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Chapter Sixteen

Nain: The Raising Of Laban

So far, the disciples have been called fishers of men, harvesters, and now publicans, gathering souls instead of coins. Today, however, we had seen and heard enough. Thankful of being witnesses of Jesus’ miracles and participants in his wonders, we were nevertheless mortals, weary to the bone.

Jesus had needed four more disciples, but why he picked a publican we had no idea. Had it not been for his inspiring words, everyone, including myself, would have protested Jesus’ choice. Was this not a hated tax collector, a lackey or Rome? Not only had Jesus baptized Matthew into the Way, he also brought four Romans, not merely Gentiles but oppressors of our people, into the fold. That night, to challenge us that much more, we dined at Matthew’s house (Jesus’ suggestion)—the home of a tax collector in a city Jesus, himself, had cursed, and yet the only one to complain, as we entered the publican’s house, was our brother James. The fishermen showed only quiet disdain. For me, it didn’t matter. If Jesus could accept an ex-prostitute into our ranks, why not a tax collector. “Who will Jesus choose next,” I heard James mutter, “a Gentile?”

Fortunately for us so late in the day, Bethsaida was a relatively short walk. Leaving directions to his house with us, Matthew rode ahead on his steed to alert his cook. As it turned out, we arrived there just before dark. While we waited in an anteroom for dinner to be set, we discussed the events of the day. Justus, who had a sense of humor in spite of his bad luck, had not had leprosy, but a common skin disease in Galilee and Judea. Though Jesus probably knew this already, Justus divulged this information just as a servant announced dinner was ready. Like actual lepers, he had become a complete outcast avoided by family, friends, and strangers on the road. Even his parents in Nain shunned him. Except for myself, the men found it easier to accept Justus and Mary into our group than Matthew, despite the fact Jesus had in fact chosen Matthew to be a disciple. Nothing was worse in the eyes of the fishermen than the Jewish parasites who taxed them on behalf of Rome. Of course, they understood from the beginning that this attitude would have to change. Despite hard looks from Peter and the others, I joined Justus and Matthew on the road as we walked alongside of Bartholomew and his cart, giving them a summary of my childhood with Jesus and our family. One day Matthew, the newest disciple, would write the most definitive account of Jesus’ life and prove to be a great missionary as well. For now, with Jesus help, he had to prove himself to the fishermen and our narrow-minded brother. The feast he presented to us was a peace offering for his misspent years. During our meal, after the Shema and a blessing by Jesus, Matthew gave us a speech, which made me realize why he was selected as a disciple.

“My friends,” he began looking around the table, “thank you for sharing my food. Like some of you, I’m a sinner. I was once your enemy, too concerned with money to care about our people. Because of this, I became an outcast and told myself I didn’t care. Then I heard Jesus’ message. When he called me to join, it took little to remind me of what I was.” “In here,” he said, pointing at his chest, “I’ve always cared. Our people were chosen by God, and now God has chosen us to remind them of just how special they are. The good news is so simple a child can embrace it, and yet, as a publican, I have an ear to both Rome and Jerusalem. While many townsfolk listen with an open heart, the priests, Pharisees, and scribes have hardened their hearts. I know many of them; I’ve heard their secret talk. They’re trying to make our Roman masters see Jesus as a troublemaker, but they’ve failed. Rome is filled with all manner of foreign gods. Even the town magistrates can see no harm in our message.” Looking down at Jesus, he announced with a grin, “Rabbi, I know many people. Some of the Romans and magistrates are my friends. You’d be surprised to know how many have a favorable opinion of you and what you preach. I was greatly moved to see you baptize my guards. Your message reaches beyond Jews to all manner of Gentile, including soldiers and their leaders, to the prefect of Galilee himself!”

“Cornelius?” the named leaped from mouth. “Does he believe?”

“Alas.” Matthew’s eyes dropped low. “He became what is called a God-fearer, but has fallen on hard times.”

“We heard.” Jesus frowned. “Cornelius was our family’s friend.”

“Yes,” Matthew smiled. “Jude told me about your friendship. I never met him, myself, but I hear all the news: who’s in and who’s out. Cornelius was a good prefect. Pontius Pilate, thought he was a Jew-lover, though. That’s why he replaced him.”

