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Chapter Seventeen

The Death Of The Baptist

Hamid, the merchant, had planted lasting fear in Jesus’ disciples. I recalled my father telling us about some parents, including his own, using the threat of phantoms and demons to make their children behave. Though my parents never used this tactic, my playmates in Nazareth believed in these fiends. Some of this must have worn off on me, because I was still to this day uncomfortable, often frightened, of the dark. Barabbas gang had been like a dark shadow on our path. Unlike the imagined night stalkers and walking dead of my childhood, he and his men were out there and they were real. The other men were, at times, like frightened children. I tried to dispel my own fears with the memory of our trip to the River Jordan in which Jesus had used his power of persuasion. It was the same power he used in Cana to send that mob away. Had they not been a gang of cutthroats and thieves too? I reasoned with James, Matthew, and Bartholomew. They had appeared out of nowhere in our path, and Jesus had, using his powers, dismissed them like a bad dream. We weren’t rustic, superstitious fishermen. Why were we afraid of a mere rumor? What was so special about the latest band of thieves?

“Because,” Matthew replied with great conviction, “this is Barabbas and his gang!”

James and Bartholomew vigorously agreed. Though I tried bolstering their courage, it was no use. They were right. I didn’t believe my own words. For a long stretch of the road, we half-expected to be ambushed by Barabbas’ gang. Lurking in every grove of trees or behind every hill we imagined them lying in wait, swooping down and waylaying our group. But then, as the time dragged on, when our fears failed to transpire and we succumbed to weariness of travel, we let down our guard. Peter was tired of holding his big stick and Andrew was weary of holding rocks in each hand. Bartholomew relaxed in his seat, his attention turned inward instead of outward at the surrounding terrain, mostly longing for a nap. James, Matthew, and I occupied our minds with idle chatter for awhile, and Philip, John, and his brother entertained themselves by throwing rocks at birds.

“Stop that at once!” Jesus shouted at them. “Have you learned nothing in my company?”

“They’re bored,” Peter said flatly. “It’s better than being afraid.”

“Afraid?” Jesus frowned at him. “That explains nothing. They have nothing to fear. Where is their faith? You saw them throwing yet you said nothing. You must set an example Peter. I know you’re all tired, but stoning birds isn’t acceptable. That won’t happen again!”

“Sorry.” John and his brother muttered.

“I don’t understand.” Philip said, dropping his handful of rock. “We kill fish don’t we? Most Galileans love the sport of hunting: jackals, foxes, deers, and when my father was young, even lions.”

“Listen well to me,” he addressed us all, “you’re new men. When you’re with me, you represent a new faith: the Way. Fishermen, like right-minded hunters, kill for food, not sport. This rule, forgotten in the old religion, is one more commandment to obey.” “A righteous man cares for the need of animals,” he quoted liberally from Psalms. “He gives them food, even feeding the young ravens when they call…. Even the sparrows won’t die unnoticed…. All creatures, great and small are my Father’s creation, not men’s playthings. The smallest worm and gnat is counted and worthy of respect.”

During his lecture on behalf of God’s creation, which I strongly approved, he had, without mentioning Barabbas and his gang, gently rebuked our fears.”

Within the last few Roman miles, we had, in fact, gained a grip on our courage. It was, of course, a tenuous grip, caused by lethargy as much as resolve. The fishermen continued to distract themselves by stone-tossing, this time using boulders and tree trunks as targets. James, Matthew, Bartholomew, and I, chose more intellectual pursuits, by discussing Jesus’ reprimand of the fishermen. Considering the nature of men, Matthew and Bartholomew thought his views on the sanctity of life unreasonable, but my siblings and I were raised to respect life. Jesus had set a memorable example for us when he brought a sparrow back to life. When the tiny bird flew from his hands, it was a prelude of things to come—Jesus first miracle, and yet, in his innocence, his only intention had been to cure the bird. He was the village pet doctor, with no concern for grand things. My parents knew the secret, but Jesus didn’t know who he was…. In many ways, he was still struggling with this knowledge.

