The Brother's Keeper

by Tracy Groot

  God of Israel, he did not want this. Why was he doing this? Why was he reliving a day he had tried hard since to forget? But he was moving to the edge, and he was sitting down beside her. And he was looking at the gray rocky ledge below.

  Keturah crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap. “It had happened twice before, that I remember. I would always feel such . . . pity . . . horror . . . for whoever was being condemned. Knowing that the condemnation was just did not make it better. Those other times I had run around the side of the house to cover my ears against the screams. When I saw the crowd this time, I wanted to run again. I was ready to—and then I saw Joses.”

  Joses had gone with the crowd. James was . . .

  “He was on the outside of the crowd, trying to get to someone in the middle. He was screaming, and—” She put her fingertips to her lips, perhaps to make them stop trembling. “He was beside himself. They would not let him in.”

  James had been on the ground in front of the synagogue. Gravel imbedded in his beard and cheeks. Dust in his mouth, the taste of the crowd that dragged his brother away. The memory came back in relentless strokes.

  “Tell me what happened, James.”

  He thought he had seen his brother for the last time, and so he tore his tunic down the middle in a torrent of grief and rage.

  He realized Keturah had spoken and heard what she said. “Why?” James snapped. “Why do you want to know what happened? You already know. Everybody knows.”

  She shook her head. “James, the explanation my father gave is no explanation at all.”

  “What did he tell you?” He had seen Therin in the crowd. Therin had turned on Jesus too.

  Keturah drew her knees up. She rubbed a water spot on her sandal, then sighed heavily. “He said Jesus deserved to die for the shameful things he’d said. That was it. He does not speak of it, will not permit me to ask questions about it.” She paused and said reluctantly, “And since that day he changed his mind about Jesus. He used to support your brother. Now he will not even speak of him.”

  James nodded slowly. Pretty much the whole village changed after that day. And though Keturah seemed embarrassed for her father, at least Therin was one of the few who still treated the family with a . . . determined sort of normality. Perhaps to honor the memory of Joseph.

  “Keturah, you and Therin are rare. Not many want much to do with my family.”

  “Father is a good man. Most of them are good, James; they have good hearts. They simply do not understand Jesus.”

  James shook his head. “You are wrong, Keturah. They understand him perfectly. That’s why they wanted to kill him.”

  “Tell me, James,” Keturah insisted, turning her dark eyes full on him. “Tell me what happened that day.”

  And so James told her.

  The paradox was that it started out as the finest moment in the whole of Jesus’ mission. Sitting in the synagogue that day, listening as Jesus spoke . . . in those moments an idea formed in James’ mind, in the minds of all who were in the synagogue that day. For a short and wondrous time, the mission of Jesus seemed clear, and hope rose.

  The brothers had sat together, the five of them, as they used to, in the same old place on the same old bench. After a whole year, it was so good to have Jesus back again—but it was more than good; it was time. It was a day for answers, and if Jesus had not exactly promised he would explain himself at last, why, it was more than implicit. Expectation lit the faces of all who attended. Jesus, their own son of Nazareth, had returned to set down once and for all his purpose and his plan.

  “Take gracious pleasure, O Jehovah our God, in thy people Israel, and in their prayers. Accept the burnt offerings of Israel, and their prayers, with thy good pleasure.”

  The blend of male voices had resonated in the room. They were all together again, save Joseph. All the brothers, one in voice, one with the rest.

  “And may the services of thy people Israel be ever acceptable unto thee. And, oh, that our eyes may see it, as thou turn in mercy to Zion. Blessed be thou, O Jehovah, who restores his Shechinah to Zion.”

  James had glanced about the room, tense with emotion; pride, of course, that his brother sat next to him; anxious that he would say the right things. James himself did not know what Jesus would say; he only hoped that it was . . . right. That the elders would approve.

