share our experiences and compare notes.

Included in Bartholomew’s and my schedule was a visit to Bethany to visit Lazarus and his sisters, but mostly, I confess, to spend time with my dog. Where it not for Peter’s wife and mother-in-law, I would have brought Micah home with us. Ashira, Lazarus’ servant, who took care of him, gave him affection, and taught him tricks, was rightfully his master now. At times it seemed as though I might, in my service to the Lord, never see him again, but then I would recall something Jesus said to me: “On those lonely nights, when it was just you, the stars, and the Lord above, he’ll give you great comfort…. He’ll always be your dog!” Everything else during my wait seemed to be in flux, but Micah was an unchanging constant. With his special blessing, my brother had given him to me. It may sound heretical, but it was as if a piece of Jesus lived in him. Micah was one of his miracles, an unexpected gift and reminder of his god-like powers.

During our rest periods in Capernaum, to while away the time, Bartholomew and I visited the chapel built for the congregation in Capernaum to chat with Azariah and Yoshabel, its shepherd and shepherdess or strolled along the shoreline contemplating the days ahead. Though she had matured greatly and often seemed to be in another world, I would also continue to visit Mary as much I could. Most of my time, however, was spent with Bartholomew. Because of Peter’s apparent blessing on our partnership, I assumed I would continue watching over the old man. Like the others, we grew more anxious in our leisure. Why was the Holy Ghost so silent? Why hadn’t we received the call? …. Would the Lord send Bartholomew and I out alone, on separate paths?

******

As was expected of us by Peter, Bartholomew and I moved around Galilee in his cart, visiting various communities, as the other men likewise paired off visiting other towns. In this leisurely fashion we, the apostles and disciples, did the Lord’s work in Palestine, until the expected pattern finally set in. Peter had told us it would happen sooner or later. He had already received his first set of instructions from the Lord. He would, he explained to us, oversee the congregations in Galilee, Judea, Perea, and Decapolis and when new congregations were established he would shepherd these too. Though James, Lazarus, Azariah, and his wife were also called shepherds, as would be the leaders of new congregations, Peter was, at least for the time being, the Shepherd. Now, after we returned to Peter’s house, we noticed that Andrew and Philip were missing. A courier arrived shortly before our arrival with a message, written by him on their behalf, announcing Andrew’s intention of visiting Asia and Philip’s intention of visiting Greece. A rambling message followed in which Andrew and Philip gave details of how they were contacted—Philip in a prophetic dream in which a young child appeared telling him he must go to Greece, and Andrew in the clear light of day in which a voice told him to feed His children in Asia. As impressive as these callings were, all I could think of was, ‘He’s going to break Bartholomew and me up… I’m going out alone!’ The implications of this—the first apostles called singularly to preach the word—shook us all greatly. Who would be next?

******

In the following weeks, as Bartholomew and I tried to concentrate on our chores as preachers spreading the word and as spiritual guides for backsliding and recalcitrant converts, we suffered the increasing loss of our companions, dreading when our moment came. To make matters even glummer for me, Mary Magdalene disappeared into the hills, seeking visions and counsel from the Lord. Most of the original pairs designated by Jesus had changed. Peter had no partner, so Andrew had picked his old fishing mate Philip, both of whom were now far away, preaching the word. Simon chose Matthew to travel with him now that Judas was gone, and because my brother James had his own ministry in Jerusalem, Thomas was left with the disciple Justus. Of the apostles, only John and James and Bartholomew and I were the original pairs. Because they weren’t selected by Jesus, the three disciples and new apostle had no pattern to follow and could pair off more easily. Barnabas, a friend of Mark and his mother, had picked the younger man as his companion, and Cleopas naturally chose his longtime friend Matthias, now a member of the twelve.

Each time we met in Peter’s house, our numbers were reduced. In each case, as Peter had instructed his men, a courier—someone close to the preachers, would return with the news. In the end, after our numbers continued to dwindle, only Bartholomew and I remained. As I make this entry, all I can tell the reader is where the other ten apostles and disciples where at the time they sent their messages. After Andrew and Philip failed to report in, messengers for the apostles had arrived to explain their whereabouts in Asia and Greece. Only a few days later, a messenger arrived from Thomas and Justin, telling us they had been called to Syria. Of all the preachers, they appeared to have the easiest missions. Nothing was said about how Thomas and Justus were called. Two days later Mark, instead of a messenger as Peter instructed, returned with a letter from Barnabas. According to Barnabas’ note, as he and Mark passed through Perea, an old Samaritan asked him why Jesus had forgotten his people. In a dream, Barnabas accompanied a stranger, whose preaching was second only to Jesus. He had no idea who this man was. Though he assumed they were in Samaria in his dream because of the request of the Samaritan, he couldn’t be sure. Missing in what he believed was a vision was the presence of Mark. Seeing his meeting with the Samaritan as a sign and accepting his vision as a further stage in his service for the Lord, he sent Mark back to Capernaum to deliver the news. These circumstances gave the young man a reprieve. Because of the note, which Peter accepted as the Lord’ will, Mark joined Bartholomew and I in our lonely vigil as we awaited Jesus’ call.

During our wait, more letters arrived. A courier brought a message from Matthew and Simon, who were in Persia, that detailed their success in villages, but, like Thomas and Justus, they claimed no spiritual experience. Whether these men had thought we would assume they were called or simply forgot to include this information, remained a mystery. Judging by Andrew, Philip, and Barnabas’ experience, the Lord had his own plans for them. The fact that some of the apostles had kept their original partners so far, gave Bartholomew and I hope. It appeared as though, by the Lord’s silence, James and John and Bartholomew and I might be destined to stay together. At least two of the men, Matthias and Cleopas, admitted in their message to not having a prophetic dream or religious experience at all, deciding on their own initiative to remain in Cilicia where the ‘pickings were good.’ It seemed as though Peter’s reach as our shepherd went only so far. Also making Bartholomew and I feel better was the attitude of Mark, who seemed happy where he was. Peter, who would remain in Capernaum using Mark as his scribe, was also contented to stay put. Despite the fact that most of the apostles and disciples were on their own now and didn’t need his guidance, Peter’s calling, at least for the time being, was as Shepherd of the Way. He interpreted Barnabas’ note not only as the Lord’s calling for Barnabas but also as a sign that Mark should remain behind to help with the ecclesia. He wasn’t concerned with the Lord’s silence toward Bartholomew and me. Until the Lord gave us all further instructions, there was much that we could do to help him manage our congregations in Galilee, Judea, Perea, and Decapolis, without traveling to distant lands.