As Peter and Andrew walked in silence, Jesus forged ahead of us, deep in thought. He must have been growing weary of babysitting, rather than shepherding, these men. I was, after an uneventful stretch of road and hearing Jesus lecture on the sanctity of life, once more at peace. Soon, I consoled myself, Jesus would bring us back to Capernaum. He would protect us as he had on our journey to the River Jordan. With this thought in mind, my pace quickened. I had the sudden urge to talk to Jesus. Looking back with a flicker of irritation, he slowed down until I was alongside of him.

“Jesus,” I whispered discreetly, “you were right to scold them.” “Look at those men !” I glanced back with scorn. “They’re so immature!”

“Yes.” He heaved a sigh. “All men are children at times.”

Walking backwards a moment, I watched them frolic like young boys. Philip, John, and his brother had switched from stone-tossing to mock sword fighting with sticks. For Jesus’ benefit, Peter scolded them, but with a smile on his face. He was right, I realized: it was better than being afraid. James, Matthew, and Bartholomew, as they brought up the rear, still seemed a bit edgy. We hadn’t seen a traveler on the road for almost an hour, which seemed odd, and yet we would soon arrive in Capernaum.

Not far ahead, upon one last hill, Lake Gennesaret would appear, glistening in the evening sun. With this thought in mind, I chatted with Jesus for a short while. I asked him, half-seriously, what God had in mind for us. Jesus said, also half-seriously, that he didn’t know. His revelations came to him hourly, sometime moment-by-moment. Suddenly, as I happened to glance up at a distant knoll, I saw him. I knew it at once. At first he sat on his mount alone, a dark silhouette against the setting sun, and then on each side of him several more shadowy riders appeared. Fortunately that very moment, for the disciples peace of mind, we just happen to approached a stand of myrtles.

“Say nothing to the others!” Jesus said from the corner of his mouth.

“Will they attack us?” I asked in a strained voice.

“Jude, trust me.” He gripped my shoulder. “We have nothing to fear from Barabbas!”

“Really” I gave him a searching look. “Did God tell you that?”

“Yes, he did,” he answered with a flicker of irritation.

“Of course,” I laughed nervously. “You have God’s ear.”

Studying me a moment, he read me like a scroll, and yet he laughed at my doubts, vigorously tousling my hair. When Jesus did that I knew he wasn’t angry. The truth was, however, I was having doubts, but not in Jesus or, for that matter, God. I was doubting myself. How long could I put up this brave front for the other men’s benefit? At times I had been just as afraid as them, and now, finally, he had appeared, Barabbas, our phantom demon. I couldn’t fool Jesus one bit. He knew, by my expression, I was terrified.

When we passed by the trees, the knoll was behind us. For that last leg of our journey before reaching Capernaum, I tried being brave again. The truth was, however, we could be ambushed at anytime before entering the town. What made it much easier for me was walking beside Jesus. I had shown scorn for the behavior of the fishermen, and yet here I was feeling small and vulnerable like a child in his presence. As if an ill-wind blew over them, too, the fishermen stopped cavorting and fell silent, moving up and around Jesus on the road. James, Matthew, and Bartholomew likewise inched up closer to him, James taking the reins to hasten the move. As the Shepherd, Jesus often thought of us as his sheep. That moment, as we approached our town, we felt more like lambs.

******

That evening, as we were by greeted by Peter’s family and Mary Magdalene (a vision of loveliness reaching my weary eyes), I thought fleetingly of my sighting of Barabbas, but then, just as quickly as I heard her lilting laughter in the room, I pushed it out of my mind. Nothing could happen to me or my companions when Jesus was around. After the evening ablutions, as we waited for our supper, I wanted to talk to Mary but John, that wily rascal, got there first. What calmed my jealousy was her furtive glances at me, as if, I fancied, she was bored and would rather be talking to me. Because of Jesus admonishments to me about my feeling toward Mary, as he had concerning Deborah, I wouldn’t force the issue. It was enough to share Mary’s gaze.

The smell Esther’s special stew mingled with the scent of crushed flowers, which Dinah used to camouflage the odor of Jesus’ men. As I waited expectantly along with the others, happy to be among friends, a crisis befell Jesus. He had just settled down on his cushion and was chatting with Peter, when there was a knock on the door.

