by Quinn, Jack
There were many other healers, self-anointed prophets and holy men preaching throughout Judea and all of Palestine who attracted larger crowds; but they taught the Torah, and to my understanding, none deviated from it as Jesus did, nor urged people to depart from their community of family and village to follow them. Few, if any, had the temerity to include the subtle suggestion of rebellion in their pious teachings.
I must confess that my thoughts were in turmoil at that time, more so than during my Roman enslavement or years with Fabian when my singular goal was survival. I had returned from Rome to the Galilee the previous year, when Jesus had been preaching well before that time, a late beginning for a holy vocation at the advanced age of his thirtieth year. It was not until I started following him as an inconspicuous observer, listening to his progressively less ambivalent message, alert to the constant attendance of the Zealots, that I began to fear for the safety of my brother, as did Judah. Jesus may have been aware of my presence, but did not acknowledge me or I him for several weeks after I began regular attendance of his sermons.
During that time, I remained as inconspicuous as possible, retreating with his listeners to a tavern in their village where I took a room for the night, while Jesus and his six or eight constant followers set up camp in the countryside.
On one occasion I witnessed Jesus applying his surgical knowledge to a man without sight, whose mother had bound his eyes with a dirty rag. Jesus removed the covering, washed away the caked dust and mucus, and used a tiny blade to skim the clouded spots from his orbs. The man was elated that he could discern light and objects. Jesus applied an ointment of herbs to the eyes and re-wound a clean cloth about his head, instructing his mother to wash it daily and reapply the salve for a week.
Under ordinary circumstances, such treatment by a physician would be remarkable to peasants, but in this case took on a different dimension. As I walked to the center of town amongst witnesses to that event, they marveled at the ability of Jesus to make a blind man see. By the time I was seated in a tavern that evening, a few of those Jews who had heard my brother speak, then observed the treatment of the afflicted man’s vision, were regaling other townsmen and travelers with the tale of a healer who performed the miracle of restoring sight, vying for association with and proximity to Jesus during the act as he did so.
I have witnessed many times that human inclination to make ourselves seem important to others by claiming witness to or participation in an extraordinary event. Yet in concert with my brother’s God-sent message, that propensity seemed to elevate Jesus to a mystical level above his peers. In spite of the small gatherings he commanded, compared to other healers, for some reason his reputation as a holy worker of miracles spread throughout the Galilee faster than other contemporary so-called prophets.
His encounter with lepers was another example of erroneous reports, this time through the mistake of language. Jews speak Aramaic in public, often Hebrew in the home, plus struggle with the Latin of Romans and Greek of most erudite gentiles. It was in translation from the reports in the Aramaic translation of the word ‘clean’ to Greek that Jesus was credited with making lepers whole, when all I observed him do was wash dirt, secretions and encrusted flesh from their unattended extremities, horrible sores and lesions, then administer a soothing mixture of ointment and herbs to their great relief and comfort. When that tale came back to townsmen in the ubiquitous language of Aramaic, then spread by gossip in Latin and Greek, my brother’s application of medical knowledge turned into yet another curative miracle.
The most outrageous incident, however, the one that inspired me to confront Jesus regarding his advocacy and circumstances, involved the incredible tale of bringing a man back to life after death. How in the great, good name of Yahweh could any man believe that? As it happened, Martha, from Bethany, an acquaintance of our sister Mary Magdala91, came to Jesus with a plea to see to her brother who had lain without consciousness for four days after a kick in the head by their ass, so lifeless that they had already prepared Shiva for his ultimate death. Jesus seemed at first reluctant to accompany Martha, promising instead, the resurrection of Lazarus at the World’s End, when he would surely enter the Kingdom of God. Martha was not pleased with that answer and appealed to Mary to urge her brother to treat Lazarus with his miraculous surgical skills, so her own brother might regain his wits and continue his life on earth. Whereupon Jesus questioned Martha’s belief in his healing powers, not once, but strangely to me, several times before agreeing to go to her brother’s home.
