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Chapter Nine

Aenon

Our trek to Aenon, which I hoped would be the last we would see of Samaria proved to be eventful. It seemed as though the closer we came to the Galilean border the better our prospects became. Far from giving up in Samaria, Jesus was filled with new hope. According to him, God had promised him victory in Aenon. It would, he was certain, open the spiritual gates for the entire province. Considering who told him this, we were hesitant to argue this point. Nevertheless, there was much grumbling as Jesus took every opportunity on the way to the city of Aenon, to preach the word. Each little town or hamlet on the way to our destination was an opportunity to plant spiritual seeds as he called them. Without rivers or available wells, baptism was difficult but not impossible. At one village, whose name we never bothered to ascertain, Jesus went ahead to encounter a man, who was apparently insane. James was certain his brain had been destroyed by wine, as was the case with our uncle Joash. The man smelled of drink. He had all the signs of a drunk. He cursed and threw donkey droppings at us. We were certain he might attack Jesus. But, as he came within inches of hitting him, Jesus held up his hand and simply said, “Be silent!”

The man blinked his eyes, looked back at a small crowd gathering by a spring, and walked slowly away.

“Whoa!” Peter crowed.

“Ho-ho,” Anna cackled. “Jesus gave him the evil eye!”

“Absalom!” He called sternly.

Absalom stopped in his tracks. Turning slowly, he snarled at Jesus, yet backed away fearfully this time. Mumbling something incoherently, he held his arm over his eyes, as if the advancing Jesus was a blinding light. When Jesus was close to the man, he reached out, gripped the man’s forehead, and shouted loudly, “In the name of my Father, whose spirit I carry, depart!”

The man staggered backward, groaning, until a look of peace came over his face. Jesus repeated the command, this time adding the question, “Are you sorry for your misspent life, Absalom?”

“Yes,” Absalom nodded miserably, “I am.”

“Do you repent your sins against your family and God?” Jesus led him to the spring.

“Yes.” Absalom wept. “I do, I really do.”

“Absalom,” Jesus embraced him. “If you believe in me and my father, you shall have eternal life, but you must sin no more.”

“I’ll be good,” Absalom bobbed his head like a little child. “I’ll be good master. I surely well!”

Scooping water from the spring and splashing it on Absalom’s head, Jesus intoned solemnly, “I baptize you into a new life. You are reborn of the spirit. For your faith, I wipe away the fumes of drink that has poisoned your mind and body. Go Absalom, back to your family, and sin no more!”

The fishermen and converts clapped their hands with gladness. So impressed were the simple folk watching this scene, they came forward now, asking to be baptized too. I immediately took the cue, racing up to lend a hand. With less hesitation, Peter and Andrew lurched forward, feeling obliged to pitch in. John, who had been standing next to Deborah, followed him, as did his brother, then Philip. James more reluctantly followed our example, and then, after climbing out of his cart, Bartholomew hobbled up to wait his turn. Lastly, and quite unexpectedly, Barnabas and Marcus even volunteered, becoming the first followers outside of Jesus inner circle, to perform this rite.

As it turned out, almost the entire community promised to live new lives in order to be saved, receive the Lord’s blessing, and, if Jesus requested it, be baptized by he and his followers. To our relief Jesus would forego baptism this time. One hundred and four new followers, who would remain as witnesses, if not converts, to share the word, were left behind as we made camp that night. Though we barely had enough food for ourselves, three men and one woman from the village stayed behind. Jesus, who thought he had wrapped it up, was caught off guard. Here were four citizens who wanted to join our band. Considering their unorthodox dress, James advised Jesus against this. The men wore striped tunics with matching turbans. Unlike Jewish women, the woman in the group, who wore a yellow dress, a indecent color among conservative Jews, let her hair hang freely around her bare shoulders. Like Deborah, who wore a veil, she was quite attractive but in away James thought was scandalous. Her companions, who wore fashionable beards and kohl around their eyes, would also not be acceptable to Jews. As a group, they looked more like Gentiles. Since the other Samaritans among the other townsfolk weren’t dressed quite so stylishly, these four might just be libertines. Regardless of this, Jesus reassured us, they would only stay the night.

“In the morning,” he said looking back at them, “I’ll send them home to spread the word. We need witnesses and converts in Samaria.”

“Do they know this a permanent commitment?” asked James wryly. “Some of those people—especially that last four—act like children. Hah! One little miracle and they want to join up. They should’ve been in Cana, Jesus. Now that was a miracle!”

“I agree, Jesus,” I jumped in. “That changed everything.”

“Yes,” Jesus said morosely, “flash over substance… That’s going to be a problem.”

James and I let this figure of speech pass. One day among the masses, when his miracles surpassed in importance his words and he was known more as the miracle man than an instrument of the Lord, I would remember his words…. Flash over substance—this summed up the downside of healing the sick and bringing sight to the blind.

******

It had been an eventful day. Even James, in spite of his doubts, was pleased with the results. “We had ministered to the ritually unclean Samaritans, our traditional enemies, without being struck dead!” he said half seriously. Though he had much further to go, he had come a long way. This was true for all of us. The fishermen had given up their work as fishermen. James, who had studied long and hard with Nicodemus, was giving up a career as a scribe. Bartholomew had given up retirement and spending his last days in peace. I, on the other hand, had given up nothing. There was no better place for me to be than here with Jesus.