Looks of fear replaced our contented expressions.

“Who could that be?” Peter rose up hesitantly.

“Where you expecting guests?” Esther called from the kitchen.

“Oh dear,” Mary wrung her hands, “is it more bad men?”

“Ask who it is,” suggested Jesus.

“All right,” Peter took a deep breath, “but I’m not expecting anyone at this hour. “Who are you?” Peter called nervously through the door. “State your business!”

“Amos Bar Jonah!” came the reply. “I have another message for Jesus.”

“What!?” I cried, leaping to my feet. “Another message?”

Jesus stroked his beard. “He’s John the Baptist’s courier,” he announced for the women’s benefit. “Let him in.”

After opening the door, Peter, Jesus, and I were greeted by that same ragamuffin who escorted Jesus and me to the River Jordan and informed us of the Baptist’s arrest. Amos was even more unkempt and grimy-looking than before. He must have ridden straight-away to us, barely stopping. Behind him, snorting and trembling with fatigue as did the rider, was the same black steed. Now that things had quieted down outside, Peter instructed Bernice to take Amos’ horse to the pasture where Bartholomew’s mule foraged.

Jesus introduced the women and Matthew to him. Esther and Dinah wrinkled their noses upon greeting this smelly man. I embraced my old friend, as did Jesus. Amos responded politely but there was a look of disapproval or disdain on is bristly face.

“I have grave news for the preacher,” he looked squarely at Jesus.

“He’s more than a preacher now,” Matthew corrected him. “He’s a great prophet!”

“Very well,” a note of sarcasm tinged Amos voice, “I have grave news for the prophet.”

Jesus, who wasn’t ready to be labeled, frowned at Matthew. It was, of course, an understatement, and yet Matthew gave it a commanding ring. For a moment Amos fidgeted in the middle of the room. Everyone except Jesus and I felt uncomfortable around this man. His brusque manners and odor were too much for even the rustic fishermen.

“Well, out with it!” Peter snapped his fingers.

“John is dead!” Amos declared solemnly.

“Oh no,” I slapped my forehead. “Herod kept that poor man prisoner for months.”

Visibly shaken, as were Andrew and Philip, who had been John the Baptists followers, Jesus listened to Amos’ full report. Everyone knew why John had been imprisoned: he had verbally attacked Herod and his wife. As we gathered around Jesus, he explained how John’s preaching of repentance and salvation was changed by the appearance of himself. Now that the Promised One was finally here, despite the pleading of his disciples and himself, he began turning his attention to Herod and his wife. The Tetrarch would never have had him arrested if he had stuck to preaching repentance and salvation, but then Herod divorced his wife and married Herodias, his brother’s wife. Because of the Hebrew law in the Torah against such behavior, John felt obliged to speak out, which was his undoing. According to a servant who witnessed the debacle, Herodias played upon her drunken husband’s lust for her daughter, promising him a dance by Salome for the Baptist’s head. This struck us as obscenely implausible. Nevertheless, the fact remained, Amos, concluded, John lost his head as Salome danced.

“I’ve heard of men doing rash things,” James muttered, “but that’s hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” Amos glared at James. “I heard it from an eyewitness. He heard Herod say, ‘I would give anything if Salome would dance.’ ‘Anything?’ Herodias replied. ‘Anything!’ Herod promised. ‘Then give me the head of the Baptist!” she cried.’”

“That’s awful!” I shook my head.

“I’m sorry, Jesus,” Peter tried comforting him. “He brought it on himself.”

“Yeah,” spat Matthew, “he was a damn fool!”

For a moment, I thought Amos might hit the publican. Both Andrew and Philip were offended too. In addition to what Peter and he had said, however, I heard John, his brother James, and Bartholomew agree with Matthew. It was, James would later say to me, as if the Baptist had committed suicide. All of Galilee knew that Herod was an immoral man. He could have kept on preaching or joined Jesus on the road. Why had be picked the one issue that cost him his head?

