The bridegroom, a callow youth with a pimply face, hovered over his bride, a dulcet-eyed goose, who was trying to look demure while quivering with delight at the prospect of what soon awaited her. She was another Rachel, to be sure.
The governor of the feast proposed a toast to the precious pair. And then, sipping from his cup, he turned to the smiling Ephraim with a gratified look. “At the beginning of a feast,” he said, “the host usually brings out his best wine. And then after the guests have drunk awhile, and are not able to distinguish the good from the bad, he commonly brings out the worst wine, considering that none will be able to tell the difference. But you, Ephraim, have saved the best wine until now.”
Simon Zelotes’ eyes were as wide as mine.
“He must surely be the Messiah,” he whispered reverently.
It was now time for the wedding to proceed. Oddly, the wine had been served in clear, uncolored vessels, as was traditional with water, and from containers left uncovered. Ephraim, as his name betokened, was of the tribe of Ephraim, and kept the law, at least in honoring his virgin daughter.
Jesus appeared to enjoy the ceremony.
The local rabbi, with his little skullcap, mouthed the traditional words of union unto death. Then the ritual vase was broken, signifying the beginning of a new life together. The most solemn oaths of fidelity were exchanged under the shadow of the bridal veil. There was much kissing and embracing and the usual letting of tears, and then the bride, with great aplomb, was triumphantly carried from the house in a chair and through the street into the nearby house Ephraim had given the couple for a dowry.
“Hosanna, hosanna,” the crowd cried good-naturedly. None seemed more radiant than Ephraim, not even the beaming newly-weds trying to hide their lascivious smiles behind a façade of innocence; I smiled to myself. How happy Ephraim must be. It was indeed worth all he had given and more to lose a daughter.
At the same time I understood why Jesus had summoned us to Cana. Whatever doubts I may have entertained were washed away with the wine.
“I see it now,” I told Andrew. “John at Bethabara baptized with water, but Jesus baptizes with a living water that is the wine of life.”
Andrew smiled. “Whatever he wills is the living water by which man is purified. The atmosphere holds no secrets from him. For through his Father in heaven he understands the laws of all creation, which have been universal since the first man.”
We tarried after the wedding, Jesus wishing to exchange a few words with the friends who had come to acknowledge a prophet in his own country. For the most part they were bluff, open-faced Galileans, unmistakable by their speech. I had been relieved to see no Pharisees or Sadducees in the party. And then, with a start, my eyes alighted on the familiar face of a pious Pharisee, whom I knew as a friend of my father. They had served together on the Sanhedrin, and with Gamaliel and Nicodemus were the nucleus of the liberal party which dreamed of Israel’s redemption with the coming of the Messiah.
He was standing in a dark corner of the room, his eyes riveted on the Master. There was a tender look in his long saturnine face, and the large dark eyes were soft and liquid in their wistful melancholy. I knew Jesus had nothing to fear as I marked his expression. I could see the same yearning in his eyes that I felt in my own heart. Still, it gave me pause that a prominent member of the Sanhedrin should have taken the trouble to ferret out the Master’s whereabouts and followed him to this abode.
Bowing low, I addressed him with the deference due a distinguished elder of Israel not of the Sadducee persuasion.
“Joseph of Arimathea, what brings you to this humble dwelling?”
His eyes flickered with annoyance and then cleared somewhat as he recognized me.
“I am not here in any official capacity and do not wish it known.”
“As you will, sir.”
“And what do you do here?”
I nodded to the small circle surrounding the Master. “I follow him.”
“You do well,” said Joseph of Arimathea, “for he is the light of Israel and the hope of the world.”
We had moved off from the crowd and stood alone. “I speak frankly to you, not only because you are Simon’s son but because I know of your interest through the Reb Gamaliel. Know whom you follow, and listen not to idle talk.”
“I do know,” I said. “I have seen him heal the sick and change the living water to wine.”
He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “That is nothing. What is important is that he is sent by God in fulfillment of ancient prophecy. I dreamed of him before he was born, and in this vision, God revealed to me that I should not die until he proved himself.”
“And now you have seen him?”
He smiled benignly. “Oh, I first saw him in the manger in Bethlehem when I followed the glorious star that foretold his birth. And this was not all, for with my own eyes I saw the two humble beasts of burden that symbolized his birth.” He held up a finger, and his voice became low and mysterious. “The ox knoweth his owner and the ass his master’s crib. Even these animals seemed to know they were parties to a great occasion.”
What a thrill it was to meet someone who knew him so well. The questions tripped off my tongue.
“But was none there to assist in the birth?”
“Her husband, Joseph, helped, but God allowed the child to be born painlessly.”
“But why,” I asked, “were they in the manger?”
“Such was the prophecy of the ox and ass,” he said, “but ostensibly there was no room in the inn, for many had come to register for the census in the place of their birth.”
“And so Joseph, too, was a Judean?”
“Of the House of David, as was Mary.”
“Were there no others there?”
“The three wise men, being astrologers acquainted with the peculiar conjunction heralding his birth, had also followed the glorious star, arriving soon after me. But they did not tarry long, for they were fearful that Herod the Great would find them out and destroy the child that prophecy said would grow up and become the King of Kings.”
Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar had looked into the makeshift crib and satisfied themselves that this was the Promised Child foreshadowed in Scripture. And Caspar, kneeling in prayer, had solemnly murmured: “There shall come a star out of Jacob and a scepter shall arise out of Israel.”
Joseph of Arimathea had befriended the couple. He brought them food and comfort and went with them to the Temple in Jerusalem on the eighth day, when the infant was inducted into his faith with the sacrifice of the doves.
Tears had come into the old man’s eyes. “I myself held the infant in my arms and assisted in the ceremony. And I blessed the Lord for this great privilege, praying that he would now let his humble servant depart in peace. Tor my eyes had seen the salvation which he had prepared before the face of all people.” He sighed. “But a voice told me that my mission was not yet complete, not until I had once again witnessed his birth.”
I looked at the old man with some misgivings. Had I been listening to a doddering old fool long past his prime?
He smiled sardonically. “Have you never heard voices, Judah-bar-Simon?”
I shook my head and then with a start remembered the voice telling of the Kedron running red with the blood of man.
“Yes,” I said soberly, “I have heard voices.”
There had been still another unexpected visitor on that momentous occasion, Anna, the seeress from Jericho, of whom but little was known. She was a toothless hag with a wicked leer, and her presence made even Joseph of Arimathea uncomfortable.
Only Mary did not wince as Anna took the tiny babe in her homy hands and peered into that innocent face.
“He is the one,” she cackled. “I give testimony to this before the forces of darkness and light, for there shall be both before the end. There shall be no greater King in Israel than he, but his kingdom shall be universal, and he shall not reign till he is gone.”
Only
Mary seemed to understand, for she nodded, then closed her eyes as if to put the thought out of her mind.
Joseph of Arimathea made a move as if to drive off the woman, but Mary stayed him with a gentle motion.
“And how long shall I have him?” she asked quietly.
The old hag’s face wrinkled in thought. “He shall be with you until a new tyrant rules in Israel, one who shall be remembered only because of this child.” Her face softened and became almost beautiful in the transformation.
“Blessed are you, Mary, for you shall be at the beginning and the end, and know both for what they are.”
More than any other, this Anna had intrigued me. For she seemed to intimate great things though some was clearly witch talk.
“What did she mean by his reign not beginning till he was gone?”
Joseph of Arimathea gave an impatient shrug. “I had no time for witches. It was enough that the child was born.”
He had not yet told me why he was here at Cana.
“I came to see his mother,” he said. “We have a great bond and comfort one another.”
“And will you talk to him before you leave?”
“It is not necessary. He sees me here and knows that I am devoted to his family. I will be there, too, when he is ready, as you shall yourself, Judah.”
I looked at him sharply. “What do you know of my mission?”
“Only what he knows.”
It was vexing to be constantly confronted with these little enigmas, but Joseph of Arimathea had turned away and, with a wave of his hand, disappeared through the door.
Again, I had more than an inkling that the Pharisee command was intrigued by Jesus and was praying that Israel’s quest for the Messiah be fulfilled in this carpenter from Galilee. Gamaliel, Nicodemus, Joseph of Arimathea, all good and holy men with influence in the Sanhedrin, presaged strong support if it came to a vote. But how did one vote for a Messiah? It was an absurdity that only the Sadducees would compound to curry favor with Rome.
The meeting with Joseph had turned my mind back to the time when this great merchant had visited our home as though it were his own. My father would put aside whatever he was doing when this pious Jew came to pay his respects. Seldom did they talk business, except to speak of the grinding weight of the taxes.
“We pay for Rome’s bread and circuses,” I remembered my father saying, “for those too shiftless to do an honest day’s work.”
“Yes,” replied Joseph, “they keep the masses anesthetized with chariot races and gladiators and free corn, but one day they will demand more.”
But mostly they sat and talked of other matters. It was from the lips of Joseph that I first heard of the Messiah.
My father listened closely, but I could tell he was not convinced.
“You will not know him when he appears,” said Joseph, recalling the Prophets.
“With that I agree,” said my father good-naturedly.
“I have seen him with my own eyes. His mother was young, but fourteen, and a virgin. His adoptive father, Joseph, was a simple Galilean carpenter. But both were of the House of David as the Prophets foretold.”
My father playfully ran his hand through my hair.
“And so is my six-year-old Judah. Would you call him the Anointed One?”
“The wise men knew him, for they had the glad tidings from God’s own angels, as well as the stars. They were without doubt, scorn, or fear. So all wise men approach their God.”
“So then where is he, this Messiah of yours?” my father teased. ‘This son of a virgin.”
“He would be only twelve now, preparing himself for the ministry that will one day shake the world.”
“What world do you speak of, Joseph of Arimathea?”
Even though I was not old enough to have any idea of the immensity of the Empire, his answer sent a thrill through me.
“The Roman world, dear friend. His coming shall rock the Empire to its very foundations.”
With all the talk of visions and voices, prophecies and premonitions, it was not surprising that a Messiah should materialize in the minds of men. And public acceptance, as bar-Abbas had intimated, was perhaps even more important than the actuality.