  James cast a look down a row of men; some were scholars, one or two were sages, and all were the chosen of Nazareth, Jews who had kept the faith—often at great personal cost. They were men he had known all his life, good men whose familiarity brought comfort, whose presence brought security and sane thinking to a world of Roman violence and Gentile godlessness. Men who took care of their families, men like neighbor Eli, sitting behind Joses, who once found James when he was lost as a child and carried him home to his mother. Men like gentle old Rimson, who carried sweets in his pockets for children. Jotham, whose family had often shared Sabbath meals with them. Benaiah, the father of a girl James once liked. James could relax when he saw those faces, once Jesus said the right things.

  They had every right to expect a full report. All the things they had heard these past several months . . . of healings and grand speeches to hold a crowd spellbound. Why, the fame of Jesus had spread to even the distant places of Galilee. This son of Nazareth had much to explain, and today every man present would discover at last what he was about. After all, these things had not happened in Nazareth, had they? Surely there was a reason for it.

  Pride and anxiety, hope and worry, joy and anticipation. All of this, and the Sabbath service too. James had to force himself to keep from fidgeting like a little boy. The service had proceeded as usual, with measured deliberateness, as if the attendants would not brook a casting off of piety in favor of excitement over this famous son of Nazareth. They would allow Jesus to speak at the proper time. But glances from the attendants themselves joined the stares from everyone in the assembly . . . attention always came back to Jesus and the brothers. Sometimes James would share a nervous grin with one, with Joses in particular. He remembered the way he and Joses had looked at each other and the way Joses had looked at Jesus. With confidence. Assurance.

  The Shema was recited, as well as the other prayers and blessings. Then the readings began. The first reading came from Torah. Then came the reading from the Prophets. The leader who was designated to read that day turned instead to Jesus. The brothers exchanged looks as Jesus rose; to offer the reading to someone else was an honor. It signified acceptance. It recognized piety. The day was only getting better. After nearly a year of uncertainty, it seemed as though things at last were being righted.

  They handed to him the book of Isaiah, and the passage scheduled for that day seemed providential at the least. Jesus found the text and began to read.

  “‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because He anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed, to proclaim the favorable year of the Lord.’”

  James remembered how very small he had felt, because those words loomed large. They set his skin to tingling, coming from the lips of Jesus. Did anyone else feel the same? To be sure, a reverent hush had come upon them all. As transfixed as James, the men in the synagogue watched as Jesus gently rolled up the scroll, smoothed his hands reverently over the outer cover, and gave the book back to the leader. He took his seat, and they could not take their eyes from him.

  And then Jesus spoke, firmly and clearly. “Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

  There it was. Exactly what they wanted to hear.

  The collective pent-up breath was released, and astonished murmurs rose. James closed his eyes briefly, then turned to look at his brothers with a weak smile. In their eyes he saw what he felt. Relief. Wonder. Awe. And the murmurs around him were a balm to his soul.

  “Fulfilled? Why, yes—of course! The healings . . . the mi
racles!”

  “This is Joseph’s son, is it not?”

  “Yes, blessed be his memory. Would that he had lived to see this day!”

  “His own boy . . . our own Jesus!”

  There was time enough for imaginations to kindle. There was time enough for expectation to brighten their senses. There was time enough for James to hear things spoken in the rushing ebb and flow around him, things to lift his heart and, for the first time in a year, to change the wistful fear inside to something more like hope. Something more like belief.

  “All the marvelous things he has done . . . it has truly been a sign of God’s hand upon him!”

  “Could it be that he fulfills the words he just spoke? Release for the captives? Think of it!”

  “The days of Rome are numbered!”

  “Then . . . Isaiah wrote those words for this time, this place . . . astonishing!”

  “That I have lived to see the day of Israel! The freedom of our people!”

  His own brother. God’s hand upon his own brother! It was enough to make James sag in his seat, to exchange wondering stares with Joses. Recovery of sight to the blind. Freedom for the oppressed. And oh, God, most of all, release for the captives.