Jesus looked up at the speaker with great respect. Bowing self-consciously, Matthew sat back down to concentrate on his meal.

“Pilate wants men who think like him,” observed James, munching on his victuals. “Nicodemus sees hard times ahead for our people now that he’s in power…. Nothing Roman can be good for our people.”

“Pilate is a hard man,” Matthew conceded, “but he’s a realist. As long as we behave ourselves, he’ll leave us alone.”

“Really?” mused Jesus, sipping his wine. “We heard that Longinus was replaced too. For his punishment, he was assigned to the Antonia Fortress in Jerusalem.”

“Yes,” Matthew agreed, “that’s probably true.”

I shook my head. “At least he has a job. Cornelius was cashiered and replaced by a rogue named Vascus. Where’s Cornelius now?”

“I don’t know.” Matthew shrugged. “He was, I was told, well-liked by the people of Sepphoris. If he got his soldier’s pension, he might’ve bought himself a farm nearby or a place in town. Until I became a publican, I never heard of a Roman officer being a Jew-lover, but that’s what he was.”

“Hey,” I said, snapping my fingers, “if you know Cornelius and Longinus, you must know Regulus. He’s a changed man. Jesus saved his servant’s life.”

“Regulus?” He glanced down the table at me. “I heard of him… a centurion at the fort. I know them all now, even the new ones.” “Trust me,” he said, looking across at Jesus, “their leaders may be hard men, but the average soldier is a carefree soul. Give him his ration of wine, bread, cheese, and a little time for chasing wenches and he’s content.”

The expression on Jesus’ face had changed when he spoke of Longinus, and it continued to transform with Matthew’s discussion of Roman soldiers. It was as if a dark cloud had passed over his thoughts. How could I have known that he was looking ahead to Golgotha? With Matthew’s crass attempt at humor, Jesus forced a smile but gave him a studied look.

With a note of reproach, he replied, “Your insight is important to me, but you’re no longer a publican, Matthew. You’re one of us. The old patterns will be hard to break.”

“Patterns, he calls it?” James muttered aloud. “That remark about wenches was in bad taste.”

“What do you expect from a publican?” grumbled John.

Several of the disciples, in fact, appeared to be annoyed by Matthew’s words. I for one, though, liked his spirit. At that point, after emptying my mug of wine, my tongue was loosened. “I propose a toast,” I stood up impulsively, raising my mug in the air. “To Matthew: our newest member. Let’s give him a chance!”

“To Matthew!” Justus joined the toast.

“The newest disciple!” Andrew cried.

“Very well… To Matthew!” Peter laughed sourly.

“Come on men.” Jesus stood up and motioned with outstretched arms. “Welcome your brother!”

Perhaps he had seen this as another vulgar display, as he had Matthew’s banter. Instead of toasting, he walked over to Matthew, and, placing his hands on his shoulders, exclaimed with great cheer, “You were lost. Now you’re found. What you once were is in the past. As all sinners, inside of that rough-edged shell, there’s a pearl of great price. I saw it clearly from the beginning. We will use your wisdom and experience in our mission. It’s your gift.” “Everyone of you,” he added, looking around the table, “are pearls of great price. You all have a special gifts. You may not even realize it. Matthew has knowledge of how magistrates and Romans think. Like Jude he has a good memory. Like James, he also knows the scribes, Pharisees, and priests. Jude is right: you must give Matthew a chance!”

Later in his ministry, Jesus would refer to pearls of great price during a sermon in Capernaum. When I looked at the fishermen, I wondered what pearls he could possible find in them. At this stage in their discipleship, they appeared to be, in Jesus words, rough-edge shells. Though Jesus singled out James, Matthew, and I, as having knowledge and skills he would use, the fishermen and, for that matter Bartholomew, seemed to lack foresight and vision. Yet Jesus had told them that they might not know what gifts they possessed. Looking back in time, I understand what he meant. All of the disciples, including the doddering Bartholomew, had talents they hadn’t tapped. They would become eloquent and some of them, like myself, would be inspired to write epistles, taking the word to distant lands. All of them, for the most part, even Matthew, shared a common bond with simple, hard-working folks. This perspective I had that night, however, would change in the coming days with the addition of men who weren’t fisherman, who weren’t simple, and, in one case, brought treachery into our ranks.

