Jesus pushed his way forward. The people stepped back to make way for him. But he did not come all the way to Simeon. He stopped when he was more in the center of the crowd. Then, in that way that Simeon had noticed was his habit, his head moved slowly back and forth, his eyes touching each person so they would know he spoke to each of them.
“If any person would come to me, and does not love me more than his father and mother, his wife and his children, his brethren and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.”
Those words caused a soft exclamation from all around him. Simeon was not sure but what he had been one of those to gasp a little. Not even family could come between you and Jesus?
Now the wide, expressive eyes turned and fixed on Simeon. “And whosoever does not bear his cross, and come after me, cannot be my disciple.”
That sent a slight shudder up Simeon’s spine. To bear one’s cross was an idiomatic expression taken from the horrors of crucifixion. It was a most fiendish way to die. To bear one’s cross meant to accept whatever duty rested upon you, even if it cost your life.
Jesus let his eyes move about again. “Which of you, intending to build a tower, would not sit down first, and count the cost, whether he has sufficient to finish it? If not, perhaps after he has laid the foundation, he will not be able to finish it. Then all that behold it will begin to mock him, saying, ‘This man began to build and was not able to finish.’”
Simeon found himself nodding. That was easy enough to understand. One of the fundamental principles of good merchandising was to calculate the costs of doing business before you contracted to take the business.
Then it hit him. Is that what I did? I said that I accepted Jesus. Had I really counted the cost of that decision?
Jesus paused, giving everyone a chance to digest his words. Finally he went on. “So likewise, whosoever he be of you that forsakes not all that he has, he cannot be my disciple.”
He paused once more, then quietly, looking directly at Simeon, he said, “He that has ears to hear, let him hear.”
Simeon felt his head swirling. And what did that mean? What did it mean in terms of his specific question? Could he try to free Yehuda? Could he take specific action even if that action required violence? What could he do without offending Jesus or going contrary to his teachings?
But he couldn’t bring himself to ask any of those questions. “Thank you, Master,” Simeon mumbled, looking more confused than satisfied.
At his side, Peter nudged him. “So is that your answer?”
“I—I’m sure it is. I’m just not sure what it means.”
“Nor am I. So ask him straight out. He knows about what happened at the pass. He knows about Yehuda. Ask him what to do.”
Simeon stared at his friend. “I’m not sure I should.”
“Why not?”
Simeon just shook his head, suddenly forlorn.
“Lord?”
They turned as someone off to their left called out. It was a man of about Andrew’s age. Jesus had turned about as well. “Yes?”
“I will follow you whithersoever you go, but first allow me to go and bury my father.”
No one was surprised by that comment. The man had not left his dead father to come to hear Jesus. Again this was a common saying, an idiom. To “bury your father” meant that your parents were aging and needed care until they died. It could be years before that obligation was fulfilled.
“Let the dead bury the dead,” Jesus responded, “but you go and preach the kingdom of God.”
The man gave a look of shock, then outright irritation; then he turned away, muttering to himself. Immediately a second man stepped forward. “Lord, I would follow thee,” he said, “but first let me return to my home and bid those who are there farewell.”
Suddenly Simeon saw it, and it stabbed him like a spear in the side. Both men had said it. Was that his line too? I would follow thee, Lord, but first . . . The shame came then, hot and powerful. I would follow thee, Lord, but first tell me how to solve my problem. I would follow thee, Lord, but first take away my pain. I would follow thee, Lord, but first I have to free Yehuda.
Jesus took a deep breath, then spoke very plainly to all around him. “No man having put his hand to the plow and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.”
Simeon didn’t move. The scene around him seemed to dissolve. The words echoed like distant thunder in his mind. Somewhere, as though afar off, he saw the man who had asked the last question also turn and walk away, his head down.
Finally Simeon turned to Peter. “That is my answer,” he whispered.
“It is?” Peter said in surprise.
“Yes.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, but I put my hand to the plow the day I talked to Mary in Nazareth. How can I turn my back on that?”