For several weeks, though our numbers diminished, our routine remained the same. Finally, from the remaining apostles in Palestine, a letter arrived from John, who explained that he and his brother James had gone their own separate ways. James remained in Tyre, after healing a Pharisee’s wife. Nothing more was said after this miracle. In his note, John, who offered no explanation as to his brother’s plans, made the boldest claim of any of the apostles or disciples. Written in his own flamboyant style, he claimed that Jesus appeared in a dream telling him to go to Ephesus and feed his sheep, implying, as Andrew had, he would shepherd his flock.

Peter shook his head, after Mark read the message.

“Well, that’s just like John,” he laughed sourly. “Most of the men downplayed their calling, but John was called by the Lord, himself. He now fashions himself as a shepherd!”

“I bet he was drunk!” grumbled Bartholomew.

“The question is,” I replied thoughtfully, “why didn’t Matthew, Simon, Thomas, Justus, Matthias, Cleopas, and James claim divine guidance? That’s most of the men!”

“I don’t know.” Peter shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe they had it or maybe not. Perhaps the Lord didn’t tell Mark to go home, but Barnabas’ note and the fact he sent him home seemed like a sign.”

“I never received a sign,” Mark frowned. “You gave me a sign, Peter, when you asked for my help.”

“Well.” I sighed wistfully. “He hasn’t called Bartholomew and I either, and I was Jesus’ brother!”

“That’s not your faults.” He glanced at each of us. “Look at me; I’m the Rock. He told me to feed his sheep. Until I’m sure Azariah and his wife are ready, though, this is my assignment. I’m sure it’s only temporary. Someday, I’ll he’ll send me out too.”

“Just you?” Mark frowned.

“No, both of us.” He patted Mark’s head. “You’re sticking with me.” “I’m certain you two will also get the call,” he added, looking at Bartholomew and me. “I just hope the Lord keeps you together. You make a good team. Pray on it men. I have a feeling, you’ll be hearing from Him soon!”

******

Peter’s feeling proved to be accurate. My calling, however, was nothing like I expected. As it happened for some of the apostles and disciples, I had thought that the Lord would appear in a vision, voice in my head, or as a visible sign to tell me what to do, but it was none of these things and, at first, quite unsettling. There was no prophetic dream, voice in my head, or other heavenly sign. The very next day after Peter’s prediction, as Bartholomew and I strolled down the shore, watching fishermen pulling up their nets, it happened in stages. At first, it merely provided a topic for conversation. In the distance, on the nearby hill, a man on a camel sat motionless—a dark silhouette against a sunlit sky.

“You see that?” I turned to Bartholomew.

“What?” He followed my finger, squinting his eyes. “…I’m half blind.”

“Him.” I jabbed the air. “The man on the camel.”

“Oh him,” he acknowledged, shielding his eyes from the sun. “That’s strange. He’s sitting so very still. What’s he up to?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, feeling a prickling at the back of my neck. “He seems to be watching us. Even his camel’s still. They’re like statues on that hill.”

Then the statue moved.

“Uh oh.” Bartholomew gasped. “He’s trotting toward us. Let’s go back to the house.”

“No, wait,” I caught his arm. “He’s alone…. There’s two of us. There’s fishermen on the lake. Peter and Mark aren’t far away. Let’s see what he wants.”

As we stood there by the lake watching his camel clop slowly forward, I sensed the importance of this encounter. Closer and closer the rider approached. The awkward, ambling gait of the beast belied the regal demeanor of the man, whose resplendent gold-threaded robe was complimented by a silver laced turban on his head. Looking down at us, he nodded and touched his forehead and chest in the manner of desert nomads. Speaking to me in my own tongue, however, he introduced himself, which turned out to be my first shock.

“I am Ibrim.” He grinned. “…. You recognize me, Jude?”

“Ibrim!” I cried.

That moment, blazing into my mind, were the memories of my travels in the East. Had it not been for this man, I wouldn’t have survived those ordeals. Here he was, obviously a rich man, and yet, having come out of nowhere, he was riding alone, without an escort. What did this mean? After all these years an old friend appeared as I waited for my call.

“Stay with us in Peter’s house?” I offered, as he climbed off his mount.

“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t wish to be a bother. My people are camped over the hill. Your friend Peter may not want a Gentile in his house. For that matter you would be polluted if you entered my tent.”

“Nonsense,” I waved dismissively. “Don’t forget, Ibrim, I rode with Gentiles. I’m certain Bartholomew doesn’t care.”

“Not a bit,” replied Bartholomew.

“Very well,” Ibrim stroked his beard. “I’ll water my camel in the lake, while you tell your friend were you are.”

Quickly, with great expectation, I ran to Peter’s house to inform him of the portentous event.

“You say he was on a camel and lives in tent?” Peter mumbled in disbelief. “We don’t see many desert nomads. Humph, I must this man!”

I had merely wanted to tell Peter where Bartholomew and I would be. Instead I had given him a preliminary introduction of Ibrim. I led Mark and him back to the lake where Ibrim and Bartholomew stood chatting amongst themselves. I said a silent prayer that Peter wouldn’t insult my old friend. Mark also had a loud mouth, and Bartholomew, for that matter, often spoke his mind. After introducing Peter and Mark, I stepped back in anticipation. Taking the reins of his beast, Ibrim led him on foot, as we followed, extolling the beauty of Capernaum and peace he found in it’s people, not ready to divulge the real reason why he came. As we reached the crest of the hill and looked down, all four of us gasped at once. Clearly, Ibrim had come up in the world. From a sly, borderline thief on a horse, whom I had distrusted when I first met him, he had become a desert merchant or chief. His campsite displayed great wealth. A great striped tent stood below, banners flying from its poles, surrounded my smaller multicolored tents. At least two dozen camels were corralled in the encampment, along with horses and mules. Countless men, and a fewer number of women, perhaps slaves or servants, wandered to and fro. A retinue of armored men on horses, who must have been guards, waited at the foot of the hill for their master as we approached.

