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Chapter Twenty-Five

Going Out, Two-By-Two

After crossing the border of Galilee into Phoenicia, we scrambled to find the least populated and closest towns in the north. Because Bartholomew and I had a mule and cart it would seem that we had an advantage, and this was true for the first leg of the trip through northern Galilee. Just when the twelve reached the border and entered the province of Phoenicia, however, disaster struck Bartholomew and me. Under our combined weight and previous wear and tear, the axle of the cart finally broke. With no way of repairing the axle, we abandoned Bartholomew’s cart. I was able to help the old man onto the mule, but from this point on, I was on foot. Having to guide the mule and tend to Bartholomew’s frequent trips to relieve himself or just to rest, slowed us down to a snail’s pace.

All of the other disciples felt sorry for me, but, as Peter put it grimly, God guided our steps. God must therefore assist Bartholomew and me during this crisis. We would learn later where the other pairs wound up. Despite Jesus’ expectations for us, though, there was some confusion as well as a little deceit during some of the disciples’ missions. Simon and Judas had rushed to Sarepta, to what they thought was the smallest of the coastal towns, after they crossed the border, only to discover a much larger community with a large minority of Gentiles. Since Jesus had told them to avoid preaching to Gentiles yet, they relied on this admonition as an excuse to move on to a few small fishing villages, leaving Sarepta untouched by the word. Peter and Andrew reached Tyre, the closest of the main towns and Philip and Matthew were forced to move further on to the Sidon—both destinations heavily populated by Syrians and Greeks, while James and Thomas took the road to Ptolemais—the largest and most heavily populated Gentile communities of the Phoenician towns. Jesus’ admonition to avoid the Gentiles, I pointed out to Bartholomew, didn’t mean to shun them. Since it would be difficult to find purely Jewish or Gentile towns, who sometimes mingled in the same crowds, Bartholomew and I, as most of the disciples, couldn’t take him literally.

Though our journey was hectic and troublesome, Jesus was proven correct: there were no serious incidents on the way: highwaymen didn’t cross our path and Bartholomew had so far survived the trip. What was left for Bartholomew and me when we arrived in the port town of Ecdippa was not much better or worse than it was for the other pairs. There were fewer inhabitants than Sidon or Tyre, but there was also a large assortment of Syrian and Greek citizens, whom Jesus told us to avoid.

“How,” Bartholomew asked, as we encamped that night, “can we filter out Gentile from Jew?”

“That’s a good question” I said, passing him the wine skin. “Jesus meant that we should avoid them, not turn them away. Let’s just play it by ear.”

“Play it by ear?” Bartholomew gave me a worried look. “God’s supposed to guide us, not luck.” “….What about those miracles we’re suppose to perform?” He gazed forlornly in the fire. “Jesus said we have to have strong faith… I’ve been a sinner much of my life.” “Oh woe is me!” He held his head. “What if I fail?”

“Stop that.” I waved impatiently. “Get a hold of yourself, man. You won’t fail. I know your mind, Bartholomew. You’ve got plenty of faith!”

“Even so,” he said, taking a long swig of wine. “What if I get tongue-tied? I hate crowds. Why do you think I hid out in Capernaum? I just wanted to be left alone. Now look at me: I’m a preacher and miracle worker all wrapped up into one.”

“Moses beard!” I shook my head. “Did you even listen to him? God will put the words into your mouth.” “When you open your mouth—poof!” I snapped my fingers. “Trust me: you’ll preach up a storm!”

“You really believe that?” he asked, lifting up the wine skin again.

“Yes, of course,” I answered dubiously, “…I have to. We have to believe Jesus. I know for a fact he’s never lied.”

“Never lied?” Bartholomew wiped his mouth. “What man never lies?”

“Jesus,” I replied, my tongue loosened by wine. “He’s also perfect—without sin. My mother told us that God’s his father. That’s a plain fact!”

“Yeah, sure.” Bartholomew took a long swig. “We’re all God’s children. No ones perfect and without sin.”

“It’s true. I’m not making this up.” I swore, staring reflectively into the fire. “As a child, Jesus could work miracles. The town children were afraid of him. We all thought he was addled until Mama told us the truth. Jesus, she once admitted, is God’s son. Though pregnant when my father married her, she was a virgin. How weird is that?”

“Whoa,” Bartholomew’s eyes twinkled with mirth, “and I thought Judas was a liar.”

“Judas is a liar,” I grew indignant. “I’m telling the truth. You were Mama’s patient for months. You must’ve overheard. You saw him when he was a youth. Jesus has always been special—since birth. Our father adopted him. The rest of us were adopted, too. Not one of us, including Jesus, were sired by him, and yet our mother gave birth to him. You heard him tell the story when we visited Bethlehem. Tobin, who was one of the shepherds, verified this.” “It all points to one thing for Jesus,” I said with finality. “He’s God’s begotten son!”

Bartholomew’s eyes were half closed. He was obviously quite tipsy. “Why’re you telling me this?” his voice was slightly slurred. “Your saying that Jesus is literally God’s son. Jesus is man—a flesh and blood man, Jude. You make him out like he’s a god!”

Suddenly, as I recalled the Greek myth written by Hesiod, ‘Pandora’s Box,’ I took stock of myself. Like Pandora, who foolishly opened her box, I let out my family’s secrets.

“Whoops!” I clamped my hand over my mouth. “What am I saying…. Forget I said it…. I drank too much wine.”

