Judas

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Judas,” he said, “what is it you seek?”

  “Rabbi?” I said, unsure what he wanted of me. “I seek many things. I wish to see the oppressors removed from our land. Then, you have trusted me with the purse. I wish to serve you faithfully, as you are the one to lead us…I wish to know more of the Father of whom you speak—”

  “That is too much, Judas, and not enough. I ask you to tell me the single thing that brings you to me?”

  I could not answer. I thought I had spoken truly. I did want to do those things and more. It could not be of any import to him that I ached to see my mother, half of me believing her dead and the other afraid she might still be alive. Old women practicing her profession do not fare so well.

  “I do not know how to answer,” I said.

  “Judas, a worker went into a field one day and discovered treasure buried in the middle of it. He immediately went out and sought money to buy the field. He had to borrow from relatives and friends and to each he told a different story about the field. To one he said it would yield in abundance, and to another he said sheep could safely graze there, and so on. By the end of the day he had enough to buy the field. You see how it is?”

  I did not. Parables were a part of our daily fare, and I should have been able to untangle this one, but I could not. I suppose knowing it pointed to me made it difficult. We do not usually want to be fed the truth about ourselves, and I was certain I would soon have it in a large portion.

  “You have told me many things about who you are and how you came to this place. It is to do the Lord’s work, to avenge your family, to serve…you beg for a loan so you can buy the field. I will gladly give you the purchase price, but you must be honest with me and tell me about the treasure.”

  As I said, I would hear the truth. But in fairness, I had not thought about why I came along. I thought I followed John and he sent me to Jesus. But I had not sought John. Anger and hatred brought me to him. I wracked my brains for an answer, and I resented this man for making me feel guilty for having to do so.

  “We are not so unalike, Judas,” he said. I frowned at this comparison. There was precious little between us that could be thought of as sameness. “No, it is true. People questioned my birth. My mother always sounded vague on the matter and so there was doubt. Those men in Nazareth, the ones who evicted us from their synagogue, they doubted that part of me, you see? So, what is the treasure you are willing to risk so much for?”

  I sorted through all my reasons. What did I value so much that I would risk the family of Leonides, Barabbas’ band of cutthroats, Rome, and now walk the path this man would have me follow, a path that common sense said could only lead to trouble?

  “I think,” I said finally, uncertainly, “that I wish to find my family.” I didn’t know what I meant by that. It just came to me. The chances of finding my mother were slim, if they existed at all. Perhaps, I thought, she would hear of this outlaw rabbi, what he did and said to women trapped in her condition, and seek us out. I didn’t know. And then there was Dinah in Corinth.

  As I thought on these things, Jesus stood and indicated I should walk with him.

  “You see,” he said, “we are alike in this respect. We yearn to be accepted, to have a family that is settled, comfortable, and normal. But that cannot be, Judas. We are who we are. Or futures are woven on the Father’s loom and into the fabric of our life. We are born to play out our parts. You and I, we come from different places and see the world through different eyes, yet it is the things we share that bring us together and hold us. You have survived in spite of what the world sent your way, and you shall in the future. I will not.”

  I started to protest but he waved me off. He stared off into the night sky for a while and then turned to me.

  “You will see,” he said.

  I did, but not in time.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  When we traveled in or around Nazareth, Jesus’ mother would sometimes join us, but as she was no longer young, she only traveled short distances. I often dropped back and walked with her. Even at forty-five, she carried herself like a woman half her age. She asked about my family. I repeated my orphan story. I saw no purpose in burdening her with the truth. The Romans have a saying for it, veritas odium parit, truth begets hatred. Some things are best left unsaid.

  She told me amazing stories about his birth and childhood. Once, she said, he played with some children in a stream. It was the Sabbath. Jesus had formed clay into the likeness of small birds. His skill was remarkable and the images he created could be taken for the quail that frequented the area.

  While they were about this, a boy from the outlying area slipped in among them. He was a child of uncertain parentage and who was often taunted by the others. When they saw him, they ridiculed him and, turning to Jesus, demanded he be sent away. “Our fathers told us this person is outside the Law,” they said.

  Jesus replied, “The Law says we must love our neighbors as ourselves,” and added they should also love this boy.

  Well, one of the boys, jealous of Jesus’ popularity, reported what Jesus had said to his father, a Pharisee. This man called on the elders. As they drew near, Jesus held out his hand and perhaps four score quail descended to the place where the little clay birds were.

  When the Pharisees and the elders arrived, the father said to Jesus, “Where are these images you have made in defiance of the Sabbath?”

  Jesus swept his arm in an arc and pointed at the quail milling about on the bank.

  “I see no images,” the Pharisee said.

  His son, in distress, ran to the flock, “They are here among these birds.” With that, the flock took flight. When they had flown away, no clay birds were left. Had they been transformed into living birds? Or had the quail trampled them into formlessness? Who knows?

  And then there were her stories of messengers, worshiping shepherds, and visitors from the east with wonderful gifts. A wonderful birth, she said, for the man born to save the nation. I tried to remember the words Amelabib had recited to me years before in the street in Corinth.