Speaking to them in his language, which I hadn’t learned, I caught the Nabataean word for friends (sadiq) preceding the names of his guests, obviously an introduction, followed by the names of his guards in our tongue to make the introductions complete. Almost immediately the stern glares of his men softened to grins and approving nods as we proceeded to the main tent.

At this point, I expected Peter and Mark to recoil at the notion of entering a Gentile’s tent, but without comment they followed us in. A feast of forbidden food and delicacies we weren’t supposed to eat sat on a table. In a muted voice I reminded Ibrim that Jews didn’t eat pork, shellfish, and pickled eel (although, when I rode with him I had eaten pork and even snails). Peter suggested we eat the fruit, nuts, and sweetmeats, which weren’t forbidden. Without further fanfare or even a blessing, Ibrim motioned for all of us, including his guards, to be seated. Wine was poured into Greek mugs decorated with depictions of pagan gods. Bartholomew was a worldly man like myself, but I felt the urge to apologize to Peter and Mark for this display. Once more, though, as I had been when we decided to enter the tent, I was surprised at their tolerance of Ibrim’s airs. All four of us, despite the forbidden food on the table, feasted on an array of fruit—grapes, pears, peaches, figs, dates, almonds, and cherries—many of which had been introduced to our land by the Romans. There were also shelled almonds and other more exotic nuts in bowels and a great variety of sweetmeats I had not tasted since my days in Antioch. Soon, the unwatered Falernian wine began to take effect on us. With a presence of mind, rare for myself in the face of temptation, I finished only one goblet, as did Bartholomew who also wanted to keep his wits, but Peter and Mark drank two goblets during our feast, loosening their tongues as our host explained why he was in Capernaum.

“My friends,” he began graciously, “you honor my tent with your presence. Because I’m a man of the desert and Gentile, most Jews wouldn’t set foot in my camp. Yet here you are with your leader, Peter. For our people, he would be called a tribal chief.” “Because you are their leader,” he addressed Peter, “I ask you, the shepherd of his flock, for permission to have Jude return with me to my people.”

“What?” Peter’s mouth dropped. “Is this why we’re here?”

“Yes, of course,” Ibrim frowned. “I’ve traveled hundreds of Roman miles.”

“Jude is waiting for his calling,” explained Mark.

“I am too,” mumbled Bartholomew. “Where does this leave me?”

“You can come to,” Ibrim waved a bejeweled hand. “I heard about this Jesus, who became a god. Later, I heard about his death and return to life. Once I lived in Galilee, where he preached and performed his miracles, but I returned to my people and, alas, missed it all. I’m sorry I waited so long. But one of the men in my tribe claims that your king rose like the Phoenix from the dead. I’ve known this man all my life, and he never lies. As I traveled to your land, more stories popped up here and there. Other people made the same claim. I once met Jude’s brother in Nazareth. Who would have guessed this Jesus, the son of a carpenter, would be the Messiah and King of the Jews. I want to know this king. I want my people to know him too. What better person to tell the story than his brother Jude, my friend?”

Mark was dumbfounded. Peter’s startled expression was transformed. A look of illumination fell him.

“That’s it Jude,” he said solemnly, gripping my shoulder. “The Lord has spoken.”

“But I received no call,” I replied to him, “not so much as inkling.”

“Few of the apostles and disciples claimed to have divine inspiration,” reasoned Peter. “Some of them said they were called, but only John appears to have had a message straight from our Lord. We all know He moves in strange ways. This man came a long way to find you, Jude—no one else. That was the Lord speaking, not mere chance.”

“All right,” I sighed deeply. “… What about Bartholomew?”

“I’m sorry.” He looked at the old man. “The Lord didn’t call you. It’ll be a long trip into Arabia. You’re too old for such a trip. Your cart wouldn’t last, and your mule would die.”

“So?” Bartholomew snarled. “I’ll ride a camel.”

“No.” Peter shook his head. “That would kill you!”

“It would be a death sentence,” Mark decided. “Arabia is a terrible, godforsaken place!”

“Stay with Mark and me in Capernaum,” Peter reached across the table. “There’s still much to do.”

“No—absolutely not!” Bartholomew slammed down his mug. “I’m sticking with Jude!”

Peter’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “It’s out of the question! You’re staying put!”

“Wait, my friends,” Ibrim said, fluttering his hands, “I know many men older than Bartholomew who ride camels, but I also have horses and mules. He can ride in one of my carts on pillows if he wishes. Don’t let that be an issue. I see no reason why he can’t come along.”

“Because he wasn’t called!” Peter folded his arms. “That you asked for Jude only is significant—a sign in itself. The message seems clear.”

“Not so!” Ibrim disagreed. “I came for Jude, but I didn’t know about his friendship with that man. If your God put them together as companions, why would I split them apart? The desert is not so harsh. In fact, the sulfur springs in my land would be good for his old bones.”

“There, you have it!” I looked challengingly at Peter. “Bernice can take care of the mule and watch his cart until we get back. I agree with Ibrim: this is Bartholomew’s calling too. Please Peter, let him go!”

“Yes, Peter,” Ibrim said impatiently, “I thought you were a reasonable man!”

“Hold on a moment.” Peter thought a moment. “…. I’m happy your people want Christ, but let’s be sensible…. Tell me, Ibrim, how long will Jude be there?”

“Not that long,” Ibrim promised. “He’ll be back before winter.”

Peter smiled at Bartholomew. “All right, that’s not forever. It’s only a short while. When Jude returns you’ll back together again. How’s that sound?”

“…. I don’t know,” Bartholomew grumbled.

“Jesus would want you to wait,” offered Mark. “He wants you alive to spread the word. He doesn’t want you buried in some foreign land. Come on Bartholomew, as a favor to Peter and our Lord, say yes!”

“What do you think?” Bartholomew looked to me for an answer. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I’m not happy about it,” I confessed reluctantly, “you’re my best friend,… but I can’t be selfish. It would be a difficult trip. I’m sure they’d try to make your comfortable, but I’m sorry Ibrim; I’ve been in the desert. I was once held hostage by desert bandits. It can be a dreadful place.”

