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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 but said nothing. 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 stranger 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 out 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 Joseph’s 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…. Unbeknown to us, something incredible would happen during the festivities in Cana.

******

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 whitewashed 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 fine 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 heads were covered, her long chestnut colored hair hung wildly around her oval face. Two blue-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 be 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, 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 hand a gentle 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, eyeing us with distaste. 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. Against 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, Mama asked tactlessly, “What happened to that young girl—what was her name?”

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

The manner in which she referred to Ada, the bride, indicated that she obviously hadn’t 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 our 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. “You have quite a family. Ada’s father was a friend of Joseph. 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. “…. With that troublesome father and daughter to take care of, he makes a pittance in his leather shop, struggling to make ends meet, and, thanks to me, Ada has caused him nothing but grief.”

“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 discuss Abner’s dilemma. According to the rabbi, Abner had done his best to take care of Ada and his father. Now wine had gotten the best of him. His father wasn’t taken care of properly now that he was always drunk. Ada had been no help. Rarely was there enough food in the house, and the roof of their small house needed repairs. When the marriage was official, he would make sure that he and Ada’s grandfather were taken care of adequately. The roof would be repaired and he would make sure they had enough food. Abner was a common enough name, and yet it seemed somehow significant to me. 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 is 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 mad. That’s why Abner’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 from Jethro 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, 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 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 her indiscretion.

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

“I try not to,” Simon murmured. “You’re 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 Egyptians 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.”

“No matter,” Boaz replied dismissively, emitting a belch. “What does Jesus care about such things? He’s above we mortals!” “Hah!” he prattled on tipsily “Thanks to Joram, you’ll meet tonight, the people of Cana know your son’s name. Joram carries much weight in our town, Mary. He believes, like that crazy Baptist, that Jesus is a great prophet and the kingdom of God’s near. Ho-ho—what nonsense! 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?”

“I heard something,” 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. The babe being christened that day, however, was the son of a carpenter, not a great prince, who will arrive in a chariot to smite our oppressors, as we believe. The infant Simeon singled out for greatness was of humble origins, with poor parent who lived in Nazareth, like Cana, a small town, and yet he claimed that their child was the heir of David, his direct ancestor, the one we had been waiting for. Despite our efforts to change his mind, this is what he believes. Unfortunately for Simeon, Israel wasn’t delivered from the Romans. Nothing came of his vision. The Promised One did not arrive. Nevertheless, he told me that when he met Jesus one day, he would find peace—in other words die. We couldn’t talk him out of this nonsense, but he was stubborn. He became depressed after so many years, drank heavily, growing addled in the head. Abner, his son, saddled with such a father and a strong-willed daughter also became drunk. After what that crazy Baptist said about Jesus, we expected Simeon to live up to the promise he made to Jesus’ mother. Instead of him dying, though, almost everyone in his family were taken by a fever. Abner, his only surviving son, and Abner’s wife had also been taken, leaving Abner to take care of his daughter and addled father. Even now, Simeon wants to meet the Chosen One. Perhaps that’s why he’s still alive. 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. His son, also a drunkard, believes some of Simeon’s blitherings. He appears addled too. Is it any wonder Ada is a wild, flighty thing? Of all the promising maidens in this town, Boaz, my foolish son, took a fancy to her, perhaps for that same reason. The fool got Ada pregnant,” “and here we are,” he concluded, spreading his palms, “our one hope, as Joram believes, in Jesus—by the say-so of a man, who wears goat skins and eats locusts—a desert hermit, who, like Simeon and Abner, is addled in the head. Joram, our kinsmen, told us John called Jesus the Chosen one, but Joram and many of his followers are confused on this issue. What exactly did John mean when he singled Jesus out? Is he a great prophet like Elijah, coming back as Israel’s savior? …. Or is he something else? Joram, who, after being in the desert for so long seems slightly mad, himself, is unclear on this. Yet he’s quite confident that Jesus can make things right.”

Mama had a troubled look on her face.

“Sir,” I interrupted his thoughts…. We’ve heard all that. That still doesn’t answer our question. Why do you need Jesus? You obviously don’t believe John’s or Joram’s claim. You think that everyone who believes John’s claim is mad. Yet 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 protect Ada and make them forget what they know? Is that what you believe?”

“Oh, that’s not all I’ve heard about this Jesus,” Boaz cut in. “Please understand that my father, for all his skepticism, once looked up to Simeon. But Simeon wasn’t the only townsman to tell us tall tales. One day Menachem, son of Gabriel, a wealthy elder, visited Nazareth to pick up several pieces of furniture for his father from Joseph bar Jacob,” “your father and your husband,” he added, looking at each of us.”