“It’s camel dung,” Bartholomew frowned and smiled at the same time. “Ho-ho, your Mama wouldn’t tell you a story like that. She’s an honorable woman.” “But don’t worry.” He slung his arm over my shoulder. “I won’t remember it in the morning. Not after this!” He patted his wine skin. “Enough of wine and I won’t remember my name!”

“Wine has no memory,” I tried being glib. “I call it forget-me-juice—pickler of the brain.”

“Ho-ho.” He nodded with approval. “That’s good—forget-me-juice, pickler of the brain…. But maybe I’ll remember after all. That was a tall one, Jude. You broke a commandment: you lied. You’re going to hell!”

As Bartholomew got himself progressively drunk, I let him believe I fabricated that story. I scarcely believed some of it myself.

“You’re right.” I gave him a depreciating shrug. “I should never drink unwatered wine.” “By the way,” I took this opportunity to change the subject, “you don’t need wine to have a loose tongue. You can do it stone sober. You gotta be more careful, Bartholomew. People are listening!”

“Would-a-you-mean?” his words ran together.

“Earlier,” I reminded him as his head drooped lower and lower, “you slipped, admitting you had red hair. That was stupid, and it’s not the first time you made such a slip. Only Jesus, James, and I know you were a fugitive. I’m not worried about Matthew, Simon, and Judas. They have their own pasts. Watch what you say around those fisherman, though. Thomas might grow inquisitive too.”

“Yup,” he grinned foolishly, “gotta big mouth, I do, but I won’t tell Jude. Your secret’s safe with me! Yup, I got me some forget-me-juice. Turns the mind to mush!”

“Here, give me that,” I said, reaching for the wine skin. “You had enough wine. Lay down over here Bartholomew.” “That’s it.” I guided him to his pallet. “Now get some sleep. Dawn comes early on the coast!”

******

Bartholomew was soon asleep and snoring loudly—gurgling, snorting, and bubbling peacefully as he slept. Feeling the effects of wine, myself, I was sound asleep, too, within moments after lying down. The next morning found us in poor shape for a confrontation with more Jews. I had experience with Gentiles and had, in fact, once visited the town of Ecdippa in my travels. The pagan Syrian, Greeks, Romans, and Egyptians had hundreds of gods and didn’t mind one more. Though I never told anyone, I would take a carefree Gentile over a quarrelsome Jew any day of the week. With this heresy in my heart, I forced myself into action that morning. Not only did I have to get the hung over Bartholomew in shape to travel, I had to lead the mule to the stream for water and let him browse awhile in the nearby field, before getting Bartholomew back on his mule. Already, I sorely missed his cart. My head pounded like a Syrian gong after drinking so much wine. I could imagine how Bartholomew, who nearly emptied the wineskin, felt. It had been foolish and even deceitful of me to hide the wine in my knapsack. I wonder if the other disciples had done the same. I regretted this action greatly that morning.

After a meager breakfast of goats cheese and stale bread, washed down sparingly with our well water since I didn’t trust the stream, off we went. Bartholomew reassured me that the stream ran clear. I hoped he was correct. All we needed now was a sick mule. A young man now leading an old man on a mule was hardly an inspiring pair to preach at such a large town. I wished those moments, as we entered this seaside community, that we had found a much smaller town, but unfortunately, roadside hamlets were hardly villages at all and the sign posts always pointed to major towns.

We must have been somewhat of a spectacle as we entered Ecdippa. We immediately attracted an assembly of fair haired citizens, either Greek men and women, who often died their hair, or possibly Germans, similar to ones I once traveled with on the road.

“Well, those are certainly Gentiles,” Bartholomew motioned. “You can’t get much more Gentile than that!”

“Don’t point,” I chided amiably. “They don’t like that. Jews don’t either. Smile at them and wave your hand. We’ll go to the synagogue and find a rabbi. Remember what Jesus said about unfriendly folks.” “If they reject us,” I said, snapping my fingers, “phtt! We’re gone!”

“Yes, I remember his words.” Bartholomew brightened. “‘Shake the dust off our sandals.’”

“Right.” I nodded, reaching up to pat the mule. “When I can, I’m going to find some oats for him. He can’t keep eating grass and roots.” “I hope we find a patron soon,” I chattered wearily, “someone to feed us and give us shelter. Don’t say anything stupid, Bartholomew. Let me do the talking.”

“Which way is the synagogue?” I called to a swarthy fellow by the road.

“Humph!” He frowned. “There’s three in town: two Jewish synagogues and one Greek-speaking synagogue. Which one?”

“A Greek speaking synagogue?” I looked at him in disbelief. “Here in Ecdippa?”

“Yes,” he nodded, pointing his finger. “Right over there—that big white building, but be careful, stranger. You’re dressed like a Jew. There’s been trouble here between Greeks and Jews. One fellow got himself stoned.”

“Isn’t the trouble between Jews and pagan Gentiles?” I gave him a troubled look. “Surely it’s not against Greek-speaking Jews!”

He raised a bushy eye-brow. “The problem isn’t being a Greek-speaking Jew. The problem is dressing like a one, speaking like one, and, in many cases, looking like a Greek. Who can tell a pagan Greek from a Jewish one? In most cases, unless you know them personally, it’s hard to tell.” “They’re all half-breeds!” he concluded with a snarl. “What’s that old saying?” He thought a moment. “…. If it looks like a sheep and baas like a sheep, it’s a sheep!”

“Well,” I said, after considering our prospects, “ I can speak Greek, but I don’t look like a Greek. Maybe I have an advantage.”

“Looking like a sheep is worse than sounding like one,” he drawled.

