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Chapter Twenty-Six

Serpent In The Garden

Before Bartholomew and I returned to Capernaum, I did something else Jesus might consider unorthodox even by his standards: without consulting him, I designated the elder Joash, an unproven member of the Way, as Jesus’ representative in Ecdippa. Bartholomew thought it was a good idea, but then Bartholomew was greatly impressed with our mass baptism, too. It saved what precious energy he had left for the trip home. Unfortunately, I had been on shaky ground producing such an event, and I knew it at the time, but I could think of nothing else to do.

Joash insisted that we stay the night at his home. Bartholomew and I joined Joash, his wife Mora, son Berel, daughter-in-law Ruth, grandson Joshua, and his friends for a fine feast. If we hadn’t planned on getting on the road so soon, we might have stayed a few more days. Several of Joash’s friends, who I don’t recall being in the baptism lines, joined he and his family in seeing us off. A large number of other townsfolk I remembered seeing on the beach, also cheered us as we departed. I knew that he and his family had shared in the ritual, but I had no idea how many others joined in the rite. At our send-off, the unidentified graybeard who threatened to notify the magistrates also showed up with his cohorts, but they were drowned out by hisses from the crowd. It was at that point that another critic, a scribe who identified himself as Esdras, appeared, accusing of us of baptizing Gentiles. Joash had said nothing about Gentiles being in the crowd, and Bartholomew admitted there could have been a few Greeks or Syrians in line but wasn’t sure. I had no idea then how important Gentiles would one day be for the Way, but I secretly hoped a few had slipped through. Jesus had baptized a few Romans, himself, and the prophet Isaiah had even spoken of the Messiah as being a light to the Gentiles. Despite these facts and the provision Jesus allowed for accepting this group along with Jews, we decided to keep this to ourselves.

Back on the road, with Ecdippa receding in the distance, I felt more confident than ever before.

“Wait till Jesus hears that we baptized an entire town!” I cried jubilantly.

“That’s an exaggeration,” Bartholomew wheezed. “It was a lot—maybe a thousand, not the whole town.”

“Well,” I reached up and patted the mule, “it was our first mass baptism. This fellow has earned a rest. After today, so have you! I’m proud of you, Bartholomew. You pitched in when I needed you. You did just fine!”

“All I did was wave my hands and point,” he grumbled testily. “You’re lucky I didn’t drop dead!”

“Ho-ho, Bartholomew,” I replied cheerily. “You’ll live to be a hundred. That cure I gave you must’ve given you extra strength!”

“I got news for you, Jude,” He joined in my mirth, “I’m close to a hundred now—at least I feel like it. I still don’t know why Jesus picked me. I’m too old and out of step. If I had my way, he would use his power and” “zap!” he twittered his fingers, “make them all believe!”

“Nah” I grinned and shook my head. “That wouldn’t be any fun. Once I asked Jesus why God didn’t just make people behave themselves and be good. He reminded me of the Garden of Eden, where Adam and Eve were given freewill but gave way to temptation. If we’re predestined to do good, we’re no better than puppets. Everyone has the same chance, Bartholomew. When the word is spread and people hear it, they’ll have much less reason to sin. Without hearing the message, people live in the shadow of God. They don’t have the guidelines of those who believe. God is patient with them. Those living in His light have no such excuse. The old religion is, by its ritual and airs, distant from most people. Many of those I’ve come in contact with, barely understand the Ten Commandments and nature of God. What we bring them is so simple and straightforward children can understand it. Did Jesus not tell us that children are closest to God?”

“I remember that.” Bartholomew replied thoughtfully. “Those other words, though. Are those Jesus words? I don’t remember him saying that.”

“…. No,” I stopped in my tracks. “Those parts of about Adam and Eve and the children were,… not the rest. Is that what’s called divine illumination?”

“I dunno,” he said, scratching his head, “you’ve been pretty illuminated. Just wait till Jesus hears our report!”

******

To our surprise, we were the last pair to return from our missions. We arrived at Peter’s house just in time for the evening meal. No one said a word to us yet about the success or failures of their own ventures, but I could tell by many of their expressions that they preferred keeping it to themselves. Bartholomew and I couldn’t wait to tell them about our exploits, but we had to wait as we listened to them in order. The other disciples had arrived a few days before us, and yet Jesus insisted on waiting until everyone had returned before hearing our reports. Most of them tried to color their missions favorably, though their eyes shifted around and they hemmed and hawed. Jesus wasn’t fooled. It seemed plan to me that what we did was, in fact, as Jesus told me before, a testing ground. That we were bolder and more innovative than the others he confessed was true, but I had been reckless and arrogant too. How did we even know that the conversions took? Other than Bartholomew and my adventure in Ecdippa, which Jesus criticized more heavily in private, only John and his brother James’ humble account was not seen as flawed. After being invited into the home of a rich merchant and, through his efforts, preaching in a synagogue without a serious problems, the elders appeared to be satisfied, when, in fact, we learned that the merchant was actually a friend of their father Thaddeus, which gave John and James an unfair advantage in this test. Philip and Matthew had tried the synagogue route also, but like Bartholomew and myself were forced out of the building. Whereas, Bartholomew and I went on to turn defeat into victory, though, Matthew talked Philip into dusting off their sandals and choosing a small fishing village to spread the word. This is basically what Peter and Andrew and James and Thomas did, when they were asked by magistrates, to leave town. Peter, in fact, was pelted with rotten fruit, he and Andrew’s greatest success being the conversion of fellow fishermen who helped them escape from town.

When Jesus questioned my mass conversion, he did it with a twinkle in his eye. Against the pounding surf and logistical problems of such a feat, a large volume of people could scarcely hear the words, he suggested. Without the personal touch of the baptizer, the rites might loose their meaning. Despite what he said, however, he appreciated my Herculean effort and was also proud of Bartholomew for giving it his all. What struck all of us as outrageous was the claims made by Judas that he and Simon converted Roman soldiers on the march, after fleeing their town. Jesus had expressly told us to go the Children of Israel, implying that we include Gentiles only as a last resort, and yet right after leaving their town, Judas and Simon avoided any more of the Jewish settlements the other disciples settled on. In what everyone had to admit was a bold move, Judas ingratiated themselves with an encampment of legionnaires. Rather than tell the Romans that Jesus was the Messiah and spreading the word as they were taught, however, Judas took a different tact. Later, I overheard Simon tell Jesus that Judas told the Roman captain that Jesus was a new god, who would forgive them if they accepted the ‘holy words,’ baptism, and accepted our faith. He said nothing about circumcision, which James reminded him, was required to be a Jew. More importantly, he seemed, through ignorance or deliberate stubbornness, to have missed the point entirely. Ironically, though it was undoubtedly the worst thing he had done, Judas’ claim that Jesus was a new god came very close to the truth.