While he chatted with the four Samaritans and the other men sat around the fire ring discussing the events of the day, James and Bartholomew began their own discussion as I watered and fed the mule. The sun was setting over a distant hill. As I led the beast to a nearby stream where he foraged and drank his fell, the subject of Absalom was brought up. I mattered little to me that moment. If it was left to Bartholomew, I thought peevishly, the poor mule would starve and die of thirst!

“That fellow wasn’t mad,” Bartholomew declared, as he watched me work. “I’ve seen drunks before.”

“He wasn’t possessed by a demon either,” decided James. “I saw a demon-possessed man. It’s awful. They had to tie him up. He swallowed his own tongue and choked to death. That Absalom came to too quickly.’”

Bartholomew gave him a bewildered look. “Do you doubt Jesus?”

“No, of course not,” James replied defensively, “but this time I didn’t see the signs.”

“Humph!” I frowned at them. “It’s still a miracle! Until being set free, Absalom had led a dissolute life. In my travels, I’ve seen people who were purest evil. When Jesus cried out ‘depart!’ he was chasing away evil. How is that so different?”

“All right, point taken,” James replied begrudgingly, “but not everything Jesus does is a miracle! Bartholomew’s right. Absalom smelled of wine. He’s a drunk!”

I couldn’t argue with that. Nevertheless, James and I had grown up with Jesus and heard the stories he brought back from his travels. In Cana, Jesus had resisted the temptation to perform a miracle, but our mother had forced his hand. I’m sure he would have preferred not exhibiting his God-given power just to make folks believe. Ever since that first day as child, however, when he brought that dead sparrow back to life, the temptation for him must have been very great. Whether outright miracles as in Cana and Sebaste or what we saw by the spring when water seemed to miraculously appear, the power was there. If it still filled me with awe, I could just imagine how it affected the other disciples’ and the converts’ minds.

After tying the mule’s reins to the cart, I followed Bartholomew and James back to the fire. For those moment, as we sat there listening to the crackle of the flames, most of the men began bedding down for the night. I was surprised that Bartholomew, old and infirmed as he was, was still awake. Briefly, filled with old longing, I thought of Deborah lying there in the dark. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. What on earth was she doing here in this bunch? I couldn’t help wondering. She was much to fragile and feminine. What would this life do to her beauty and sensibilities? There was danger and hardship ahead of us. Would she really give up her old life for an uncertain future? For those moments, I recalled another girl in Nazareth who had stolen my heart: Tabitha. Tabitha hadn’t been fragile or really feminine. She had been a firebrand at times. That seemed to be ages ago, though. It was a life forbidden to me if I followed Jesus. Suddenly, cast away from my family and companions of the past, I felt alone and adrift on this path. It wasn’t just Deborah who was out of place, I realized. What was I doing here? I was still young, and I had a future. Did I really want to wander around the countryside ministering to rustics and rabble?

James had slipped away and joined the others in slumber. What brought me back to earth suddenly was something Bartholomew said to himself.

“I was evil too, just like Absalom…” I could hear him mutter. “I started a new life in Capernaum, repairing nets, but once I was called Reuben, a bandit, who rode with murderers—”

“Bartholomew,” I whispered self-consciously, looking around at the camp. “You must keep that to yourself. The fishermen don’t care. Even James doesn’t care. Like all of us, Jesus accepted you as you are. But the Judeans and the people we meet on the road might not understand. It’s in the past. Don’t bring that up again!”

“You and your brother forgive me?” he asked in a small voice.

“Of course,” I said, patting his knee. “Reuben’s dead. Bartholomew lives. You’re a disciple of Jesus now, Bartholomew. That’s your new life!”

******

It seems ironic that the onetime enemy of my father and family would become one of my best friends. Bartholomew bore no resemblance to his old self. If I hadn’t known about his past, I would never have guessed that this gentle, old man had been a highwayman and thief.

That night, as I had been doing since our journey began, I helped him make his pallet. The simple bodily movements of younger men were difficult for him. Because of his infirmities, he was, like Deborah and the Greek-speaking Jews, less suited for the rigors of travel, and yet he was content just to be in Jesus’ presence. Despite my misgivings at times, I felt the same way, except for one disquieting presence in our midst. It had nothing to do with Jesus or his mission either; it was much more basic. Like John, who was about my age, I was beguiled by Deborah. I had no idea what I might do with this feeling. That night, as I wrestled with temptation, I fell into a troubled sleep.

No sooner had I awakened the next morning, than I shook slumber away and climbed shakily to my feet. Looking around, I could see Jesus standing a ways from camp, as if he were standing watch. He had done this even as a child, many times gazing out the window of our father’s house, as if on guard. Now, as I studied him closely, I realized he was in prayer. Carrying our radical message from town to town we needed all the prayers we could get.