Realizing I had broken the first rule when meeting strangers, I belatedly introduced Bartholomew and myself. The man, whose name was Artemidorus, a very Greek-sounding name, laughed at his little joke. It turned out that his father was Greek, but his mother was Jewish, which gave him his physical appearance and still made him a Jew. Leading us to the Greek-speaking synagogue, he told us to wait outside until he found the rabbi. Fortunately for us that morning, the rabbi happened to be inside praying. Appearing suddenly on the street, clean-shaven, in toga and sash, he struck me almost as Roman in his mannerism and dress. Momentarily taken back, I stifled a smile.

“I’m Nestor, rabbi of the Macedonian synagogue,” he announced in Aramaic.

We thought you were Greek?” Bartholomew blinked stupidly.

“Macedonians?” I blurted, caught off guard. “Oh yes, Macedonians. I remember: they’re also Greeks.”

“Macedonians are Greeks?” Nestor said indignantly. “Who, by Jove, are you?”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, slapping my forehead. “I’m Jude and this is Bartholomew. We’ve traveled far to reach your fine city. I meant no offense. I admire Greek culture. If you heard Artemidorus and me, you’d know I even speak Greek.”

“All right.” He sighed. “It’s a common mistake.” “Enough small talk,” he said irritably. “Something not right about you, young man. Tell me, Judah. Why are you visiting our synagogue? You’re not a Greek-speaking Jew. By your dress you’re a Galilean.”

“I wish to speak in your synagogue,” I came straight to the point.

“Why?” Nestor now glared with open hostility at me. “State your business in our synagogue, Judah. Are you one of those Galilean troublemakers following that heretic preacher?”

I had been caught off guard by his mere appearance. Now I was totally unprepared to respond to his question. Jesus reputation had preceded us. There were no other troublemakers from Galilee I knew of? Nestor had heard about Jesus heretical message and standing as a miracle worker. This fellow wouldn’t even say my name right. How could I reason with such a man?

“Let’s go,” Bartholomew found his voice. “Come on Jude. Remember what Jesus said, ‘Shake the dust off our feet!’”

“So.” Nestor searched my perspiring face. “You don’t deny it. You’re one of the Baptists followers!”

“Yes, uh I mean no.” I jerked back my head. “You mean John, the Baptist, that fellow who lost his head?” “No, no, absolutely not,” I spat on the ground. “We’re simply spreading the good news already found in scripture. There’s nothing heretical in our words.”

“Well,” Nestor conceded reluctantly, “it’s our custom to allow anyone to speak, as long as he doesn’t blaspheme or pervert the Torah.”

“When, when,” I sounded over-eager. “We have much to say.”

The truth was I had no idea what I was going to say. Already I had lied to the rabbi. Not only had I withheld the name of Jesus, our sponsor, and maligned the name of John the Baptist, I had lied about the message. It wasn’t scriptural and was, in fact, by definition heretical. How could I honey coat my words enough to prevent Bartholomew and me from being attacked?

******

To my surprise and dismay, Nestor gave me little time to prepare. Our sermon at the front of the Greek-speaking congregation was set for tomorrow morning. When the rabbi departed, I was left wondering how God could ever lead a sinner like me. As we returned to our encampment outside of town to await our moment of destiny, I was filled with misgivings.

“What have you done?” Bartholomew groaned, as I led his mule out of town. “Our best bet is to shake off the dust, as Jesus told us, and move on. The well’s poisoned in Ecdippa!”

“I’ll pray on it!” I muttered numbly. “Jesus said everything can be solved with prayer. I just hope God’s forgiving. I’ll need a lot of it. After what I told that man, I can use all the guidance I can get!”

After my foolishness, I would have to spend an entire day and evening listening to Bartholomew’s recriminations. It seemed like just retribution for my sins. Outside of town, we appeared to be safe from my folly. An ancient slab of rock centered in a grove of olive, myrtle, and oak trees shielded us from the road. What the rock couldn’t shield me from was my doubts and misgivings. I had the grim satisfaction of recalling the Roman and Greek method of punishment: flogging or decapitation. Because Ecdippa was a large town controlled by Roman magistrates, they should, at least according to Roman law, protect us from Jewish wrath. The most we should get is a sound whipping. Alas, I consoled Bartholomew, if worse came to worse, beheading was better than public stoning.

After we made camp by the rock, I led the mule to the stream winding through town. On top of everything else, I forgot to fill our water skins in town. There were sheep and goats in the fields and I still wasn’t sure it was safe enough even for the mule to drink. It hadn’t seemed to make him sick. Greatly tempted to chance contaminated water, myself, I watched the beast drank his fill then wander off to the nearby grasses to graze. After noticing how rapidly the stream danced over the rocks, a thought came to me. Looking back on this incident, I wanted to believe that God guided my steps. Running back to camp, I grabbed our wine skins. That moment, Bartholomew was napping in the shade of an oak tree, his fingers intertwined peacefully on his chest. Only moments ago he was scolding me again for placing our lives in danger. Keeping a wary eye on the mule munching in the field, I followed the babbling brook up a ways to a spring bubbling out of a second outcrop of rock.

“Thank you Lord!” I cried.

Filling the skins to the brim, I capped them, stuck my face down and slurped the cool water, then paused by the spring to make my peace with God.