We thought surely, Jesus would kick Judas out of the twelve and replace him with Justus, Barnabas, Matthias, or one of the other followers more worthy to be a disciple, but Jesus gave him one more chance. He didn’t actually say, “Judas, I’m giving you another chance.” What he did say wasn’t understood by the other disciples but sounded ominous to James and I: “Judas must fulfill God’s plan.” Since we were all fulfilling God’s plan, this sounded reasonable to the others. Only Simon, among the disciples, knew differently. Around their Roman hosts, he had seen how Judas operated without supervision. He was, he told James and me, cunning, devious, and without conscience—certainly not qualified to be Jesus’ representative. The one miracle he performed, a conjurer’s trick Judas claimed he learned in Joppa, but one Simon couldn’t explain, greatly impressed the soldiers. Somehow, after waving his hands in the air, he caused a funnel of dust to appear for their benefit. It was similar to but much smaller than the ones Jesus summoned, Simon explained perplexedly, and yet Judas hadn’t prayed, which made him wonder if Judas was not working for the devil instead of God. Despite the seriousness of this matter, when James and I brought Simon to Jesus with his story, he ordered us to drop the matter entirely and trust in God…. The fact is, however, Judas had, by his actions, not merely committed heresy but blasphemy as well.

******

Later in the day, out of earshot of Judas, Simon reminded us of what happened to Adam and Eve when a serpent entered the garden. As an eye-witness to his actions, Simon was, more than James and I, troubled by what he did. Though he would try to put on a good face for Jesus’ benefit, he would never trust Judas again. Judas had made his first enemy among the twelve.

Now that the twelve had returned, Jesus let us rest awhile at Peter’s house. During those two days, I noticed a rift between Esther and Dinah and Mary. Peter’s wife and mother-in-law had accepted Mary Magdalene as an addition to the household but little more. Upon close inspection, I could understand why. At every opportunity Mary hung on Jesus’ words. This didn’t bother the easy-going Bernice, who had befriended Mary in spite of her past, but it irked Esther and Dinah, who resented her neglecting her chores. When we were finally back on the road, Mary once again attempted to join our troop but was politely rebuffed. It was seen as unseemly by Dinah and caused a spark of jealousy in Peter’s wife. I could understand Peter’s mother-in-law resenting Mary intrusion in their life, and sympathized with Esther after the way Mary pranced around her house, but the fishermen’s resentment was, as I look back, less justified. They scoffed at the notion of a woman being a disciple, and, I must confess, it sounded farfetched to me too. In spite of her loveliness and alluring disposition, she was, after all, admitted John, one of her chief admirers, still a women. Yet I sensed something about Mary that belied her silly, flirty nature: a strength and purpose I think Jesus must have seen. This young woman, who had almost been stoned as a prostitute, managed to have a high opinion of herself. Despite her dreadful ordeal in Magdala, she acted as if the incident never happened. Child-like and carefree, she always wore white and let her hair flow freely instead of wearing a veil, a characteristics that couldn’t help but offend and irritate respectable Jews.

Jesus had been very patient with Mary’s pretensions. That day, as we left Peter’s house for a round of visitations, she irritated everyone, including him. She had tried to be a part of us when Jesus preached to the multitude and followed us a second time when Jesus preached on the lake; now, suddenly, she wanted to tag along on our visitations—a notion that struck everyone, except Judas, as insane.

“Listen to that wench.” James cupped his ear. “What’s she trying to prove?”

“She wants to join us.” Matthew frowned scornfully. “Only Mary would talk to him that way.”

“That woman has spirit!” Judas exclaimed.

“But she’s making a fool of herself.” I looked back in dismay.

In the near distance, we heard them arguing. Mary’s arms were folded stubbornly, and Jesus was pointing to the house. Playfully, Judas beckoned her to come along. I could hear the fishermen grumble amongst themselves. In the background, Esther, Dinah, and Bernice tried to coax her back to the house.

“This is so unfair!” she cried, stomping her foot.

“No, Mary, it’s not.” Jesus shook his head. “Peter’s family isn’t coming along. Your place is with them.”

“Oh, if I was born a man,” she cried, kicking up dirt. “I would make you proud. If only you’d give me a chance!”

“I said go!” He pointed once more to the house. “The road’s dangerous. You have a home in Peter’s house. Please, woman, stop arguing. We’ll be back soon!”

“Come here at once, you willful girl!” Dinah shouted through cupped hands.

“Why is it that only men can preach the word and perform miracles?” she wailed, pivoting on her heel.

Jesus motioned for to us to continue. With bowed head, Mary traipsed back to the house. We could hear Bernice giggling at Mary’s antics, the other women bawling her out, and the door slamming shut. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

“She actually thought he’d make her a disciple,” Bartholomew muttered in disbelief.

“I think it’s a great idea!” replied Judas.

“You would!” Simon snarled.

Though Peter’s household and the twelve disciples were central to the Way, attitudes changed slowly. One day Mary would make her mark for Jesus, but that was in the future. Now the idea was unacceptable, even to Jesus, who, because of the dangers out there and attitude of Jews, had deliberately picked men. Most of us agreed on this fact, and yet the twelve disciples remained divided in spirit. Though James and I were Jesus’ brothers, the fishermen thought of themselves as Jesus’ favorites. James and I were, along with Bartholomew, Thomas, Matthew, Simon, and Judas, outsiders. Mary was an outsider too. It had been, since the beginning, us versus them. Matthew, though he tried to ingratiate himself with the fishermen, felt more comfortable around our group. James and I found the division in our ranks intolerable at times, but the others had learned to be satisfied in our own circle, until we went on our missions. Now, after the disciples saw the worst side of each other, the divisions appeared to be worse. It wasn’t just fishermen versus outsiders. There was, during our missions, dissention among the fishermen themselves. Andrew and James, who were matched with their brothers, resented Peter’s and John’s bossiness. Philip took issue with Matthew’s timid response. Even though, he hadn’t visited the coastal towns, the ex-publican feared disclosure to onetime enemies. James, for that matter, complained of Thomas’ inability to get the ritual right. The fact that Thomas tried very hard only made him more stupid in James’ eyes. With the exception of Bartholomew and me, no one had been happy with their partners during their missions. Not only were his disciples at odds with each other, but Mary had fallen out with Peter’s mother-in-law and wife because of her laziness and airs.

The worst example of discord, of course, was between Simon and Judas. No one liked Judas, except Jesus. After Judas’ performance in the field, everyone, especially Simon, had turned against him, so that he became a virtual castaway from both groups. Inexplicably, Jesus had remained complacent with this state of affairs, until it was too late. That day, as we set out for the small communities of Galilee, he took me aside finally and asked me to do a strange, troubling thing.

“Mary’s a good woman,” he began thoughtfully.

“Yes,” I nodded, “but a little mad.”

“Alas.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It would be a better world if attitudes were different, but they’re not. We have enough trouble with the Pharisees without adding a woman to our number.”

“That would make thirteen disciples.” I gave him a curious look. “You chose twelve disciples for a reason, Jesus. We’d have to get rid of someone to fit her in.”

A thought entered my head. I dare not say it, but let Jesus follow the direction of my gaze.

“We need Judas,” he announced curtly.

“Why do we need Judas?” I turned the question on its head.

“Judas will leave our group unless he’s treated better,” Jesus answered hesitantly. “…I need him. I told you that.”

“You still haven’t explained why you need that man.” I said boldly. “No one likes him. Simon called him a serpent. Mary sees him as a wolf among sheep.”

Jesus placed an arm on my shoulder. “If I asked you to treat Judas with more respect, would that be so hard?”

“No, I guess not.” I looked at the ground.

“Then stop treating him as an outsider,” his tone hardened. “You and James don’t like being treated that way. In fact, I’ll talk to the fishermen about their attitude. On Mary’s behalf, I’ll ask Peter to reason with his mother-in-law and wife. All of you must see each other as equals. This includes Judas Iscariot, too.”