“It’s up to you, my friend,” Ibrim spread his palms. “I remember the story of your ordeal. Your God tested you greatly. I strongly believe your Jesus is a new god.”

Peter and Mark recoiled at this blasphemy, but I took it in the spirit it was given. Very likely, it occurred to me, Ibrim had forsaken his mother’s people and returned to banditry, at least for a period of time, which would explain his horses, mules, slaves, and large number of camels. Yet the fact that he was an old friend, who helped save my life, and his sudden, timely appearance, cancelled out my doubts. To my relief Peter and Mark were too shocked to protest this time. Bartholomew, like myself, was used to such Gentile attitudes, and, though no one but me knew about it, had been a bandit, himself. It was true, I thought as I contemplated my future, the Lord moves in mysterious ways!

“Very well,” Bartholomew agreed finally, “… I’ll wait. The Lord has a plan for me.”

******

When I returned to Peter’s house to grab my pack, I felt as if I was being rushed by Ibrim, which was probably true. My family had gotten along well with the shepherds who lived nearby in Nazareth—a Nabataean band similar to desert people encountered in my travels. The Nabs, as they were scornfully called, weren’t popular in Galilee. Though they were relatively harmless, themselves, they acted as intermediaries for stolen goods, a supplementary income to shepherding and selling wool. Unlike the sheepherders who lived more sedentary lives, their kinsmen, the desert nomads, had a reputation as bandits and thieves, and Ibrim’s father’s people, were likely in this group. I was half convinced Ibrim was a bandit leader, himself. The Romans might even have a bounty on his head. With this in mind, I was filled with misgivings, and yet Peter had given his blessing to this mission.

I had just enough time to embrace and say farewell to all my friends before I left, including Peter’s family. Esther, Dinah, and Bernice said goodbye first as I departed from the house, and then Azariah, Yoshabel, and several members of the original seventy appeared by the roadside with Peter, Bartholomew, and Mark. Many of the well-wishers were tearful. After all, I was going into the wilderness of Arabia where wild, desert men lurked—the sons of Ishmael, who robbed and murdered Jew and Gentile alike. Surely, I would perish preaching to those pagan barbarians. I knew, of course, from my own experience, that many desert people were good, simple people. On the other hand, together with my traveling companions, I had encountered fierce nomads, who plundered and killed for a living and been taken captive by one such band. I therefore tried not to contemplate why Ibrim was now wealthy and had so many goods. This question filled me with anxiety and misgivings. Where, I wondered, would this strange man lead me? Before settling down with his Syrian wife, his father had belonged to the a tribe of desert nomads and yet he became a farmer and herdsmen. Obviously, Ibrim had taken a different path. Questions now swirled in my mind…. After being a Roman scout, why hadn’t Ibrim returned to his mother’s people, instead of the past lifestyle of his father? Why hadn’t he married a wealthy Greek or Syrian wench and settled down as he once planned? His newfound wealth must have come from somewhere. Was he a merely a traveling merchant… Or, having joined his father’s tribesmen, was it something more sinister.

Suddenly, those dreadful words, ‘bandit’ and ‘murderer’, loomed in my mind. Hopefully, my suspicions were wrong. Peter, himself, had given it his blessing, I reminded myself. My mission was decided by the Lord.

“Return as soon as you can!” Peter shouted through cupped hands.

“And we shall be a team again!” Bartholomew’s voice cracked.

“Wait!” I said, clasping my forehead. “What about Micah, my dog?”

“What about him?” Peter frowned.

“It’s on the way,” the words rushed out. “It would be so easy. We can stop on the way in Bethany and take him along.”

“Out of the question.” Peter shook his head. “The desert’s no place for him. Those people eat dogs!”

“He’s right.” Mark agreed. “If you love Micah, leave him with Ashira. She loves that dog.”

That moment, as I considered their words, and others wished me well, a familiar voice called out in the distance. Suddenly, Mary Magdalene appeared, racing across the field near Peter’s house, arms outstretched, shouting my name over and over: “Jude! Jude! Jude!” Embracing me shamelessly, as I met her in the field, she then whispered close to my ear, “I love Jesus. Next to Him, I love you most in the world!” I couldn’t have heard a more joyous message. Along with the Holy Ghost, she would bring me comfort in my travels. Glancing briefly in the direction of Ibrim’s camp, I turned back to her, kissed her boldly on the lips, and murmured, “If only we could be like other people again, I would make you my wife, but you, Mary Magdalene, are married to Christ. I too am bound to Him. We met at the wrong time and the wrong age, and yet what happened to us is so right. Serving the Risen Christ, we’re no longer masters of our fate. There’s no detours in the road, Mary—not for us, only His will. That force greater than us takes me away, and yet I’m at peace. I know you are too. Our love was finally spoken. I will take it with me into the desert, into the wilderness, and everywhere I go. Knowing this will make me stronger and less afraid of death. I’m loved by Mary Magdalene, whom Jesus praised and blessed. That’s enough for me!”

With that said, I pivoted and began my journey into the great southern wilderness few Jews dare travel. With only my pack and the clothes that I wore, I was going into the unknown, more so than any time in my life. Even the Romans, with all their might, feared this region. For all my fine, noble thoughts, I fought a wave of hysteria as I approached Ibrim’s camp, wondering whether or not I would ever see Mary, Peter, and Bartholomew again.