Jesus’ public career had hardly begun, yet adoring crowds mysteriously appeared wherever he went. Stories of his transformation of water into wine could be counted on to spread like wildfire and add to his luster. As I watched the wedding guests thronging about him, anxious to touch or hear him, I was never surer that he was the Promised One.
“One word from him,” I said, “and the people would take arms against Rome.”
Andrew regarded me solemnly. “Is this why you follow him?”
“Is it not reason enough?”
“It is not our reason.”
“Is it not enough that he is the Messiah?”
“We do not presume to tell the messenger his mission.”
“Nor do I, but is it wrong to assume that the Deliverer of Israel must deliver her?”
We had been edging through the room to the couch where he half reclined.
Simon-bar-Jonah and the other disciples hovered about him protectively, allowing nobody to touch him.
“Each contact draws on his universal energy,” whispered Andrew.
I considered for a moment. “Is this how he heals and enriches the water?”
“He does it all with God’s help.”
“But something still takes place in him, and in the atmosphere; there is a connection of some kind, for these wonders to materialize.”
Jesus had looked up at our approach.
“Ah, here is our friend Judah. Come with us to Bethsaida and there shall our company be completed.”
I envied his closeness with his disciples and again felt a longing to be one. But it could only be at his call, that I knew. “I will follow you anywhere,” I said.
He had turned to Andrew. “See that Judah has lodgings in Bethsaida. We have much to do, and so little time.”
He rose easily, and the crowd parted to let him through. Many bowed in reverence, and an excited murmur trailed after him as he moved into the street, where a few peasants raised the cry “Hail to the Son of David.” And others, first looking about carefully, added to this cry: “Hail to the King of Israel.”
He frowned, and no wonder, for who knew where the spies of Rome or the Sanhedrin lurked?
I looked at Andrew to see how he took this tribute. “I am not the only one who sees him as our Deliverer,” I said.
“True,” he replied, “but we who follow him do so only because we believe in him. This you and Simon Zelotes must be ready to accept,”
“Simon Zelotes?”
“Yes, he represents an important faction of the people.”
Bethsaida was no more than I expected, another bleak Galilean fishing village with country clods in evidence wherever we went. The most prosperous citizens were Jonah, the father of Andrew and Simon, and Zebedee, the father of James and John. They owned not only several fishing boats in concert but a market for fresh fish and a fish-drying plant. The whole settlement smelled of fish, but these hearty creatures with their red faces and great bodies did not even seem aware of the odor.
Andrew had arranged for Simon Zelotes, Levi the Publican, and me to stay for the few days at the Zebedee household, and I must admit that they were a warm, generous family, though young John seemed to have taken a dislike to me for no reason at all. After the brothers had come down from the mountain with Simon-bar-Jonah, they had been called as disciples, baptized by Simon, who had been baptized along with Andrew by the Baptist but a short time before.
Though all were fishermen they would cast no more nets in the Gennesaret Sea, which was popularly called the Galilean Sea. Over the dinner table, laden with a dozen varieties of fish and green vegetables, the handsome John, almost too good-looking for a youth, happily regaled us with Simon’s confusion at being told by Jesus that he was now a fisher of men.
“Do you
mean,” the wide-eyed Simon had asked, “that I can no longer cast a net with my father?”
“Only if there is a man in it,” Jesus had replied with a smile.
More seriously, John described how the Zebedees had fished all day with their crew without taking anything in their nets until Jesus, speaking from the shore, had directed them to a certain spot where the waves formed a crest.
“There you will find more fish than you can handle.”
“But we have fished there before, and our nets came back empty.”
“Fish there again,” cried Jesus.
John laughed boyishly as he recalled Simon-bar-Jonah’s amazement at the full nets they pulled back, so strained with the weight of the catch that the cords tore and the fish slid back into the sea.
“It certainly made a believer of Simon-bar-Jonah,” he said.
The story was an old one to me. “You were on the mountain quite a while,” I said, changing the subject.
“A few days,” said John noncommittally, “and then Jesus spent some time healing the sick and the infirm on his way from the Wilderness to his home in Nazareth.”
As I had surmised, Andrew had handled the arrangements for the stopover in Cana.
My curiosity’ about the excursion into Moab had been heightened by John’s evasiveness, which led me to believe that something momentous must surely have transpired.
“Was the journey into the mountain anything like Moses’ experience on Sinai?” I asked as casually as I could.
John and his brother exchanged glances. “There is nothing we can say about it,” said James.
For a moment I felt excluded, and then with a shrug I dismissed the matter as of no account.
The next day we were to meet with Jesus at Jonah’s house. “It will be good to talk to a man without secrets,” I said.
This was the occasion for Salome, the wife of Zebedee, to say with some waspishness: “And why does not Jesus stay here, is our home not good enough for him after all these years?”
The good-natured Zebedee responded with a smile. “Now, Mother, he has his reasons. The mother of Simon-bar-Jonah’s wife is sick with a fever, and Jesus went to heal her.”
I, Judas Page 13