“Lord of heaven and earth,” I began grandly, “I’m a fool but your fool. I stretched the truth to the breaking point, and I’m sorry, but Nestor wouldn’t have let me through the door if there were the merest trace of heresy. And yet tomorrow morning I must skirt that fine line between heresy and doctrine or place our lives in jeopardy. I know the Romans have forbidden our people to stone heretics, but it’s happened before. At the very least they will rough Bartholomew and I up and throw us out of town. I don’t know how more the old man can take. Such action might kill him.” “This is all my fault,” I wrung my hands. “Let them punish me, as Jesus warned. Throw me in prison or flog me. But Bartholomew shouldn’t suffer from my folly.” “I know what!” I began chatting with God. “I’ll leave him here in our camp for you to watch over. That’s what I’ll do. Those Greek-speaking Jews don’t need both of us.” “Thank you, Lord,” I bowed before turning on my heels.

With the water skins slung over my shoulder and the harness in one hand, I lead our mule back to camp, feeling a strange peace. It may sound like an exaggeration, but it was as if God touched me with an invisible hand. I decided to let Bartholomew sleep, while I made a fire. Our meager food supply didn’t require a fire, but it made me feel closer to God. Glancing over at my sleeping friend, I was reminded of the burning bush that talked to Moses.

That moment, as I sat there enjoying the campfire I had created, I grew concerned. I didn’t recall Bartholomew sleeping without snoring—a series of grunts, snorts, and whistles, which often kept me awake. Now he was deathly silent. Jumping up in a panic I ran over to the tree he propped himself against, shook him, then, remembering the method the Romans used to check for vital signs, I felt his pulse, listened to his chest, opened his eyelids…. There was no pulse…. No heart beat…. His pupils were fixed and dilated…. And there was no breath!

“No-o-o-o!” I screamed, shaking my fist. “This is my fault. I killed him. Plea-ease give him back the signs!”

After checking his vital signs that my friend Decius once showed me, I had confirmed my worst fear: the old man was dead. Drawing back in grief, for the first time in years I wept bitter tears. I had brought this calamity upon poor Bartholomew. The final strain had been too much for him. Recalling an old custom, I tore my tunic, throwing a handful of dirt and leaves in place of ashes on my head.

“Why Lord? Why?” I rocked back and forth. “This was a righteous man. He turned his life around, led a good, quiet life. He just wanted his patch of shade. You let him die here in the middle of nowhere—for what? So I could preach in a Greek synagogue and get us both flogged. He didn’t want this. This was my idea. Please Lord give him back his heartbeat and pulse. Let him breath. Open his eyes!”

I socked myself in the forehead, pounded my temples, and held my hand briefly over the fire—primitive reactions I had seen some Gentiles do. Pulling my hand away that instance, I realized what I was doing was pagan. According to Jesus, the reaction to fear shown by rustic Jews to ward off the evil eye was also borrowed from the surrounding Gentiles. Here I was trying to bash my brains out and burn my hand, a ritual that even civilized Gentiles thought was primitive. Looking around the camp, glad that no one had seen this ungodly display, I stood up in resignation, dusted myself off, and looked down at my friend.

Once more I chatted with God. “Lord.” I said, looking up through the branches. “That was inexcusable. Forgive my lapse. I saw that while traveling with Gentiles.” “Let’s try this again,” I composed myself. “… Lord, if it be your well, let Bartholomew wake up. Give him life as you once gave life to Jairus’ daughter. So far, as a disciple of Jesus, I’ve been a tourist. I tried to make an interesting game out of this. Now I shall take responsibility for whom I am—my purpose, my destiny. I pledge my life to you, Lord. If that means flogging, imprisonment, beheading, even stoning, so be it. But please, awaken Bartholomew. Jesus chose him as one of the twelve, too. Let him live!”

As I droned on repetitiously, I dropped reverently to my knees and wrung my hands. Suddenly, as I paused to gather my thoughts, I heard a gravely voice. At first, I thought it must be my imagination. I had picked a secluded spot for our encampment. Was it the voice of God? Perhaps one of the shepherds had found us. The desert nomads had strict laws about water rights. Jolted back to reality, I looked around self-consciously again, wondering what it was.

Then I heard the voice more clearly. “Why are you carrying on like that?” Bartholomew muttered querulously. “Can’t a man take a nap?”

Looking down at the old man, who looked no worse than before, I felt light-headed and out of breath. My praying and the pounding I had given my body had taken its toll. I blacked out momentarily, just long enough for Bartholomew to amble over to where I lay. Looking down at me—the reverse of what it was before, he asked me what happened. Why had I fainted? Why had I been praying over him? Why was my tunic torn and why was there dirt and leaves in my hair?

I didn’t want to tell him the truth; that would frighten him, but I didn’t want to lie either, not after the promises I made to God. How could I explain something this incredible without being factual. The answer came into my mind almost immediately: I couldn’t.

“Bartholomew,” I began carefully, “you were asleep, just like Tabitha.”

“Nah,” he waved. “Jairus daughter was dead. I was asleep—period. In fact, I had a real nice dream. I saw my mother, long-dead brother, my favorite uncle, and friends I haven’t seen in years. I wished you would’ve let me finish it. It was so peaceful there—just like heaven might be—”

“Bartholomew!” I interrupted, clamoring to my feet. “Think about what you just said. You saw your family and friends. You felt peaceful and happy. It was heaven. You were dead!”

“Uh-uh.” The old man shook his head. “I’d know it if I was dead. You’ve always had crazy thoughts, Jude. Your imagination runs wild. When it’s my time, I’ll know it. I don’t need you to tell me when I’m dead.”

“All right, you stubborn old fool.” I stomped my foot. “How do you explain the signs? You had no pulse, no heartbeat, your pupils were fixed like a dead man, and you weren’t breathing—all proofs of death. Are you calling me a liar? Jesus told us we could heal people and even raise them from the dead. You proved this to me, Bartholomew. I’m not afraid of anything now. Greek-speaking Jews, get ready: Jude and Bartholomew are in town!”