  All about him imaginations ran riot; speculations came fast and thick. Was it the beginning of a new era? Time at last for the end of all foreign domination? For Israel to rise again? And would Nazareth—think of it!—be at the heart of it all? They would all be famous! Those in Jerusalem would come to see their Galilean brothers not as the rustic provincials they supposed, but as the chosen of God.

  Yes . . . yes! Nazareth would be the headquarters. Jesus ben Joseph would be their leader . . . their Prophet! And the people of Nazareth would be like David’s mighty men of old. A rush filled the room, a force of heady power that left James trembling. God was on the move! God was going to really, truly restore Israel. Through his own brother.

  They were the last moments James remembered being happy.

  Everyone was so busy whispering and murmuring and imagining that no one had taken notice of Jesus himself until a single voice rose above the murmurs.

  Clear and resonant, new words came. “No doubt you will say to me this proverb: ‘Physician, heal yourself.’”

  Jesus is speaking again! Quiet, everyone!

  “And ‘Whatever we heard was done in Capernaum, do here in your hometown as well.’”

  What is this? Shhh, I cannot hear him! What is he saying now?

  “Truly I say to you, no prophet is welcome in his own hometown.”

  The murmurs fell away.

  Confusion came.

  And what had begun in the synagogue that day, as the mighty swell of a single wave, what should have ended as a magnificent crash upon the shore, instead stopped short of the land because Jesus did next what he always did—he took it too far.

  “I say to you in truth, there were many widows in Israel in the days of Elijah, when the sky was shut up for three years and six months, when a great famine came over all the land; and yet Elijah was sent to none of them . . . but only to Zarephath, in the land of Sidon, to a woman who was a widow.”

  “No,” James whispered.

  But his brother went on, relentless and calm.

  “And there were many lepers in Israel in the time of Elisha the prophet; and none of them was cleansed . . . but only Naaman, the Syrian.”

  Silence like a tomb seeped over the assembly. They waited, stunned, for him to explain, to justify, to retract. But, implacable, he sat next to James and did not speak again.

  It did not take long for the implication of his words to penetrate. Mutters swept the crowd. Was Jesus saying he would bypass them in favor of Gentiles? Naaman was a Syrian, a hated enemy of Israel. Was Jesus saying he would go to the Romans? Heal their lepers, bypassing Israel’s own? Go to their widows, despising the widows of Israel? After all Rome’s cruel tyranny and oppression? What effrontery was this? Who did Jesus think he was? His words rang discordant in their ears, and not long after, a growl like low thunder rose.

  Look at him, so haughty! He performs his mighty works elsewhere, but should not Nazareth be his proving ground? Why would he ignore Nazareth? Because they all knew how ordinary he was? Look at him! What is so special about him? He is not like David, is he? He is not like Judah the Maccabee. He is a weakling compared to the mighty men of old! Naaman the Syrian, he says? A Gentile pig widow, he says? Touch not the unclean, the Torah says! He is not for us but for our enemies.

  James and the brothers twisted in their seats, quickly assessing the furious rise of emotion in the assembly, looking to Jesus to assuage the crowd. Do something! Take it back! Tell them you didn’t mean it! Implacable, he remained.

  He is not for us but for our enemies! He is a traitor!

  You have got to take it back! Make it right! Quickly!

  Open your eyes, brethren, it is a trick of Satan! He does his miracles to lead us astray from God and the Law. We have been deceived!

  Jesus! For God’s sake, say something! Do something!

  “Physician, heal yourself”? Come, let us give him a chance.

  James and the brothers were on their feet, instinctively forming a circle around their brother. They had to get him home, out of this hothouse of emotion. Let it die down and—

  The low thunder kicked up into a roar of fury. The good men of Nazareth rose as one, spurred by righteous anger. James saw flashes of faces he knew, young and old, heads covered in prayer shawls, hands gripping garments as if to tear them, people he had known all his life, people he loved and trusted —all bearing down upon his brother.

  “Simon! Joses! We must get Jesus—”

  A hand dug into his shoulder and pulled him aside, and the crowd streamed into the breach.

  “No—Jesus!”

