I scooped up the coins. Mind you, I knew the sum and I knew it could be means to restore my previous status and independence. I could go to Beth Shan or Tiberius and start a new life. These thoughts coursed through my mind. My heart raced. Somewhere out there I could find my way again, search for my mother. I looked up and down an empty road. I could keep on walking and take this small fortune with me.
I turned back.
Once in the steward’s closet, I put the coins, all of them, in a clay pot and waited. Moments later, Jeptha raced in, face stricken. I could smell his panic. Before he could speak, I handed him the pot and left him chanting prayers of thanksgiving.
I had changed.
***
An outsider came into the community from time to time. He blew in like a great gust of desert wind. His name was also John, but no one ever confused him with the son of Zebedee. They said he’d come to the community as a boy after his parents died and left him orphaned. This John was unlike anyone I ever met. He’d spent years in Masad Hasidim but never joined the community, which, oddly, held him in great respect. They believed him a true prophet in the line of Samuel, Nathan, or Isaiah. When not at Masad Hasidim, he wandered alone in the wilderness, foraging for food in the honey hives and the locusts. He wore a tunic fashioned from coarse camel’s hair, and the rest of his attire looked as if he had assembled it from the pickings off a trash pile. His disheveled appearance accentuated his habit of talking to himself, sometimes in the middle of the night, wild-eyed and agitated. Some declared him mad, while others believed a touch of madness marked a true prophet. I knew something about madness and madness was not in him.
He singled me out from the others. I do not know why. We would meet under the cyclamen tree that grew a few paces from the rear door of the dining room. We sat under that solitary tree and he spoke of times to come. His words evoked vivid images, as if he were revealing a vision from memory—images of beasts and a sacrificial lamb, but not one from temple, a lamb from the Lord.
“You mean like the one he gave Abraham to replace Isaac?” I said, and he looked startled and then nodded.
“Yes, yes…that is the very thing.”
This John talked as if the Messiah could come within the year—a wonderful and awful thought. It held no interest to the rest of the community. They lived with the conviction the next chapter of the book would not be written in the High Places of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, nor acted out in the holy city of David, but in a new place, in a new temple with a new people, a people drawn from the old but made new. This group of steely-eyed men believed they were the remnant God would use to build his new people. I had my doubts. I was not one who willingly deferred that day. I wanted no, craved, John’s imminent Messiah, our David in waiting.
***
As my final year wound to a close, I took stock of my life. I was as much a Jew as I would ever be. The time had come for me to commit or move on. Where I would go and what I would do, I did not know.
About that time, John left. His agitated state had increased in his last days with us, and finally he decided the Lord had called him out. He said he needed to go to the Jordan, somewhere near the spot it meets the road to Jerusalem, to prepare the way for the “Coming One.”
“It is time,” he’d said. “It will happen soon. Judas, you should come with me.”
I ached for him to be right in that. I wanted to be with him to meet the Messiah, this new David. If it turned out not to be so, I could always find another way to settle old scores, only this time outfitted in the armor of God. Either way, I believed my days at Masad Hasidim were done.
And this shall be the Rule for the men of the Community who have freely pledged themselves, to be converted from all evil and cling to all of His Commandments…
The Fifth rule of the community, read to me until engraved in my memory—the next step if I remained.
I left to follow John.
Chapter Twenty-three
Masad Hasidim is a day’s journey from the bend in the road where John set up camp. He’d selected a spot where the Jordan River sweeps away from the road a few hundred paces and then curves back, creating a large, shady semicircle, a place favored by travelers to stop and rest beneath sycamore trees, a place to spend the night in the safety of others. The river widens and shallows out so that you can practically wade across to the other side if you wish.
I heard him long before I saw him standing in the middle of the river, bellowing scraps of Isaiah and shaking his fist at a dozen travelers who stood wide-eyed, listening to this doomsday prophet of the Jordan.
“Do not remember former things or dwell on the past. For behold. I do a new thing. It springs forth, you see? I will make a straight way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”
John’s tone had become urgent. In Qumran he described the Messiah’s arrival as something that might happen in the near future. At the Jordan, he spoke as if it could be at any moment. His gaze shifted from his audience to the road, looking north and south, as if he expected to see the Messiah marching toward him that very moment. He preached to anyone who would listen.
