The Immortal Nicholas

by Glenn Beck

  There was nothing Agios could do. He sat beside his ungainly adopted son, and while Krampus’s closed eyelids fluttered, Agios told him stories.

  He spun tales of the caravan and their first days together, how Krampus made Gamos laugh with the unusual sounds he could make, and of Caspar’s kindness and Melchior’s grand home in Megisthes. He reminded Krampus of the starry nights and fever-hot days, the meals they had shared and the moments of contentment. He also spoke of the fisher boys at the beach in Egypt and the first time they experienced one of Krampus’s episodes together. He said they’d never been far from Jesus in all that time.

  “We’ll find him, now,” Agios told Krampus. “And when we do, he’ll heal you.”

  Krampus moaned.

  “We won’t leave him again. I promise.”

  The attack passed gradually, but by the time Krampus could sit up it was too late to journey on. Agios set up a makeshift camp for them along the side of the road, and they spent the night under the stars just like they had in the old days.

  That night, Krampus murmured, “I am your son. You said.”

  “You are not really, but I’m proud to call you that. I hope I’ve been the father you never knew,” Agios told him.

  “Father. If I die, promise me?”

  Agios tried to sound cheerful: “You’re not going to die. They say Jesus can even conquer death. He’ll help you, you’ll see.”

  “Yes. But promise, father?” Krampus insisted.

  “What?”

  “Bury me in water,” Krampus said. “My mother say once, your father buried in ocean. Maybe in water I find him. Then even away from you, I still have a father. Bury me in water.”

  “I promise, son,” Agios said. “But you’ll live a long time yet.”

  Krampus smiled and fell asleep.

  It seemed divine that when they woke the following morning it was to news of Jesus.

  “Have you two come to seek him? He’s here!” a man said as he hurried by the place where Agios and Krampus ate a simple meal of barley bread and dates.

  “Where?” Agios was already on his feet, calling after the man. He didn’t even need to ask who the man was referring to —only Jesus could engender that sort of response in people.

  “By the Sea of Galilee! They say he will preach to the crowd!”

  Agios struck camp quickly, rolling their mats and tying them to the mule so haphazardly that Krampus laughed.

  “You think I’m funny?” Agios grinned, helping his friend to stand. “Laugh all you want, Krampus. Today we see Jesus!” And then, Agios pulled Krampus to him and embraced the man he loved as a son. It was an uncharacteristic move, something that Agios hadn’t done in years. When was the last time he had touched another person in this way? He couldn’t recall even a moment of such physical affection in the last decade—two? three?—and all at once he stung with regret.

  Yet Krampus clung to him, fists bunching the fabric of Agios’s cloak and head bent to his shoulder. They stood like that for a long time, holding each other, until Agios pulled away abruptly. His eyes felt hot, his throat thick and aching.

  “Friend,” Krampus said, and reached out to put his hand on Agios’s head. “Father.”

  “Yes,” Agios smiled. “I am your friend, Krampus. And your father.”

  They set off, Krampus on the mule and Agios leading the animal, hurrying as fast as he dared. The hills around the Sea of Galilee obscured their view until they crested a low rise and saw a great crowd spread out before them. The bowl of a small valley opened toward the lake, the blue water bright and sparkling in the morning sun. And all throughout a field of dry, brown grasses, people of every size and age and shape and color were gathered.

  “There must be thousands,” Agios whispered, and felt his hope dim. How would they ever find Jesus in the midst of such a throng?

  But Krampus was grinning. “See him! Look there!”

  Agios opened his mouth to ask where, but people thronged around them, mothers holding their children’s hands and men running sure-footed. “The teacher is going to speak,” one woman told her companion as she rushed by.

  “Where is he?” Agios called.

  She glanced back for just a moment. “On the hill. Come quickly.”

  Agios pulled the mule along, Krampus swaying on his back, until they were at the very outskirts of the assembly. It would be impossible to cut through the crowd, especially with the lumbering mule. Agios felt disappointment choking him. They would never see Jesus in this mass, let alone get close enough to see him, touch him, or speak to him. But Krampus didn’t seem to mind. He was already slipping off the back of the mule and settling himself in the brittle grass.

  “We won’t be able to hear him from this far away,” Agios said, trying not to sound bitter.

  “Sit,” Krampus told him.

  So Agios sat, and strained to see past the heads of so many people before him. There, up on the hill, a man stood alone. The same white robes. The same striped tallit. Agios’s eyes were not as good as they once were, yet he knew that it was Jesus. If only they could approach, if Agios could only ask Jesus to heal his friend—

  It was a wish almost too precious to hold.

  “We’re too far away.” Agios could have wept for the injustice of it.

  “Shhh.” Krampus waved his hand.

  And then Jesus began to speak.

  It seemed impossible that they could hear him clearly, but the breeze that made the grasses dance conspired with the basin of the valley between the high, rocky hills and carried Jesus’s every word to them. Agios was so surprised he missed the first few things Jesus said. Jesus spoke with certainty—he obviously knew that here the earth had created something like a Roman amphitheater, where his words traveled distinct and far. Agios could sense the crowd holding its collective breath as they hung on every word, and he turned his attention to the Teacher.

