He spoke slowly, almost as if to himself. “The Son of Man dies for you. So be not afraid when they seek to kill him. Fear them not, for though they may be able to destroy the body, they have no more power ever after over you. Rejoice in the constant presence of the Father, who has the power to deliver you from all judgment. The sparrows cost but a few pennies, yet the Lord, who is the source of all life, marks the flight of the smallest bird. How can you fear trifles when the very hairs of your head are numbered? God watches over you, for you are of more account to him than the sparrows.
“I came into this life to reveal the Father and to lead you to him. The first I have done of my own, but the last I cannot do without your assent. The Father compels no man to enter his kingdom. But why should Jew or Gentile hesitate to accept the glad tidings that he is eternally a son of the eternal God? Tarry not in the valley of decision, but come and partake of the water of life.”
These Samaritans, as though transformed, came forward and kneeled before the Lord. And, kneeling, they were baptized by the disciples, for Jesus did not baptize, saying again that he would not take from the Baptist this distinction of being the greatest dwelling on earth to prepare the way.
“I dwell in the Father, and he dwells in me. And he who dwells in me, also dwells with the Father.”
The Samaritans marveled at the intimate way he spoke of God.
“How can we best please the Lord God?” asked the giant Amos.
“By conducting yourself in such a way that you will become a worthy companion to him in heaven.”
The Samaritans were much taken with this answer. “Please tarry with us,” they said, “for we know that you are no ordinary man, but indeed the Christ who will save the whole world. Why else would you, a Judean, trouble with Samaritans?”
We remained for two days, the Master telling his parables to ever increasing multitudes, while I, with Simon Zelotes, sought out the temper of the people. Amos, though simple, like our Peter, seemed to reflect the mood of his people. “Our fathers fought for and against the Romans, serving as mercenaries, and then again as patriots for Palestine. But with a leader like Jesus we could muster an army of brave men to do battle for the one God against the pagan Pilate.”
“Would you not be afraid,” I asked, “to repeat the fate of Judah of Galilee?”
“It would not be the same,” he said confidently, “for that Galilean was a false prophet. Neither did he come out of Bethlehem Ephratah, nor was he of a virgin born.”
I was understandably puzzled. “Whence came your information?”
He pointed to Simon-bar-Jonah. “The big fisherman told me.”
“He told you correct.” For once I agreed with the bumpkin.
Jesus never stayed long in any one place, fearful that the soldiers might seize him before he was ready, as he said, to go of his own accord.
I protested his easy assumption of his own early death. “Who will lead if you go?”
He smiled sadly. “You will know about my going before any of the others, Judah. Think well of what I say this day, but remember that no man taketh my life. I die to fulfill the ancient prophecy and show the world that life is everlasting.”
If all was ordained, why then did we so frantically plot and strive? “If we are merely instruments of the Lord, what matter who we are or what our ambitions?”
He smiled. “Without who and what we are, God’s will would not be done.”
“But who would be served, Master, by your death?”
“Humanity.”
It was all very baffling.
“But you have cured many minds and bodies, and given a life of hope to many more. How better can you serve your people than by giving them the freedom you speak of?”
“This freedom, Judah, is of the soul, which is everlasting, and belongs to all. When only one nation is free, then others are less than free.”
“But it is with Israel God made his covenant, and his promise of the Messiah.”
“God makes his will known to his prophets at different times in different ways. There is nothing unalterable in God’s world, save for God.”
“What then happens to the human will, Master? Is it like a puppet, pulled by strings it does not see?”
The Master’s smile widened. “By the decisions in this lifetime, Judah, by the lessons we learn, even tardily, we establish our place in the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“And why is this of greater moment than our life on this earth?”
Matthew, Peter, and John had walked into the camp and squatted down about the fire, rubbing their hands together. I felt a twinge that our moment of intimacy was so rudely ended.
“It is well that you are all here,” the Master said, “for I had thought to speak to you all on this subject, which is that what we do lives after us, and returns with us.”
Matthew looked up inquiringly. “You speak then. Master, of being reborn. But in all of Israel none but the Pharisees believe in the angels of God and the rebirth of man. With the Sadducees the current experience is all, and yet they manage the Temple and worship of the Lord God.”
“The Sadducees are completely Hellenized,” I put in, “and more like Stoics and Cynics than the Hellenized Romans. As for the Pharisees, they are so lost in ritual that they cast God in their own crabbed image.”
“Well said, Judah,” observed the Master, as my heart sang with his praise. “But there are others in Israel besides the Sadducees and Pharisees. The Amharetzin, in their simplicity, are open to God’s teachings, and the Essenes teach that life is not of this world alone. They believe with John the Baptist in the resurrection. None knows better than the Baptist that by the choices in this lifetime, by one’s virtue or lack of it, one establishes the conditions of this rebirth. But one must still die to be reborn.” His eyes became soft and reflective. “And this, too, the Baptist knows and must deal with.”
His eyes held a haunted look I had not seen in them before. I sensed John’s quick concern, but the Master’s mood swiftly passed. And it was not until morning when the news came of the Baptist’s execution that we had reason to recall his prophetic words.