******

At first, the notion of three strangers joining our ranks was unsettling. We seemed to be a perfect number. Why did Jesus need twelve disciples? Why did he want three more men? We realized, of course, we had no choice. Jesus was the Shepherd. We just had to get used to the idea. I was able to do this fairly quickly. I would have my doubts later, but I could think of no good reason right why there shouldn’t be twelve.

“It is,” I suggested after some thought, “a logical number. Weren’t there were twelve tribes of Israel? Hadn’t Jesus had mentioned that possibility himself?”

“Makes sense to me,” Bartholomew replied dubiously.

Matthew nodded his head. “Yeah, why not?” he agreed.

“Not me,” John scowled. “I thought we were special. What’s wrong with eight?”

“Eight disciples isn’t significant,” James explained drolly. “It’s not sacred. In fact, it’s nothing. But what does that matter?” “What’s the real reason?” He took on a scholarly air. “Twelve is also considered a perfect number in the Torah, is it not? Twelve unleavened cakes are placed in the temple every week. There were, as Jude pointed out, twelve tribes.” “So why not ten, for the Ten Commandments,” he countered cleverly, “or seven for the seven days of Creation? Why twelve disciples? What does it matter how many disciples Jesus chooses? Why not the number twelve?”

James laughed sarcastically. I shrugged my shoulders. He had made good sense to most of us, but he really didn’t care. There was a personal reason for keeping our number at eight. The notion of adding strangers to our band seemed unthinkable to the fishermen, who wanted Jesus all to themselves. At that point, Jesus ears perked up to the grumbling in our ranks.

“It’s already been settled!” he called back through cupped hands. “Count them!” his voice boomed. “My Father wants twelve men! It’s His decision.” Holding up five fingers on each hand, he made two fists, and then uncurled two more. “Twelve is the number,” he exclaimed, “not eight, not ten, or eleven, but twelve!”

“Are we not your fishers of men?” asked Peter stubbornly. “You called us harvesters too. Why bring in strangers we don’t know?

“Peter!” Jesus shook his head in irritation. “Are you deaf? Have you not heard me? My Father talks and I listen.”

Fleetingly, I had second thoughts on my acceptance of his number—not because I really had concerns, but because I was weary of that excuse. We all were. “My Father talks and I listen,” was Jesus answer for almost everything. The logic wasn’t apparent. As he went along guided by the Spirit, he was, for instance, choosing several different men, barely compatible with each other. When considering how illogical his selections were, Justus comes to mind. If in fact, Jesus insisted on twelve disciples, it occurred to me and the others that he should be one of the twelve. The fact that Jesus didn’t pick him outright after his miraculous cure was a mystery to us. Jesus wanted converts to return to their towns to spread the word, but Justus wasn’t an ordinary member of the Way. If anyone should be selected it would seem that a convert cured by Jesus would make a good choice. As it turned out, with Jesus coaxing, Justus departed for Nain, his hometown, the next morning to present his miracle to his parents and friends. Perhaps, Jesus told us after Justus departed, the miracle would soften the citizens of Nain up as it had at other stops. At least we had an important member there to represent the Way. In this manner, explained Jesus, Cleopas, who lived in Emmaus, Mark, who lived in Jerusalem, and Barnabas, who lived in Jericho, were likewise representatives of the Way.

Though he kept mum about it, Jesus had decided to keep his distance from Nazareth after his close call. Our destination, of course, depended on where God told him to go. One reason, I’m certain, why he wanted to leave Mary behind, was the dangers of the road. According to Hamid, a merchant we encountered in Bethsaida, Barabbas and his bandit gang were now in Galilee, attacking caravans and even pilgrims foolish enough to travel without guards. Considering the small size of Barabbas’ band of cutthroats, they moved about with stealth, ambushing merchants and pilgrims, and then scattering like jackals when faced with Roman troops. As long as a Roman contingent accompanied travelers, Hamid explained, people were safe. During this period, he advised, we should stay in Bethsaida. It was only a matter of time before Barabbas and his gang were caught. Traveling unguarded now, as we were doing, was insane. For the time being, therefore, Jesus decided to let us go no further than Capernaum, our home base.