Other than Jesus, himself, who, if he slept at all, was always the first one awake, it was the first time I could remember being the first one up and about. While the camp slept, I stoked the embers, and tossed fresh limbs and branches into the fire. As the camp stirred, I looked over at Bartholomew, who I had become my responsibility. A nagging fear surfaced that one morning after his exertions the old man might not awaken. Shuddering at the thought, I walked over and studied him a moment. He was very still. I wondered if this was that morning. Hearing him snort and seeing his nose twitch, though, I sighed with relief. Was he one of Jesus miracles? I wondered then. I had no idea how old Bartholomew was now. When he was Reuben, the bandit leader and thief, he was already a middle aged man. Because I was a little child then, he must at least be in his seventies, and, yet, after enduring weeks of walking then riding in a bumpy cart, he was alive and well.

Satisfied and relieved, I glanced back a Jesus, who, waved at me, and began strolling back to camp. From Bartholomew, my eyes traveled over the sleeping hulks of my brother James and the fishermen, searching for the Jordan River converts. Always, despite my efforts to be pure of mind, as Jesus wished, I hoped to capture a glance. Deborah’s smile had that rare quality of innocence and beguilement. At times, her blue eyes had twinkled with merriment at my awkwardness, a twinge of mischief in her gaze. Only once had I seen her auburn hair and shape: when she came to the river, her reddish brown locks hanging free, a bride of the Lord, whose perfect body, during her baptism, was outlined for all to see. Now, all I could see was her sleeping form, her hood pulled over her face, and one small delicate hand to indicate who she might be. In her corner of the encampment resided Anna and the men converts, too—Barnabas, Marcus, Arrius and Marcellus, whom I envied that moment. To my dismay, I noticed that moment, over their slumbering bodies, that John and his brother James had thrown down their pallets only a few cubits from where Deborah lie.

“You rascal!” I thought bitterly. “You’re not fooling Jesus a bit!”

“Resist temptation!” Jesus had said time and time again.

Though I tried canceling out these thoughts, my longing for her became unbearable.

Turning away from temptation (in this case, as Jesus also put it, unclean thoughts), I concentrated on helping Bartholomew to his feet and then, after Jesus awakened them, helping Peter, Andrew, and Anna prepare the morning meal. It was, I gathered from their conversation, a gruel the old woman had conjured. The very sight of her concoction, as I watched her stir it up, gave me pause. Despite being a convert, Anna had all the appearances of sorceress, as she tended her pot. My reading of the Witch of Endor (from the scroll of Gad, a disciple of Samuel), who conjured up Samuel’s spirit for King Saul, flashed into my mind. One day, during the dark time ahead of us, she would prove to be the most faithful of converts. Now, as she stood over the fire stirring her gruel, cackling to herself, she had the look and mannerisms of a witch.

James was annoyed at my characterization of Anna but Bartholomew cringed at the thought. With our pallets rolled up and packs ready, we waited apprehensively for our breakfast. A strange, unpleasant smell wafted in the air; a mixture of lentils, onions, goats meat, and all manner of items thrown in as Anna stirred her pot. Fortunately for us, Bartholomew had stored a bag of dried fish and goats cheese in his cart. The odor was unpleasant enough it appeared to wake up many of the sleepers.

As the other disciples lingered on their pallets, Jesus voice boomed loudly, “Wake up children of the Lord! A harvest awaits!”

James, Bartholomew, and I laughed. Anna cackled with mirth.

“You heard him, John and James.” Peter shouted. “Up-up-up!”

“What harvest is this?” grumbled Philip as Andrew gave him a nudge. “I thought we were fisher’s of men!”

“You are the Lord’s tools,” Jesus reminded him genially, “harvesters, fishermen, and workers in the garden of the Lord!”

Bolting upright as the odor of Anna’s brew entered his nostrils, Barnabas made a face. “Eck! What is that awful smell? It smells like something dead!”

“It’s lentil and goat meat stew,” Jesus said, bending down to sample it from the ladle in Anna’s hand, “a hearty dish! When I sailed with Joseph of Arimathea, the ship’s cook prepared this dish. It just has a bad smell.”

“Well, ” I said, dropping my stale bread, “if Jesus likes it, let’s give it a try.”

Bartholomew gave me a nod, tossing his moldy cheese aside.

James was more stubborn. “Uh-uh.” He folded his arms and shook his head. “Smell is as important as taste in cooking. Our mother taught us that. Goat stew, my foot! That smells awful!”

All of the fishermen and converts, including Deborah, were awake now, their pallets rolled up and packs ready. A distance away from the fire ring, though, the Greek-looking Samaritans were bedded down, their pretty companion curled up between them shamelessly hugging one of the young men. Deborah thought it was quite scandalous. While we waited in line with our bowels as Anna ladled out our morning meal, we watched with mirth as Jesus reached down and shook each of them awake.

“Wake up, you fun-loving dandies,” Peter called, “it’s time to serve the Lord!”

“Patience, Peter,” counseled Jesus. “Let us bring our Samaritan brothers gently to the Lord.”

Jesus was chuckling when he said this. That morning, to make up for leaving them behind, he baptized the four Greek-looking Samaritans, which, in effect, made them members of the new faith and, as James saw it, superior to those who were merely sent away to spread the word. How ironic this was! By this action and giving them a commission to go back to their village and, in fact, everywhere they traveled, preach the word, he had prevented them from tagging along and being scrutinized by Galileans but had also given them special status as converts representing the faith.