As the words left his mouth, Jesus heaved a sigh of resignation. He hadn’t asked James, our brother or Peter to treat Judas better. He had asked me. That moment I was reminded of his esteem and how much he depended upon me. I should have been moved. Such affection might have made James and Peter jealous. This time, however, I wasn’t completely pleased. The prospect of warming up to Judas made my skin crawl. I wish I hadn’t listened to Simon. The mental picture he painted of Judas after our missions greatly influenced everyone’s opinions of him, including myself. Nevertheless, Jesus had given me a special task: make Judas more comfortable in the group before he quits and goes his own way. Like Bartholomew, I wondered why Jesus didn’t just use his power to make people behave.

******

During our trek around the lake, the fishermen meandered into a nearby field, casually picking heads of grain and eating them. The remainder of us looked on with curiosity. We had eaten our morning meal barely more than hour ago, and yet they grazed like cattle in the field. Because it was the Sabbath, James took issue with their actions, but the rest of us merely thought it was peculiar.

“That’s really stupid,” Simon shook his head.

“Don’t those fishermen know what day it is?” James grumbled

“Evidently not,” Jesus cocked an eyebrow. “Peter,” he called to our self-appointed leader, “didn’t you get enough breakfast?”

Peter had been chatting with Andrew and apparently hadn’t heard Jesus’ call. Unfortunately, before Jesus could repeat his question, two Pharisees, who had been dogging our trail, caught up with us on the road.

“Rabbi!” the graybeard pointed angrily. “Look what your men are doing. It is unlawful to pick grain on the Sabbath!”

James groaned. Simon, who was also familiar with points of the law, shook his head.

“Are you familiar with King David?” Jesus asked calmly.

“Of course,” exclaimed the younger Pharisee, “we are the caretakers of the law.”

Jesus reached down and picked a wheat stalk. “Maybe you should read it again,” he said, appraising its head. “David and his friends were hungry and ate consecrated bread, which is even more unlawful than simply breaking the Sabbath. Don’t priests desecrate the Sabbath by eating the bread, and yet, like my disciples, they are innocent too. Something at issue here is greater than the temple. Do you remember the Prophet Hosea’s words, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ If you knew your scripture, would you condemn the innocent? The Sabbath was made for men. Men weren’t made for the Sabbath!”

“You speak honeyed words,” cried the graybeard, “yet you pervert the law!”

“Blasphemer! Heretic!” the younger Pharisee shrieked.

The two men hollered insults and accusations at Jesus until their faces turned scarlet and they lost their breath, but Jesus had the last words as they slinked away: “When men don’t have truth on their sides, they shake their fists and say hateful words. Who are you to brandish the law? You barely know it. One doesn’t need to know the law to be righteous. You’re hollow vessels; be careful you don’t shatter. My men are skins filled with the finest wine!”

******

Despite his defense of the fishermen, I heard Jesus scold Peter for his foolishness. This action, which followed similar discussions, indicated that Jesus accepted Peter as our leader when he wasn’t around, but it in no way gave him and the other fishermen license to break Jewish law. Though Jesus had defended the fishermen’s action in order to make a point, he nevertheless wanted us to respect the Torah and our tradition. It was tempting, as we passed orchards and vineyards, to pick fruit, but even this action on normal days was unlawful, unless we had the owner’s permission. This clarification pleased James but struck the free-thinking Judas as unnecessary. As Bartholomew sat on his mule listening, he shared his thoughts with me.

“Jesus has great power,” he remarked, “he can make his own rules.”

“No,” I disagreed. “He never wanted us to break our laws”

“But this is a new religion,” Judas objected.

“It is new,” I explained patiently. “Peter and his friends didn’t know any better, but, if we’re going to convert Jews, we have to respect our laws.”

“If he’s the Messiah, he can make his own laws!” Judas insisted stubbornly.

“He never claimed to be the Messiah.” I sighed. “That was thrust on him. When I was preaching I avoided labeling him. Most of us have been thinking of him as simply God’s Messenger, and yet I think he’s much more.”

“What could be more than the Deliverer of Israel?” Judas frowned.

“Alas,” Bartholomew joined our conversation, “Judas doesn’t a clue. I have some thoughts on the subject. James told me a thing or two about labels. It’s all Isaiah’s fault, he believes. In Isaiah’s scrolls, the prophet gives two separate pictures of the Messiah: one like King David who will physically deliver us from foreign bondage and a man who’ll save our souls.”

“Yes, very good Bartholomew.” I nodded with approval. “I’ve read those passages. I could never make sense out of this. Why would our greatest prophet make two claims?”

“I dunno.” Bartholomew chuckled. “Maybe he was drunk.”

“It’s the first prophecy—the conquering Messiah—that counts,” Judas raised a finger. “That one cancels out the second. Everyone in Israel knows that.”

I wished that moment that Jesus had heard this outrageous statement. Perhaps, as he implied earlier, Judas was important to his ministry, but at that point I couldn’t see why. As Bartholomew looked at him in shock, James and Simon appeared in our midst.

“In the first place,” James said crossly, “there is no physical Israel. I’m aware of the hopes of our people to restore Israel to its former state. This future deliverer, if he can be taken literally, is a warrior, not a prophet or preacher. I’ve been trained as scribe, Judas. My mind is filled with points of the law. But even I know that Jesus isn’t that man. The scales on my eyes, blinding me to the truth fell off months ago. Yet you, a free-thinking vagabond, are still blind.”

“I’m not blind!” Judas huffed, clinching his fist. “I know Jesus’ true potential. Your brother could throw off the Romans just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “He could make us a great nation if he wished instead of suffering those fickle crowds. He’s just biding his time!”

“Oh, you think so,” Simon stepped forth then. “I find this very strange, Judas. You speak of a Messiah who’ll shake off the Roman yoke, yet I saw you cozy up to Roman soldiers, telling them that Jesus was a new god. I, who was once a temple spy, more than anyone here, should prefer a deliverer for Israel, but I don’t—not anymore. What good is a warrior who can’t save souls?

“My eyes were opened, too,” Matthew suddenly appeared. “There’s times when I wished Jesus would turn those Pharisees to flaming torches and cleanse the hecklers from the crowds, but that wouldn’t be Jesus. In my line of work, I’ve seen all manner of savagery from both Gentile and Jew. It’s all brutal and bad. Did you expect that Jesus would wave his hands and—poof!—there would no more Romans in our land? I’m familiar with our people’s expectations too. A conquering messiah would, like the Romans and Greeks before them, first drench our land in blood. He would be, after all, a warrior, not a man of peace. Jesus brings peace to the world, not war. If you don’t understand this, Judas, you’re in the wrong place!”

“All right,” Judas said, folding his arms, “you surprise me Matthew. Those are fine words, but I’ve never seen anyone with Jesus’ powers. He has to be the Messiah. Why don’t we ask him if this isn’t true.”

“No, you’ll do no such thing!” I stood in front of him.

“Why not?” he snarled. “You once told us that Jesus can’t lie. James told me Jesus was following scripture. Isaiah mentions that other fellow in passing. In fact it sounds like someone else. Most of his prophecy point to a man who will deliver us from our oppressors and return us to greatness. Do you really believe Jesus will deny passages predicting this man?”