Chapter Sixty

Apostle of Arabia

For the second time in my life, I was in the company of desert nomads. The last time I entered the desert like this I was a prisoner of thieves and cutthroats and barely escaped with my life. This time, I may very well be in the company of such men, but I was with a friend. Despite this reassurance, I was glad Micah was with Ashira and wouldn’t suffer my fate. The Lord was using a pagan and quite possibly a bandit to spread the word. Seen this way, if I was thinking like a Greek, Ibrim and I were both agents on behalf of the Lord, who was the primary mover or first cause. Of course, the Lord was much more than this. Though I clearly understood what I was doing as being God’s will, Ibrim, also moved by God, was, on a conscious level, likely acting on a whim. After all he was a Gentile, not too fond of our demanding religion, and he thought of Jesus as another god. In the final analysis it didn’t matter. I was on my first unaccompanied mission, a ministry that, with the Lord’s guidance, left me totally alone. Here I was on a camel in the Arabian wilderness surrounded by nomads, who probably recently and, judging by the animals in the parade, during this very venture, raided a caravan. Though Ibrim, who considered himself to my friend, was amiable enough, the other members of his band had that wild, uncivilized look I once saw in the desert nomads who held me hostage. The procession of camels and stolen livestock looked very similar to what I saw in that earlier time. While Ibrim’s two sons ran amuck each time we made camp, swinging small wooden swords in practice for the days they became bandit themselves, his three wives were quiet, submissive creatures, their faces hidden behind veils. The other women, undoubtedly concubines, were either captured or purchased from slave-dealers. The remaining men walking on foot, either slaves or servants, acted as shepherds for the contraband horses, mules, and goats.

With my Galilean clothes, I might have looked out of place in this group. Much more different for me than my outward appearance when compared to them was my perspective of the world, which I share with other peoples. It was difficult for civilized men to comprehend the free-roaming bandits’ minds. The Pax Romana of the Empire had well defined boundaries with garrisons to protect villages and towns. With the exception of highwaymen here and there, the Romans had made the roads safe for travelers, too. Criminals and general troublemakers were ruthlessly punished, often crucified. All religions and cultures were respected equally, even my troublesome sect. For Ibrim and his men, who had no respect for Roman law, there were no boundaries. If they were like other desert nomads, they viewed other peoples as a potential source of wealth. In my travels and during my captivity I had seen this pattern for most nomads. That Ibrim’s procession exhibited this pattern was troubling, and yet I kept hoping I was wrong and this particular band of nomads was an exception. Perhaps, I reasoned, as we approached a distant oasis, Ibrim had, in fact, earned his wealth as a merchant, not as bandit king like Barabbas…. But the closer we came to the rag-tag conglomeration of tents and scrabbled together huts within the oasis of palms, myrtles, and acacias, the more I was reminded how different this community was from the villages and towns of Galilee and Judea. I could see, as if for my benefit as an eyewitness, men sorting through piles of colorful capes, gowns, and turbans, while other men appeared to be haggling with a merchant, about items on a large oak table, which was out of place in such a setting.

My worst fears then materialized those moments as we entered the desert community and I witnessed the proceedings of a slave auction, an experience I had suffered as a slave myself. I had been rescued by a merchant Pharisee, but in this remote outpost there would be no rescue for the naked women, children, and men on the platform. Though aware of my uncertain position, I could no longer hold my tongue. Turning my camel—a most difficult feat with such stubborn beasts, I searched the procession for Ibrim, who recently dismounted and climbed into his coach.

“Ibrim! Ibrim!” I called into his cab. “You know what I had gone through: the slave auction and my captivity. You must know I don’t approve of this. Those naked people on the platform are part of your contraband, the items stolen from merchants and travelers, many of whom were slain or turned into slaves!”

“Yes, yes.” He waved a bejeweled hand. “It’s not this bunch that concerns you. I’m weary about all this, myself. Some of my people witnessed wondrous things in your land. I’m dying, Jude. A Hebrew healer, we captured, told me my days are numbered. Soon I will be no more. My gods have failed me. I think they have failed my people too.”

I was taken back and speechless a moment. “…. What? What are you saying?” I asked, teetering on my camel. “All this—my coming to this godforsaken land—is because you’re dying? I could have healed you back in my town. All men must die, Ibrim. After what I’ve seen, I’m not certain you deserve to live!”

“Oh, it’s not just for me that I live,” he explained calmly. “It’s for my family—my wife, children, brothers, and uncle Hassan, my servants, and even my slaves.” “Besides,” he added almost off-handedly, “I want them to know your new god. Before he died, the Hebrew told us your Jesus raised a man from the dead!”

Climbing awkwardly off my camel, I scrambled into his coach.

“Did you murder him?” I asked accusingly. “Tell me the truth. How did he die?”

“I’m sorry,” Ibrim replied, shrugging his shoulders, “he tried to escape. My men killed him.”

As if that was but a trifling manner, he gazed lazily out the window and shook his head.

“…. I remember you telling us about your vengeful god,” he replied finally. “He let your warriors wipe out many nations: women, men, children, even animals. Worse than this, except for one family and a boatload of animals, he once drowned the whole world. What I have done is nothing compared to what your first god did. The Hebrew didn’t deny this, but he told us about the new god Jesus, who did wondrous deeds.”

“He’s not a new god,” I said, looking at him in disbelief. “How is it, after listening to that poor man, you don’t understand this? I won’t confuse you with the details, especially if you couldn’t comprehend that, but I can tell you that Yahweh, the Hebrew god, and Jesus, the Christ, are father and son. You must accept them both equally to be a true believer. It’s not up to us to question God.”

“Very well.” Ibrim sighed, twirling his fingers. “I also accept him. All right? What do I do to become a believer?”

“You must simply believe,” I explained, recalling the simple formula. “To begin with, Jesus would frown upon what you’re doing here and how you’re living your life. In order to be saved, you must give up your old life, promise to sin no more, and accept him as the Christ and savior, who will bring you eternal life.”

“Eternal life?” pondered Ibrim. “…We have hundreds of gods and goddesses—more than the Egyptians, but little is said of heaven. Tell me about this place.”

“It’s a beautiful land,” I searched for words, “… a kingdom of peace and happiness; that’s all I know. It’s beyond mortal words!”

“Humph,” he pursed his lips, “when the Hebrew told us about your religion, he said the same thing. I thought you, Jesus’ brother, might know. I can’t imagine a heaven without wine, women, and fine horses.”

I studied him a moment. Ibrim wasn’t teasing; he was serious. He had once heard me talk about my faith when we rode together, but my words had evidently not sunk in. I was amazed and alarmed at his ignorance.

“Your words about heaven are troubling,” I finally replied. “Did you even know the Hebrew’s name?”

“I think it was Hammid or Himmid—something like that,” he answered, scratching his beard.