  Shoved aside, pushed back and jostled, James tried to struggle back into the crowd, but the distance between him and Jesus grew. He jumped to see, and the flash of view revealed Jesus—someone was tearing his prayer shawl from his head. James jumped again, using shoulders to pull himself up—someone had a handful of Jesus’ hair, was dragging him to the synagogue door. Another jump . . . Simon! He was still at Jesus’ side, arms trying to shield, wide shoulders taking a blow meant for Jesus! James felt an insane moment of hope, because Simon was there and fighting.

  But the next leap revealed Simon going down.

  And the tidal wave of human wrath swept Jesus away.

  “Jeee—sus!” James screamed. Oh, God, this was impossible!

  “To the cliff!” they shouted.

  “No! Listen to me—listen to me! He is innocent! He does not deserve a death like that!”

  “The cliff!”

  “Not a death like that!”

  He scrabbled after them, clawed his way into their midst, only to be recognized and beaten back. He rose and stumbled down the synagogue steps, to be again forced back. He fell, and a foot ground his cheek into the gravel, filling his mouth with dust. The foot held him there, and he watched the crowd surge away while he screamed things they did not hear.

  You do not know him as I do . . . no, he is good! Oh God, he is good. . . .

  The roar faded into the distance, and James struggled to his knees. Please . . .

  Keturah wept softly. James’ chest felt compressed, as though held in the grip of a giant. Numb, he rose, staring down at the ledge. Then, without a word to Keturah, he stumbled away, lurching in the direction of Annika’s.

  8

  HOW MUCH TIME had he wasted? The sun dropped closer to the far-off sea, a melon-colored discus near the horizon. The rest of the sky darkened with early twilight. James quickened his steps. How could he have lived that day again? Now, of all times?

  The ridge came to a slope that descended into the village of Nazareth.

  Annika’s neighborhood was a noisy one, and he could hear the bustle long before he reached the aftgate of the common courtyard. Mothers scurried to finish tasks before the setting sun brough
t Sabbath. They issued curt orders to their children. “Straighten the blankets. Fill the cruses with oil, lad, quickly. Trim the wicks. Bank the fire. Fetch the water.”

  Why had Jesus come back that day? The thought made James pause outside the aftgate to the courtyard.

  It made no sense, none that James could see. Jesus had come back to all but declare that his mission was to the Gentiles—or had he? Why, then, did he continue to speak to mostly Jewish crowds in the two years that followed? And the new words he spoke seemed in direct contradiction to what happened in the synagogue that day. The new words claimed he was sent to the lost sheep of Israel. James heard that Jesus had balked at healing the daughter of a Gentile woman—balked, after all his talk about Elijah and the Syrian! The woman was from the same pagan area Elijah had gone to. It was crazy, confounded crazy. How differently that day should have gone.

  What was the point for Jesus to alienate his hometown brethren with his preaching about the Gentiles, only to take up again with the Jews? None of his disciples were Gentiles. Sure, most of them were rustic rabble—but they were Jewish rabble. All of this grandiose talk of God sending his Son for the whole world made no sense when his disciples included none from a pagan race.

  “Why did you come back?” James whispered, hand on the gate.

  “Well? Are you going to come in or are you going to stand there?”

  A woman waited in front of James for him to move. He hurriedly opened the gate and stepped aside, and she swept through, arms laden with a large bucket. Something for the refuse pit, by the smell of it.

  He gazed upon the busy commonyard. At the old sights and sounds around him, he could almost forget why he was here. He could imagine—it wasn’t hard really—that it was an ordinary visit in an ordinary time. He took a breath and entered the gate.

  It had been a long time since he had been to Annika’s. He thought he had not missed it, but the sight of the people around him, people who probably could not recognize him for their hurried preparations and the coming dusk, made him almost glad he had come. When had he last seen such activity, so many people all at once? It was not any wonder Nathanael stayed here with Annika. He was used to such comforting clamor, being from a busy place like Caesarea. All the stories Nathanael told . . . the lad would be bored senseless if he had to live in a home like James’.