The boy rose from the floor, where he had been sitting with his legs crossed. “When that people, sir, is united with its God.”
The discussion invariably got on to the Messiah, for nearly all agreed this was Israel’s sole hope.
“When,” asked bar-Hedekiah, “can we look for the Messiah?”
“When God wills it,” came the prompt reply.
“And when may that be, O enlightened one?”
“Look into your own heart and that of your neighbors.”
“Mere platitudes. For the Prophets have given us many signs to look for.”
“We have no need to look outside ourselves.”
Bar-Hedekiah was no mean adversary.
“Isaiah,” he said, “provides a time for the glorious coming of the Lord: ‘Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped.’”
“True,” said the boy, “but this is not why he comes, only a sign of his coming.”
Occasionally, there were visitors. Joseph of Arimathea came, as did Simeon, and they spent virtually all their free time with the parents and the boy. Joseph, who had business in Alexandria, tarried for weeks and would take the boy on tours of the city, into the native quarters, and even to the palace of a Roman tribune, an official he had bribed many times in a business way.
The tribune, L. Pontius Aquilinus, was well thought of in Rome for leading a legion successfully against the Germans.
Aquilinus was much bemused by the boy.
“I have a son but a few years older,” he said with a sigh, “but my service for the Empire, alas, keeps me apart from my family.”
“What is the boy named?” asked Joseph out of politeness.
“Pontius Pilate,” said the tribune. “An ambitious boy, he hopefully will follow in my footsteps.”
The name had meant nothing at the time. But that friendship out of the past may well have accounted for Joseph of Arimathea’s ready access to the son.
Joseph of Arimathea held many conversations with the mother. “I will send word,” said he, “when it is safe to return.”
He had been as good as his word, promptly notifying them when Archelaus, Herod’s son, who shared his father’s fear of the prophesied successor, no longer ruled the tetrarchate. And so in the declining years of Caesar Augustus they returned quietly to their homeland, settling again in Galilee rather than Judah, where the boy’s precocity might not stir unwanted attention.
They lived simply in a one-story limestone house with a thatched roof, shaded by cypress trees, where the boy would sit and read. He did not mingle with the children, choosing rather to converse with adults.
As we looked now, following her eye, she pointed out a window to a tree-shaded bench.
“He would sit there for hours,” she said, “reading and rereading the holy books, until the law held no secrets for him.”
I was startled for the moment. “You mean this was the house he grew up in?”
She nodded. “Until he departed for Bethabara.”
Looking around at the simple chairs and tables, I thrilled at the realization that they had been fashioned by him. They were solid and well put together.
“Could I see his room?” I asked.
Quietly she led us down a dark hall to a corner room. The room was small but bright, and a pitcher stood on a slight wooden table next to the narrow bed. There were three watercolors, unframed, on the walls. One was of Mary, another of a shepherd with his sheep. And the third, holding my eye, a nimbus of dark clouds through which shone a piercing light, appearing to expand from the parchment itself.
We looked at her inquiringly.
“Yes, he painted them.”
“This light,” I said, “I have never seen its like.”
She sighed. “He never spoke of it, but I knew it must have been born of a vision.”
“There is no angel’s figure in it,” I said.
An indefinable tenderness softened her face.
“It was no angel he saw.”
Life had been peaceful; they lived on the outskirts of the village and had few visitors. Since there was no synagogue in Nazareth, they occasionally traveled to nearby Magdala or Capernaum for the Sabbath services, but more often they conducted their worship at home. It was not necessary to school him, since he had a greater command of the Talmud and the Torah than any scholar they knew, and was even versed in the mysteries of the Kabala, which he had studied in Alexandria.
He had an abiding curiosity about Jerusalem and the Temple, but they waited till it was time for the traditional consecration of the adolescent before they satisfied this curiosity. And so he was twelve before they traveled again, journeying with other pilgrims to Jerusalem for the Passover celebration. The city overflowed with three hundred thousand visitors. And since there were no inns available, they camped with thousands of others on the slopes of the Mount of Olives, each day descending into the Temple for the sacrifices of the sacred lambs in the Court of Priests.