Preach is probably not the right word. He exhorted, he scolded, he pleaded, and he accused his listeners of every spiritual failure and breach of the Law imaginable, always at the top of his voice, strident, reckless, and intemperate. Once, someone shouted, “How can you say we will all be destroyed? Are we not the sons of Abraham? Are we not the chosen ones of the Covenant?”
“You believe your father’s faith or that of your father’s father will spare you from the final judgment? I tell you this, if God wanted, he could raise up a whole new generation from the stones you stand on.”
People called him the Baptizer. He invited penitents, those who would put up with his sermonizing, to enter the river for baptism , the ritual bath common to these people and especially to the Essenes, who believe washing confirms a person’s rejection of sin. Many came. They stripped, stepped into the Jordan, and performed the ritual. Others went directly to John, who lowered them into the water and held them under. They came up sputtering and thrashing and, usually, unhappy. But he said, “Baptism…to drown a little, to die to the old life and be reborn in the new.” Some days there would be singing and the washing went on for hours. Other days, the crowds seemed indifferent, even hostile.
John preached on.
***
Days became weeks and John continued to castigate the crowds to return to the Way. Only by being honest with their neighbors and with themselves, he declared, could they be saved. He even lectured the few soldiers sent by the prefect to see to it the “Hebrew holy man” caused no trouble. Some laughed, but one or two looked uncomfortable.
“And what shall we do?” one asked.
“Do not extort money, do not accuse falsely, and be content with your pay,” John replied.
What a wonderful turn of events, I thought, if John were to convert Roman legionnaires to the God of Abraham. Perhaps they were the stones that the Lord could raise up as the newly covenanted people. But on reflection, I realized it would be easier to change real stones than change the flinty hearts of these implacably brutal men. But should it ever happen, I wanted to be the mohel handling the bris knife that day.
I assumed my nemesis still sought me. More than once, I felt the need to retire to the hills. Men who might have been Leonides’ agents sometimes wandered into the area asking questions. I never knew.
***
I do not recall how long we had been at the river before I noticed a shift in John’s rhetoric. The change was dramatic. He quoted almost continuously from the scroll of Isaiah with a note of desperation in his voice.
Pharisees listened to the man they all acknowledged, however reluctantly, to be a true prophet. Judging by the fear reflected in their faces, and their comments, they faced a dilemma. What if John spoke the truth about the Messiah’s coming? Was this just another in a long string of dashed hopes, of Messianic claimants turned failed generals, or
did he speak the truth? And if so, who was this new claimant?
“Are you the one?” they asked. I could not tell if they were hopeful or fearful of the answer he would give.
“No,” he said, “not I. The one you seek is far greater than I can ever be. I am not even worthy to lace up his sandals.”
“Who then?” they asked. John only shook his head.
Later, I asked if he knew the “Coming One.” He stared off into the wilderness and waved his hand back and forth. I could not tell if that meant he did not know or he knew, but would not say.
“Judas, look after your soul. Inspect the things in your heart that do not please God. Purge them, get rid of them. Then you will be ready for the Messiah.”
Purge my heart and soul? Of what, I wanted to know. I had become a believing and practicing Jew. I kept the Law. I prayed and purified myself often, as I had been taught. I studied the scrolls. What to purge? He looked at me, reading my thoughts.
“You will be with the Messiah and it will be important for you to be cleansed of your anger and your hatred.”
“Is that possible? Every person in this land has been badly used by these Roman adventurers. How am I, how are they, how are any of us, to purge that?”
“If we want justice and peace, if we want God’s blessing to fall on us, we must. Believe me when I tell you this: it is not Rome who destroys us. We destroy ourselves. We can only defeat them by changing our way of thinking, by returning to the way of the Lord. You and I, all the people of this land, must get straight with the Lord. He will deliver us where we cannot.”
“But are we not seeking a new David who will raise a mighty army and drive the Romans from our land, or a Moses who will lead us out of this bondage and into another time of peace and harmony? Is that not what we have been promised?”
Without realizing it, I had raised my voice and the men nearby stared at me.