******

The four Samaritans waved goodbye, grinning foolishly after being given such a task. As much of a libertine I was myself, I thought the commission Jesus gave them both unwarranted and undeserved. When we were back on the road, minus this distraction, similar thoughts were spoken by the fishermen. Deborah, who had talked very little before, voiced her protest to Jesus, who laughed softly, replying “Those who believe, though they are weak and sinful, shall grow in the faith. Who are you to judge a flower from a weed. Are not thistles longer lasting than spring flowers?”

Though poetic, it sounded absolutely absurd when applied to that four. In spite of his own initial mirth, James believed Jesus might have erred this time. I told him I felt the same, but I reminded him that Jesus was never wrong, which made it appear as if I had contradicted myself. I recalled a thought provoking question asked by a philosopher in Antioch: “If God can do anything, can he create a stone he cannot lift?”

“That’s a ridiculous question!” James said irritably.

“Not really,” I replied, as I led Bartholomew’s mule. “I’ve never seen Jesus make a mistake. Have you? If he erred, as you say, he’s not perfect. Why would Jesus make those Syrian clowns his representatives, unless he had a purpose.”

“What exactly is Jesus’ purpose?” he asked then.

“Now that is a stupid question!” I looked at him in disbelief. “It’s to spread the word!”

“Is that all?” James’ eyes widened. “…. You really think that’s all it is.”

“Well,…no,” I confessed. “Not just that. His words seem to leading to a greater purpose. He’s teaching us, not just the people.…Where we will it end, only he knows, and Jesus is guided by God.”

Once again, as I struggled for the truth, I contradicted myself. I had, in fact, agreed with James.

“So it’s not a stupid question?” James replied challengingly. “What is this greater end, Jude?… Just who is our brother supposed to be?”

This question, which we all had wondered about, uttered from someone who had studied to be scribe, who were staunch traditionalists, was startling. Of all people to attempt defining Jesus, James had asked the question. Even Bartholomew, who had been dozing in his cart, jerked awake when he heard it uttered. Philip who has been straggling behind the other fishermen, looked back with a frown.

“He’s a prophet, like Elijah,” he said with great conviction.

“Oh, he’s greater than him!” James exclaimed.

“Greater than Elijah?” Bartholomew looked down in disbelief.

“Yes.” I nodded my head. “Greater than Moses, too!”

******

Our journey to Aenon grew tiring, the monotony on the dusty road worsened by Jesus’ constant stops. Perhaps because it seemed controversial to many Samaritans, Jesus had performed few baptisms in the last village and was satisfied to send the one hundred villagers away unbaptized to spread the good news. This had been fine with us. We were still uncomfortable with a procedure that struck us as unnatural and disgusting. Now, however, back on the road, Jesus made up for this discrepancy. The closer we came to the border between Samaria and Galilee, the friendlier were the people we encountered on the way. It was only logical for Jesus to take advantage of this development. The constant stop and go of his preaching to villagers and travelers and, with our assistance, the baptizement of those accepting the rite, made the relatively short distance from the last town to Aenon seem to take forever. To make matters worse for me personally was my task of watching over Bartholomew and his mule cart. The bumpy road was tortuous to poor Bartholomew, and his mule required water and feeding each time we stopped, a factor that only added to our delays.

There was much on my mind that day during our journey. Along with my concern for this enterprise and lingering doubts that I was up to the task, there was the issue of Deborah. She walked just ahead of me in the company of the other converts, who moved as a group between the fisherman and James, Bartholomew, and myself, who brought up the rear. Subtly and slyly, John, who kept glancing back at her, slowed his pace, until he was walking beside Deborah, hardly noticed as he slipped into her group.

“Hello!” he greeted, falling in step.

“Uh, hello!” she said, giggling behind her veil.

“Tee-hee-hee!” James mimicked. “What an act!”

“That scoundrel!” I grumbled. “Look at him—he’s at it again: flirting with that wench! “She’s just a child!” Bartholomew corrected.

“Hah!” James frowned severely. “She knows what she’s doing! That’s no child!”

“She shouldn’t have come along,” I muttered. “At least Ada was out front. You knew what she was!”

“Deborah’s child!” Bartholomew insisted. “Ada’s a whore. There’s no comparison!”

“I dunno know about that.” Philip scratched his beard.
“I’m not questioning her reputation,” I frowned at Bartholomew, “only her behavior on the road. All that giggling and fake blushing. That veil doesn’t fool me. She’s nothing but a tease!”

“Humph!” Bartholomew studied the couple. “… I see what you mean—she’s a flirt all right, but I blame John. Jesus warned him about that.”

“Where is Jesus?” James looked around irritably. “It’s so obvious. What exactly does John have in mind?”

“Ho-ho!” Philip chuckled. “I don’t believe it. Look at them. Holding hand like they’re courting Wait till Jesus sees that!”

“He’s a damn fool!” James shook his head.