I hadn’t convinced Bartholomew yet; that would come with time, but I didn’t care. For the remainder of the day, I put away any notion of proving to him that the Lord had raised him from the dead. In stead of this failing effort, I tried bolstering his flagging courage. By my example, as I strutted around practicing my pitch for the synagogue, I displayed my resolve and newfound courage, and, after hours of talking to him that only ended when we fell asleep, I saw a growing change in his attitude. I was going to give him the choice of staying here in the camp or coming with me until the miracle I performed. Now, certain I had felt illumination those moments during our discussion, I talked him into becoming an active participant. “The Lord will give us the words,” I kept telling him. This time, unlike yesterday as I floundered in my faith, I believed it. My only concern was Bartholomew’s frame of mind. Silently, as I fell asleep, I asked God to make him believe me. Whether, he would, in fact, be inspired by my words, this knowledge was like a warm blanket on my soul.

******

The next morning, I found Bartholomew once more agitated. Evidently, he had forgotten last night’s talk. I couldn’t blame him. He was worried by Nestor’s attitude and our reception in the Greek-speaking synagogue. Though I tried not to show it, I was afraid too. If the members of Nestor’s congregation were anything like him, it would be a hostile audience. We would be shouted down, as Jesus was on occasion. We might even be run out of town. There was, however, another reason we must re-enter the town. Bartholomew, like me, was tired of eating moldy cheese and stale bread. He needed something to bolster his spirits. As we returned to Ecdippa, I found a bakery open at this hour, and, from my limited funds, purchased warm bread and fresh pastries. Bartholomew was, in spite of his misadventures in life, a simple man. The fact was, his state of mind that morning was still much better than it had been in the past few days. After eating half a loaf of bread and much of the pastries, his spirits rose dramatically. I continued to remind him that God would put words into his mouth up to the very point we entered the synagogue.

Nestor opened the service with a prayer. When he introduced us to the congregation, Bartholomew was escorted to a nearby seat of honor, next to the rabbi. This made him perfectly happy. For just one moment, I almost panicked when I looked out at all those unfriendly faces…. Then, as Jesus promised, the words came.

“Citizens of Ecdippa and God’s Chosen,” I began carefully in my best Greek. “For centuries our people have waited for a savior, who is called by different names: Redeemer, Promised one, or Deliverer. Regardless of what we call him, what the prophets have foretold is finally here. Isaiah has given us two separate versions of who this man will be: a conquering hero, who’ll liberate us from our oppressors or a suffering servant—a savior, who’ll liberate our souls. Which do you prefer: paradise on earth as the Sadducees want or paradise in heaven as the Pharisees and common people desire?”

Because of the controversy that might be generated, I had refrained from calling Jesus the Messiah. Jesus never denied this fact and a few times actually admitted it, but he would approve of my caution. Despite my carefully worded question, though, and treading lightly in front of the congregation, my question went unanswered. As I waited for a response, I wondered if I might have insulted them. The stern faced graybeards, frowning elders, and sneering young men seemed to sit in judgment of me. Moses beard! I thought hysterically, glancing at Bartholomew. This isn’t a classroom. What was I thinking? Bartholomew clasped his forehead in dismay and Rabbi Nestor shook his head. But then, as I began to perspire, several hands sprouted up in the room.

“You there, sir.” I pointed to a prominent-looking member.

“What kind’ve question is that?” The Pharisee glared fiercely at me. “You lecture to us on the scriptures? I thought you were giving us a sermon.”

“Oh, I’m going to make a point,” I explained quickly. “I was, as the fishermen would say, tossing out my line.” Dear Father Abraham, I mentally groaned. That made it worse.

A second man, a mere youth with barely a beard, stood up without being called, announcing his name. “Sporus bar Minos,” he chimed. “I would answer your question this way: God rewards righteous men in this life and the next, though there is only one heaven, which comes, after death.”

“Ah but there is no death,” I jumped on his words, “there is either life everlasting in heaven or hell. Our entire lives are a testing ground. Are we worthy of salvation or not? What good is all your wealth if you lose your soul?”

“Young man!” Nestor called out testily. “You were invited to give a sermon—a friendly talk. How dare you preach!”

“By definition,” I replied boldly. “A sermon is preaching. You were forced by synagogue etiquette to give the pulpit to a stranger, hoping I’d give a friendly chat and depart. I serve the Lord, not the rules of men. What I’m saying is no different than what Isaiah might say if he was here.”

“What?” Nestor bolted to his feet. “You’re comparing yourself to a prophet?”

“Yes, perhaps I am.” I returned his glare.

Discontent rumbled through the congregation. Bartholomew buried his face in his hands.

Remembering Jesus words and knowing I spoke God’s words, I grew reckless.

“Listen men,” I raised a finger. “You have but one life. At anytime it might be snatched from you, by disease, accident, or old age. Heaven is forever. I come here with good news: God’s messenger is out there now. He’s my brother, I serve him, and now he’s sent my friend and me out on our own. The message is so simple, you can embrace it immediately without ritual or ceremony. All you have to do is believe what the Messenger brings to you: a simple formula of repentance, forgiveness, acceptance, and baptism into a new life.”