The sooner we reached Capernaum the better, we agreed. We were reassured by Hamid that the Romans were hunting Barabbas in earnest, but there was no telling when he would actually be caught. As before, when our courage flagged, Jesus lectured us on having more faith. “Have I not kept you safe so far?” he chided. “My hour has not come—neither has yours!” Caring such an ominous note as it did, we wondered what that meant. It was hardly reassuring. Had we known what we know now, we might have reacted like frightened sheep. That future episode, however, was much more serious than Barabbas’ band of thieves. I remembered how Jesus dissuaded a band of highwaymen from robbing us on our way to meet Cousin John, so I wasn’t afraid. James, who believed this story, was also encouraged by this recollection. Together we tried bolstering the disciples’ courage. Before we disembarked finally for places unknown, Peter, who appeared to be our leader after deferential treatment from Jesus, also put on a good face.

“Master,” he said bravely, “we’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. Shall we bring our swords?”

“Humph.” Jesus smiled wryly, looking around at the group. “Do you men have swords?”

“No!” We replied unanimously.

“I had a sword once,” Bartholomew mumbled.

“Me too.” I nodded pertly.

“I left mine at home,” confessed to Matthew. “What a stupid thing to do!”

“I was joking,” Peter said lamely. “As Jesus said, ‘we must have faith!’”

“There’ll be a time for swords,” Jesus spoke enigmatically again. “We go in peace. For now, your faith is your shield.”

The sunlight on Jesus tanned face, sparkle in his blue eyes, and cheerful grin, seemed to wipe away in one stroke our lingering fears. On that final note, we began our trek south, not knowing where Jesus would lead us, buoyed by his courage and resolve. Though it made James uncomfortable, Matthew remained with us at the rear of the procession. With a new mule and cart, Bartholomew seemed in good spirits. Only moments ago, he had slipped again, by bringing up his past. Fishermen carried knives for scaling and gutting fish, I reminded him, they never had swords. Only bandits, as Bartholomew once was, carried swords.

“Your brother’s very sure of himself,” Matthew spoke discreetly. “He convinced me. Jesus has great power!”

“Jesus isn’t afraid of anything,” James said matter-of-factly.

“Why should he be?” I replied, looking at the sky. “Thanks to him, we’re protected by God!”

“If I were a pagan,” Matthew said imprudently, “I might think he was a god!”

******

For the longest time, as we traveled south, we wondered where Jesus was leading us. Peter thought it might be Sepphoris this time. Andrew wondered if he might go much further into Judea. Finally after making camp in a grove of myrtles near a bubbling spring, we set out our pallets, and, taking our places around the fire, ate a meager meal. Jesus was in a dreamy mood, saying all sort of strange things. I was too tired to focus on his words. Bartholomew once again was already fast asleep. That hour, as we discussed our journey, a man arrived: a mere shadow at first, startling us half out of our wits. In the glow of the campfire we recognized immediately our friend Justus. His normally smiling face was streaked with tears.

“Jesus,” he said, reaching out wearily, “I know you have much to do. I didn’t plan coming back so soon, but something happened when I returned home. Everyone was so glad to see me. I was so happy, and then something terrible happened. My brother Laban was stricken—by what we don’t know. He’s dying, Jesus. My aging parents already lost one son. Now, my youngest brother will be lost, but for your healing hand.”

Jesus smiled with understanding. Everyone else groaned. We had already visited Nain. It was, we recalled, a most unfriendly town. Thanks to those hate-mongering graybeards, its citizens had chased us out of town. Normally, Jesus wouldn’t visit the same town more than once. Cana had been an exception, as Capernaum, our home base, and Jesus told us we would be visiting Jerusalem again. There were just too many towns to re-visit, he explained. This was fine with us. But now, judging by Jesus’ expression, we would, because of this emergency, be visiting Nain again.

“Oh no,” James moaned, “not that awful place. They treated us like lepers! We were almost stoned!”

“That’s an exaggeration,” I whispered to him. “Nazareth was much worse!”

“I’m sorry,” Jesus said to the group. “Justus has shown great faith in coming to me. Considering the dangers of the road, he’s also quite brave. We will travel to Nain, and thereafter find friendlier towns. You have my promise.”