Before Peter could answer, Simeon started to walk away. “Will you tell my mother that I won’t be home until supper? I need some time by myself.”
Chapter Notes
The teachings of Jesus on discipleship come from three different sources. The Bread of Life sermon is in John 6. It is in the final verses that we are told that the doctrine Jesus taught on that occasion caused some former disciples to turn away from him. Luke 14:25–35 contains the parables of counting the cost. The accounts of people volunteering to follow Jesus, then making excuses, and his concluding statement about putting one’s hand to the plow, come from an earlier chapter (Luke 9:61–62), but is included here to round out Jesus’ teachings on this subject.
Chapter 2
A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter; he that has found one has found a treasure.
—Ecclesiasticus, or The Wisdom of Jesus the Son of Sirach, 6:14
I
Joppa 16 June, a.d. 30
Miriam did not lift her head. She kept her eyes fixed on the simple midday meal of bread, barley broth, cucumbers, and olives. “Ezra?”
She felt both his and Lilly’s gaze upon her.
“I want to go to Caesarea.”
If a catapult stone had come crashing through the window at that moment, it could hardly have created a greater shock. Lilly drew in a sharp breath. Ezra’s hands dropped to the table with a heavy clunk. “Caesarea?’ Livia gasped.
“Yes.” She tapped the sheet of papyrus on the table in front of them. It was a letter from her father to Ezra, come while she and Livia and Ezra had been in the north. Ironically, though he had no idea that Miriam was in Joppa, Mordechai had written to Ezra from Alexandria and asked him to forward the letter on to Miriam in Jerusalem. His plans had changed somewhat, he said. He had to make some other stops and would be delayed at least another week in his return. “Since Father will not be back yet, there is no rush for us to get back to Jerusalem. I know you need to spend some time in the sandal shop, so Livia and I will go.” She ignored the looks she was getting and rushed on. “I know the Roman tribune there. First, I will find out if Yehuda is still alive—and may God be willing that he is. If he is, I will tell Marcus how Yehuda once saved the life of my father and me. I will offer whatever money the Romans require as ransom for his freedom.”
Ezra was aghast. Lilly’s face was pale as a piece of muslin.
“He will listen to me,” she went on doggedly. “I won’t reveal anything about what I know.”
“If the Romans suspect that you have any association with the Zealots—” Lilly stopped, too horrified to finish.
“That is folly, Miriam,” Ezra broke in sharply. “Utter folly.”
“This whole situation was created by my father. There would never have been anyone at the Joknean Pass if he hadn’t set it up. I have to do something.”
Ezra shook his head, still clearly shocked at the idea. “We spent an extra two days in Ptolemais so no one would connect us with the events at the pass. That’s also why we bypassed Caesarea completely. We could not take the chance that someone might see you coming from the north. And now you want
to just walk in to a Roman officer and start asking about Yehuda?”
“I have to know if Yehuda is already dead,” Miriam said stubbornly. “If not, then I have to try to save him.”
He took a deep breath, fighting for patience. “I understand what you’re feeling, Miriam, but—” He threw up his hands. “And what will you say when the tribune asks how you happen to know about Yehuda?”
Her mouth opened, then shut again. Earlier that morning, she had finally fallen asleep just before dawn when she had figured out this course of action and had found a small measure of peace. She realized now that her mind had been so spent that she had not thought through all of the implications. “I’ll tell him that . . . ” Her voice trailed off. What?
“Yes, word is out down here about the clash,” Ezra went on. “But there are no details. Certainly not the names of actual prisoners.”
Lilly’s breath exploded softly. “Think, Miriam! The Romans are not stupid. They must be furious about what happened up there. Instead of a major victory, they came away looking like fools. If there is even a breath of suspicion that you know something, they’ll not hesitate to use any necessary means to make you tell them. Not even your father’s influence will save you.”
Miriam could only nod. She had thought about that, but she felt she had to do something. “All right,” she finally whispered.