The death of the Jew, whom he referred to as a Hebrew, was unimportant to Ibrim. He had more important matters on his mind. As I considered his expression, I detected what I hadn’t noticed before. As he sat on his camel back in Galilee I failed to see the signs. I also missed them when Peter, Mark, Bartholomew, and I sat with him in his tent. My mind had been in turmoil. There had been too many distractions. Now as Ibrim sat in his coach, with sunlight streaming through the window, I could see rings under his eyes, an ashen, unhealthy pallor in his face, and a faint palsy in his hands. The malady affecting him, whatever it was, had made him question his mortality, absorbing his attention. I believed he wanted me to preach to his family and relatives, but that was secondary to what he wanted me to personally do for him. Like the other apostles and disciples, I had been given the gift of healing. I could use it on Ibrim, as I had done on Nicodemus and many others, but Jesus once warned us not to abuse this gift. Eternal life should be the goal, he told us, not earthly immortality and to simply oblige the supplicant. No one lived in this world forever. It was the next life, the Kingdom of Heaven, that mattered. By his own words, Ibrim was not only profoundly ignorant of the new religion; he clearly didn’t understand his sins. My main purpose for being with him today was to make him well, not save his soul.

Who was this man? I wondered bleakly. I thought I knew Ibrim, but the person next to me in the coach was a stranger to me. I had known many Gentiles, but very few barbarians. The bandits who once captured me and turned me into a slave had been barbarians, but the Romans I rode with, though Gentiles, had been civilized and were basically decent men. Ibrim, who had been their scout, had also appeared, in spite of his rough mannerisms, enlightened and civilized. Though he said little about his homeland and people in Arabia, Ibrim had been clear about his family in Galilee, who were farmers and herdsmen and lived in a village, not a tent community, which indicated that he came from peaceful roots, not unlike other Galilean and Judean folk. What turned him and made him revert to his barbarian roots? Was it simply temptation, the same enticement as Barabbas and all bandit leaders? What I saw through the window before we emerged from his coach was the work not merely of barbarians but savages. The number of slaves and the mounds of merchandise indicated to me that there had been in Ibrim’s career a recent attack on a caravan. Unless Ibrim purchased them in Galilee or Judea, the beasts I saw in our procession must also have been obtained this way. I could just imagine the many men, even women, left dead in the desert after such raids.

After emerging from the coach and following him into his tent, I could scarcely speak. What I really wanted to do now was pray, wave my hands, and change those dreadful scenes I saw in the camp. There were even children at the slave auction. The poor people being bartered to merchants were treated no better than the animals being sold. Inside Ibrim’s sumptuous tent, which was filled with stolen furniture and all sorts of expensive-looking knickknacks and shiny objects, I was led to what was obviously a throne room. Sitting despairingly on the finely carved chair, he looked down at me, exhaled deeply, and then, clapping his hands, called for food and wine.

“Soon we’ll eat.” He smiled weakly. “My wives, children, and relatives will be brought here soon.”

“You should be lying down.” I suggested, feeling ill myself.

Despite Peter’s blessing on this enterprise, I sorely regretted letting Ibrim talk me into it. It occurred to me, judging by the telltale signs, that he might drop dead any moment. He was deathly pale, breathing heavily, and he could scarcely hold up his head.

“I haven’t much time, Jude,” his voice came out thinly. “…Hurry, no more talk. Give me your magic before it’s too late.”

“You!” I shouted at a guard standing by the entrance of the tent. “Give me a hand. Your leader must take to his bed.”

At first, the guard frowned at me, but then, as he looked over at his leader, reacted quickly as he witnessed Ibrim teetering in his chair. A second guard, and then a third, appeared as we ushered him to his bed in the far corner of the tent. As he collapsed on the great silken covered bed (likely contraband from a raid), he groaned feverishly and closed his eyes.

Just that moment, as his wives, children, and relatives were being escorted into the tent, servants were bringing food in and placing it on a table, which was the same piece of furniture used in Capernaum. Though I hadn’t eaten since our lunch in the desert, I was revolted and just wanted to escape. With absolutely nowhere else to go, this was, of course, an irrational desire. Once again in my life I was among savage people, but this time, ironically, I was in no danger, unless I displeased my host. At this stage my host appeared to be unconscious. Though he had been acting irrational just now, Ibrim had been expecting me to wave my hands and cure him. Looking searchingly at me, as the bandit leader lie stricken in his bed, I could almost read the guards’ minds. When one of them spoke in his barbarous tongue, it seemed as if he was saying, “Well, don’t just stand there, make him well!” The logic seemed plan to me. In order to minister to his family, relatives, and, I hoped, the other tribal members and slaves, I must do just that.”

Closing my eyes and clasping my hands reverently, I prayed aloud: “Forgive me Lord. I know this man doesn’t deserve your mercy. He’s done terrible things, and yet he’s unrepentant. He doesn’t even believe. But to spread your word here and save my own neck, I must get this out of the way. I have to use my gift so he won’t die. So Lord, if it be your will, make Ibrim whole again. More importantly, open his heart and make him understand the path to salvation. Then, if possible, hasten my departure from this dreadful place, so I can return to Galilee and my friends.”

As I waited for the miracle to occur, I regretted the last request. I shouldn’t have asked for escape. This was my mission—the first such venture to be accomplished on my own. By now everyone in the tent—family, friends, guards, servants, and slaves—were hovering over the sick bed, waiting for Ibrim to come to. If I failed, I was a dead man. The very thought, as Ibrim lie so still, threw me into a panic. Again one of the guards jabbered at me, as if to say, “What’s wrong, sorcerer? Why doesn’t he open his eyes?”

“Lord,” I cried out, “please don’t fail me. They’ll cut off my head!”

And then it happened—an event that changed everything. Ibrim’s eyelids fluttered, he looked up with wide, fearful eyes, and screamed, “Don’t let the Jinn take me! I have done much evil. Please Hubal and Abgal, forgive me for killing men and stealing their wives. The Hebrew god has done much worse!”

Looking down at Ibrim with mixed emotions, I muttered a prayer of thanksgiving. “He still doesn’t understand,” I said aloud. “This is going to take a lot of work!”