No one dared argue with him. Justus had earned our friendship. Out of earshot of Jesus, however, after that report by Hamid, the fishermen harbored fears about the road.

“We should have waited awhile,” exclaimed Philip. “Is Justus’ brother worth all our lives?”

“Yes,” fretted Andrew, “Barabbas is out there. There’s no telling when he’ll appear!”

“Listen to them,” James whispered to me. “They’ll run for the hills if we’re attacked.”

“That’s not going to happen,” I reassured him. “On the way to the river, I saw Jesus in action. In just a few words, he stopped those bandits cold.”

“I believe you,” replied Matthew, “but we might get ambushed. Hamid warned us about this area. We need a Roman escort!”

Watching Jesus slip into the darkness to pray, a thought occurred to me.

“There are things he’s not telling us,” I said, looking back into the fire. “Jesus has a master plan unseen by us. Even Justus’ request that he cure his brother is foreordained. After everything he’s said, I believe he has a timeline, too. He said as much himself.”

“So,” Bartholomew declared groggily, “Jesus knew Justus would return with his request.”

“Lucky us,” James grumbled.

“Everything is predestined,” I said with great conviction. “Because of Laban’s illness, we have one more chance in Nain.”

It was as if a warm current had swept over me as I spoke those words. Matthew looked at me then with great respect. Despite my efforts at reasoning, though, Bartholomew remained ill at ease.

“Jesus is a miracle worker,” he chose his words carefully. “No one argues that point. He can even raise up the dead, but is he immune to arrows, spears, and blades? Can he raise himself from the dead? Who would protect us then?”

Unwittingly, in his trepidation, Bartholomew had touched upon prophecy, his response carrying an ominous ring. As I stared at him contemplating his words, Matthew reached over and patted Bartholomew’s arm. “We must trust Jesus,” he said calmly.

“I trust him,” Bartholomew replied in a quavering voice. “I just don’t trust Barabbas. I’ve known that rascal since he was a child. He’s an evil man!”

Matthew gave him a startled look. “You knew Barabbas?”

Quick to cover Bartholomew’s slip, I told Matthew a story from James and my childhood when Jesus cured the sparrow—his first miracle, which he heard me mention before. In an effort to support my cover up, James joined in my reminiscing by telling Matthew about the time Jesus visited the temple as a child, confounding the scribes and priests with his knowledge of the Torah. Matthew, though he said nothing more, glanced dubiously at Bartholomew.

******

That night as I slept near my friends, I was, in spite of my fine words, filled with dread, but not of Barabbas and his gang. Recalling Bartholomew’s question about Jesus, “Can he raise himself from the dead?” I sensed, with murky intuition, that it had greater meaning.” “Why am I concerned about his words?” I asked myself. “What do they really mean?” Soon, however, I fell asleep, my ill feeling replaced by a nightmare. I was hiding in the shadows from an angry mob, shouting, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” In my nightmare, as an added touch of horror, it was night, and the townsfolk carried torches. Their faces were illuminated hideously—men and women spitting rage. Looking beyond the crowd, as I cringed in fear, I saw the silhouettes of three crosses outlined against a moonlit sky. Then, as the mob turned on me, I found myself running for my life. “Save me Jesus!” I called to my brother, as I fled into the night. Suddenly, as times before, I awakened from my dream in a cold sweat. It was first light. Beyond the camp, transfigured in the glow as the sun brimmed the horizon, Jesus was standing watch. I remembered times in the past, when he had awakened me from a bad dream, consoling me with logic and reason, but this time I awakened alone, as the rest of the camp slept. Unlike the last time, I wouldn’t share my dream with him…. He had quite enough on his mind.

******

Like all of my bad dreams, I would bury this one away. I didn’t know it then, but that hour, from the moment Bartholomew spoke those ominous words, through my nightmarish vision of the mob and crosses, until I awakened in our camp, I had experienced a revelation—the icy breath of prophecy. Why I had been cursed with this gift, I will never know. Fortunately, it came infrequently, in times of stress and anxiety, and was never clearly interpreted. This would come later, at the end of Jesus’ mission.