“Menachem was my childhood friend,” Boaz sighed. “His death from the fever was a great blow to me. Before he died, however, he told me something even more extraordinary than what Simeon said. It was so strange I never told a soul, not even my father. Menachem 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 I laughed at him. He 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,” Menachem admitted sadly. Despite what he told me, he, like myself, believed the age of miracles died with Elijah. Simeon 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.”

“All this time,” Jethro muttered, “you kept this to yourself…. Jesus, a miracle worker? How very much strange.”

“…. Miracles, who can say?” Boaz stared into space. “Simeon, who believes Jesus is some sort of demigod, believed my friend. Was it all idle gossip? Why would intelligent men make up such tales? The story Simeon related to us about Jesus visit to the temple as a child was hard for my father to believe, but it gave him pause.”

“Yes.” Jethro’s eyes widened. “John might be crazy, but he discovered this prodigy. I give him credit for that. From what I’ve heard about Jesus he’s no ordinary man.” “It appears,” he searched for words, “….that he has power. All that other stuff we heard might be nonsense but what happened at the river is proof of this. According to our kinsmen Joram, 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 kinsmen, we sent word immediately. Our wedding in Cana must not be marred by hecklers. Worse, Ada, Abner’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 old friend. I don’t blame Abner for being a drunk. There was a day in our history when both Boaz and Ada would 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 her house 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 go 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…. 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’s or Menachem’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 brought a fresh table of fruit, cheese, bread, and wine, as the men 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, who probably knew better, 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. Very likely, outside the house were townsmen itching to stone Ada if the opportunity arose. Even Mama was having second thoughts now. My siblings were irritated with her for insisting on this enterprise in the first place. Though Jesus, who singled me out, had invited the rest of his family along, she had encouraged it, grumbled James and Joseph. They 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 weren’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. Because of Ida, her father, Abner, and her grandfather weren’t 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’s 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 father and grandfather are drunks. 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 own 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, her father, and her grandfather. Your home is her sanctuary, Jethro. Simeon is an old man, who needs rest. You must welcome the three of them into 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 replied.

“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 Abner’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, “Abner, 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.

“Abner! Simeon!” Jesus shouted.

“Jesus,” Jethro objected, “Abner is probably drunk. Simeon’s insane.”

“Not so,” Jesus replied, rapping more vigorously on the door. “Like muddy water, Simeon’s 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. Abner is his son.”

“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. Her father was nowhere in sight. 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 Abner 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 at 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, which 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. Abner appeared suddenly in our midst, after leaving his shop, slightly tipsy but sobered by his fear. After introducing himself, he fell in step with us, patting his father’s shoulder and taking his daughter’s hand.

All three members of Abner’s household were now present. Humbled or fearful by the events of today, the rabbi was now an excellent host. Though friends with Abner and Simeon, he must have found Simeon and Ida’s presence polluting to his house, and yet he went out of his way to show them common hospitality, which included providing them with new garments to replace their soiled clothes. 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 blue-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. Abner, embarrassed by the attention, had been given one of Boaz’s togas and Simeon, 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, Abner, 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.”

“Simeon and I will have a long talk after dinner,” he replied. “It’s been a long journey for him. Tonight he will find peace.”

“Does that mean Simeon’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 Messiah to come. His patience waned. His fortunes likewise diminished. He lost his wife and most of children, took to drink, and became a burden to Abner, his son. Because Abner’s wife also died, Abner was left to care for an unruly daughter, too. When doubts and frustration set in, eating at his soul, Simeon appeared to others to be mad. Dealing with this man, Abner also turned to drink, practically leaving Ida to raise herself. Both men need healing, but Simeon needs it the most.”

“I shall speak with them,” he added thoughtfully. “Please don’t speak of this again. 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 or his son, Jude. When Abner sees his renewed spirit he’ll give up wine. Simeon will find peace…. All of you will find peace. Peace doesn’t mean death.”

We 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 we were 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 Lamb of God; the Baptist used that word. Simeon called him a light to Israel and the Gentiles. And yet John’s claim that Jesus was the Chosen and Promised One can be symbolized by light. If the temple blessing, the Baptist’s declaration, and Jesus own words meant anything, Simeon’s prophecy about Jesus 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. Abner was greatly encouraged. After talking to Abner for a spell, Jesus quietly talked to Simeon several times. After each session, the old man’s attitude continued to improve, until, on the morning of the wedding day, he was, Abner declared happily, his old self again. I wonder now if Jesus swore Simeon to secrecy, as he had me. I sensed even then, after watching Jesus chat discreetly with him that Simeon knew more than me, perhaps more than his own son. Simeon was filled with illumination, a lamp whose light grew progressively with Jesus’ friendship, but he made no announcements as he once did 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 mostly 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. 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. Ada’s house was dilapidated abode. 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, 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 my memory of weddings in the past that I compared with this celebration, I found myself drinking heavy that night. Of course, as I 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, our 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 irritation. “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 eye lashes. “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.

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