I found it interesting but not conclusive. “What difference where the power comes from, as long as he commands it?”
“He is too much the sorcerer for them,” said Matthew. “They would like more of the supernatural and God, and less of the man.”
“Yet,” I said, “the people would have made him King.”
“The people, yes, but not the Pharisees. They see their Messiah as the supreme High Priest but still a humble servant of God, yet Jesus tells them what God thinks and says.”
“But he speaks the truth.”
“So we think.”
“So they will not accept what their eyes tell them?”
“Not entirely, for they can accept a Judean born in Bethlehem of the House of David, but not a sorcerer from Nazareth who calls himself the Son of God.”
“He calls us all children of God.”
“It is different when he speaks of himself. Do we speak of the Father as Abba, in the same way that children speak familiarly to their parent?”
“It matters not what anybody says,” I rejoined. “I have seen him do wonders in the Father’s name, as you have, and I am sure he can do whatever he puts his mind to. There has never been another like him, and none can touch him, for have we not seen him vanish in crowds when the demands were too great on him?”
“True,” said Matthew thoughtfully, “there has never been such a miracle worker, but who knows where his own will takes him? He knows us, but we do not know him.”
At times the Master conjured up miracles no more incredible than his walking on water. For anybody who knows about women recognizes that they are the most devious and self-centered of creatures, ever scheming to manipulate a man to their secret desires. Never do they act without self-interest. Even my mother’s wrath was directed at me because she desired Rachel as her daughter, and not because she was concerned with my happiness. For otherwise would she not have been satisfied with my wish to remain unmarried? But for the Master all this changed. In Mary Magdalen and Martha, Joanna, the wife of Chuza, who was Herod’s steward, and even Susanna, a half Jewess who was a handmaiden to Claudia Procula, the wife of Pilate, I saw a devotion nothing short of miraculous. They would forsake all else to follow after him and prepare his food, and that of the Twelve, and minister to his wants, which were not many. However, after a hard day’s travel, suffering from the unhappy vibrations of the sick and the evil, he was grateful for the soothing ointments with which they lovingly eased his weariness. They lived purely for the pleasure of serving him.
“He is the Anointed of Israel,” said Mary Magdalen, “so why should we not anoint him?”
Joanna had left Herod’s household to trail after him. But Jesus persuaded her to return, telling her that marriage was a sacred covenant when performed with the rites of the one God. She had suffered from an issue of the blood which had weakened her so much that she could hardly crawl to the oasis in Perea where she was healed merely by touching the hem of his robe. Even reunited with her spouse, she continued her service to the Master whenever we went into Perea, or when her husband’s business took her near. And when she could she kept us apprised of Herod’s plans, and of Pilate’s, for they were in close correspondence.
My favorite was Susanna. She was a picture of innocence, with soft blue eyes from her Macedonian father, and a shapely form that recalled Rachel’s secret charms. Unbelievably, this beautiful maid, who had already attained her peak at fifteen, had been marred with a deformed hand, the four fingers grown together from birth. But the Master had only touched her and said a few words, and the fingers had detached themselves and assumed a normal shape.
She was such a delight that I longed to caress her, but I knew this would be misunderstood, for her devotion was exclusively directed to ministering to the Master, and any mark of affection from another, however innocent, might be taken amiss. The Master trusted me, for more than once he said: “I know how hard it is for you, Judah, to remain celibate, but in resisting temptation you reaffirm your faith in the Father and the Son, and my faith in you. You cannot serve two masters, and the bondage to women can be a greater tyranny than any you find in Rome.”
Because of Susanna, Jesus’ fame had spread into the very household of the Procurator, and Pilate’s wife had become fascinated by the tales her little handmaiden brought back with her, out of this interest renewing her permission for these little interludes.
I had thought it conceivable that Susanna might artlessly do us harm by revealing our movements in Judea, but Jesus had only smiled at my nervousness. “Do you think for a moment that they know not where to take me? The time is not yet ripe, for both the enemies of man and the Son of Man. But it approaches and none shall know it before you.”
Amid all this uncertainty, we traveled into Galilee, then crossed the sea at Tiberias into the Decapolis, the other side of the Jordan, and found the crowds there as enthusiastic as ever. The majority were Gentiles and so cared little whether Jesus was the Messiah or King of the Jews, as long as he healed and comforted them.
The company of women dwindled, for it was difficult for many to leave their homes in Judea for any period, but the Magdalen, as I knew her, was always with us, insisting that her sister Martha stay at home with Lazarus. There had been some dissension over this, but Mary had prevailed, and Martha had disconsolately returned to Bethany. Joanna could not come out of Herod’s land, but Susanna brightened our days with her beauty, and there were others of nondescript quality, notable only in their wish to be of service.
My relationship with Mary Magdalen was never cordial. She had resented my opposition to her anointing the Master in the Pharisee’s home, thinking it had something to do with the intimacy fostered by this act of devotion.