It had not been an altogether reassuring experience. Jesus had not understood why his mother could not sit with him and Joseph during the services commemorating the exodus of the Jews from bondage in Egypt.
“Why is it, sir?” he asked of Joseph. “Are not women the equal of men?”
Though the boy never called him Father, they were close, and Jesus showed him all the honor decreed in the decalogue.
“They are different,” Joseph answered.
“That does not make them less.”
“It is a custom from Abraham’s time.” Joseph shrugged, taking recourse in tradition.
“Men and women should not be kept from one another,” said the boy, “in this communion with their God.”
They later moved into the Court of Priests, where with terrified cries the sacrificial lambs were led to the slaughter, the blood splashing over the basins onto the Levites and the multitude. He was grateful then that his mother was not permitted in this court as well.
Joseph saw then that the boy was troubled. “What is wrong, Joshua?”
“Does it please God that these animals be butchered in his name?”
Joseph threw up his hands. “This is the religion of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, all of whom sacrificed living animals in their devotion to Jehovah. It is not for us to change these things.”
Mary had been more sympathetic. “He thinks of God as one who loves all that he has put on this earth. Is that so strange, Joseph?”
Joseph shook his head. “I worry not so much about the world, but about him. It will be like butting his head against a wall of the Temple. I leave it to you which shall give way first.”
His being different worried her, but at the same time she knew that he could not be anything but different. She watched proudly, as, months ahead of the customary time, he was consecrated into manhood. The pilgrims from Nazareth crowded about and congratulated her on his accomplishment. He was no longer a boy but a citizen of Israel, always subject to the Romans of course.
It had been an exhilarating Passover for them all. And it was with an air of satisfaction, despite their fatigue, that they rounded up their party of pilgrims for the journey back to Nazareth. But thinking he rode with friends, they were on the road for a time before they missed him. They inquired about anxiously, but none could remember seeing him after they left the Temple.
Joseph thought hard. “He must surely have gone back to camp with us.”
But a precocious girl of twelve, who had eyes for the aloof young man, said she had last seen him in the Court of Gentiles with a group of rabbis and scholars.
Joseph and Mary went back together, bidding the caravan go on without them. Nearing the Temple, they overheard the people talking about a boy who was engaging the greatest scholar of Israel in a duel of wits in the Portico of Solomon. Anxiously, they threaded their way through the Court of Gentiles, and there they saw the boy and a bearded man in rich robes conversing solemnly.
The crowd stood at a respectful
distance, for it was seldom that the great Gamaliel chose to mingle with the people. With wonder, not unmixed with apprehension, the parents heard the boy stand up boldly to the Nasi of Israel.
“Why, Rabbi,” he asked, “should Jehovah be so wroth with the people of Israel?”
“Because they are sinners and break the commandments.”
“But is he not our creator, and our Father who created us in his own image of infinite goodness?”
Gamaliel looked at him warily. “Say what you mean, young man, and lay no snares for me.”
Jesus had observed Mary and Joseph at the edge of the crowd.
“Is my earthly father, Joseph, more just than God and more merciful?”
“Of course not,” snapped Gamaliel. “Is this another of your tricks?”
“But my father, Joseph, is always patient with me and never scolds, not even when he is displeased with me.”
“That is admirable of him,” said Gamaliel, “but what has that to do with the one God?”
“He is our Heavenly Father, is that not true? Now as the creator and Father of all, understanding what he has created, with all its frailties, should he not be at least as merciful as my earthly father, who is after all only his creation as well?”
The crowd applauded enthusiastically, and even the Reb Gamaliel, who liked a worthy opponent as well as any man, clapped the boy on the shoulder. “You have made a point, but you forget one thing. God speaks through the Prophets, and none dares question what Isaiah and Ezekiel and the others say through him. Does not a wrathful God speak of his stiff-necked people? Speak you with more authority than Isaiah?”
The boy returned his gaze evenly. “My Father’s business is not to punish sinners but to redeem the righteous.”