“You won’t like his answer, Judas.” I glared at him. “You’ll just annoy him. He has already admitted who he is: a Messiah who brings salvation, not the sword. For this reason, he avoids labels or titles. Most of our people, who don’t know any better, are waiting for a warrior prince, not a savior. After all Jesus said, you still share this view?”

Judas nodded stubbornly. His jaw was set and eyes were narrowed as he faced me down. For a moment, as I held my ground, I thought he might hit me. Jesus had told me to be nice to Judas, and here I was giving him his greatest challenge. Not for one moment did I think I could whip this fellow. He was a head taller than me and probably twice as heavy. When Simon lurched forward and took my place, however, Judas’ angry expression changed suddenly to fear. Simon was afraid of no one.

“You’re not going to bother Jesus,” he said through clenched teeth, “or try to goad him into action against those agents of the high priest. He’ll make his move when he’s good and ready, and it won’t be to start a rebellion as a warrior prince.” Jamming a finger into Judas’ chest, he added succinctly, “You leave him alone!”

“That goes for me!” James stepped forward. “Leave Jesus in peace!”

“Leave him in peace!” echoed Matthew and Bartholomew, joining our ranks

That moment as Judas jaws slackened and he stepped away from Simon, I felt relieved. I think he got the point, yet I was still very concerned. It was obvious that he had, through stubbornness or just plain stupidity, failed to understood who Jesus was, but then, as Judas fell to the back of the procession, I thought about Simon’s words, “He’ll make his move when he’s good and ready,” and wondered if he might harbor, in spite of his earlier statement, the same hope as Judas: that Jesus would wipe away our oppressors. During the first weeks of Jesus ministry I had heard the fishermen talk about this same issue. They were profoundly ignorant of the Torah. Now that I thought about it, I recalled some of the silly things Thomas had said. Troubled by my doubts, I was tempted to ask Jesus, myself, what he had in mind down the road, then shuddered at the thought… I didn’t want to know!

Remembering the assignment Jesus had given me, I straightened my shoulders and joined Judas at the back of the procession. He had a cowed, downcast look. Any moment, as Jesus feared, he might turn on his heels, and flee. My best move, I was certain, would be to change the subject if possible. No one was going to change Judas’ mind.

I raised my arm woodenly and forced a smile. “Hey Judas!” I called cheerily. “No hard feelings?”

“Go away!” he said, doubling up his fist.

“Come, Jude,” I tried reasoning with him, “Jesus wants us to get along. Sometimes it’s better not to blab your thoughts. I should know; I’m always saying dumb things!”

“You don’t like me, Jude.” He waved me off. “Don’t pretend like you do.”

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” I explained lamely. “It’s that I don’t know what to expect from you. You’re a lot like my brother Joseph. I didn’t understand him either.”

“You have another brother?” He sneered. “How many do you have?”

“Four,” I piped, “and two twin sisters.”

“Well, I’m an orphan,” he said glumly. “My father was a drunk. My mother was a Syrian whore.” “Ho-ho,” he uttered a crazed laugh, “that makes me half Gentile. No wonder I’m messed up!”

“Are you serious, Judas?” I searched his face. It was difficult to tell whether or not he was telling the truth.

“Yes.” He stepped back in surprise. “You think I’m lying?”

“No.” I replied hesitantly. “…. That would explain your red hair and beard, green eyes, and freckles. You do realize that Jewishness is measured through the mother.”

“Hah!” He tossed his head. “If that’s not bad enough I have a Greek name.”

“That’s all right.” I shrugged my shoulders. “My name’s Jude, a Roman name. We should really be called Judah.”

“Yeah.” Judas tossed his head. “The strangest part is that my Jewish father, who named me, was a Greek-speaking Jew. That makes me even less of a Jew!”

“Keep this to yourself,” I cautioned him, “all of it. They don’t need to know about your parents. You’re enough of an outsider without telling them this!”

Judas now told me a ribald tale of his childhood in a brothel, and I sensed by his furtive eyes and facial ticks he was telling the truth. Suddenly, I felt sorry for him. He must have had a hard life. My first concern, though, was to talk sense into him. He couldn’t go on like this. I studied him a moment, as he carried on, searching for the right words.

“Judas,” I interrupted gently, “I didn’t want to revisit our argument earlier. My best advice to you, as a friend, is to hold your tongue. If you don’t say something controversial and keep your thoughts to yourself, no one will be the wiser. My brother Joseph was outspoken. That’s why we never got along. When you return to our group, try not to say outrageous things. Half the time, I think your joking. The other half makes me wonder where you got such foolish thoughts. Those men back there aren’t amused with your cleverness. They see it as craftiness and deceit.” “You must change your ways!” I reached out to grip his shoulder.
Bristling at my touch, he looked at me fiercely, then turned away, as if a battle was underway in his mind. I had always thought possessed men and women were merely crazy or, more rarely, bitten by bats or dogs, but Judas’ green eyes rolled in his head that moment, he socked his forehead, and, after keeping his back to me a moment, whirled around with a grin on his freckly face.

“Put it there, friend.” He stuck out his hand. “You’ve made me see the light!”

“Really.” I recoiled as he gripped my forearm in the Roman manner. “…That’s great, Judas. Just don’t try so hard. Jesus accepted us just like we are. Look at Mary Magdalene, Matthew, Simon, and Thomas.”

“Yeah.” Judas giggled light-headedly. “Look at me!”

******

I was half-convinced that Judas was either mad or demon-possessed. The way he broke into spontaneous giggles at times supported such conclusions, and yet my other half, which could have been revelation, saw him as part of Jesus’ plan. When there were so many worthy candidates for discipleship, divine intervention must have decided his selection. How else could one explain it? Did God, in his infinite and unknowable wisdom, want Jesus to be tested? The Pharisees, scribes, and temple agents tested him. Was Judas sent to test him too? Was he part of God’s plan? Despite the implications of having a madmen or demoniac in our presence, I would rather Judas was insane or possessed than be a dark, unknown force in Jesus’ ministry.

Now, of course, I know what he was, but back then, as I suffered the friendship of Judas forced upon me by Jesus, I wasn’t sure. My first impulse was to go immediately to Jesus at the head of our procession and tell him what I think…. Unfortunately, I didn’t know exactly what I thought or even how to put it into words.

When I hastened back to our group, I expected Judas to be close behind. As I looked back, however, he was still lagging at the rear.

“Let him go,” Simon snarled. “He’s no damn good!”

“Yes, Jude” Thomas frowned. “We’re better off without him!”

I nodded faintly. Bartholomew looked sympathetically down from his mule. “Are you all right? You look upset. What did that man say to you?”

“It’s not just what he says,” I tried explaining. “… It’s how he acts…There’s something seriously wrong with Judas.”

“What do you mean?” asked James. “Do you think he’s crazy? Why is he kicking against the goad?”

One day, I would read in Luke’s Acts of the Apostle, how the risen Christ would ask Paul that same question. It was also appropriate that moment. Of all the disciples only James would understand my mind.

“Listen,” I said, taking him aside, “our brother has given me the task of keeping Judas in our group. Let the others think he’s mad, deranged, or possessed by demons. I’m not so sure. How is it possible, after everything he’s seen and heard, that he could harbor such thoughts?”

He studied my expression. “You think it’s something else?”