One of the seventy disciples brought the word from Perea, where the Baptist had been imprisoned in the Machaerus dungeon. Herod’s wife had demanded his execution as a price for her continuing affections, but not till the Baptist’s followers stopped paying their taxes was his doom sealed. Herod was too much the fox to indulge the whim of Herodias or her nubile infant, Salome, unless it served some larger purpose.
When told how the Baptist’s head was brought out on a silver platter by the dancing Salome, the Master groaned and motioned for the disciple to end his recital, saying: “He was a burning and a shining light, and the people were willing to rejoice in his light. For of men born of woman there was no greater prophet than John.”
As much as he grieved for the Baptist, he stressed that the message was of more import than the messenger. “I have a greater witness than the forerunner, for the works which the Father has given me to finish bear witness who sent me.”
Few of us doubted his powers, only his mission. In a world of so many inequities, who knew which injustice had a priority? Simon Zelotes and I saw clearly that with his charisma he could quickly muster legions enough to push Rome into the sea. Andrew, Peter, and James saw him as the true High Priest of Israel, superseding Annas and the rest. And the others, these simple, superstitious peasants of Galilee, were impressed mainly that he healed the sick and gave to the indigent.
Only Matthew and John seemed to seek the meaning of his heavenly salvation, but their concern seemed that of chroniclers, wishing to clarify and pass on what they witnessed.
“The Sadducees,” said Matthew, “say the soul perishes with the body. There is no beyond, no place or rest or torment, no judgment, no separation of good from bad. No retribution in life or death.”
“They believe in tithes, taxes, and money changers,” he replied with scorn. “Why would you heed them?”
/> Matthew’s brow puckered. “But the Pharisees believe in this afterlife you speak of, where there will be rewards and punishments as one behaves in this life. The virtuous will return, and the wicked be confined to prison. The Essenes hold that virtue shall survive after death in a model land beyond the sea.”
“It is not as they say, but as God wills,” said the Master. “With repentance there are no sinners, and the Kingdom of Heaven is for all who would be reborn without sin.”
Saint or sinner, what mattered heaven, without recognition of the more immediate problems on earth?
Like me, Simon the Zealot was anxious that Jesus declare the extent of his leadership. Was he not the bridegroom rather than a mere guest, and the wedding long overdue?
“You speak of being a light unto the Gentiles, yet the Rabbi Eleazar, the great scholar, invokes the words of the Lord: ‘Since you have recognized me as the sole God, I have recognized you as the only people.’”
Jesus smiled. “That is how it was until the present time. But with the advent of the Son, God through his Chosen People brings his light to all nations.”
I could see my own impatience in Simon. “How can there be light without freedom?”
“The truth shall make you free, Simon.”
“‘We be of Abraham’s seed, and were never in bondage to any man,’ say the Pharisees. How say you, you shall be free?”
The Master smiled sadly. “Stay and see, Simon, stay and see. For you shall become free in a way you do not expect.”
Not unlike ordinary mortals, his moods varied for no discernible reason. When we came to Caesarea, the capital for the Romans, he seemed more expansive than usual. We spread our robes on the sands for a midday meal overlooking the blue Mediterranean. The Master partook sparingly of a handful of grapes, some sour milk, and a flat cake of barley. I offered him a good wine from the vineyards of Galilee, but he shook his head with a smile. “I drink no wine, Judah, until the last time we sup together.”
Shading his eyes, he looked off at the gleaming gold-domed palace built in the Greek style by Herod, and said in a reflective tone: “There dwells the Procurator Pontius Pilate with his wife, the fair Claudia Procula, little knowing in his overwhelming ambition that his fame shall rest through eternity on his meeting with the Son of Man.”
“Would you then lead the Judeans against Rome?” I asked with quickened breath.
He gave me a pitying smile. “Judah, Judah.”
“But you have said that you have come not to bring peace but to unsheath a sword.”
“Ask better, Judah, whose sword it shall be. I am not of the Maccabeans, but of one whose work serves all mankind. You should all know by now who I am and who sent me, just as the lady at the well knew from our brief meeting. Is not that appointment in Samaria of more moment than all the things you have witnessed?” There was almost a railing note in his voice. “Or does one have to be a Samaritan to believe in the Son and the Father?”
He beckoned to John, who sat facing him, as was his wont, and to bar-Jonah, who seemed only dimly aware of the course of the conversation.
“Tell me, dear John, who do men say I am?”
John’s gray eyes glowed with pleasure at being the first to be asked. He, of course, had heard all the stories spreading about the land, and with them the prophecy of Malachi. Had not Malachi said: “Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord. And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse.”
John stood up in his enthusiasm. “Some declare, dear Lord, that you are Elijah, the prophet of good tidings, and others, Jeremiah, come again to smite your people with the truth, or one of the other prophets, such as Isaiah or Ezekiel, whom you constantly read from.” His rosy countenance clouded for a moment. “Some even say that you are John the Baptist. But how could that be, since you were baptized by him but a short time ago, and he has only recently died. Is it possible. Master, for his spirit to have merged with yours?”
The Master shook his head. “No, dear John, the spirit in man is but one, though joined with God it forms the soul eternal.”