Muttering in their barbarous tongue, the women hugged me happily. I couldn’t see his wives’ faces, which were hidden by veils, but the children smiled with great joy. A look of great awe on the faces of the guards, servants, and slaves was the greatest measure of the Lord’s and my success. Let them think I’m a sorcerer, I thought, flooded with relief. I would use this notion to break through their thick, barbarian minds.

******

Ibrim would remain in a delirious state for several days. It wasn’t the most convincing healing I had accomplished, and yet I was treated with the greatest hospitality after that hour. The ignorant nomads looking down at their leader might have thought he was dead at first. It didn’t matter to them that he had, in his delirium, called out to his pagan gods. His miraculous recovery had followed my prayer and wouldn’t have happened at all if Ibrim hadn’t brought me here.

My appetite returned to me that very day. Avoiding the pork, fried scorpions, and other forbidden delicacies, I found the fowl, pickled fish, and breads palatable, and drank heavily of the Falernian wine. I remember sitting around the table discussing my faith to them, knowing full well, they didn’t comprehend, as Ibrim lie there, listening to my sermon from his bed. Very soon, I hoped, he would be up and about, acting as an interpreter to my audience. I was encouraged that not only his family and relatives had witnessed the healing. Because there were guards, servants, and domestic slaves present, I would insist that they also hear my message, and if I could speak out in the open, my voice could reach those poor men, women, and children on the auction block too. That night, as I tumbled into a feathered bed issued to me, I had great hopes for this mission—a complete turnabout in my previous attitude when all I wanted to do was escape.

When I awakened the next morning, I was in a helpless state after drinking so much wine. It took a while to recover from my foolishness. At first I didn’t remember where I was. Was this a dream? I wondered, gazing around the room. “Where was I? Who were those strange women on each side of me?” Indeed, I found myself in a groggy, blurry-eyed state, surrounded by four, lovely creatures, undoubtedly slaves. They were half-naked; their faces were unveiled, painted like Syrian whores. Cooing and fondling me as if I was their playmate were a blond Amazon, two black women, and a small woman with slanted eyes. Ibrim or one of his guards must have sent them to me as a reward for my services. Also as a reward for me was the silken gown I awakened in, a multicolored outfit I had seen on eastern magistrates. A gold-threaded turban, which probably belonged to the same unfortunate man, had been pulled down to my ears, and silvery, pearl studded slippers had been placed on my feet. Laughing hysterically, I recoiled from the half-naked women, and staggered from the bed.

“Whoa!” I cried. “This is some dream!” “Get thee behind me, Satan!” I quoted Jesus’ words.

Apparently, conditioned by my service to the Lord, I was, even in a supposed dream state, incorruptible. Soon, however, I realized I was awake. This wasn’t an erotic dream. Looking around the interior of the tent, I saw men and women lying everywhere—drunks who had passed out like myself. Intertwined with slaves and whatever free women existed in this male dominated tribe, were the guards, relatives, and Ibrim’s friends. Ibrim, who I assumed was still bed-ridden, was nowhere in sight. Using seafaring terms, there was no one at the helm. There was simply no logical order to this society. With the exception of the men, women, and children who had been on the auction block, the entire camp was probably in a drunken state. Mumbling my apologies to the four women, who were also quite drunk, I stumbled forward in my ridiculous outfit. The first thing I had the presence of mind doing was search for Ibrim, who most likely had been celebrating too. Through a goatskin corridor attached to the main quarters, into a smaller tent, I stepped over bodies and strewn merchandise. After succumbing to drink, there must have been a dozen or more women, likely members of Ibrim’s harem, lying next to or on top of men. All of them were half or fully naked where they collapsed. In addition to drunken people, wineskins, scraps of food, and discarded clothes, pools of vomit glistened on the floor. To my dismay, as I sidestepped these horrors, wedged between two blond-haired beauties similar to the Amazon in my bed, Ibrim appeared to be unconscious again, maybe even dead, until I bent over to smell his breath.

“Dear Jesus,” I gripped my forehead. “This man was gravely ill. You people plied him with wine?”

A guard lying on the floor nearby, grunted, “Eazim sahir!”, which, I would one day learn, meant ‘Great wizard!’

“Fool!” I cursed Ibrim. “Stupid fool!”

Added to my nausea because of overindulgence, was the odor of wine mingling with vomit and stale food. I had to get out of the tent quickly. I needed fresh air and an immediate change of scenery. Mostly I needed to purge. When I emerged into the morning sunlight, I was almost blinded. Bending over quickly, I let go a stream of vomit onto the ground. Then holding up my gown to prevent myself from tripping, I stepped gingerly in my slippers, feeling conspicuous and idiotic. Fortunately for me, it was still morning. The full heat of the day hadn’t fallen upon the desert or I would be baking in my clothes. I should never have gotten myself so intoxicated, I muttered miserably. What sort of example had I set? Here I was in a foreign land, among an uncouth, barbarous people, who thought I was a wizard or sorcerer. Except for Ibrim, whose cure seemed proof to them of my power, no one spoke my language. I was aware that these people, who were similar to the Nabataeans in the northern desert, were descendents of Ishmael, and, as such, were cousins of the Hebrews, but this tribe was nothing like my family’s neighbors in Nazareth or, for that matter, the Ibrim I once knew. Ibrim was supposed to be my interpreter. How could I even communicate with this bunch in order preach the word if he was out cold?

Between the other tents and piles of loot here and there, I stumbled forward, praying feverishly for greater wisdom and deliverance from my plight. When I arrived at the outskirts of the tent community, there was a great empty space were the slave auction had been. I could see in the distance, through a chimera of heat rising off of the sand, a merchant caravan with numerous slave wagons tethered to oxen, its own force of guards and servants ambling along on camels heading north back into parts unknown. A great sadness filled me for the poor wretches in those cages. Men, women, and children had been stolen from their lives and turned into slaves, because of these savages. Soon, as I stood there on the edge of the oasis, the great caravan disappeared over a distant hill.