“Judas is looking for the wrong Messiah,” I answered quickly. “He wants a deliverer, not a savior. I think he’d like to force Jesus hand—”

“Force his hand?” James lurched forward. “What do you mean? Is Judas a spy?”

“I don’t know what he is,” I replied, looking back at the road, “but clearly he’s not in step with Jesus.” “It’s as if,” I added, searching for the word, “he has an agenda.”

“Agenda?” James mulled the word over. “What sort of agenda?”

“Who knows…. He could be another revolutionary like my our namesake Judas of Galilee. Or it could just be a personal goal. Whether or not he’s an agent for the temple, as Simon once was, a lunatic insurrectionist, or merely a stubborn fool, I’m certain of one thing: he wants Jesus for power, not healing. The problem is, James, Jesus wants me to be Judas’ friend. He’s left it up to me to keep Judas in our group.”

“It’s his decision then.” James motioned with disgust. “If Judas is tempted to leave, let him go!”

“Yes!” I patted James shoulder. “That would solve everything. We would be doing Judas a favor, wouldn’t we? Moments ago, I saw a battle in his green, serpent eyes. I actually feel sorry for him, James. It’s as if he can’t help himself. That’s why I think he might be possessed or insane.”

James shrugged his shoulders, weary of this subject. I was alarmed to discover how far Judas was lagging behind. Shielding his eyes from the sun, James laughed wryly. “Look,” he cried, pointing to the distant figure. “If he drops any further back, he’ll disappear in the horizon…. As I said, let him go!”

******

After watching Judas disappear entirely from view, I was sorely tempted: should I go look for him or let fate take its course? What decided the issue for me, as I fretted, was the sudden appearance of Judas in our midst. Despite Jesus’ admonition not to pick unpaid for fruit, he was eating a pear he picked on the way back. We said nothing to him as he fell in step. It was just one more of his little games. I was just glad I wouldn’t have to explain his absence to Jesus.

Finally, that hour, we found ourselves in the middle of Hazor, a dusty little town north of Capernaum. To our dismay, Jesus had stopped in front of the local synagogue. One would think, after our experience in Nazareth, he would avoid visiting such a place. After all, we pointed out, the town of Hazor was small, like Nazareth, and Nazareth had once tried to stone him. Large towns like Jerusalem were more sophisticated and open to discontent, as witnessed by the restraint Pharisees, priests, and scribes showed us during their opposition. Jews in the larger towns were under the control of Gentile and enlightened Jewish leaders, but small towns, such as Nazareth and Hazor, were parochial in their views and more likely to take the law into their own hands.

“You miraculously slipped through the mob in Nazareth.” Peter summed it up. “Next time, you might not be so lucky!”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Jesus chided him. “Where’s your faith?”

“I agree with him,” I said boldly.

“Me too!” James stepped forth.

“We all do,” Andrew nodded vehemently. “We took a vote. Didn’t you once say, ‘You shall not tempt the Lord?’”

Jesus raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “You were at the river, Andrew. I used those words during my trek into the wilderness. They were directed at Satan.”

Staring fiercely at all of us, he received our silence if not our unqualified obedience. All twelve disciples were united on this issue, but Jesus’ mind was set. As soon as we entered this unfriendly town, we had caught the glares and snarls of townsfolk strolling passed us. Now, as James remarked, “Jesus was walking again into the lion’s den!” All it would take, I wanted to tell Jesus, would be one errant stone and—zap—no more Messiah. After everything Jesus had proven to us, we feared for him. Visiting synagogues was the most unfruitful of Jesus’ methods of spreading the word. So why did he bother? Why did he wish to antagonize the powers that be? Everyone, except the confrontational Simon and loud-mouthed Judas, were frightened now. Then, as we prepared to enter, a few of us suddenly got reprieves.

“Jude, James, Bartholomew, Simon, and Judas” he called curtly. “There’s a packed room in there. You’ll wait for us in the town square.”

“Yes, of course,” I sputtered, “if you say so…Where’s the town square?”

“Like always,” he said impatiently, “look for the communal well.”

Simon gave him a wounded reply, “Why can’t we go?” In a fit of anger, Judas stomped his foot and kicked up dust, crying, “This isn’t fair! What can those graybeards do?”

“You’ll do what I say,” Jesus wrung a finger. “Go with Jude. Wait for us by the well.”

When Simon and Judas continued to grumble, Jesus walked quickly back to our group and took me aside for a private conference.

“Keep an eye on those two,” he instructed sternly, “especially Judas. Don’t let them return to the synagogue. Simon might try to protect me as before, and Judas would probably interfere. When I quote Isaiah, as I did in Nazareth, Judas will bring up Isaiah’s other passage.”

Jesus’ words confirmed by suspicion. It was, I thought, looking scornfully at Judas, the worst possible reason for his behavior. Crazy or not, he had an agenda. “You mean the conquering Messiah.” I nodded with understanding. “I knew it, Jesus. He wants to force your hand!”

“Stop frowning at him!” He wagged a finger. “You think I want this?” “I listen to God,” he reminded me testily. “Everything is part of His plan. That includes Judas Iscariot!”

“Be careful, my brother,” I reached out to grip his wrist. “This isn’t Jerusalem or Capernaum.”

“No more talking.” Jesus ordered everyone, as he strode up to the door, “When I enter the synagogue, you other men stay at the back of the room!” “Go, Jude,” he called back at me, “take them to the square.”

I didn’t blame the others for resenting our special treatment. Already the fishermen resented Jesus esteem for James and I as his brothers. In a way, considering times like this when Jesus talked privately to me, I shared a leadership role with Peter, if only as a confident or advisor. James might have been resentful of this, too, but like Bartholomew was quite happy to be excluded. Matthew and Thomas had only heard about the incident in Nazareth and were less afraid, but the fisherman, like James and I, were in the synagogue when Jesus was attacked. It was unfair to them that Simon and Judas wanted to go, and were nevertheless given a reprieve. As they departed from us, and walked toward the synagogue, I could hear grumbling from the fishermen. To his credit, Peter scolded them for their doubts and lack of enthusiasm, but not with much enthusiasm. We all knew what to expect.

For a moment, feeling a twinge of guilt, I stopped to watch them approach the synagogue.

“Don’t those fishermen remember Nazareth?” asked Judas. “Without a scratch, Jesus passed right through that crowd!”

“It’s true!” I nodded. “Like a ghost!”

“So tell me.” He curled his lip. “With Jesus’ power, why’re they so afraid?”

“I don’t know.” I said reflectively. “I was there, as they ran like lambs. I saw the whole thing. The townsmen nearly threw him off a cliff!”

“Why can’t he trust me?” Simon turned to me. “I want to go! It’s Judas he shouldn’t trust, not me!”

“Enough!” James held up his hand. “With your hot temper, you’d just make things worse!”

“I’m glad I don’t have to go!” admitted Thomas.

When the door shut behind Jesus and the fishermen, I heaved a sigh, trying not scowl at Judas. Without further comment, I led our small band through town. Simon reassured me that he wasn’t afraid for himself, just for Jesus. This might be true; he had certainly tried to protect Jesus before, but, as we strolled though Hazor, he begrudgingly accepted Jesus decision as Judas grumbled fitfully under his breath. Because this was Galilee and Simon had been an agent for the temple, he must surely have been nervous. Upon entering the temple, Judas would have created the worst scene. I was convinced more than ever, especially after hearing Jesus say as much, he would have forced his hand. Whereas Bartholomew, who depended on his mule, had a good reason for not accompanying Jesus, and Simon and Judas were not to be trusted, my only reason for staying behind was to keep an eye on the others, especially Judas. Unlike Simon and Judas, I was, as were James, Matthew, Thomas, and Bartholomew, greatly relieved.