Nathaniel, who prided himself on being a student of the law, reacted with more than usual vigor. “Why then have the Scribes, as well as the Prophets, said that Elijah, who is long dead, must first come before the Messiah?”
The Master’s eyes passed from Matthew to me, as though we shared this little tidbit he was about to deliver. “That is well said, Nathaniel, for in truth it was necessary for Elijah to make the way ready, which he did. But the authorities knew him not, and so they did what they would with him.”
Nathaniel’s normal placidity failed him. “Do you suggest, sir, that John the Baptist was indeed Elijah, and that none recognized him?”
“Those who were ready knew him.”
“But he came and left without accomplishing that promised of Elijah.”
“He served his Father well, then went to his heavenly reward, just as the Son of Man shall suffer of the Philistines.”
That by the Philistines the Master meant the unbelievers was apparent even to Philip and Nathaniel, who were indeed birds of a feather. Had not Nathaniel said on first hearing of Jesus: “What good can come out of Nazareth?”
The disciples had formed a close circle about the Master in their anxiety to resolve the identity of the leader they followed with secret qualms. Slowly his eyes traveled till they fell on the ruddy face of Simon the fisherman.
“And who say you that I am?”
Simon-bar-Jonah’s eyes fell under the sardonic glance. He wet his lips nervously, then, lifting his eyes to heaven, said, as if coming to an inspired decision:
“You are none of these, Lord. For you are the Anointed, the Promised One of Israel, the Son of the Living God.”
Jesus stepped forward and rested his hands on Peter’s broad shoulders in a rare demonstration of affection for any but John.
“You are blessed, Simon-bar-Jonah, for this was revealed to you not by flesh and blood but through the divine inspiration of my Father in heaven.”
I saw nothing earth-shattering in the fisherman’s remark. It was only what the Master had claimed on countless occasions. Yet Jesus took this opportunity, on the basis of Simon’s apparent revelation, to raise him formally now to the front rank of his followers.
Until now, though he had called him the Rock, there was no distinction among the Apostles. As his deputies we were all equal unto each other and before the public.
But with his hands still on Simon’s shoulders, Jesus conferred the prized accolade: “On this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it, for I give you the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, and whatsoever you do on earth shall be done as in heaven.”
And so there it was, finally. First he had called him Peter the Rock, then he had sat him next to his heart, and now he made it clear what he had intended all along, using the flimsiest of reasons for doing so. But in truth it was only an empty honor, for other than adding to his sense of importance it served no purpose. Andrew still was his secretary, I his treasurer, and John his favorite. And so why had he done it? Perhaps Matthew, with his chronicler’s eye, saw it more clearly than any of us.
“Peter,” he said, “with all his human frailties, his hopes and aspirations, his good intentions gone sour, his doubts and fears, will in the end know best how to bring his message to the people. For there is a bit of everyman in him.”
And so it might well be, but the subject of reincarnation plagued me more than Simon Peter. For if one lived on and on, constantly coming back to complete the unfinished task, striving, as the Master said, to reach perfection in God’s image, then indeed it might be a prudent man who would mark his time against Romans, in this lifetime if not the next. But what proof was there? It was not enough to say “Have faith,” for faith needed some small kernel of reality on which to gr
ow. All the talk among the Pharisees and the Essenes of the afterlife was just talk so far as I could see. Jesus, too, spoke of the Kingdom of Heaven, and of rebirth, man’s needing to die to be reborn, but again they were words.
Jesus was not entirely friendless in high places, nor among the Pharisees. For many of the Pharisees, particularly the rich and the elderly, were intrigued by the prospect of not only living on in this Kingdom of Heaven but also descending again onto earth. Therefore, I was not surprised that some communicated with him secretly, not wishing their sympathies to be known, while others watched patiently to see which way the wind blew.
To Nicodemus, one of the Pharisees intrigued by his teaching, Jesus made clear his belief in reincarnation. Nicodemus, a guiding light of the Great Sanhedrin, stole into our camp one night as I was making an accounting to the Master. He had been fretting over Jesus’ references to man reborn. He looked at me askance, but the Master quickly reassured him that he could speak plainly. The least of my disciples is as great as I.”
Nicodemus seemed embarrassed that a son of his old friend Simon should witness his appeals to a dedicated foe of the Pharisees. But he soon overcame his nervousness. “We know that you are from God,” he said, “for no man can perform your miracles except that God be with him.”
Jesus knew what this visit must have cost the Pharisee.
“You speak well, Nicodemus. But I tell you, unless a man be born again he cannot see the Kingdom of God.”
Nicodemus’ reaction was the normal one. “How can a man be born when he is old? Does he enter a second time into his mother’s womb?”
“Except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter into God’s kingdom. For that born of the flesh is flesh, and that born of the spirit is spirit. Only the spirit, Nicodemus, is born again, for the body is but the temple of the spirit”
Nicodemus’ long face was still troubled.
“Does man return to his former estate?” he asked.
“Only if he is deserving before God, and then his estate is bound only by the sky.”
Nicodemus hesitated, for he did not want to be thought greedy.
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