“We Jews are already forgiven!” The Pharisee sprang up like a Syrian puppet. “We’re the chosen people. Our redeemer will sweep away the Roman oppressors. I’m successful in this life because I follow the law and traditions of our people. I’ve heard about that Baptist fellow. His religion is for sinners and misfits. We Pharisees are faithful to the Torah. Most of the Baptist’s followers can scarcely read.”

“There you have it!” I pointed accusingly at him. “You have a religion that bars the uneducated and poor. What I bring is for everybody, not merely Pharisees, scribes, rich merchants, and rabbis. Do you think heaven is filled only with yourselves? No, Jesus told us that if you don’t have the faith of little children you won’t enter the Kingdom of God. Education, money, and power are stumbling blocks, but they don’t have to be. The good news Jesus offers is simple: believe, repent, and wait for your reward. Whether you live a few years longer or a long life makes no difference. Compared to paradise you lifespan is but a blink in God’s eye.”

The hands I had ignored emerged now as men stood angrily shaking their fists.

“This man would change the law of Moses!” The Pharisee cried.

“Serpent! False prophet,” shouted the youth. “The law can’t be replaced by honey-coated words.”

A second, third, fourth, and fifth Pharisee joined the chorus of protesters. So far, I hadn’t heard those dreadful words, “Stone him! Stone him!” but it was time to follow Jesus’ admonition and shake the dust off our sandals.

“Thank you for letting me speak,” I called to Nestor. “Bartholomew,” I beckoned my companion, “I said my piece!”

As we scurried out of the synagogue, I could hear men shout, “Heretic and libertine! You don’t speak for Israel! Go back to your Baptist—stay in the desert where you belong!”

Turning to those nearest the door, I informed them, “The Baptist is dead. There’s a new voice in the land!”

******

Safely on the street and sitting on his mule, Bartholomew exclaimed, “That was a disaster, Jude. You’re lucky we didn’t get stoned!”

“On the contrary,” I grinned up at him, out breath. “I hit a nerve. Whoa, did I ever! One thing I learned with my Gentile friends, is how to read people. That young man in there, Sporus what’s-his-face, was in denial. I saw it immediately. Tradition, not the Torah, was holding him back. The Jews are a stiff necked people. I could see doubt and misgivings in many of those men, but the Pharisees, particularly those stubborn graybeards, held them back. In many ways age not merely money, at least with the educated, is a barrier. I wonder if that’s not why Jesus picked you, Bartholomew. He needed a representative from that age group.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Bartholomew made a face. “I might be old but I’m hardly educated. I learned everything on the road. Don’t forget I was a bandit much of my life.”

“Hey!” I made a cutting motion with my hands. “Have you forgotten what I told you? No one needs to know about that, Bartholomew. Mums the word!”

“All right, fine,” he complied, “mums the word. But look at you. You’re all puffed up like a rooster. I never heard you talk like this before. You have to tone it down, Jude. You’re gonna get us stoned!”

“We’re not gonna get stoned,” I reassured him, “not in this town. I’m only saying what Jesus would say. He’s said some pretty controversial things! Don’t your remember what he said in the temple? We didn’t get stoned then!”

“Jesus has special powers,” he reminded me. “You don’t. He walked right through those men in Nazareth—like a ghost or phantom. You can’t do that, Jude. Jesus warned us not to tempt the Lord.”

“Bartholomew!” I stomped my foot. “Where’s your faith? I have special powers too. So do you. Whether you believe me or not, Jesus told us we could work miracles when we went out. And don’t forget, God shields the righteous. You were dead and now you’re alive. Why can’t you believe that?”

“I was asleep.” Bartholomew folded his arms. “I’m heavy sleeper. I wasn’t dead!”

“Very well.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Call it what you will, you stubborn old man, but we’re not leaving Ecdippa. Those men back at the Greek synagogue didn’t come after us. Stop worrying about being stoned. This isn’t a backwater town like Nazareth or Cana. The worst that can happen here is for us to get roughed up a little, maybe flogged.”

“Flogged?” Bartholomew’s eyebrows up. “That would kill me!”

“Well, it’s not going to happen.” I waved impatiently. “We’re going to avoid those high and mighty types. Unfortunately, Nestor is typical of religious leaders” “I’ve decided something, Bartholomew.” I looked thoughtfully into the distance “… For now on, we’ll concentrate on simple folks. It might be cordial to visit synagogues, but Jesus had his greatest success with little people. Lets find a central location: a well or even an amphitheatre. There’s plenty of them in towns like this. We’ll attract mostly the poor and uneducated. No more synagogues for us!”

“Do we have to baptize them?” Bartholomew gave me a worried look. “Most of those people back in Capernaum didn’t get baptized.”

“That’s true,” I stroked my beard. “Jesus did mention the ritual, but he stressed more than anything else spreading the word. You remember that parable about the sower. It’s like planting a seed and letting it grow on its own.” “Let’s play it by ear, Bartholomew,” I added, patting the mule. “Jesus is always saying it: let the Lord be our guide. All that stuff I spouted back there came right into my mind. I didn’t plan it. It was planted in my head!”

“Okay.” Bartholomew looked down with resignation. “What now?”

I drew in a breath of sea air, excited by the prospects ahead. Throwing my arms wide to embrace the day, I cried, “Preach! That’s the most important thing we can do. First we must find an audience. The formula is simple, Bartholomew: pick a likely spot, open our mouths, then speak!”