I had sorrow for Jesus walking to Bethany, because I had seen men in a similar state from bloodless head wounds in the arena and knew that a man unconscious for several days had little chance of recovery. The women had goaded Jesus into impossible circumstances.
For that reason, I doffed my hat, approaching my brother and sister with a nod of acknowledgement, accompanying them with Martha into her house. Lazarus lay on his pallet in a darkened back room with closed eyes, slack lips, his chest immobile under a thin cloth. Jesus grasped his hand for several moments, then took a polished piece of metal from his shoulder sack and held it under Lazarus nose.
“Well, he lives,” Jesus announced without enthusiasm, “but with almost no breath.”
Then he examined the side of his head where the kick of the hoof had caused a large lump and a healing cut that Martha had cleaned of blood. There seemed nothing for Jesus to do. Yet he did instruct his disciples to carry the supine man, pallet and all, out in the fresh air and daylight, onto a long table under the shade of the awning extending from the entrance to the house. Jesus called for a cup of water, then dripped it in between the man’s parted lips from the stool he sat on beside him, praying softly, stroking Lazarus’ arm, occasionally spilling drops of water into his mouth. I approached my brother to ask if there was anything I could do, but he seemed to have drawn within himself and before I could speak, Mary took me aside. “He needs to be undisturbed at a time like this, Shimon.”
I smiled at her. “Has the little sister become his replacement wife?”
“Our brother has little concern for his own personal needs on earth. Someone must see that he eats, wears a clean robe, shaves his beard, washes and cuts his hair.”
“If he is still maintaining a different appearance after almost ten years to keep his identity from Roman retribution for the deaths of the legionnaires who murdered Rebekah,” I told her, “he seems in the process of creating another far dangerous reputation.”
“He has a mission that he must fulfill.”
“He will not have the time to fulfill anything if his preaching and trumped up miracles get on the wind to Herod or Pilate.”
“Jesus does not control gossip.”
“He could deny it.”
“He believes it could suit his purpose.”
“Which is what?”
“Shimon, your own brother! You could support him.”
“I am more concerned with preserving his life.”
Her eyes became moist, and she spoke in a whisper. “So am I, but....”
“You have come under his spell as have the fifteen and others.”
Her sadness turned to fury. “It is not a spell!”
We were the same height and I leaned in to kiss her cheek. “We both have similar concerns despite addressing them in different ways.”
She touched my arm and turned back to sit near our brother as I joined the surprisingly large crowd seated on the grass or milling about, some respectful distance from the house. Upon questioning Thomas, whose twin was also a constant associate, I learned that not only did a good many followers from the previous gathering accompany us to Bethany, but also relatives and friends from nearby Jerusalem had come to pay Shiva to the purportedly deceased Lazarus. This did not augur well in my mind for a sensible conclusion to this developing situation.
At sunset, Martha hung a lamp out under the awning where Jesus remained throughout the cold night beside Lazarus, alternately tending to t
he unconscious man, stroking his bare skin under his blankets, giving him water and kneeling in prayer. I stayed with him for a while, until Mary reclined on a pallet by his side ready as always to anticipate his needs. Martha provided a blanket for me to sleep outside with the disciples and many followers who had gone into town for their meal, but returned with lanterns to lie in wait in the field.
Sometime before dawn I was awakened by the exultant screams and laughter of the women whose high-pitched joy was quickly joined by the arisen assemblage attempting to push under the awning to marvel at the previously insensate Lazarus returned to consciousness, and the astounding miracle preformed by Jesus in bringing him back from that potentially lethal stupor. The men who had spent the night in vigil lingered well past the rise of the sun that morning, relishing their presence at this momentous event, elaborating its significance and portent amongst themselves.
As I had feared, when their midday hunger drove them into town, their garrulous account of Lazarus’ regained consciousness through the surgical ministrations of Jesus began the heralding of his God-given power which they asserted had raised a man from the dead.