“This isn’t the issue,” Amos heaved a broken sigh. “I know John was foolish. He had been insulting Pharisees, scribes, and priests for years. Unlike Jesus, though, he stayed put in Judea. Herod wouldn’t let anyone touch him, because he thought John was Elijah, whom God took up to heaven.”

“You’re serious?” Andrew made a face. “He thought John was Elijah?”

“I didn’t know that,” Philip looked at him in disbelief. “Andrew and I were John’s disciples. I never heard that.”

“You wouldn’t, would he?” Amos shrugged his shoulders. “This was palace gossip. The servant, who was converted by John from his cell, took the Baptist’s remains and hid them in the desert to prevent Herod’s men from defiling him.”

Amos lapsed into silence.

“Did they bury John?” Andrew reached out to prod him.

“Omri, the servant, didn’t have time to dig a grave. He was so frightened he would be found out, he fled.”

“Where is his remains?” Jesus voice constricted.

“I’m not sure.” Amos shrugged again. “I barely escaped myself. Now that the Baptist is dead, his disciples have fled. I can’t blame them. I was there with John during his last hours. When we saw Herod’s men in the distance, I fled, too. I learned of John’s death from the servant. When the order to have John beheaded was given, he ran away. It was very brave of Omri to return and fetch John’s remains.”

“He’s not even buried?” Andrew looked at Amos with scorn.

“I panicked,” Amos admitted. “I almost kept on going, but here I am.” “At least I was there before he died,” he said with great bitterness. “If I hadn’t found Omri, I wouldn’t know what happened. That almost cost us both our heads. Jesus should’ve come when the messenger told him he was imprisoned. If he has such powers, he could’ve save him, but he didn’t. He let him die!”

I could hear everyone in the room, including me, gasp. Mary was weeping softly beside Jesus. Esther, Dinah, and Bernice stood in the kitchen shaking their heads. John’s brother James, like Matthew, took offense at his accusation. With his fists clinched at his side, James came right up to Amos’ face, “You uncouth barbarian!” he cried. “Who are you to judge him? John acted rashly. Jesus isn’t to blame for his foolishness. He put his own head on the block!”

“He’s right!” Matthew agreed. “Just who do you think you are, Amos? Jesus doesn’t have time for fools. He’s a busy man!”

“Really?” Amos stared him down. “Too busy to save his cousin and best friend?”

“Matthew and James.” Peter pulled them back rudely. “Let’s not make this a brawl,”

With great reluctance in his voice, as Amos looked down at the floor, Andrew placed a hand on his shoulder. “John must be buried. Philip and I were once his disciples. We’ll go back to help with the deed.”

“No” Amos shook his head. “Omri placed him in a cave and placed brush in front of it. That’s all I know. We would have to find Omri to find the cave.”

“So you don’t know?” Andrew looked at him in disbelief.

“That’s right.” Amos sighed brokenly.

There was no love lost between Amos and John’s old disciples. Andrew and Philip looked at him as if he was a coward. I didn’t like what Amos said about Jesus, but I felt sorry for him. I wanted very much to say something comforting, now that his purpose in life as John’s courier was gone. In stead, after Esther graciously offered to feed him supper with us, I said in a muted voice to him, “Join us Amos. Jesus will give purpose to your life!” Amos looked at me with scorn that moment but said nothing. Though I hoped he would change his mind, I didn’t press the point. As we sat across from each other on the floor, I watched Jesus slip out quietly, without a word, during our meal.

Placing a body in a cave and placing brush in front of it did not seem very effective. At most it was a symbolic act of respect. By now, considering the cleverness of jackals, Johns bones were scattered over the desert floor. Jesus was greatly shaken by the news Amos brought him. I wanted to go after him, but Bartholomew reached out to restrain me.

“Let him go so that he can talk to his father,” he murmured to me. “He would’ve gone if he could have. Jesus chose God’s will over his own.”

******

That night I tossed and turned in my pallet. Even with Mary Magdalene in the room, it was difficult for me to sleep. Strangely enough, I considered the fate of John the Baptist tragic, but I felt more sorry for Amos, who had lost his benefactor and friend, now that his livelihood as a courier was gone. When the morning finally came and we were all up and about, Amos and his black steed were gone. I wondered if we would ever see him again.

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