I was speechless after witnessing this. John had graduated from a rascal, as I thought of him earlier, into a scoundrel. Deborah was practically a tart in my mind. All of this, of course, must be compared to the John presently in exile on Patmos—the most persecuted of the apostles. Now, of course, he was second only to Peter as the greatest of the Jesus’ disciples, and there I was that moment wanting to throw a rock at this head. I had no right, for that matter, to malign Deborah’s good name. Bartholomew was right. Deborah was a child—at the most an adolescent, and John was a silly young man. As I reflect now, the fault lie with me. Like John, I was infatuated with Deborah: a foolish emotion, unworthy of a disciple. I simply didn’t have the courage or immaturity to act on my impulses like him. I can’t even call my feelings love. It was, I confess, pure lust. The fact was I didn’t really know Deborah very well. What I did know was that she was bashful, flighty, and, judging by the way she acted, definitely a tease. The way she let John coddle her and appeared to encourage him belied her supposed innocence. The truth was, however, Deborah was only sixteen, a mere youth, and immature at that. Tabitha, the girl I thought I loved, in Nazareth was a mature and precocious maiden, who was both naughty and sincere, qualities that Deborah hadn’t learned. Logically, when I compared my old heartthrob to Deborah, there was no contest, and yet I desired Deborah…. The urge to throw something at John or at least say something mean to him grew by the moment.

When Jesus appeared suddenly and scolded John for flirting with Deborah, everyone, even silly Deborah laughed.

“Aw!” he cried scornfully. “Playing the dandy, are we?” “May I remind you, John.” He wrung his finger. “Deborah is sixteen years old!”

John stammered, “Uh,…we were just talking.”
“You forget John,” Jesus said with a twinge of mirth, “I can read minds!”

“Once more that rogue’s been caught!” I said, elbowing James.

“Do you believe Jesus really reads minds?” asked Bartholomew.

“Yes,” answered James . “He read John like a scroll!”

Always popping up unannounced, Jesus also seemed omnipresent at times. One moment he was off praying somewhere or striding far ahead of us and the next moment he was on the spot, as if out of thin air.

“He can do anything!” I reassured them.

When Jesus was out of earshot, Philip, recited a poem he dreamed up for the occasion: “John, John, the fishermen’s son, threw his net to have some fun!” This caused more laughter in our ranks, until Jesus, once again with uncanny suddenness, quelled our mirth.

“Listen men,” he scolded us, “none of you are perfect. You’ve all shown interest in Deborah. John is young and acts on his impulses. I don’t fault you for your god-given interest in the opposite sex. I fault you for not controlling it. Our younger brother, who has little experience in these matters, is just braver and more foolish. Let us concentrate on the path ahead!”

Jesus had both complimented and insulted John, a form of doublespeak he often used. Taking it as an acknowledgment of his bravery, however, which Jesus never intended, John looked smugly around at us. Glancing back at me, in particular, he frowned and smirked at the same time.

“Look at him,” James murmured, “he thinks that was a compliment. How stupid is that?”

Grinning with satisfaction, brushing my right index finger over my left index finger, I silently signaled to John, “Shame on you!” “Jesus is right,” I conceded to James and Bartholomew, as he made a face at me. “He’s immature. I don’t think he knows any better. Not that long ago, I behaved that way over Tabitha. She was a worse tease than Deborah!”

I was trying to behave nobly after my criticism of Deborah and John. My words, however, belied what I felt inside. Silly and empty-headed though she was, Deborah was, as Jesus feared for his disciples, a great distraction. In the days ahead, both John and I would have to work on this problem. He was, in Jesus’ thinking, difficult though it might be for me to accept those moments, my brother—a fellow disciple and part of our shepherd’s growing flock. How could any of us have possibly known how important that young man would one day be?

******

I had been walking in a mental daze alongside of Bartholomew’s cart, as he prattled on about his aches and pains—barely hearing him and just concentrating on the road ahead, as I held the reigns of his mule, when I heard Jesus talking to a handful of farmers by the roadside. As the young man in Sychar, they heard from a merchant about the miracle performed in Cana in which Jesus turned water into wine. This pattern—traveling merchants acting as unwitting heralds of Jesus’ wonders—would continue throughout his ministry. An assembly of Samaritans, sent out to investigate this strange man, approached Jesus as he gave his formula for salvation: belief, repentance, and baptism. Calling out “Blasphemer! Heretic!” at the top of their lungs, they demanded Jesus stop sprinkling water from the skin onto a farmer’s head. Jesus ignored them. For the first time since we began, it looked as though the disciples might have to physically protect him. While the fishermen, Barnabas, and Marcus stood on each side of Jesus, James, Bartholomew, Arrius, Marcellus, the two women, and I lingered in the background. I assumed the others in this group were fearful of the strangers, but I was just very annoyed.

“Who are these local, backwoods magistrates to make such a claim?” I turned to James.

“Jude, stop, let Jesus handle this!” he cried as I rushed forward.

“You have some nerve calling him a blasphemer and heretic!” I screamed at the men. “You don’t even worship at the temple. You have only the Torah—a bastardized version at that. We Jews have the prophets and tradition dating directly to Abraham. You are a mix of peoples thrown together by Assyrian conquerors after they ousted our people from our land. You call Jesus blasphemer and heretic. You are the blasphemers and heretics. Surely you’ve heard of Jesus by now. He’s a miracle worker and man of peace, but not one to reckon with. If you don’t get out of here right this minute, he might just strike you dead!”