When he heard of this miracle, my brother James also came the short distance from Jerusalem to the home of Martha and Lazarus in Bethany and sought me out to learn the details of the event before approaching Jesus.
We were seated under a shade tree beside the path to the town considering how we might correct the erroneous gossip that would certainly bring our brother’s rebellious message to the attention of the authorities.
“How can it be credited?” I asked. “Is there not one intelligent man in all of the Galilee?”
“Our people are being put at their limits by the Romans,” James said, “and the insistence of the strict interpretation of our laws by the Sanhedrin. They will adhere to anyone who offers them relief from either.”
“Neither Rome nor your high priests will allow him to continue agitating the people.”
James nodded sadly. “If many more rally to his message, or he flaunts it before the authorities, they will arrest him.”
“Then we must stop him first.”
Which appeared to be a logical solution at that moment. We had not reckoned, however, on our brother’s obsession with what he named his ‘mission.’ That evening we invited Jesus to partake of a family meal with us apart from his disciples and lingering followers, to which he brought our sister Mary, to our dismay. We spoke at first of past familial and filial pleasantries during our meal of figs, grapes and bread cakes Mary cooked on a rock slab I had placed over the fire. James led the conversation adroitly to question the rationale that inspired Jesus to become an itinerant rabbi. I noticed Mary’s quick smile as she glanced at Jesus, wondering why we had thought that our equally astute siblings would not anticipate our intentions.
“I encountered a great deal of human suffering while apprenticed to Louis in Nicosia,” Jesus answered. “Healing, minimizing pain, uplifting the spirit seems a worthwhile endeavor. Do you not agree, James?”
“Then it was not your Baptism by John?” I asked him.
“Not in itself. I could not embrace his exhortation of harsh penitence for past transgressions. Our people shoulder enough hardship. But his execution and disgrace by Antipas angered me. It started me thinking about a message that would instruct men on their future behavior.”
“In order to enter The Kingdom,” I said.
Jesus contemplated me with a frown. “Is not religion out of your ken, Little Brother?”
“Because I abjure the concept of a benevolent God that orders every aspect of human existence, yet apparently cares not for their plight? It should be the most easily defeated tenet known to man.”
James placed a hand on my arm, asking Jesus, “Why not study to be a priest?”
“That would require literacy, which I do not have time for. Nor could I in good conscience teach every law of the Torah. The rejection of gentiles, purity restrictions, its prohibition of healing on the Sabbath, to name a few.”
“The denigration and exclusion of women,” Mary said.
“Jews do not need an elaborate temple mortared with the blood of a thousand slaves to worship God,” Jesus added.
“Do your followers realize the duality of your message?” I asked him. “Your conspiracy with Judah?”
Jesus gave up a little laugh. “Ah, now we are on it.”
“There is danger in that,” James said.
“Why not deny this miracle gossip,” I suggested, “and stop preaching for a while?”
“When all the furor recedes,” James said, “you can resume teaching, without the insinuation of rebellion.”
“Abandon my mission,” Jesus said.
He was beginning to infuriate me. “What mission? I have heard you speak of it many times and do not understand it.”
“To prepare our people to enter The Kingdom of God at the end of the world,” he answered calmly.
I offered my wineskin to the others, but they declined. “The end of the world,” I repeated. “This cataclysmic event is interpreted by some people to mean the overthrow of Roman rule.”
Jesus smiled at me. “Or gain access to The Kingdom of God.”
“God chose you to hold the key to this Kingdom?” I asked
“You have said it.”
Mary said, “You repeat the same arguments over and over, Shimon.
“Because I believe they are valid.”
James placed his hand on my arm again but I shook it off, standing, moving unsteadily to place a log on the fire. “Have you lost your sense, Jesus? We grew together, slept side by side, shared our thoughts, endured exile, anguish and disappointment at the hands of Rome and this professed merciful God with whom you claim to commune! Poor ignorant, downtrodden peasants work their fingers to bloody stumps for forty, fifty years, only to be wrapped in a shroud and put in the ground. That is the plan of your omnipotent, merciful God?”