Staring into the empty spaces, I shouted hoarsely, “Lord, how can you let this happen? I thought things would be different now that you’re here, but we have the same injustices and misery as before. What did those people do to deserve such an end? Those merchants will turn them into concubines, gladiators, catamites, and chattels—all because they were captured by these animals. I have had experience with these kinds of men. This happened to me. You know this! I was deserted by God, too, when you abandoned me, but isn’t this a new age? Aren’t you also the Christ—the Lord of mercy? Those slaves have no futures. They might as well be dead. Why have you brought me here to this dreadful place? They’re savages? They think I’m a sorcerer? What purpose do I serve? Am I to preach salvation to these lost souls?”

“No! No!” I answered myself, delirious with frustration and anger. “This time you’ve made a mistake!”

Then, as I looked back at the horizon, distant specks appeared where the caravan had been—three riders astride camels moving toward me, their dark silhouettes rippling as a mirage in the rising heat. Stepping out from rim of the oasis, shielding my eyes from the sun, I found my feet sinking into sand as I walked into the desert. I wondered who these visitors might be. Were they unwary travelers seeking shelter in the oasis or were they merely a trio of nomads returning with a scouting report for a future raid. This seemed reasonable to me. I remembered my onetime captors attacking merchant bands after we had made camp. On the other hand, I hoped it wasn’t innocent wayfarers stumbling into this nest of thieves. As they approached, my last assumption grew. Even from afar, I could see that these were no ordinary travelers. All three of them wore the gowns, robes, and turbans of rich potentates. Though it was a frivolous thought, I recalled my parents telling my brothers and sisters and I about the three magi visiting the manger where Jesus was born. Such men would be ripe picking for members of Ibrim’s band if they were up and about.

As they trotted closer and closer, I waved my arms excitedly. “You mustn’t be here!” I warned them. “You’ve stumbled into a den of murderers and thieves. It’s too late for me, but not for you. There’s another oasis not far from here. I saw it on the way south. Go! Save yourselves!”

I repeated my warning, but they continued moving toward me, until they were a mere five or six cubits away. These were not ordinary men. They made no introductions nor, in my frame of mind, did I introduce myself.

The rider on the left spoke first, saying: “Fear not, the Lord is with you. In the bowels of evil even, He abides!”

“Don’t lose heart,” the middle rider said cordially, “you’re here for a purpose: to bring salvation to the lost children of Arabia—the Ishmaelites.”

“Your road has just begin!” exclaimed the third rider. “Further south to Saba are more children of Ishmael, their kinsmen. When you return to Ibrim’s people, be patient, for you will speak their tongue.”

“The Lord has given you this gift,” the first rider explained. “Wherever you go, the Holy Ghost will be in your mouth. The Lord will be in your heart and mind.”

“All will be well, Jude,” promised the middle rider. “The Lord has heard your prayers. Pray for the lost children. You’re their apostle! This is your mission, Jude, brother of Christ. You can’t go back. Stay true to your path. Remain steadfast in the Lord!”

“No!” I cried, dropping to my knees. “You can’t ask this of me! What about my family, friends, the apostles, disciples, and Mary Magdalene? You’re saying I can never go back?”

Hearing a voice from behind me call out my name, I whirled around, expecting one of Ibrim’s guards, but there was no one there. It was, I realized, Jesus’ voice, saying very simply, “Jude! Jude! Stay the course!” When I glanced back at where the angels sat on their camels, I saw only vacant sand. Though I had heard Jesus’ voice afterwards, his angels had, as when he ascended into heaven, given the message. At first this struck me as strange. Why hadn’t Jesus told me himself? Why had he sent intermediaries, as he had at his ascension and like the angels who spoke to the patriarchs who didn’t have an advocate such as the Christ? If he was sent as an advocate for mankind, why had he send angels to speak for him again? Then I remembered Jesus saying that we wouldn’t see him again until we entered the Kingdom. Despite this promise, he, in fact, spoke to me from the Kingdom—a voice out of the clear, cloudless sky.

Suddenly, I felt remorse for my weakness. Burying my face in my hands, I wept. “I’m sorry, Lord Jesus.” I sobbed. “…Why am I here among these heathens? I promised I would return to Galilee. Will I die in this forsaken land?”

“Go!” The voice came once more into my head.

Driven against doubts was a force greater than my nature. I had been moved by these profound moments, and yet I felt marooned in this hellish place, a castaway from my people and those I loved.

******

When I re-entered the main tent, the drunken merry-makers were still lying here and there on the floor, only a few able to sit up and stair stupidly around the tent, but Ibrim had left his den of iniquity and staggered back to his bed, a worried look on his face. The Holy Ghost filled me that moment.

“….Wherrr werrrr-youu?” He asked in a slurred voice.

“Lie down, Ibrim,” I said, pointing to the bed. “You’re on the mend.”

“I’m fine” he frowned. “Your god cured me. I’m just drunk!”

“Pay attention. I want you to comprehend this,” I said solemnly, guiding him back into his bed. “Thus sayeth the Lord.” I shouted down at him. “You will change your life Ibrim, because next time when you fall ill, you’ll die. There’s no second chance. You could’ve been a force of good in your life, but you chose darkness. You have led your people into sin and error. That’s over. Your life belongs to the Lord!”

After my encounter with the angels of the Lord, I had been, in spite of my regrets, humbled. Now, in the tent of this bandit leader, I was emboldened. I would not tolerate Ibrim’s deplorable attitude and ignorance. I had been, as Moses once was, in a strange land, surrounded by an alien, treacherous people, but that was then. This was now. I had been given orders from the angels of the Lord, then Jesus in heaven, and had, afterwards, been strengthened by the Holy Ghost. Recalling my new gift from the Lord, my spirit was bolstered, as I contemplated the time when these people would be awake and heard me speak their tongue. I would be their apostle. One of the three angels said we would travel south to Saba, not north back to Judea and Galilee. I would be far away from the people and land I knew and understood. Nevertheless, as the Lord’s voice, I would, in the presence of Ibrim’s band, give the lost children of Arabia the word, converting them from their barbarous ways, staying the course set for me by the Lord.

The End

Chapter Eighteen Bethlehem 208

Chapter Nineteen Judas Iscariot 214

Part Two Harvest Of Souls 217

The Favorite Son

The Wedding at Cana

Samaria

Nazareth

Return to Cana

Another Harvest

Feeding The Four Thousand

The House of Lazarus

Sermon In Bethany

Return To Capernaum: The Ecclesia