It was evident from Gamaliel’s manner that he was enjoying the debate.
“What more is there, pray, about your Heavenly Father?”
“He would not be pleased that a drunken Gentile was stoned to death because in his drunkenness he wandered from the Court of Gentiles into the Court of Israel.”
“But that is forbidden all who are not Jews, and the warning signs are plainly posted.”
“But it was evident that he was intoxicated.”
“The laws must be enforced, young man, or soon there will be no laws, and no Jewish people.”
The boy frowned.
“It is not even a question of mercy,” he said, “for does it not follow that the God who created all the universe created the Gentiles as well?”
“But the Jews, since they worship only him, are his Chosen People. So he told Moses and the other prophets.”
Jesus smiled with such radiance that the whole assembly appeared to be illuminated. “But did not Isaiah say that he would send a Messiah who would be not only a light to Israel but a light to the Gentiles as well?”
Gamaliel stepped back and looked at him with widening eyes.
“Who are you?” he finally asked. “And who are your parents?”
Mary and Joseph came forward quickly. When Joseph sought to make some apology, Mary gently interrupted. “We are of the House of David, sir, and believe in the law and the Prophets, as does our son. He is a good boy.”
Gamaliel gave them a shrewd glance. “You do well not to apologize. Israel will hear more of this boy one day, of that I am sure.”
Jesus regarded him calmly.
“I go now with my parents. But we shall talk again another time, in a place not far from here.”
I marveled now how the paths of these two had crossed, and remembered with a start how Gamaliel had mused over the name.
“Gamaliel is no man to have for an enemy,” I said.
Instantly I regretted my remark, for her eyes grew sad.
“He has no friends,” she said, “but his Father.”
Chapter Eight
THE DISCIPLES
ONLY I BELIEVE HE IS GOD and can do whatever he will.
Simon Zelotes protested: “But he speaks of God as his father. Is not the son less than the father?”
“The son is the father, and the father the son. Did not John, when he came down with Peter from the mountain, say they had heard in the whispering of the wind: ‘Thou art my Son, this day have I begotten thee. Ask of me, and I shall give thee the heathen for thine inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession.’”
Simon looked doubtful. “This is but a psalm.”
“Why say ‘but a psalm’ when it is of the spirit, and no man knows whence it comes?”
“Only God’s will is sure.”
“But this is God’s will, a voice heard by all when there is no human source. What matters is that Jesus believes he is being guided. For does not the psalm say: “Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron. Thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel’?”
Simon now seemed to waver. “He seems more a prince of peace than of action. Now the Baptist was another matter. He was indeed a Maccabean.” There was a shadow of regret in his voice.
“We are God’s people,” I pointed out. “Since we worship him alone, we alone are his people. And so there can be no rebellion without his approval.”
Simon shook his head sadly. “The Maccabean found God in a good right arm.”
To be perfectly honest, I had to admit what I had not freely acknowledged before. “The Romans are not the Syrians, even with all their weaknesses. We need Jesus. For none seeing his miracles can question his God-given powers.”
Simon was a soldier and could be forgiven for not following the thread of my reasoning.
“Judah,” he said ruefully, “he may be a God in heaven, but on earth he is very much a man. I have seen him tired and discouraged. He even wept, I understand, when his father, Joseph, died. Why if the dead are reborn should he feel any sorrow?”
“It is like being parted from a friend, nothing more. Did you not feel bad at leaving wife and child to be with the Master?”
I had made an unfortunate analogy.
“I wonder sometimes whether it was worth it.” He sighed.
“He knows what the disciples say of him. I read a psalm to him from the sacred scroll only last night, and he thought we should all read it.”
He looked back silently. “Action, Judah, not words.”
“Words are weapons as well, and sometimes slice deeper than a sword.
“‘Be wise now therefore, O ye kings. Be instructed, ye judges of the earth. Serve the Lord with fear, and rejoice with trembling.
“‘Kiss the Son, lest he be angry, and ye perish from the way, when his wrath is kindled but a little. Blessed are all they that put their trust in him.’”