The four graybeards backed away as if they had encountered a mad man. Then, when I lurched forward as if I might just attack them, they ran away. Everyone was shocked. Jesus was angry. The disciples and converts grinned with embarrassment and surprise. To my delight, Deborah clapped her little hands and gave me an appreciative hug.

“That was stupid and foolish!” Jesus scolded. “What were you thinking, Jude?”

“Well, it worked.” Peter chuckled.

“Yes, Jesus” Barnabas pointed out. “That’s a small town over there. What can they do anyhow. If those graybeards are the best they can do, we have nothing to fear!”

Jesus nodded in agreement. I immediately apologized, giving my reason for losing control their mistreatment of him. The real reason, I later admitted to myself, was frustration at seeing Deborah every hour and being afraid to even talk to her. This had been my chance! Now here she was looking up at me like a hero. Quite abruptly, I found my dilemma about her more bearable. So much for my fine thinking an hour ago! I thought sheepishly, as she gave me an admiring look.

Jesus knew my mind, but whispered discreetly to me. “Yes, you are brave, but for the wrong reasons!”

Without a further word, he and his followers, as unit this time, searched for the

farmers who had fled. The one farmer who had just been baptized, whose name was Ebron, assisted us in our task, calling out through cupped hands, as we traipsed through the uncut wheat. When his colleagues resurfaced, they agreed to be baptized but not at the well. As at Sebaste and the Samaritans we more recently had success with, they were nervous about being baptized by Jews. When we found the stream running near their village, Jesus motioned to Peter and Andrew to tend to the first two, leaving the last farmer for me so that I could redeem myself. It was easier to baptize people by sprinkling water on their heads. As the wives and children of the four farmers appeared by the spring, John, his brother James, and Philip said the sacred words and sprinkled holy water on three of the wives, followed by Bartholomew who, with my assistance, administered to a fourth. The children were divided between the converts, including Deborah and Anna, who performed the rite with Jesus’ help.

As in the case of the other Samaritan converts, none of the recent initiates would accompany us further. As at the River Jordan and that recent village where the seeds of faith were planted, Jesus asked the newly saved to spread the word among their friends and neighbors. Knowing the attitude of many Samaritan elders, we doubted that’s what they would do. Nevertheless, we were somewhat encouraged by our recent success. It seemed the closer we came to the border of Samaria, the friendlier the people became. Unfortunately, this afforded Jesus a greater opportunity to spread the good news.

That evening Jesus managed to also give travelers heading north the good news. As with many interested Samaritans, however, the notion of being baptized gave them pause. As it turned out, they had, as folks in previous towns, already heard of this miracle worker. Tired and footsore, the travelers listened to Jesus’ message and, before joining our camp for the night, agreed to be baptized in the faith. That Samaritans shared our meager rations and slept in our camp, was yet another milestone in Jesus’ career. If this particular feat was not a miracle, in itself, it was close to the mark. We all had much to talk about around the campfire. It turned out that the two men, Amram and Baruch, were traveling to Aenon, like ourselves. Because Aenon was closer to the border of Galilee, Amram believe that their citizens would be more receptive than Samaritans in the south. Jesus shared their optimism, but because of their recent conversion and happy state, their enthusiasm might be based upon faith. The rest of us remained shy of the big towns in Samaria. Another pattern that would follow us, was the open-heartedness of farmers and villagers from small towns as compared with the attitude of citizens in cities, such as Jerusalem, and the larger Samaritan towns.

******

When we finally arrived in Aenon, a modest-sized town near Galilee, Amram and Baruch forged ahead of us, acting as ambassadors for Jesus.

“Wait here, master.” Baruch bowed deferentially in the Samaritan manner. “We will get some of the elders on our side. One of them is my brother. I know many influential men in this town.”

Making camp on the edge of Aenon (another pattern instituted by Jesus), we waited patiently for the new converts to return. Because Jesus didn’t want to waste too much time, he strolled over to a young man riding passed, called out to him, and struck up a conversation by the side of the road. The young man cursed at him and road on. Peter’s temper, following my example, flared up. We were both tempted to throw rocks at him as he continued uttering oaths.

“Jesus,” Peter chided gently, “wait until we’re invited in town. What if that fellow drew a knife or sword. Jude and I would have to stone him!”

Jesus laughed heartily, ruffling our hair, and giving each of us a playful cuff.

“You both know better than that,” he scolded lightheartedly. “No one’s going to harm me yet.”

“What do you mean yet?” I grabbed his sleeve.

“Yes, Jesus.” Peter gave him a worried look. “Please explain.”

“Who guides me?” He looked back at us.

“God,” we answered promptly.

“Do you question Him?” He raised an eyebrow.

“No.” We shook our heads.

Placing his arms around our shoulders then, he replied, “Then don’t worry. We’re in His hands. Everything I do is directed by Him.”

Peter and I felt a little better. It seemed reasonable to us that God wouldn’t lead Jesus into harm’s way. Of course, neither of us could look into the future and see Golgotha. Today, encamped near Aenon, something incredible happened to us. Even now when I write it down it seemed like nothing less than a miracle, like many other remarkable things surrounding Jesus. How Amram and Baruch were able to bring such a large group to our camp seemed to point to divine intervention, though Jesus gave all the credit to them.