  Now is a child born by heaven…Smile…at the birth of this boy who will put an end to our wretched age…from whom golden people will spring…

  Had I remembered it correctly? I could not be sure. But what Augustus thought of himself seemed strangely prophetic for what must have seemed to be an insignificant boy born in a forgotten corner of his empire toward the end of his reign.

  I did not know whether to believe her or not.

  ***

  Once, while he spoke, a man pushed forward to say Jesus’ mother and brothers wished to see him, and would he stop and go to them.

  Jesus said, “My mother and my brothers are all of you who hear and respond to the word of God,” and continued his teaching. The answer puzzled and annoyed me. I never knew even the semblance of a family. My mother, father, and such relatives I could claim had deserted me. I ached for family, and he rejected everything I most coveted.

  Later, when the crowd left, he started to walk away with his family, but then hesitated, turned, and came back to me. I still chewed on my resentment.

  “Don’t you see, Judas,” he said, “my words give you that which you most desire—you are my brother, my family. That is how the Kingdom of God is to be built. And it begins here, with you.”

  ***

  We arrived at the gates of Magdala toward evening. A crowd milled around, shouting and shoving. Some held stones. Jesus’ eyes narrowed, and he quickened his pace. A wild-eyed woman thrashed about in the center of the throng, cursing and whooping. Two strong men pinioned her arms but could not hold her fast. She kicked and twisted this way and that, revealing the flesh of her legs. Her headdress had fallen off—or perhaps she never had one, and her hair tumbled like tarnished brass around her shoulders. The words coming from her lips would make the roughest seaman blush. Her clothes were, or had been, of some quality at one time, but hung in dirty tatters. Her face was streaked with grime that
came only partly from her struggling. That face had not seen water for a long time.

  “Don’t go near her,” John muttered. “Look at her. She is filthy. Her hair is unbound, and she displays her body like a prostitute. Do not touch her. She is unclean, Master.”

  Jesus’ practice of touching the ritually unclean alarmed John more than any of us. I do not know if John feared the consequences or, because he had been trained by some of the brightest pharisaic minds in the country, worried how his former colleagues might interpret it. In any event, he refused to speak about it, then or ever, as if by not doing so, he could deny it happened.

  Jesus smiled, raised his arm, and said, “Release her.”

  “But Rabbi, she is dangerous,” one man said. “She was betrothed to one of the elders in the city, and for the last three months, she has been ranting and raving. I will not tell you all she has said and done, but it is enough to justify stoning.”

  “Let her go,” Jesus repeated.

  The woman fell to her hands and knees. She growled. She spun in small circles and bared her teeth, spittle at the corners of her mouth. Jesus raised his hand and she cringed as if he were about to strike her. She snarled and wailed.

  “Be still,” he said, and then, “come out of her.” I had seen this before, of course, but this time, there seemed to be more than one demon tormenting her. She howled and writhed on the ground. Her eyes rolled back. Suddenly, she stopped kicking, her legs shot straight out, and she lay stiff as a board.

  We waited, wondering if she were dead. Then she gave out a sound as sorrowful as a winter wind, a low moan…then another and another, seven times…and went limp. No one stirred. Finally, she sat up and looked around in wonderment, first at the people, then at Jesus, and then at the mess she had made of her clothes. She rearranged her rags as best she could and gathered her hair in an attempt to assemble something of a headdress. But now her eyes were clear, her gaze steady. The onlookers were amazed.

  “Get up, woman.” Jesus said. “You are needed.”

  Her name was Miriam, Mary, the same as the mother of Jesus, the same as my mother.

  ***

  Most of the time, I spent with Jesus and the others who formed the center of his followers. Our custom was no different than any of the itinerant rabbis whom we encountered from time to time. Jesus would walk several paces in front. We followed. If he wished to say something, he would call one or the other of us to him or he would turn and address us all. Close behind us were other followers and, of course, the women. In time, they would become a scandal in the eyes of those who opposed us. His mother and the Magdalan offered to leave us, but Jesus insisted they stay. “If the meek are to inherit the earth,” he said with a smile, “surely the women will qualify as major inheritors.”

  Since I left my mother in the ashes at the House of Darcas, I had not known or allowed myself to be close to any woman. Well, except as a young man I did visit the women who plied my mother’s trade from time to time. Since I came to this land, I kept myself apart. I felt safer that way. It is a dangerous thing to be too close to anyone when you pursue a vision like the one I harbored. At least that is what I told myself.

  The women who walked with us were very different than the women I knew in my youth. Those women had a hard side to them. They trusted no one, would confide in no one—at least not in men. I am sure they talked among themselves. But men were outside the circle. The Magdalan, on the other hand, spoke in the soft tones of the privileged. I gathered she had known that life. She told me she intended to marry and then things “went bad.” That is how she put it. I am sure the appeal she held for me arose from the contrasts between us. I came from the gutter, she from a society that barely knew or acknowledged someone like me.