******

Looking back at those heady days, I can’t blame Bartholomew for having doubts. I wasn’t a Jesus, Elijah, or John the Baptist. After the exhilarating feeling I had when Bartholomew returned to the living, I grew overconfident, even reckless. As we walked through the main street of Ecdippa, I paused once in awhile to preach to passers-by: old people, young, men and women, and children—anyone standing by the road or coming our way. Bartholomew had wanted to follow Jesus admonition to shake the dust off our sandals and make our exit, but the truth was, we were only rejected by one congregation of Greek-speaking Jews. I heard only a few jeers, as we searched for a gathering place: a fat merchant, graybeard, and loud-mouthed youth, who appeared to be deranged.

When the young man waved his hands and screamed unintelligibly at us, however, I grew alarmed. We had made it safely through town to a communal well, a place Jesus had frequently chosen when a lake or river wasn’t available. With the Mare Nostrum so close, I had no such excuse, but we had already attracted a crowd, so I stopped to preach the word. Now, however, we had our first serious challenge, more serious even than Rabbi Nestor’s congregation.

I told Bartholomew to stay on his mule, while I looked over the heads of the mob for an avenue of escape.

“He’s not just mad at us,” observed Bartholomew, “he’s insane!”

“Yes,” I agreed, holding fast to his reins, “he’s acting too angry. I’m afraid he’s possessed!”

“Stone them! They’re blasphemers. Kill-kill-kill!” he ranted. Repeating this refrain over and over and shaking his fists, he lunged at us and spit. That last action was all it took. Fearful we had another biter, I acted quickly. I don’t remember doing it, but I must have prayed. Almost as soon as I shouted for him to be quiet, he stopped in his tracks, rolled his eyes, and fainted dead away onto the ground.

“Sorcerer!” the old crone who had been following us cried.

“No, Tamara. “ An elder stepped forth, “Agabus has the twitching disease.”

“Twitching disease?” I looked down in horror. “I thought he might be mad.”

“No,” nodded the elder, giving him a kick. “Tamara’s the one who’s mad. I’ve seen Agabus do this before. He should come to. You have to shoo Tamara away.”

“I’m telling you.” The crone pointed a gnarled finger at me. “He has the evil eye. I know his kind. Sorcerer! Sorcerer!”

Looking squarely at the woman, now the greatest distraction in the crowd, I said simply, “Be gone!”

Blinking at me, her toothless jaws working crazily as though she were chewing cud, she pivoted slowly and, in a crotchety motion, ambled back through the crowd. I could hear several people gasp and marvel in wonder. Bartholomew reached down and gave me a congratulatory pat.

“Whoa!” The elder’s mouth dropped. “That was impressive.”

“What about him?” A young woman, shuffled over and looked down with concern. “Agabus might lie there for a while. Last time he did this, a dog peed on him. The boys in town throw dung on him at times.”

Feeling great compassion for Agabus, I bent down, said a quick prayer, snapped my fingers, and told him to rise. For a few moments, as he continued to twitch, I thought I had misfired or overplayed my hand. The elder gave me a studied look, as elders often do. The audience inched closer and closer. Bartholomew groaned. Then, to my renewed astonishment, Agabus’ body stopped twitching. He lie motionless on the ground. It was as if only half the miracle had worked.

“You killed him!” the young woman cried.

“No,” I reassured her, “that’s not how it works.”

I knelt down beside him and checked his pulse then pried open his eyes. He was alive, but just barely it seemed. When I tried to waken him, there was no response. A young boy ran up, giggled, and gave him a playful kick.

“He looks dead to me!” he informed me.

“No-no, he’s alive!” I wrung my hands. “Dear Lord,” I prayed aloud this time, “bring Agabus back from the dark sleep.” Through cupped hands, as though I was calling down a long, dark tunnel, I shouted, “Agabus, wake up!”

Bartholomew began climbing off the mule. “Maybe he’s asleep,” he suggested, “like I was.”

“By the infernal spirits, Bartholomew. You were dead!” I growled under my breath.

At that point, as if this pagan oath I heard from Roman friend summoned him back to life, Agabus eyes finally opened, he rolled onto his back, and he began struggling to his feet.

A collective gasp arose from my audience. While I grabbed one of his arms, the elder grabbed the other, mumbling his astonishment. That moment, on wobbly legs, Agabus joined an elderly couple, likely his parents, who muttered their thanks then ushered him quickly away. As the remainder of the crowd hung back as spectators, the elder, a young man and woman, and small child stood there in awe. Because of this miracle, we were close to making our first converts. Judging by their looks of wonderment, others would step forth.

“My name’s Jude.” I said to the elder. “This man here is my friend and associate, Bartholomew.”

“I’m Joash.” The elder reached out to clasp my hand. “This is my son Berel, his wife Ruth, and son Joshua. I know miracles when I see them. You have the gift.”

“It’s not a gift sir,” I corrected gently. “It’s a blessing Jesus bestowed upon his disciples. He has been sent with the good news. It’s so simple. All you have to do is repent, follow the commandments, and live righteously in the love of God and you’ll have everlasting life.” “And oh yes,” I added quickly, “as an outward sign of inward grace be baptized in the spirit.”

“Preacher,” a man called from the audience, “this is something that crazy Baptist was doing in Judea. We heard Herod cut off his head.”

There was a mocking edge to the man’s tone, but I used the question to clarify who I was.

“I’m not a follower of John,” I corrected him. “I’m a servant of God and disciple of Jesus, whom he sent to spread the good news. John was a good man. He called himself a voice in the wilderness, preparing the way for the Savior. I am one of the voices now, taking up his call to repent, live righteously, and accept the good news.”