James said, “Stop, Shimon!”
Jesus held up a hand. “No, let him continue.”
“I do not mean to offend, but I worry that the duality of your message, allowing the miracle rumors to spread, your conspiracy with Judah--all these will carry to Herod and Pilate and your head will end up on Salome’s dancing pike just like our cousin John’s.”
“I do not conspire with the Zealots,” Jesus said. “Judah is concerned for my safety because of killing those soldiers who murdered Rebekah.” He drew a deep breath before continuing. “His Daggermen murdering Roman citizens and sympathizers in crowds is deplorable.”
“But you let all this go unchallenged!”
“It serves my purpose.”
“Whatever that is.”
Darkness had come, but I could tell by the firelight that Jesus was beginning to get impatient with me. “You are concerned for my safety, Little Brother, but not my ministry. You insult our God, accuse me of rebellion and wish to curtail my purpose on earth. Can you not support me instead?”
I sat down and took a drink of wine, my brain marching down one path, my heart down another.
James said, “We fear for your safety.”
“But you do not attack my teaching, James.”
“I also advise you to desist, yet not for the same reason.”
“I see you casting your fate to the winds for an unproven concept,” I injected. “A futile tweak of the nose of the mighty Empire of Rome.”
Jesus seemed to relax believing me treading loose sand. “Unproven? The words of our holy ancestors, ardently embraced by the faith of millions?”
“Just because an unthinking herd goes to graze in the desert,” I said, “does not mean I must follow, blinded by their dust.”
“So you are right in questioning God and our religion and the rest of us are wrong.”
I reached to the pile of gathered branches and laid them on the fire, sending sparks and smoke up toward the brilliant stars in the night sky above us. “Find me the smallest shred of proof in any o
f those incredible stories and I will relent: Moses’ destroying sacred God-given tablets of stone, the parting of the Red Sea for the Exodus, a vast ark large enough to hold every pair of species on earth and subsequent deluge that drowns all other life?”
“Nescio, nescis, nescimus,” James said.
“Meaning what?” Jesus asked.
“Latin,” I replied, for, ‘I, you, we do not know’”.
Mary ventured a comment in her soft voice. “Shimon seems certain that Yahweh has abandoned us.”
My retort was meant to be placating. “I would rather think that than believe in a malicious God who allows or causes such adversity for his creations.”
“Your misfortunes have made you bitter,” James said.
“And your leg,” Jesus added.
“Yes, my leg!” I shouted, finally goaded to exasperation by their irrational placation. “Why not? Why me? What horrible transgression did I commit before birth? What have I done in life to deserve such a hard, lonely existence?”
“Perhaps the answer to that lies in an almighty God who has not deigned to reveal His grand plan to you.”
“Of course! I should have thought of that! Pray to the source of my problems for relief from them.”
Jesus arose, looking down at me, his demeanor reflecting sadness in the leaping flames of the fire. “What manner of rabbi cannot persuade his own brother from blasphemy and eternal damnation?”
“I am my own damnation,” I whispered.
Mary followed him with a lamp as he walked away into the darkness.
I relate the following shameful incident with trepidation, but this account of my unfortunate life would be neither complete nor candid without it.
Upon my return to my home in Sepphoris, I began the practice of filling my wineskin when I awoke in the morning, sipping from it throughout the day and far into the night. With no need to earn a wage, I fell into the habit of touring some of the more unsavory taverns, gaming places and back street rooms in which prostitutes of all ages and gender catered to every whim and perversion imagined by either sex. On several occasions during my initial visits to those establishments, gentile brigands, troublemakers or bullies would mistake me for the crippled Jew they perceived. Although I had experienced enough confrontation for a lifetime and did not seek it, I quickly assumed my trained defensive rage when attacked, my pugio drawing the blood and respect of several assailants early on, until even city police skirted my presence.