  “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

  Blessed?

  Agios could not have heard him properly. This was not the order of things. Everyone knew it.

  “Blessed are the mourners, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled . . .”

  Blessed. Blessed. Blessed—nonsense!

  Agios clenched his fists, clamped his jaw so tight it began to throb. How could Jesus say such things? The poor in spirit were not blessed, nor the mourners and the meek and the hungry and thirsty. There was no good fortune in this, nothing beautiful or happy or consecrated. Agios knew this with every ounce of his being.

  He had lived a life poor in spirit, a life of mourning, he had hungered and thirsted for peace and righteousness. Krampus had become the meekest of men. Such things were curses, not blessings. He was cursed. Krampus was cursed.

  But when Agios looked at his friend, he saw tears were streaming down Krampus’s cheeks. Love shone in his eyes, and in his expression Agios saw the peace that he himself had spent the better part of his life seeking.

  It was as if scales fell from his eyes.

  In that moment, Agios saw Krampus clearly for the first time. His friend, his brother, was a man of twisted body but of pure heart. What must life be like for him? A world achingly complicated, and yet childishly simple. Krampus can forgive all the world has done to him and can accept the pain that has been and that will come again—and he can still find joy in the words he hears. He has the faith of a child.

  I have not, Agios admitted bitterly.

  And yet, though he had mourned for a lifetime, had he not found comfort in caring for Krampus? Krampus was not Philos, yet he had grown to love Agios unselfishly. In small ways the big man did all he could—trying to cook for Agios, taking his watches to let Agios sleep, carrying out Agios’s requests, taking tender care of the goats and the sheep. He has lived a life of love and service. I have tried to cut myself off from love because—because love
can pierce like a knife. Was I wrong?

  He had fought a hard world with drink. He had served Caspar with resentment at first and then with a weary willingness. He had put up with Krampus at first because Krampus was of all men more miserable than he. Agios had been seeking a way to find joy again, to live again.

  And Jesus offered it.

  It was so unexpected, so difficult to fathom, to grasp and believe, that Agios couldn’t quite get his heart all the way around it. But everything Jesus was saying was true—and his soul knew it long before his mind could accept it.

  Agios’s poor spirit had been given a kingdom of incredible riches: health and friendship and work for his hands. Agios had kept counsel with kings and slaves. He had witnessed the coming of the Messiah himself. He had known deep and lasting love. And meek Krampus, who had experienced such sorrow, sat reverent at the foot of the hill, looking up as if the kingdom of God were coming.

  No, as if it were already here.

  When Agios’s soul was thirsty, hadn’t Jesus himself given him water to drink?

  Not from the well, no. But the living water he had spoken of.

  Unthinkable grace.

  Without looking, Krampus reached out and took Agios’s hand. They sat, two old men, brothers, their bent and gnarled fingers holding tight as they listened. As they learned.

  God, Agios silently prayed, lift this burden from me. Take my hatred and guilt, take my anger and sorrow and blame. I don’t deserve your help—I know that. I let my own son die from my arrogance and my pride, from my belief that I could protect him. But even if I’m without hope forever, though, please do this for me. Do it, and I will protect and serve Jesus until his mission is complete.

  The hot tears had come. Heal Krampus. I’m just a broken old man and there’s nothing you can do for me, but make him whole.

  And on the mount, Jesus’s words continued as he spoke of giving alms to the poor: “give your alms to the poor secretly,” he said, “and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly.”

  Help him. Please. Help my son.

  For a long time after Jesus had ceased speaking and had gone, Agios and Krampus remained sitting there, still as the crowd thronged around them. Some had gone toward Jesus, and Agios felt a desire to follow them—and yet he had sworn to protect Jesus from a distance.

  He studied Krampus and saw him as though for the first time. The surface didn’t matter anymore, not his twisted limbs or his misshapen face. Agios saw the purity of his soul, the serene surrender of his spirit to something greater than all of mankind.

  Closing his eyes, Agios murmured, “I will follow the Messiah. Grant that I may be a grateful servant to him. Let me serve him until his mission is completed.”

  He gasped. For a moment he had felt filled with light—the same light he had seen in a vision, the same light that the star had shone down over Bethlehem.

  Agios opened his eyes again and saw Krampus smiling at him—and the light faded.

  But it was there! It was within me! I felt it!

  Agios breathed deeply, and he sensed that somehow someone was answering his prayer: Surely a man who can raise the dead can heal my son. It can’t be dangerous for him if we can just get close enough to ask, to beg, for healing.

  He got to his feet and said to Krampus, “Come. We have something to do.”

  Chapter 13

  From that day, Agios and Krampus followed Jesus like a shadow. Sometimes the distance between them stretched as long as a dark silhouette cast by a setting sun. These were the times when Krampus was ailing or too weak to ride the mule. Often they would lose the trail and have to pick it up again by questioning townspeople and travelers. But as Jesus’s reputation grew, it became easier to discover where he had been and where he might be going next. All the same, Agios hated being a step behind. Not everyone loved Jesus the way he and Krampus did.

