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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 to give us 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,” said Mama, slamming down her fist, “trouble! From what I’ve heard so far, it’s a new religion. Those priests 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 decrease.’”

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 their behalf. “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, and 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 her painful ordeal 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, might 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. My brothers, sisters, and I slept fitfully that night, fearful that our lives would never be the same. Mama, however, for the first time in weeks, had fallen quickly asleep 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 such 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 all 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 a friend of 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 affect 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, he insisted, a complete waste of time.

Nothing could change her mind, however: not arguments against the dangers, its discomfort, health risks, or the sheer foolishness of the enterprise; not even the plain fact that Jesus had made up his mind. When the mule owner 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 saddlebags 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 the mule owner’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 if 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 coming along too.”

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

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; we would be safe in their company. 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 by these men 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 might 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, and 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 Roman miles, 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. 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 here. 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. “Who is Jesus?” we heard him muse. “…That’s a good question.” At this stage, even these men, who heard Jesus relate his first story, didn’t know. I felt light-headed again, my thoughts scattered, as if I had just drunk a large cup of wine. “He hasn’t said who he is,” Cleopas answered slowly. “Strangely enough it was Satan who named him, by calling him the Son of God…. Jesus makes no such claim. He’s 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…. Someday, perhaps, that will change.”

“Alas, my friends, we lack Peter’s, John’s, and James’ courage. Our trip to bring Jude to Capernaum was our contribution,” Cleopas explained wistfully. “You have altered our mission,” he added, looking at Mama and then each of my siblings, “Your son and your brother won’t be pleased that 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, 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 for a while 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 bedrolls. Despite my weariness, sleep escaped me 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 played children’s game like us. I’ve seen him angry and moody—human emotions, and yet I’ve seen his eyes blaze as if from inner light. In contrast to his human side, was the fact we had never seen Jesus sick. He had never been mean spirited or told a lie. In fact, my oldest brother had, to the best of my knowledge, never sinned. 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. Yet it wasn’t merely his miracles or words that made him so special; it was his blameless and pious nature. How could anyone, man or woman, remain unblemished and apart from the world. Having passed the test of temptation in the wilderness, into such a world in all its pitfalls, Jesus had come after answering the Baptist’s call: the Promised One, the Savior, who John believed brought salvation to the world. Just what did those fine words really mean? I asked myself, shaken by this thought. How could a footloose vagabond such as myself fit into Jesus schemes? The very thought filled me anxiety and dread. 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?

After tossing and turning for hours, I fell into a fitful sleep. Dark images played in my dreams. 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, 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 her 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, and 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, which I would grow attached to just as I before.

“Onward to Capernaum!” Cleopas pointed his sword.

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 following led to Golgotha. I know this now. Blissfully, though, 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, under normal circumstances, have arrived 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 had 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?’ he 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 chortled, 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 him 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 coincidence, 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. The Bartholomew we knew wasn’t young when we 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. Nevertheless, 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. Perhaps I shouldn’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’s 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.”

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