Simon listened good-naturedly. “I hope you are right, it would simplify matters. But meanwhile I meet with Joshua-bar-Abbas, Cestus, and Dysmas in regard to arming the Idumeans and the Syrian Jews. I leave the disputatious sons of Israel to you. They are too much for a Galilean like myself.”
“But not for our Galilean.”
Whenever it became uncomfortable, as when the Baptist was arrested and flung into Herod’s dungeon, we could be sure that we would soon be on the road. “My time is not yet at hand,” he would say, “there are still souls to be harvested.”
And so we moved from Engedi, in Baptist country, to Jerusalem, Galilee, even Samaria, camping out at night in caves or on the wooded slopes, taking our food from the fields, or purchasing what we needed from day to day, taking alms only when we stopped overnight in homes open to our prayers.
It had been raining all day outside the Holy City. Soaked to the skin as I was, surveying the motley group, I felt depressed for the moment at the thought of the tremendous obstacles that lay in the path of our undertaking.
I looked around the campfire morosely. I saw little help from the Apostles. They had been picked chiefly because they were Galileans and were trusted as familiar things are. There was a saying that Galileans loved honor more than money. But, actually, there was little temptation to riches in Galilee, a
nd so they deserved no credit. Yet they were a rough lot. They had fought under Judah the Galilean, and, as we know, had demonstrated bravely, if blindly, against the viaduct, though it was not properly their concern.
From the start it had been necessary to stress the Master’s Judean heritage. He had lived outside the mainstream of Jewish life, so that he could lose himself in the Talmud and Torah, until God gave him the word.
The Pharisees questioned his humble beginnings and Nicodemus replied: “Does our law judge any man before it hears him out, and knows what he does. I tell you he is a prophet.”
They laughed as much as they dared. For Nicodemus was so rich that he could feed the entire population of Israel for ten days if he wanted. “Search all you want,” they still scoffed, “for out of Galilee arises no prophet. Does not the Scripture say that the Messiah comes of the seed of David, and out of the town of Bethlehem where David was?”
Fortunately, we had records of Jesus’ birth and copied them. But the doubters called the birthplace an accident. For the Pharisees, too, had researched the Nazarene’s life. Indeed, they saw a plot by a simple carpenter and his obscure bride to ensnare the nation with a fairy tale. But to what purpose?
They well knew the prophet Micah. “But thou, Bethlehem Ephratah, though thou be little among the thousands of Judah, yet out of thee shall he come forth unto me that is to be ruler in Israel; whose goings forth have been from of old, from everlasting.”
And whereas Bethlehem meant the house of bread, Ephratah signified rich in fruit, symbolized by the golden clusters of grapes which hung over the Temple gates as a reminder of Israel’s abundant future.
The Pharisees had looked into his family but for Mary, who saw only us, and talked to Jude, James, Simon, and Joseph. They were plain working people and bore no resemblance to the Master. As I had been told, they were brethren, but not brothers, but still he inducted two into his family of disciples. They seemed very much like the Galileans in his fold, the fishermen and fish dryers, the carpenters and cabinetmakers, the boat makers.
Of the Apostles Andrew impressed me, for even Simon Zelotes was a changeable fellow, who felt at times we could overthrow Rome with arms alone. Andrew, the first chosen, was fair and slim with a ready smile. He stood as a buffer for the Master, turning aside the others’ petty complaints. He had influence over all but Peter, who was a year younger but who, in his forwardness, behaved as if he were the older. They were the eldest among the disciples, only two or three years younger than the Master. Nearly all the others were of my age, twenty-eight, save for the beardless John. He represented the coming to manhood of Israel, so said the Master, who loved him because he saw himself in John’s youth and innocence. The other son of Zebedee, Jacob, whom Jesus called James, was quiet and serious-minded, seeming to miss his family. The orphaned sons of Alpheus the boat maker had their names changed, from Jacob to James, called the Less because of his stature, and from Judah to Jude, to distinguish him from me. Jesus said a new baptismal name accented the individual’s rebirth particularly when this name had a meaning of its own.
I, Judas Page 16