“You’re happy you didn’t have to go in!” Judas spat.

“Shut up, you piece of dung!” Simon stepped in front of me.

“You don’t frighten me,” Judas poked a finger into his chest. “Without your sword, you’re nothing. Get out of my face!”

That moment something dreadful happened. Like a wild animal, Judas attacked Simon, a stream of foul words I’ve heard my Gentile spew, flowing out of his mouth. Without prodding, Bartholomew clamored off his mule, as I grabbed Judas’ back. Matthew and Thomas stood there in shock a moment. Though Simon had frightened him off before, Judas appeared to have caught him off guard. Before Bartholomew, Matthew, Thomas, and I could break them apart, Judas had bloodied Simon’s lip and blackened his eye, but this wasn’t the end of it. As we tried pulling Judas away, the red-haired demon, continued pounding poor Simon, until, suddenly Simon landed a punch that knocked his adversary unconscious.

“Whoa, he’s out cold!” Thomas laughed hysterically.

“Let me check his pulse.” I bent down frantically and felt around.

“What have I done?” Simon grabbed his mouth.

“You defended yourself.” James gave him a pat.

“He would’ve beaten you senseless.” Matthew frowned.

“Good for you!” Bartholomew looked down with approval. “I would’ve used my cane!”

“Did I kill him?” Simon wrung his hands. “Is he dead?”

I felt his wrist, his neck, and then his temple. There was nothing. “…. Oh no…Oh no,” I mumbled, re-checking the veins shown to me by my Roman friends.

“He tried to kill me.” Simon slapped his forehead. “Now look at him. I just hit him once!”

“Look!” Bartholomew pointed with his cane.

“Yes, I see it,” I gasped.

“…Of all the luck.” James whistled under his breath. “A rock in the middle of the road!”

I drew back, muttering in fear, my mind reeling with the implications of this event. Jesus had entrusted me with Judas’ welfare, and now he was dead. Simon hit him, but I felt responsible. I should have acted more quickly when Simon angered Judas. When Jesus and the others found us in town, he would be lying there as proof I had failed. I wanted to comfort Simon. This wasn’t his fault, but, according Greek logic, he had set it into motion—the prime cause. The rock cracking his skull was only the secondary cause. If he hadn’t of hit Judas, however, it might very well have been him on the ground. Nevertheless, I couldn’t lie to Simon. In the eyes of the law this was no different than any other form of manslaughter. Then, as I sat down next to Judas on the ground, it dawned on me what I had to do.

“Lord,” I murmured, peering at the sky, “please, if it be your will, undo this act. Judas caused this, not Simon. For Simon’s sake, if not Judas, bring him back. Bring him back from the dark sleep!”

I phrased my prayer modestly in case he was merely unconscious, but how could he not have a pulse and still be alive? Bartholomew, who still didn’t believe I had brought him back to life, cupped his ear in order to hear. Now, after staring numbly into space, Simon looked at me in utter disbelief.

“What’re you doing?” He shook me soundly. “His head’s cracked—like an egg. He’s dead!”

“Back away, Simon!” I shrugged him off. “Judas!” I shouted down at him, “Rise up and join the living!”

For a full moment, he remained motionless. Townsfolk had gathered around us, certain they were witnesses to some sort of crime. A women singled out Simon, setting accusations into motion. “I saw that fellow hit him.” she cried. “It’s that dark haired, beady-eyed man!”

“I saw him! I saw him!” A child screamed.

“Yes, he’s the one,” replied an old man.

“It was an accident!” Simon screamed. “He hit his head on a rock!”

“Has someone summed the magistrates?” A Pharisee stepped forth. “Let them decide.”

“Get up, damn you!” I jumped up and gave Judas a kick.

As the crowd discussed this dreadful deed, Simon turned on his heel and ran. James, Matthew, Thomas, and Bartholomew shouted at him, as did members of the crowd, some of whom hollered, “Murderer! Murderer!” Believing that my prayer had failed, I did the next best thing and charged after Simon. I had been a fairly good runner as a youth, but Simon had a head start on me. My greatest fear now was that he would vanish forever, dropping the number of Jesus’ disciples to only ten. After racing up the road a ways, though, something happened that filled me with mixed emotions. A pair of burly men, I assumed were magistrates, had grabbed Simon, which meant he wouldn’t disappear but would face justice. It would be up to Jesus to get him out of this mess. Poor Simon was in shock. I felt great pity for him, but he should never have antagonized that unbalanced man.

Outside of the time I was captured by desert bandits, this was the darkest moment of my life. The two men hauled Simon toward the scene of the crime, brushing me aside. As I looked back, all I could see were townsfolk hovering around the corpse, but then Bartholomew alongside of his mule, moved toward me from the crowd. He was grinning and laughing. I could hear voices shouting, “He’s alive! He’s alive!”

When the men approached with their supposed felon, the crowd parted. The words ‘He’s alive!’ echoed in my mind. Filled with great joy, my heart pounding loudly in my chest, I elbowed through the crowd, until I was standing there, gazing down at him. A man, who introduced himself as Luke, a physician, sat beside Judas, looking quizzically up at me. With the presence of mind to introduce myself, James, Matthew, Thomas, and the man lying on the ground, I lowered myself light-headedly onto the ground.

“Are you a sorcerer?” Luke asked quietly.

“No, of course not,” I frowned. “I prayed to God. This was His doing, not mine.”

It wasn’t an accusation from Luke. I wasn’t even sure he was serious. The important thing was that no one appeared to have heard him. Kneeling down on the other side of Judas, I could see that his eyes were open. Bartholomew, mule in tow again, reappeared, the shadow of the beast stretching across the ground.

“I don’t believe in the gods,” the physician informed me calmly. “This man was probably unconscious, in what you Jews call the dark sleep. I gave him some smelling salts. That might have helped.”

“I don’t care what it’s called,” my voice trembled. “He had no pulse. He looked quite dead. If my prayer awakened him or you awakened, I’m satisfied.”

The two burly men I thought were magistrates were replaced by two older men, who really were. With shiny turbans, fancy robes, and sashes, they looked out of place in the crowd.

“What is wrong with that fellow?” the first magistrate inquired.

“That fellow hit him!” A youth pointed accusingly at Simon. “He fell down dead. Then that Greek fellow came, waved something under his nose, and brought him to.”

“No,” the Pharisee shook his head. “I saw that man on the ground blink before the Greek arrived.”

“So you’re the culprit,” the second magistrate said to Simon.

“It was an accident!” came Simon’s refrain. “He attacked me, and I fought back.”

“Is that true?” Luke asked Judas.

Bending over to hear his reply, Judas murmured weakly, “yes,…it’s my fault!”

“What did he say?” The first magistrate waddled over and looked down.

“I attacked him,” Judas managed to say more loudly. “I would’ve killed him if he hadn’t knocked me down!”

“Then maybe we should arrest you!” the second magistrate exclaimed.

“Are you serious?” Luke frowned him. “This was an altercation between two men.” “Tell me.” He turned to the crowd. “Who should be punished: the man who hit him or the one who provoked the fight. There is no crime here!”