I cared little what she thought, but for the fact that she had not only the Master’s ear but that of Susanna, who blushed prettily when I caught her looking at me. By Judean standards, the Magdalen, at twenty-one or so, was beyond the first flush of youth, and more shopworn than most. She had been forgiven much but could not herself forgive those who remembered her calling. And how did one forget, since her presence was a constant reminder?
She taxed me once with calling her by a vile name.
I pleaded my innocence immediately. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
She gave me a scathing look. “You know well enough, Judas.” She insisted on the Greek form of my name, knowing it annoyed me.
I shook my head, and would have been off, but she threw out a hand to detain me.
“You called me a prostitute.”
I looked at her in pity. “If it is wrong to call a bricklayer a bricklayer and a lawyer a lawyer, then I wronged you. I was only telling somebody how the Master took the devil out of you. Should I have called you an angel the whole point would have been lost.”
In her anger she bared her teeth. “I know your sly ways, and have warned the Master.”
“You can do me no harm, for I love him.”
“What do you know of love?” She almost snarled the words. “You stay with him for one reason, and all know it, hoping that he will lead your petty little army of ragamuffins against Rome. Let him satisfy you, just once, that he marches to a different tune, and you will run off to a new master.” She pointed an accusing finger at me. “I know you, Judas, you cannot deceive me, for I have learned in a hard school to look on people as they are.”
I felt myself turning cold inside.
“You can do me no damage. I am one of the Twelve, handpicked by him, and sit next to him in the fellowship of our councils. Only Peter takes precedence over me,”
“You are what he made you. Without him you are nothing, or less than nothing.”
I had not been so infuriated since Rachel sought to trick me into marriage.
“You would do well,” I said, “to stay home with your brother and send Martha in your stead. She knows what it is to respect an Apostle.”
“You command no respect from me. Think not that I am unaw
are of the eyes you have for that child Susanna. Have you not heard the Master say that whoever looks at a woman with lust in his eyes has already committed adultery with her in his heart?”
“She is woman enough to know her mind.”
“And you are man enough to know the vows you have made.”
“There was no oath taken.”
She laughed with such scorn that I could cheerfully have slapped her face.
“You must be deaf. Has not Jesus said that whoever offends these simple souls who believe in him shall be worse off than if he had a millstone around his neck or drowned at sea?”
I had listened enough.
“I must speak to Andrew about your breaking into our camp whenever you please.”
“I do so at the Master’s invitation and care not a fig what any man says. Save for John, and perhaps Andrew, there is none good enough to kiss his feet.”
I did not fret over her. For the Master never listened to gossip. He called it a coward’s way of stabbing his adversary in the back. Nevertheless, I was relieved when word came from Martha that her sister was needed at home to help nurse their ailing brother.
Jesus became grave when told of the illness, for he loved Lazarus for his good nature and hospitality.
Mary was troubled more, I was sure, by leaving the Master than by her brother’s malady.
“Will you come if we need you, Master?” she pleaded.
He looked at the multitude appealing to him for help.
“I cannot come now,” he said, “but I promise that Lazarus will be well.”
Tearfully, glancing back wistfully over her shoulder, she trudged off to the south, but not without making amends for the contemptible way she had treated me.
“Forgive me,” she said, “for not behaving toward you as the Master would have me behave toward all persons. The Twelve are as dear to us as our own.”
And so I forgave her, for her sake and the Master’s.
I saw no more of Susanna at this time, for the Master had mysteriously sent her back to Jerusalem. When I inquired after her, he only shrugged. So I asked:
“Is she not with us because they learn our movements through her?”
He gave me a sad smile, which I found even more mystifying than his silence.
“We have nothing to fear from this child, only from ourselves, Judah.” He waved his hand, ending the discussion.
We moved through the cities of the Decapolis, preaching to Jew and Gentile alike. The Gentiles were becoming more numerous, and the Jews, even the Amharetzin, fewer, since the news spread that the man adored as the Messiah had spumed the throne rightfully his own. It grieved me that we were losing strength, for this dwindling of his following could only harm the Master, whose ready command of the masses kept Annas and Caiaphas at arm’s length. Of that I was sure.
Toward the week’s end, an unexpected messenger came from Bethany. He had flown by camel, but even so he was days tracking us down. He bore an urgent message from Martha and Mary. The Master’s face turned solemn as he read: “Master, he whom you love so much is gravely ill and needs you at once.”
The messenger, Jedekiah by name, asked: “What word shall I take them, sir?”
Jesus’ eyes traveled from the weary animal to its rider, red-eyed from lack of sleep. “Rest yourself first, for Lazarus’ sickness is not fatal but manifests itself so that the Son of Man may glorify the work of the Father.”
The following morning the camel and rider left for Bethany. Jesus tarried two days, healing many and preaching the gospel, and then gathered the Twelve together, saying: “I must go to Judea, for Lazarus is sick and needs me.”