That moment, I struggled groggily to my feet, shaking off the dark tendrils of sleep, the dream imagery fading with the dawn. Moving more quickly to the embers in the fire ring, I tossed in kindling and a few branches, waiting only a few moments until they caught flame. My companions continued to wrestle with sleep as I sat by the fire. I was hungry, my head ached, and I longed for a long swig of wine. Bartholomew’s snores marred the tranquility of the scene yet were reassuring. Though hungry and weary, I was alive—more alive than any time in my life. I was surrounded by men who shared my burden, blessed by their greater ignorance of what was to come. What’s more I was comforted by sight of the Shepherd still standing watch. Though the temptation to ask him to interpret my dream was strong, I would keep this one to myself. Against the forces of Satan he once endured. This was enough for me.

After the others joined me by the fire, we shared a frugal breakfast, rose up one-by-one, slung on our packs, and once more accompanied Jesus on the road. Jesus spoke in murmurs to Justus then, as we followed him south. Justus nodded thoughtfully as he listened. At one point, it sounded as if Jesus was praying. Lulled by the inevitability of it all, I was, for a short while, at peace. I knew the other men were afraid. Though I was comforted by the memory of Jesus’ handling of bandits in the past, their fear became contagious. Thanks to Hamid’s report, the disciples had one thought on their mind: Barabbas and his bandit gang. James looked around as if expecting him to pop up anytime, and Bartholomew sat in his cart nervously gripping the reins. Some of the disciples, I noticed, had taken on more militant poses, Matthew keeping a hand on his dagger, Peter brandishing a large stick, and Andrew carrying stones in each hand. Had I not been frightened myself, I might have been amused. When I traveled with my Gentile friends, I had been prepared for battle. Papa’s ancestral sword would have been too unwieldy on the road, but I wished I had taken along my Roman gladius. I was, like the other men, defenseless against Barabbas’ gang.

At one rest stop, which allowed us to fill our water skins and allow Bartholomew to stretch his legs, Jesus was approached by travelers on the road heading in the opposite direction. As was his custom, he preached to them and offered God’s grace. The men listened but politely rejected his offer. Jesus took this opportunity to warn them of Barabbas’ band. The four men were unaware of this menace yet shrugged their shoulders and continued their journey north. In spite of our own unguarded condition, it struck me as foolish for travelers not to understand the dangers of the road. When we warned other travelers heading north or south, we discovered that many of them actually knew of the threat but, because of business and engagements, must travel nonetheless.

“Those people are insane!” mumbled Philip. “Until Barabbas is caught, no one should be on the road!”

Of course, we were just as insane. Though Peter attempted to set an example, the fishermen grew increasingly alarmed and Bartholomew seemed paralyzed with fear. Seeing my own efforts at courage, James tried acting brave, as did Matthew, but our resolve was tested each time Jesus made a stop. Despite the urgency of making good time and reaching our destination, Jesus couldn’t resist preaching to persons on the road, a pattern that was slowing us down. It wasn’t in his nature to deny supplicants and not spread the word. Considering how few actually responded, it hardly seemed worth it, and yet Jesus was relentless. In all his endeavors, he never gave up. On behalf of the other disciples, James and I prayed very hard for a clear road ahead. As it turned out, the number of travelers on the road became fewer and fewer as we approached Nain. Perhaps God heard our prayers and finally cleared our path. We quickened our steps now as Jesus lengthened his strides. Encouraged by our spirit, Bartholomew gave his mule a prod, grinning happily as his cart surged ahead. Soon, we could smell cooking fires and see their smoke rising above the trees.

As we arrived in Nain that evening, we were met, as before, with surly gazes on the street. A friendly dog romped up to Jesus to have his head patted. A youth leading a goat down the road waved at us, but, judging by the few elders who passed us on the road, we were still, as the Romans would say, persona non gratis.

Justus led us immediately to his mother’s home. Upon seeing the commotion in front of her house—people mulling around the door and loud lamenting inside the house—we knew we were too late.

“Who are those men?” A boy tugged at his mothers dress.

“It’s that preacher from Nazareth—Jesus.” She sneered.

“Sorry, master,” Peter said sympathetically. “You did your best.”

“Laban sleeps,” Jesus said simply to Justus. “Lead us into the house.”