Ezra sagged back, the tension leaving his face. Lilly smiled wanly. Livia gave her mistress a quick but fervent hug.
“Miriam,” Lilly said after a few moments of silence, “the Lord has not seen fit to open my womb. As much as we would love to have children, it seems that is not to be our lot.”
Miriam turned to her, surprised by this sudden turn in the conversation.
“You are the closest thing I have to a child of my own.”
Miriam was touched. It was true, especially after Miriam’s mother had died.
“When you came to us the other day to ask for help, we knew that you were putting yourself in danger. But we also knew that you were right. What your father did was a terrible thing, and you intervening to stop it was the right thing to do. But I can’t allow you to do anything more.” Her voice was trembling slightly with emotion. “If something were to happen to you . . . ” She looked away.
Miriam surrendered. “It was a foolish idea. I’m sorry.” But she thought of big, gentle, bearish Yehuda and felt a great desolation.
Greatly relieved, yet understanding her feelings, Ezra decided to change the subject. “While you and Livia were still sleeping this morning, I told Lilly everything.” He paused for a moment. “I told her all about Jesus, including everything Simeon’s family told us about him.”
Miriam was surprised. She looked at Lilly. “And?”
“I want to meet him,” she answered without hesitation.
“And I as well,” Ezra added.
“We want to see him and hear him for ourselves,” Lilly said.
“Wonderful.” Miriam was deeply pleased. “So do Livia and I. However, Jesus seems to spend most of his time in the Galilee. I don’t know when he’ll come to Jerusalem again.”
“When he does,” her cousin replied, “send word immediately, and we’ll come.”
“Father can’t know,” Miriam said. “I’m sorry that I have to hide things from him, but he’ll forbid me to see Jesus.”
Ezra considered that. It was contrary to his nature to be a party to her going against her father’s will, but he had thought this out when she had first come down from Jerusalem. The problem here was not Miriam. The problem was her father. She was of age. He had no right to tell her what she could and could not believe, and he certainly had no right to use her as a dupe in carrying out something truly evil. Finally, he nodded somberly. “We’ll be careful when we come up to Jerusalem. He doesn’t need to know.”
II
Capernaum
At the sound of the front door opening, Deborah pushed aside the preparations for the evening meal and walked swiftly into the entryway. David was there at the open door. He reached up and touched the mezuzah on the side of the frame, then stepped inside, bending down to remove his sandals. Deborah’s face fell. “No Simeon?”
He shook his head. “Haven’t seen him all day.”
“Peter told me he might be late. Shall we wait supper?” she asked.
Again he shook his head. “If he’s out looking for answers, there’s no telling how long he’ll be.”
He came forward, took her hand, and moved with her back into the kitchen. Leah was there, sitting beside Joseph. She started to rise, her face eager; then, seeing David was alone, she fell back in disappointment. “No Simeon?” she asked.
David laughed softly. “Did you know you grow more like your mother every day?” He bent down and kissed the top of her head.
He turned and laid a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “And how are you, Son?”
“Fine, Abba.” Though Joseph was nearly eleven now and no longer considered a child, he still used the intimate diminutive for Ahv or father. He also called his mother Eema—Mama—instead of Eem—Mother.
“Simeon will be along soon enough,” Deborah said. “Come, Joseph, you are doing too much talking and not enough work.” Since their baptism, David and Deborah had determined to reduce their dependence on the household servants they had hired. This was partly so they could teach their children to work and partly to free up funds so they could contribute more to help Jesus. Joseph was still getting used to the new arrangement.
Joseph frowned and started breaking off the tips of the beans that were before him. “I’ll wager he’s got a plan,” he said, his eyes shining with excitement. His hands stopped again and began making arcs in the air, using a bean pod as a miniature sword. “He’ll ride into that prison and take Yehuda out from under the noses of those old Romans.” He slashed downward, striking a fatal blow. “No one can stop Ha’keedohn.”