  Other times they were able to keep pace, or ended up stumbling into a village or city at almost the same glorious moment that Jesus and his followers did. The crowds were growing larger, and it became all but impossible to get close to him. In one town, the throng of people was so thick a group of men carried their paralyzed friend to the roof of the house where Jesus was teaching and lowered him through the tiles. Not much later, Krampus laughed to see the crippled man dance through the crowd, the name of God on his lips and his frail, twisted legs healthy and strong.

  Agios would have done the same, would have slung Krampus over his back and dropped him through the roof if it meant that Jesus might whisper healing over his broken body, but the crowd erupted before he had the chance. Some followed the healed paralytic, joining in his dance of worship. Others whispered that the Rabbi’s offering forgiveness for sins was blasphemy from the lips of a mere man, a man who claimed he was God. A group of scribes and Pharisees pushed through the masses, and by the set of their bleak faces Agios knew that Jesus had made as many enemies as friends.

  Wherever Jesus went, controversy followed.

  “He’s a revolutionary,” Agios told Krampus later that night. “He’s going to change things. I just don’t know how.”

  “Jesus, you mean,” Krampus said softly, the word a blessing, an incantation. “Jesus.”

  Agios knew Krampus was slipping a little every day, failing slowly. He would die soon. Agios was sure of it. And although he knew that death was the end of everyone’s journey, that it was a fate none could escape, he couldn’t stand the thought of it happening now. Not yet. Not when Jesus might heal him.

  The peace that Agios had spent so much of his life pursuing, the forgiveness, and the blessed assurance that all was well and would be well, shimmered on the horizon. He could see it glowing there, beckoning him.

  If only Jesus could heal Krampus’s body and Agios’s spirit. If only they could be with him. If only.

  Agios took to praying during the nights when he couldn’t sleep and Krampus breathed slow and shallow. He didn’t really know how to pray, but Jesus had taught his followers and they passed the words as carefully as the most fragile of treasures. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name . . .”

  Often Agios kept going, talking to God as if he were a friend in the room instead of an unknown entity that he couldn’t see or touch or hear. It was comforting, even though he still knew little about the Hebrew God and was probably going about it all wrong. He knew priests had lists of rules and regulations, things he should and shouldn’t do. Still, he knew what he wanted, and as the months passed and the two old men continued their pilgrimage, Agios found himself repeating the very same imperative night after night. It was his creed, his most heartfelt supplication—a longing that began to equal even his desire for healing: Let me serve him.

  Agios wasn’t entirely sure how he would serve Jesus, but was confident that if he could find a way to approach Jesus without putting him in danger, if he finally had the chance to see Jesus face-to-face, everything would become clear.

  On a morning during the Hebrew Passover season, Agios and Krampus again approached the gates of Jerusalem. The dawn was cool, the air damp and gray. Normally, the unlikely pair would be following in the footsteps of Jesus, strangers in towns they would never again visit. However, Agios knew that Jesus would be in Jerusalem for Passover, and they had made their way toward the city with all the speed that Agios could muster and Krampus could stand. Still, they were late.

  Now ahead of them, against the gradually lightening eastern sky, the crenellated walls of Jerusalem stood black, the orange-red glow of torches marking the Zion Gate. Agios led the mule by its halter, and for the last two hours it had plodded along quietly. On its back Krampus slumped, breathing heavily, asleep in the saddle. He had at least learned enough balance not to fall.

  Something in the air seemed expectant, reminding Agios of the prophecy in the star, the brilliant light that had led them to Bethlehem all those years ago—but instead of radiance and glory, the warm luster of hope, he felt somehow the earth growi
ng solemn, darker. The sun should have been up by now, not lost in mists. It felt to Agios like the world was dragging its feet, loath to begin a day that buzzed heavy with malevolence.

  Jesus. It had to be. Who else could cause the heavens themselves to slow? Agios had heard rumors of a storm on the Sea of Galilee, of the way Jesus stilled the tempest, of how he could command even the wind and the waves. What was happening now?

  On the road just ahead of them walked two dozen or more travelers, probably Jewish pilgrims journeying to Jerusalem for Passover. Agios hurried the mule along until he joined a few stragglers near the rear of the group. Up toward the gate one of the older men spoke with the guards, who said something and then sent them through and into the city.

  Whispers ran back through the crowd, and they reached Agios’s ears: “Trouble in Jerusalem. The Sanhedrin have tried a Jewish man for blasphemy, for threatening to destroy the Temple. They say they’ll execute him.”

  Agios felt his heart go cold. Blasphemy. How often had he heard that word associated with Jesus? He swallowed against the tightness in his throat and gripped the mule’s reins tighter.

  One of the two elders walking near Agios said firmly, “The Sanhedrin don’t have the power of life and death—the Romans won’t allow that. The Romans themselves will have to confirm any judgment of a Jewish court. This man will have to appear before Pilate for judgment.”

  Agios pushed forward, his skin prickling in apprehension, and grabbed the speaker’s sleeve. The man—his clothing and his long gray beard showed him to be a rabbi—looked at him in surprise. “Where will he be?” Agios asked. “This man you speak of, who has been accused of rebellion. Where will Pilate try him?”