  ***

  One day, as we approached our base in Capernaum, we were met by its elders. “Rabbi Jesus,” one of them said, “We have been sent by the centurion, Cornelius. His servant is very sick. He bids you to come and heal him, if you would.”

  “No, it is a trick,” I warned. “Don’t be fooled. They wish to take you, Teacher.”

  “No, no,” the elders replied, hands in the air, “this man is not like the others. He deserves your help.”

  “We will go to him,” Jesus said. I was furious. I did not come to this land to see Romans receive the mercy they refused others. We traveled no more than a mile when the friends of the centurion approached us again.

  “Rabbi, our master greets you and says you are not to trouble yourself. He said you need only to say the word and his servant will be healed. He is used to giving orders. If he tells someone to ‘go,’ they go and if he says to ‘come,’ they come. He believes you can do the same. You need only to say so and his servant will be healed.”

  Jesus stared at them for a long time and then turned to us.

  “I have not seen this kind of faith anywhere in this land. Listen and learn.”

  I thought about the centurion’s servant, Mary from Magdala, and myself, and worried about this strange man who led us to only the Lord knew where.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  A Pharisee named Simon invited us to his home. To this day, I do not know why Jesus accommodated those smug Pharisees. They were only interested in what he had to say so they could build a case against him. But Jesus brushed off our warnings.

  “Master,” Peter said through clenched teeth, “they wish to shame you.”

  “We shall see,” Jesus said and reclined on his couch.

  When we entered, our host already occupied the place of honor. Sycophants from the town scrambled to fill the remaining couches near him and created a serious breach of courtesy. Jesus had been invited to the meal as the guest of honor. The Pharisee made it clear he wished to hear what Jesus had to say, yet he appropriated the place of honor for himself. His friends, who came to see the rabbi from Nazareth put in his place, flanked Simon right and left. Smug and arrogant, faces alight with anticipation, they dipped crusts of bread in the dishes of olive oil and spices, oblivious to the amenities of hospitality that require the guest of honor eat first. Other people were let into the room, not to eat, but following custom, to be in the presence of their betters and, in this case, to hear what this strange rabbi had to say.

  As we settled on our couches and the town folk lined up along the walls, a woman entered. There could be little doubt about her profession. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and down to her waist. Her eyes were lined with kohl, her cheeks red with the powder I remember seeing in my mother’s kit. She worked her way around the couches and settled at Jesus’ feet. Peter and James gestured for her to go away but Jesus stopped them. All conversation ceased. She reached into her robe and removed a small vial. She wrestled with its stopper but in her haste to open it, the neck broke away and perfumed ointment spilled out. The vial alone would have brought forty denarii. The perfume in it was probably worth twice that. The aroma permeated the room.

  Without hesitation, she started to anoint Jesus’ feet. Her tears also fell on his feet and she tried to wipe them away with her hair. Everyone started talking at once. The Pharisees clucked like chickens. The other spectators were either shocked or amused, assuming someone was playing a bad joke on our host. But I knew this woman’s story. I had lived it.

  “What a waste,” I said to John. “Imagine how much food that perfume would have bought for the poor.” It was all I could think to say. The look of contempt on our host’s face seemed to say, ‘What kind of prophet is this that allows this low person to touch him in this manner?’

  Jesus raised his hand. The company quieted down.

  “Simon, I wish to tell you a story,” he said.

  The Pharisee smirked and grimaced at his friends. Jesus waited until the snickering died down and then began.

  “There were two men who owed money to a well known moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. Neither of them could pay him back, so he canceled their debts. Which one of them, do you think, loved h
im more?”

  “Obviously the one who had the greater debt canceled.”

  Jesus paused and studied his host for a moment. “When I entered your house, you did not give me water to wash my feet or a towel to dry them, but this woman wet my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss of welcome, but this woman has not stopped kissing me from the time she settled at my feet. You did not put oil on my head as is the custom, but look, she anoints me. I tell you, her many sins will be forgiven, for she has shown much love. Those who forgive little—love little. Do you understand?” Then he twisted around on his couch and said to the woman, “Your sins are forgiven.”

  The woman ceased weeping and with enormous dignity, rose and left the room. As she did so, I glanced at our host and his friends. Their faces had lost their smug, self-satisfied look. Their expressions ranged from shock to fury. I had no doubt we had not heard the last of this encounter.

  ***

  The woman followed us from Simon’s house, at a distance, of course, and that night when we settled into our camp, Jesus gestured for her to join us. The others, uncomfortable with this display of intimacy with an unclean person, moved away from her. She told us her name was Rehab. I do not think she told the truth. Many women forced into the life she led assume that name. I suppose they believe identifying with the prostitute who helped Joshua conquer Jericho somehow lessened the stigma attached to their profession. I cannot judge these women, certainly. My mother practiced that profession because it was the only life left to her.

  To this day I do not know if we have a ritual that will cleanse such women to allow them back into society. I think not. But even if we do, I do not believe anyone would accept its results. There is something about that particular sin that challenges our ability to forgive. She sensed our discomfort, or perhaps she knew her place. In either case she accepted the food and moved some distance away to eat.