“There is no crime! There is no crime!” members of the crowd chanted.

Several other men and women joined in the dissent, as Judas struggled to his feet. By now, it seemed as though half of the town had arrived.

“You should lay back down,” Luke cautioned. “You’re brain suffered a concussion.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Judas tried to smile, “but I have an awful headache!”

“Take some of this,” Luke handed him a small black bag. “I treated my friend with these plants. Chew it up slowly. When you leave here, lie down, and get some rest.”

“Thank you,” Judas muttered, reaching in to extract an herb.

Simon took one arm and I gripped the other. Matthew and Thomas reached out, when Judas faltered, to steady his walk. Bartholomew offered to let him ride the mule, but it seemed better to keep him on firm ground. Though, I doubted that Luke had brought Judas back to consciousness, I didn’t care at this point. All that mattered was that he was alive.

“You’re a Gentile, aren’t you?” I said discreetly. “What are you doing in this little town?”

“I treated a friend, one of the Greek-speaking Jews,” he answered, looking nervously around at the crowd. “I’m not sure who they believe, it might be your god who saved this man, but some of them aren’t so sure.”

No sooner had Luke shared his suspicion with me than we heard a familiar accusation. After listening to our conversation, the Pharisee, who had witnessed the miracle, lurched forward as we retreated, shaking his fist.” “This is unnatural.” He pointed accusingly. “It must be sorcery. No one comes back from the dead!”

“Go now, my friends,” prodded Luke. “Perhaps, the gods willing, our paths will cross again!”

No sooner had Simon, James, and I led Judas passed the edge of the crowd, with Matthew and Thomas close on our heels, and Bartholomew trailing behind leading his mule, than Luke, the physician, made his exit. He had seemed nervous when he talked to me. There were, after all, probably few pagans in this town. One day, in a distant city, we would meet again, but for now, as I looked back into the crowd, he seemed to vanish forever from my life.

“I’m not sure about what you did for him,” Bartholomew confessed, “but that Pharisee saw it: Judas was dead.”

“He also thought you were a sorcerer,” Judas said with awe. “Jude, you have great power!”

“No, God has great power,” I corrected him. “Luke, fearful of the charge of sorcery, downplayed what happened. Unfortunately, that Pharisee knew better. You never know how this rustics are going to take something like this. This could’ve generated a round of baptisms or been an excuse for a stoning.”

“Yes,” James agreed, “you just never know!”

‘Luke was a pagan,” Judas frowned. “Maybe he thought you were a god!”

“You still don’t get it.” Bartholomew looked at him with disgust. “Did that knock affect your brain?”

“I think it did.” Simon gave him a worried look. “What’s Jesus going to say about this?”

“It was my fault,” Judas said in a more serious tone. “I won’t let you take the blame!”

“Are you turning over a new leaf?” Simon studied him. “I thought you hated my guts!”

“No…” Judas said dully, his body slackening, “… I hate myself!”

After collapsing in our arms, Judas was brought to by water from Bartholomew’s water skin. Pouring it down on him, as he sat on his mule, he uttered a sour laugh when Judas came to.

“Come on, Judas,” I coaxed, “just a little further until we find the others. The important thing is that you’re all right.”

Suddenly, just when I began to worry again, we looked down the road and saw Jesus. His face broke through the dusty images around him like a mirage. There was a trace of alarm in his expression. He had a habit of smiling and frowning at the same time.

“It’s all my fault!” Judas took the initiative. “I attacked Simon. He defended himself. If it hadn’t been for Jude and Luke, I’d be dead!”

Perhaps Jesus had gazed into the future. Upon hearing Luke’s name, he nodded faintly and then, walking quickly forward, embraced the three of us, reaching up afterwards, in acknowledgment of Bartholomew, to pat his mule.

“You can explain later,” he said, glancing around at the town, “for now let us return to our camp. Tomorrow, after shaking the dust of this town off our sandals, we shall, as the Psalmist once said, find greener pastures.”

******

We were able to escort Judas to our camp without incident. Though a little wobbly-legged, he insisted on walking on his own, chatting nonsensically about matters, a grin fixed on his face. Nevertheless, I was worried about the cure. How could he have hit that rock, shown no signs of life, and be this fit now? There was no blood issuing from the wound, only a large bump. Other than this, he had only a headache to show for his accident. Though the other disciples were ignorant of the medical term concussion, I had heard about this from the Romans, who understood Greek medicine. A concussion rattled the brain, often causing death. Luke had indicated to me that Jude should have been dead. Fearful that the cure might be short lived, I prayed quietly to myself.

Jesus gave Judas a curious look as we walked, but said nothing. For awhile the red-haired disciple lapsed into silence, as if he might be intimidated by Jesus’ stare. The other disciples wanted to know about the altercation between Simon and Judas, but Jesus let the subject simmer in their minds.

Around the campfire, he briefly told those of us who has missed it about the reaction he received in Hazor’s synagogue. He made no mention of what he said. I would learn later that he did, in fact, point to a passage in Isaiah, as he had in Nazareth, telling the congregation that prophecy had been fulfilled. The only reason he and the others weren’t stoned was because of a sudden blast of wind through the doors. Jesus downplayed this miracle, but I believe, even though I hadn’t personally seen it, that it was a significant event in his ministry. He had kept his promise. The divine wind, as Peter called, clearly showed all of us that nothing would happen to us in his presence. When I explained to Jesus what happened to Judas back in town, Simon, Matthew, Thomas, Bartholomew, and, of course, Judas listened enthusiastically, nodding and sighing, and on few occasions, interrupting to offer clarification. Simon was greatly impressed with Judas’ apparent change of heart. He had actually taken responsibility for his actions and blamed himself. “…. He seemed different, Simon searched for the proper words. “…. The look on his face—his snarl and that crazy gleam in his eyes—was gone. He actually took responsibility for his actions, blamed himself, and showed remorse.” Though Bartholomew thought that knock addled Judas’ brain, Matthew and Thomas agreed with him. Because of Judas’ dazed, befuddled state, however, I wasn’t so sure. I couldn’t get Jesus’ words, when he was giving me instructions, out of my mind: “When I quote Isaiah, as I did in Nazareth, Judas will bring up Isaiah’s other passage.” That other passage, of course, was Isaiah’s prophecy of a conquering messiah, which was what Judas wanted Jesus to be. One thing for sure, that we agreed upon, was that Judas’ cure required divine intervention. With Simon, Matthew, Thomas, Bartholomew, and Judas’ support, I elaborated upon the miracle I performed in great detail. Jesus listened intently, smiling with approval and pride, and yet I heard impatient sighs from the fishermen, who found this miracle, like my previous miracles, hard to believe.

“It was the dark sleep,” John concluded. “Why would God raise Judas from the dead?”

That summed up most of their opinions. I remembered my own healing of Bartholomew, which he likewise discounted. Jesus, himself, who performed this miracle more than once, downplayed such an event. Despite the graybeard’s opinion that it was sorcery, even he believed that I, not Luke, had brought about the cure, and yet once again there was doubt shown about this type of miracle. What was reassuring to me as I related the events from the confrontation between Judas and Simon up until what the Pharisee said, was the faint nod Jesus gave me, which implied acceptance.