I continued in this way for several moments. Later, Bartholomew would tell me that I had been repetitious and excessive but I scarcely remembered what I said. I can barely describe the giddy feeling I had, as I spoke God’s words and performed His wonders. I didn’t simply repeat what He wanted me to say. From the Lord’s end it was wordless as it entered my head, and yet the message was transferred almost effortlessly to my audience, colored only by my style of speaking. I was, in fact, no longer in control of my mind, but guided by the Holy Spirit rather than my own skill or wit. To please Bartholomew, who didn’t want to do baptism in the first place, I would rather have used the well for the more simplified ritual of sprinkling water on the head, but I had opened my big mouth and mentioned the ritual of baptism. Because of my success as a preacher, the number of potential converts grew, until there was simply no room to perform the rite at the well.

Though I was filled with sudden misgivings, it was, considering the crowd’s size, an amazing feat. Helping Bartholomew back onto his mule, I led him and the multitude to the seashore for what promised to be a mass emersion.

“What have you done?” Bartholomew muttered unhappily.

“I was listening to God,” I explained to him.

“Oh really,” snapped Bartholomew. “Did he explain to you how much more difficult this will be than baptizing in a river or lake? I heard about Phoenicia’s shoreline, Jude. It’s rocky, kelp-ridden, with waves crashing on the surf. It will be a real miracle to pull this one off!”

******

Though I was bolstered by the miracles I performed and success gathering such a crowd, Bartholomew was right. I let Joash lead me to the best stretch of coastline—a slight cove, where there was some sand and fewer rocks, but it was a far cry from the River Jordan or Lake Gennesaret. It was a good thing that most of them wore sandals on their feet. While there was a sandy shelf out a ways, the shoreline was dotted with volcanic rocks and broken shells. The children present had to be carried by their parents. Knowing how impossible the task would be if it was done conventionally, I would do something that even Jesus had not thought of.

“Bartholomew,” I ordered, helping him off the mule, “I need your help. I’ll give them the words then assist you in directing them into the water, but you must start now. Ask someone to watch the beast while you point the way. Stand by the surf and help them to form ten lines.”

“Ten lines?” Bartholomew grabbed his forehead. “Are you mad?”

“Please Bartholomew,” I growled, “just do it. I’ll make the introduction and tell them what to do. These people were impressed by what happened in town, but that sheen wears off. I’ve seen it happen at the lake and river. As I heard a Roman soldier once say, ‘For maximum effect you must strike quickly!’”

Certain, perhaps incorrectly this time, that God told me what to do, I stood on a convenient slab of rock near the water, calling out in my loudest and best voice, “Men, women, and children of Ecdippa, if you accept the simple promise of everlasting life, follow the commandments given by Moses, and live righteously from this moment on, your baptism will seal your covenant with God. The first chapter of your new life as members of the Way will begin. Please, as my associate instructs you, form ten lines. Bartholomew and I are few in numbers and you are many, so please be patient.” “Over here,” I began directing them, “and there…. Now over hear!”

Bartholomew was moving up and down the beach, as I spoke. Forming ten long lines that stretched to the seaside edge of town, the people appeared to be following our instructions. Without his cane, Bartholomew was steadfast in his task. I had told him I would assist him. My plan was to give a short speech, then move with Bartholomew from one line to the next, saying the words. Worried that he might pass out after such an effort and I might not be up to the task, myself, however, I decided to have the citizens, in effect, baptize themselves.

“Jude,” Bartholomew called to me, “what do you want me to do?”

“Keep those lines moving,” I called back. “Follow my lead.”

“One-by-one,” I shouted to the crowd, “as you march into the waves, listen to my voice: “…. Are you repentant and do you promise to lead a righteous life, in God’s commandments. If you wish to eternal life, answer together, ‘yes.’”

I thought I heard a collective yes, but the waves were pounding and the wind had risen. I could barely hear my own voice. Yet quickly, not trusting my good fortune, I called out the formula: “Go forth into the sea, each of you, and cleanse away your old life. Repeat these words when it’s your turn, ‘In the name of the Father and Holy Spirit, I’m baptized with water to celebrate my new life. In this rite, my sins are wiped away, and I’m reborn.’ Then, after this, go forth to your family, friends, and neighbors to spread the word, each of you a vessel of the Lord!”

My speech finished, I scanned with great expectation, the multitude. In what I saw as one more miracle of much greater magnitude than the others, there was not one ounce of protest here. I expected to see horsemen swooping down upon us and dispersing the crowd, but the lines held for a brief while after my pitch. Then they began to bunch up. I heard laughter and, alas, a few hecklers. One fellow asked me if I would part the sea like Moses. A graybeard, who wandered down to the beach, threatened to notify the magistrates. At this point, I thought it might turn into a free-for-all as the lines merged and people crowded into the surf, but, like children playing in the water—something I had only seen at the lake, they splashed and cavorted as if it was nothing but a game. I would never know how many did the rite properly, but I watched several dozen converts saying the words, baptizing themselves, and emerging happily from the surf. Bartholomew staggered toward me afterwards, winded and ready to collapse.

“Is it over?” his voice came out thinly.

“It’s finished,” I replied in resignation, taking his arm. “We can do no more.”

Joash approached us that moment, a frown playing on his face. “Is that how the Baptist did it?”

“There weren’t as many at the river,” I dodged the question. “We follow a different master.”

“All right.” He appraised me. “What about this Jesus-fellow, the one who sent you out? Would he have folks baptize themselves?”

“The Spirit moved me,” I was again evasive. “Jesus has twelve disciples. We’re only two.”

“I’ve never in my fifty years seen a stranger sight.” He broke into a smile. “Truly, Jude, only with God’s help could someone pull that off.”

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