The people were mostly curious at first. After a quick count, I estimated that there were over a hundred men, women, and children in this group. Among their ranks, there were a few critics grumbling under their breaths, but Jesus viewed them all as potential converts. When I reminded him of the attitude of citizens of Sychar and Sebaste, who were also curious but refrained from commitment, he reassured me that this was different. As more citizens of Aenon arrived, some of whom began heckling us, the disciples and converts began to panic. Jesus immediately introduced himself and his followers. Then raising his arms as if to bless the crowd, he gave a short, powerful sermon.

“Cousins,” his voice boomed, “remember Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, David, and Solomon whose God we share. Circumstances have divided us beyond our control. The Jews and Samaritans now view the original religion differently, but those differences are no longer important. I bring you a new revelation I received from the Most High that is for Jews and Samaritans alike. It’s so simple that you don’t need the interpretations of religious leaders and doctors of the law. You don’t even have to be able to read; just open your hearts. I have heard that your version of the Hebrew religion, like our Jewish Sadducees, rejects the belief in an afterlife. But you must accept the good news in order to be saved from darkness. I say to you ‘All people can have eternal life.’ All you have to do is accept the fact that you are a sinner, repent of your sins, and be washed by the Spirit of the Lord. Many of you have heard of John the Baptist, who promised that a redeemer would be offering salvation and eternal life.” “I am he!” He paused and looked around the crowd.

“Were is that written?” asked a graybeard. “Are you taking that madman’s place?”

“If John was mad, it was with the power of the Lord,” responded Jesus. “I didn’t replace him. He was the forerunner, preparing the way.”

“The way? What way?” A woman stepped forth.

“I am the way,” answered Jesus finally, “he that accepts me, who is baptized in the spirit shall not perish but have eternal life.”

“Jesus,” a young man shouted, “We don’t understand. Are you some kind of prophet like John the Baptist? Will your way replace our faith and the Torah?”

“There is only one way to eternal life,” Jesus repeated solemnly. “I am the gate. Knock and the gate shall open.”

The disciples looked at each in wonder. This was something new. A momentary hush fell over the crowd. From that day forward, the name stuck. Our new religion would be called ‘The Way.’ His reference to himself as a gatekeeper was also significant. In retrospect, it’s evident to me that he had to tread lightly about his identity, convincing the Samaritans to accept the message more than the messenger. If anything, to Samaritans not used to the Jewish concept of a Messiah, his statement might have been taken literally: Jesus was a gatekeeper, whose offer of redemption opened paradise for them, nothing more. For we Jews, though, familiar with the hoped for a redeemer of Israel, it was another name for the Messiah. Jesus, of course, wasn’t the warrior king most Jews expected. For the Samaritans, who had no such hero in their Torah, such a presumption would be even less acceptable. This would change when Jesus and his followers were back in Galilee, but for now it appeared that he was playing it safe. All that mattered was that he made his point. The truth was, however, Jesus had actually given greater meaning to the concept of a deliverer or messiah, and he did it deliberately. Jesus always knew exactly what he was doing, leaving nothing to chance. None of us would ask him to clarify himself anyhow. He was always saying strange things. But from that day forward the notion of a gatekeeper would evolve into something much more important and our congregation would simply be called ‘The Way.’

******

That day, as we confronted citizens of Aenon, we had a name. We weren’t simply a different group within Judaism, such as the Pharisees or Sadducees, who reflected the respective conservative or liberal interpretations of our faith. Nor were we Zealots, who wanted to re-establish the Kingdom of Israel after driving the Romans from our land. Unlike those desert hermits, who rejected all groups, including the priesthood and temple, we didn’t wish to withdraw from the world. Jesus must, in order to spread the good news, embrace the world. Since he was grooming us to become preachers in our own right, we had to embrace it too. We had no clear label such as conservative, liberal, revolutionary, or hermit. We were neither fish nor fowl in the minds of religious leaders, holding the simplest definition in the minds of common people: the ‘Way’. Zealots who wished to physically overthrow our oppressors would, like the Pharisees and Sadducee sects and the priesthood, who would see us as a threat, become our enemies… But this is hindsight. To show the magnitude of Jesus and our task, I write this after the fact. Though we were filled with both excitement and apprehension for what lie ahead, we were blissfully ignorant of the future. For now, on that defining day, our adversaries were merely local citizens, who resented not only Jesus’ heretical message but the fact that the message came from a Jew.

For a brief spell, as he continued to preach, there were more voices of discontent. Another pattern that would continue in Jesus ministry, which we had noticed in Samaria, was the general acceptance of Jesus message by simple folk and an almost universal rejection of it by religious leaders and most elders. For Samaritan graybeards and educated men, the question wasn’t who he was, which would be a matter of controversy in Galilee and Judea. The cryptic title, Gatekeeper, didn’t bother them nearly as much as what he was saying. Though Jesus tried to be respectful to the old faith, including the Samaritan version, the very nature of his presentation appeared to cancel both of them out. Already, Jesus promise of an afterlife and attack on temple corruption, had shaken the Jewish priesthood. It was especially upsetting to Samaritan priests, who couldn’t allow for a messiah as well.