He scolded Judas for attacking Simon and also Simon for provoking the fight, but it was clear to him who was mostly to blame. During his scolding, which sounded somewhat naïve, he summarized the cause to effect nature of anger and violence.

“It begins up here.” He pointed to his head. “Then, if one is not careful,” he said, pointing to his mouth, “it comes out here.” “But it doesn’t,” he added, raising a fist, “have to end with this! When someone speaks ill of you, think before you act. Keep evil thoughts inside your skull. Ask yourself this question: why is this person upset? Did I wrong him in some way? Make peace with him. Your temper will undo you one day, unless you take hold of yourself!”

What he just said was spoken essentially to Judas but meant for everyone in our group. That evening, as everyone else settled on their pallets, Jesus took me aside for a brotherly chat.

“So tell me Jude,” he asked in a muted voice, “was it a miracle or something Luke did to that man?”

“Luke never claimed that he healed Judas.” I explained frankly. “All he did was give him a bag of herbs for his headache. He seemed worried I would be labeled a sorcerer. That’s why he took credit for the cure.”

He studied me in the moonlight. “So you prayed and God returned Jude’s life.”

“I believe so,” I sighed. “I checked Jude’s pulse…. I think he was dead.”

“And Bartholomew?” he pressed. “Was he dead too?”

“You already know the answer,” I said, gripping his shoulder. “Until I began following you, I was a doubter and cynic. Why would God give me such a gift? Why not Peter, James, or John?”

“Why does God want Judas to remain a disciple?” Jesus answered indirectly. “Everything we are doing is part of His plan. You, Jude, are part of His plan. None of the other disciples have done such a deed, little brother…. And you have done it twice!”

*****

I was again charged with watching over Judas. Jesus didn’t have to tell me this time, but I saw it in his eyes when we were on the road. My brother James and the other disciples thought Judas was a lost cause, but, after investing my faith and energy into this young man, I must, as herder, if not a shepherd in my own right, lead this lost sheep back into the flock. Judas, like Ecdippa, was another test for me. He had shown remorse and taken the blame for his altercation with Simon. He hadn’t said a cross word or shown a trace of malice for many miles, trying his best to prove he was a changed man.

When I shared my optimism with Bartholomew out of earshot of the others, he laughed at me. I could see nothing funny about Judas’ frame of mind. James had told me all along that Judas was addled in the head. For him, this sudden contrition and appearance of normality didn’t prove a thing. Though Simon, Matthew, and Thomas had been impressed with his changed behavior, they were fearful that it was all an act. When Judas was out of earshot again, James, who gave examples of Judas’ shifting moods and outrageous things he said, concluded his argument with that oft quoted words from Jeremiah’s scroll, “a leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

Suddenly, when Simon, Matthew, and Thomas were swayed by James’ argument, I was Judas’ only advocate.

“Some of the fishermen think he’s possessed,” Matthew looked around cagily. “They think it’s a demon staring at them, not person. After today, I’m think Bartholomew’s right: he’s crazy. That knock on the head probably made it worse!”

“I’m not so sure.” Thomas shook his head. “He’s got all the symptoms of a demoniac—his expression and quirky behavior. How else can you explain his moods?”

“What if he’s just evil,” suggested Simon, “and all of that was just an act?”

“Or just plain ornery and mean?” James frowned.

“Uh-uh,” Bartholomew insisted stubbornly, “he’s addled. The man’s not right in the head!”

“No.” I shook my head. “He might be crazy—that would explain his actions, but he’s crazy like a fox. Our people blame the Devil for everything. It’s true that some men are simply evil, but Judas isn’t deliberately mean. Bartholomew’s half right: Judas’ problem’s in his head, not his soul.” Recalling a conversation I had with Jesus, I chose my words carefully now, “Make no mistake,” I said, looking around the fire, “Judas knows exactly what he’s doing. I hope I’m wrong and he’s changed, but the Judas I knew before the miracle, had a purpose…. an agenda. He wanted Isaiah’s other messiah: a conqueror, strictly Jews, a man who will restore Israel to its greatness.”

No one could argue with what I said. They had all heard Judas and understood his mind. It was how they saw Judas, himself, a part from his outlandish notions, that was so different from how I interpreted this man. My brother James had gained influence over our group. I was surprised at how quickly Matthew and Thomas had changed their attitudes after listening to him. Simon had exhibited a complete turnabout from his praise of him. Only Bartholomew and I remained steadfast in our views, and even we couldn’t be sure. That moment, during our conversation, as the other disciples sat around discussing today’s events, our circle continued its discussion of Judas’ behavior, while the twelfth disciple sat alone on the other side of the campfire, unmoving, staring into the flames, wrapped in his thoughts.

“Look at him.” Matthew pointed derisively. “He’s in one of his moods. Have any of you noticed his eyes and the expressions on his face? He’s not normal. One moment, I’ve seen on several occasions, he’s chattering or laughing like a hyena, another moment he withdraws into himself or suddenly flies into a rage.”

“Yeah.” Thomas studied him. “…. I’ve seen demoniacs act like that. He has all the signs.”

“He’s dangerous.” Simon shuddered. “If I hadn’t knocked him down, he might’ve killed me.”

“Is it possible,” Matthew posed the question, “that Judas is both crazy and possessed? …. Look at him sitting there. What’s going on inside his skull?…. While gathering taxes, I learned how to read people. We got all kinds. If you see him as demon-possessed or mad, you might think, by his changing moods, that he’s easy to read. It’s hard to tell crazy people and demoniacs apart. If, however, you agree with Simon that he’s merely evil, perhaps all those moods are reflections of a tortured soul.”

“No…. It’s deeper than that,” I tried explaining my thoughts. “…. Jesus implied that he’s part of a plan. Judas appears to have his own plan. I wonder whether or not he’s driven by a darker purpose.”

“What purpose?” James raised an eyebrow with concern. “… You mean against Jesus: he’s notion about the Messiah.”

“What else?” I asked, struggling for an answer. “We all know that. He’s made it plain enough. That’s what I don’t understand. Jesus doesn’t trust Judas, and yet he wants me to watch over him and make sure he doesn’t leave our group…. For some reason, he needs him.”

The other men now shook their heads, their reaction unanimous. “He’s not right in the head!” Bartholomew offered his refrain. James, whose wisdom on this subject impressed me, summed up their views: “That doesn’t make sense, Jude. Why would he give you such a task? You never liked that man. None of us do. Jesus is a complicated man. He’s also very compassionate. Perhaps he believes he can rehabilitate this lost soul. Who knows? What is plain to us, is that Judas can’t be trusted. What did Simon call him?…. A serpent. Everything was fine until he arrived. Jesus uses colorful speech to describe what we’re doing. We’re herdsmen, gathering his sheep, we’re fishermen, fishing for converts, and farmers harvesting souls. As one of his parables showed us, what we can also be likened to a garden, which must be tended after being grown…. To many of us, a serpent came into our garden when Judas arrived.”

“Well said!” Matthew nodded with approval. “The best thing for us would be for Judas Iscariot to leave! He’s no good!”

That hour, after I listened to my companions’ views and then, when we retired for the night, heard them continue this conversation on their pallets until they fell asleep, I was tempted, despite Jesus’ expectations of me as Judas’ caretaker, to take everyone’s advice and encourage him to leave. When Judas was in one of his moods and fell back on the road, it would be best if he disappeared forever from our lives.

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