Deborah smiled at his fervor. Who but a worshipful boy saw the world in such simple terms? “The beans, please,” she prodded gently.
“Don’t be suggesting that to Simeon,” Leah said, chiding her brother’s fantasizing.
“Don’t be suggesting what to Simeon?” came a voice from the hallway.
“Simeon!” Joseph leaped up and darted to his brother. “Did you decide what to do, Simeon? Did you?”
“Joseph!” David said firmly. “Would you let Simeon come in before you start pestering him?”
“We’re going to have supper first,” Deborah said, observing with some concern the deep lines on her older son’s face. “Then if Simeon wants to talk, he can.” She shot Joseph a warning look. “But if he doesn’t, then we’re not going to keep pressing him, are we, Joseph?”
Joseph’s crestfallen look was so forlorn that Simeon laughed heartily. He reached out and mussed up Joseph’s hair. “Maybe I’ll just send you to Caesarea. The Romans would throw themselves into the sea at the sight of a warrior as fierce as you.”
“Aw,” Joseph said, knowing he was being teased.
The amusement on Simeon’s face melted away. “Actually, no. I don’t know yet what I’m going to do.” He looked at his father. “Yehuda and Samuel might already be dead. Pilate may choose not to wait a month to—”
“But they’re not!” Joseph shouted in exultation.
Simeon whirled to look at him. “What?”
“Yes,” Deborah said excitedly. “Sextus Rubrius came by this afternoon.”
David was as surprised at that as his son. “Sextus came here?” he exclaimed.
Deborah went to Simeon and took his hands, her face filled with happiness. “Sextus received a dispatch from Caesarea today. The executions have been postponed until fall.”
“Really?” Simeon nearly shouted it.
“Yes,” Deborah said squeezing his hands.
He was ecstatic. “That changes everything. Did Sextus know when in the fall?”
“There is evidently some Roman festival in September—Ludi Romani, or
something like that.”
“Yes, in Latin, ludicum means a public show, or game. Ludi Romani, or the Roman Games, is a huge festival held to celebrate some ancient Roman victory.” His mind was working furiously. He had made it a priority to understand everything he could about the Romans—how they thought, lived, fought, and played. “It’s held in the latter part of September. And Pilate wants to save them for that?”
“That is what Sextus said. Vitellius, the legate of Syria, Pilate’s direct superior, often comes down for the festival and Sextus thinks Pilate may want to make a public example of the prisoners then.”
Simeon half-closed his eyes. “Then there is time.”
Deborah didn’t want to raise his hopes too high. “That was what the letter said, but Sextus said to warn you that Pilate is still in a rage over his losses at the pass. He could change his mind at any time.”
“But they’re alive,” Simeon breathed. “That is what I needed to know. They’re still alive. That is a great burden off my mind.”
Joseph tugged on Simeon’s tunic. “What are you going to do, Simeon?”
“Joseph,” his mother warned.
The narrow shoulders fell. “Oh, Mama, it’s all right if Simeon tells me. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I can’t tell you because I don’t know.” Simeon slipped an arm around his brother’s shoulder and moved him gently toward the table. He picked up one long bean pod and handed it to Joseph, then got one for himself. He snapped off the ends and tossed it in the bowl. When he looked up again, he saw his parents watching him with sorrowful eyes.
“So you didn’t get an answer?” Deborah asked quietly.
He took another bean and broke it into pieces before he shook his head. “I went over what Jesus said today again and again in my mind. It made sense when I heard it, but I can’t figure out exactly how to apply it.”
“Then maybe . . . ” She sighed, then went and sat down beside him, putting one arm around his waist.
Simeon looked at her, seeing the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the slightly pinched look around her mouth. How much of that was from him? he wondered. She had always sent him off on his forays with the Zealots with a brave smile and an encouraging wave. Was this what it had cost her? He reached up and stroked her hair, noting that there seemed to be more gray than before. “It will be all right, Mother. I’ll just move ahead. I have one possible idea, but . . . ” He shrugged.
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