“This man’s a blasphemer,” a corpulent man shouted, elbowing through the crowd. “Let’s run him and that Jewish scum out of town!”

“Yeah,” cried a second man, “how dare him lord it over us!”

“He’s perverting our religion,” screamed a graybeard. “Stone him! Stone them all!”

“That’s our cue!” Philip looked for an avenue of escape.

“Hold fast! Have faith!” Jesus turned to us.

That very moment, as he surged through the crowd, a man, carrying a small infant, called out, “Jesus! Jesus! Amram and Baruch told me about you. Save my son. He’s our only child!”

Not far behind the man, were the two travelers converted at our last stop. Amram introduced the man and child immediately, as the man presented the boy.

“Jesus,” he wrung his hands, “this is Job and his son Jonah. The physician gave up on him. I think the boy’s dead, but he insisted on coming. Can you save his son?”

Never in Jesus’ ministry would he be tested more than that moment. Here he was, the only shield for his followers, in front of a mob of Samaritans being incited to violence, and now he was being asked to raise a child from the dead. As before, most of the crowd grew silent, while the protesters grumbled under their breaths. Emboldened and excited, Jesus’ new followers, Amram, and Baruch, with folded arms and resolute expressions, stood their ground against their countrymen, inspiring the rest of us to do the same. Jesus began to pray over the infant in Job’s arms. Curious onlookers poked their heads through our bodies, including the graybeards who shouted “Stone him! Stone him!”

A Samaritan crone now reached out to touch the child. “What sorcery is this?” her voice trembled.

“Jesus isn’t a sorcerer!” snapped Baruch.

“But the boy’s dead!” she muttered. “He’s as cold as ice!”

“The boy isn’t dead,” Jesus informed her calmly. “He sleeps.”

“Ho-ho!” cackled Anna. “Then wake him up!”

Other than Jesus, himself, only Anna, who seemed addled at times, appeared to be unafraid. Unlike the Samaritan crone, the old woman looked on with clear-minded certainty.

In spite of everything they had seen and heard, the disciples and converts weren’t so sure. That moment, as Jesus prayed, and we held our breaths, Deborah anxiously clutched my hand. James, in spite of his sense of ritual defilement in the presence of Samaritans, was praying too. Bartholomew, after retreating to his cart, retraced his steps, until I heard him breathing behind me and mumbling curses under his breath. Anticipation was thick in the air, but all I could think of that moment was ‘Deborah was holding my hand!’

When Jesus had finished talking to his father, he placed his hand on the infant’s forehead, smiled at him, and murmured, “Jonah, son of Job, in the name of the Most High, open your eyes!”

Instantly, the boy’s eyes popped open, and he let out shriek, signaling to those unable to see that he was alive. A collective gasp went up from the followers and Samaritans alike.

“Sorcerer! Agent of Beelzebub!” the graybeard exclaimed.

Baruch shoved him away. “Are you blind as well as deaf!” he ridiculed him.

Everyone else, including the fat man who had been so outraged, were deeply moved.

“Water to wine and healing a blind girl is one thing,” mumbled Peter, “but that child was dead!”

“There is a shadowy realm between life and death,” Jesus explained to the fisherman. “Jonah was given a second chance,” “as all people seeking eternal life,” he added, turning to the infant’s father.”

Job needed no coaxing. “Jesus, I’m a sinner!” he cried. “You gave me back my son. Please give us eternal life!”

Anticipating his next move, Peter handed a skin of water. With some revision, Jesus now spoke the words. “Job,” he said solemnly, “you’re son’s revival was a gift from God. To have everlasting life, do you repent your sins and promise to live a righteous life?”

“Yes!” Job bobbed his head.

“Will you raise Job righteously too, and remind him of the good news?”

“Always!” Job swore.

“Then, with the grace of God,” he said, raising the water skin, “I baptized you in the Spirit. You are reborn, Job—a new man.” “All of you,” he declared, looking to the crowd, can be feel the grace of God too!”

That moment, in the jargon of fishermen, by his inspired words, Jesus tossed out his net and made his largest haul yet.

Countless voices rang out—”Jesus, save me! I’m a sinner! Give me eternal life!…” We were overwhelmed. To accommodate so many people, our water skins wouldn’t do. Amram and Baruch led us to a well in the center of town, where other people were drawn to the scene. There, as at the River Jordan, we took turns, in pairs, baptizing members of the crowd. This time, lacking a body of water nearby, we took turns sprinkling water on each of their heads from the well. It was much easier than emersion, but, at the end of the day, after we had baptized what seemed like half of the town, we were so exhausted from our labors, we found the nearest clearing outside of Aenon and set up our camp.

A fire was hastily made. Peter and Andrew assisted Jesus in sharing our provisions. Before we turned in that night, Jesus gave a benediction for our success that day. I’ve never seen him so happy and illuminated with spirit. As I fought the snares of sleep that night in order to recount the days wonders, I recalled the mood of the crowd that transformed them from nay-sayers to believers after Jesus miracle, the still infant suddenly animated with God-given life, the endless stream of converts, and—yes—the soft hand of Deborah in mind as we confronted the crowd.

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