Without argument, Justus scurried ahead to make a path and announce Jesus’ arrival. None of the people in the crowded house were glad to see the preacher. Grumbling could be heard (“It’s that fellow from Nazareth.” and “What’s he doing here?”). Many of the mourners remembered Jesus last visit, a few giving him hostile glares, but most of them were just curious as to why Jesus was here.

When the mother came to Jesus, frowning quizzically at this interruption, Jesus didn’t wait to exchange amenities, but came straight to the point. “Woman, where’s your son?”

“Why?” she asked with great bitterness. “He’s dead.”

“No,” Jesus shook his head, “he’s in the dark sleep—that place in between.”

“What nonsense is this?” a male relative called from across the room. “Laban’s in his coffin. Who let that lunatic into this house?”

After our last trip to Nain, our reception came as no surprise to us. Nevertheless, with Justus’ coaxing, three other men helped him bring the coffin to the center of the room. Justus opened the lid and stood back reverently, fully confident in Jesus’ powers. Jesus prayed a moment over the body in the coffin. Then, opening his eyes, he called out loudly, startling the neighbors and relatives in the room, “Laban, in the name of my Father, rise and join the living.”

“So he was dead!” Justus blurted.

“He was asleep.” Jesus insisted.

Laban stirred and, his eyelids fluttering a moment, stared uncomprehendingly until his mind cleared.

“I was in a dark place,” his voice came out thinly. “Was I dead?”

“You were very sick,” Jesus persisted, shaking his head. “Considering our laws about burying the deceased before sunset, this man might have been buried alive.”

When this would be written down by Luke, there would be no mention of this conversation. I have great respect for Luke, but he wasn’t there. His report of this miracle, precedes his account of Lazarus’ resurrection, a more factual account. During that hour, however, we, who were eyewitnesses heard the truth, but were still impressed. Justus was just happy to have his brother back and spare his mother Laban’s loss. For the Pharisee and two elders in the room, however, what Jesus had done was nothing short of sorcery. Once again from a graybeard we heard that familiar refrain.

“You call this sorcery?” Jesus looked squarely at the Pharisee. “By what logic do you arrive at that?”

Justus placed a mug of wine in Jesus hand to bolster his courage. Jesus, who didn’t need wine to fortify himself, thanked him but handed it to me. As I gulped down the wine, I listened to the Pharisee, who identified himself as Menalech, rant and rave about the impossibility and unnaturalness of returning from the dead.

“That you are a Nazarene with a band of no-accounts makes it all the more difficult to believe.” He shook his fist. “That man was dead. I don’t care what you say. I felt his pulse. He’s been dead for hours.”

Jesus closed his eyes once more, as if praying again to God. “Be silent!” he commanded the Pharisee. “Leave this room in peace!”

That moment, as we watched in hysterical amusement, Menalech and his associates turned on their heels and, like men in a trance, marched single file out of the room. It was the only time we saw Jesus use his power this way, and yet he didn’t do it in anger. Peter insisted later that Jesus did it in self-defense, but that wasn’t true either. I believe that the Pharisee and his friends had evil intent. Jesus’ work wasn’t even close to being finished. He had much more to do. The mere fact that he asked God’s permission therefore made it a righteous act. With the surly graybeards out of the room, Jesus and his disciples mingled with the guests. Laban was taken to his bed and given soup and bread. Before leaving the house, Jesus, with Peter and John’s assistance, spoke the words and baptized Laban, his mother, and the men who helped carry Laban into the room. Afterwards, we bid everyone goodbye, as Justus escorted us back to the road.

“When will I seen you again?” he asked eagerly. “I have much to learn.”

“I’ll see you in the Kingdom,” Jesus replied thoughtfully. “Until that day, go among your neighbors and friends—spread the word. The words are simple. They’re burned into your heart!”

As we retraced our steps toward Capernaum, James turned to me and asked in a muted voice, “What did our brother mean back there?”

“You mean ‘I’ll see you in the Kingdom?’” I frowned.

“Yes,” James nodded, “I don’t like the sound of that…. That’s a strange thing to say, don’t you think? Kingdom of what? Is he talking about the Messiah?”

Not wanting to alarm James, I answered carefully, “Who knows?… Jesus is always saying strange things.”

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