Peter threw up his arms in protest. “But, Master, they have sought to stone you in Judea in their wrath at your refusing the crown of the Jews, so why would you go there at this time?”
“They would have stoned me in Galilee as well, for the same reason. So does it matter where the Son of Man lays his head? Even the fox has a hole he can crawl into, but I have nowhere to go.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. “I must depart at once to awaken our friend Lazarus from his sleep.”
Peter, as usual, did not comprehend. “If he sleeps, then rest will make him well.”
Only Andrew seemed to grasp the Master’s full meaning. And so Jesus elaborated. “It is the sleep of death that grips our friend, and it is well that it is so. For you of all people have little faith, despite what you have seen, and it is intended that you again have evidence of the Father’s power.”
Because of the uncertain situation in Judea, they still pleaded that he not go to Bethany but send his disciples.
He shook his head. “There is still something I must show you before I leave you.”
“We shall go with you,” said Andrew, “for we have pledged ourselves to the death.”
“And beyond,” smiled Jesus.
I had always considered Thomas the least of the Twelve, but he now said: “Let us all go with him that we may die with him.”
“Worry not so much about death, it comes soon enough. Meanwhile, we go to Lazarus.”
After three days, we came to the outskirts of Bethany and saw the mourners returning from the cemetery. They looked askance at Jesus, who did not notice them but went straight to Martha, who was receiving their condolences. She seemed distraught, and her eyes were red with weeping.
There was a secret pain in her eyes, and it was not all from grieving for her brother. She would not criticize, but she was plainly distressed that he had not arrived earlier.
He took her hand and squeezed it.
She looked at him mournfully. “If you had been here before,” she said with just a trace of reproach, “my brother would not have died.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Martha, Martha, how little you have learned. Know you not that whatever you ask of God through the Son he will grant to you?”
She blushed and impulsively kissed his hand.
“Forgive me, Master, for ever doubting.”
“Fear not, your brother will rise again.”
“I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection, when all men are resurrected.”
“You speak well, and for this reason Lazarus was called, to prepare us for the resurrection. For in Moses and Elijah’s time there was no such resurrection of man, but now through the will of God it comes through the Son of Man. For I am the resurrection and the life. He that believes in me, though he were dead, yet shall live.”
His eyes scanned the crowd. “And where is Mary? Does she pine at home, not knowing that he who believes in me shall never die?”
“She knows not that you are here, for none loves you more than she.”
“And know you who it is you love?”
“Yes, Master, for we believe you to be the Christ, the living Son of God, who came into the world to free it of fear.”
“It is natural that you blame me for not coming sooner, for that is the human way.”
“We owe you much, for you gave us a sister whom we thought lost, and made her loving through showing her how to forgive.”
The people in Bethany had brought word of Jesus to Mary. Hastily she left the house and went out to greet him. At his approach, she fell at his feet, saying through her tears: “Master, if you had been here, the brother that you gave me would not have died.”
I could hear Jesus groan, for Mary had shown no more faith than Martha and the rest.
“Where have you laid him?”
Mary and Martha gave him their hands and said: “Come, we will show you.”
I could see that Jesus was troubled, for, after all he had said and done, they still questioned his powers. There were tears in his eyes, for even those who loved him most seemed to deny him. He looked over the crowd, and for the first time I saw despair in his eyes. But he recovered quickly, and led the way to the burial place. A stream of mourners, not knowing what Jesus intended, followed out of curiosity. Before long we reached the cemetery grounds and came to the
cave where the casket had been buried and a stone laid over it.
Jesus turned to Andrew. “Take away the stone,” he commanded.
Martha and Mary both recoiled in surprise. “But, Master,” said Martha, “he has been dead for four days.”
“Yes,” said Mary, still sobbing, “his flesh will have decomposed by now in this heat. For this reason we buried him before you came.”
Again Jesus wept that they who had been shown so much still would not believe.
As the stone was removed, he knelt at the mouth of the grave and raised his eyes, speaking softly in Hebrew. The only word I could catch was “Abba,” the familiar word for Father he used in speaking to God.
I thought for a moment how embarrassing it would be if he failed, for it did seem beyond even his capacity to restore the flesh once it had begun to stink.
His face wore an exalted look now, and he said in a ringing voice: “Father, thank you for hearing my prayers.”
The coffin was only lightly covered with earth. Andrew, at a signal from the Master, had pried open the lid with John’s help. The stench was overpowering, and I shuddered at what the corpse would be like. I stole a look at Martha and Mary. Their faces were filled with revulsion, and they looked as if they were about to throw up. They ran into the fresh air, retching and coughing. And so they did not hear Jesus say that he spoke aloud so that the witnesses would know he was sent of God.
“Not my will, but your will be done,” he said, using a phrase I had heard many times.
Martha and Mary, their faces ashen, had returned to the grave.
The Master, seemingly insensitive to the odor, bent over the corpse and in a loud voice commanded: “Lazarus, come forth out of the grave.”
I, Judas Page 27