“You are the prophet. You said you are the one of which Isaiah spoke, to call the people to prepare the way. You must know.”
I pleaded with him. I had to know. I sacrificed so much, been denied so much. There had to be an end. I could not let it go. The anger and need for revenge had kept me alive for nearly two decades. Repent of it? Purge it? Never.
“But you must,” he said softly.
Chapter Twenty-four
At that time, I was closest to Andrew, a young fisherman from Capernaum. Sometimes his brother, Simon, joined us but he rarely stayed for more than a few days. As the eldest, running the family business fell to him, and he had a wife and responsibilities in Capernaum as well. The two of them were a study in contrasts. Where Andrew was short, lean, and cheerful, his brother was tall, broad, and brooding. I believed if he wanted to, he could lift one of his boats by himself. Andrew smiled; Simon scowled.
Also among our number were Nathaniel, the son of Tolomai; Philip; and the other John, the son of Zebedee. I thought I had seen his back when I left Masad Hasidim, but there he was, and as it turned out, we would be together for another three years. He behaved cordially enough, but I sensed his lingering doubts. Thomas drifted in later.
“Judas,” they said to me, “what will you do when the Messiah comes?”
“Drive the Romans into the sea,” I said and we all laughed.
All of us thought that then. We would change our thinking later, but then, the idea that the Messiah would be anything but a man at the head of a conquering army seemed inconceivable. Rome appeared invincible, yet we were persuaded that somehow this Messiah would be the instrument of its destruction. And so, we waited.
A month passed and another, still no sign. People started coming to the river specifically to see and hear John. His reputation had reached the cities and towns, and people flocked to the river.
“You brood of vipers,” he roared and pointed at this person or that. “Who warned you to run from the wrath to come? Do you think you can escape it? Bear fruit that is in keeping with a repentant heart.”
Once, a tax collector came to the river. He stood apart from the rest. No one would have anything to do with him. “And I,” he shouted, “What must I do?”
The crowd grumbled and jeered at him. “Give us our money back,” and “Go hang yourself, tax farmer.”
“Collect only what you must and be merciful,” said John.
Then turning to the crowd, he added, “And you, how is it you are so quick to condemn. Some of your brothers are being crushed by the taxes the temple and the empire impose on them. How many of you have offered them money so that they would not lose their land? Each time you look only to yourself instead of your brother, you are doubly disobedient and put more distance between yourself and the Lord.”
About that time many who were with us from the beginning disappeared. I supposed they feared what might happen to them if John did not rein in his rhetoric. By the fourth month, the tension became unbearable. I do not know if John’s tone put us on edge, or if something larger and less obvious caused it. The sort of people who came to the river changed. The cadre of curiosity seekers remained, but their numbers dwindled. Now we saw people committed to John’s message. The Messiah would come they said, sometimes hopefully, sometimes with conviction, and they wanted to be ready.
The air, heavy and expectant, did not stir. Something was going to happen and soon.
***
The day started out hot and sultry, nothing stirred. Birds did not sing, even the insects moved as if trapped in tree sap. The weather in the valley is usually hot and dry, so much so that it is unwise to stray too far from water. But that day the air steamed like a Roman bath. People shed cloaks and knotted or pulled the hems of their tunics up and tucked them into their belts. Some fashioned fans from palm fronds. The hills offered no breeze, no relief. The Baptizer sat in the shade beside the riverbank, his energy spent.
It reminded me of summer days by the Great Sea. Everything would be still and oppressive. Then, about the tenth hour, when the sun began its descent, clouds would pile into dark gray mountains in the south and, in what seemed like the time it takes to catch your breath, lightning cracked the sky and a storm raced in from the sea. The wind brought cooler, salty air to the shore in great gusts. Boats whose owners missed the warnings were tossed about like children’s toys. Then, as quickly as it began, the storm blew by, leaving cool air and relief.
That’s how it felt at the river that day. About the sixth hour, groups of pilgrims, like clouds, massed around the Baptizer. Things seemed fuzzy and confusing, out of focus, like looking through a bit of the glass Romans fancy.
Then, as if by magic, a tall man appeared in the crowd’s midst. I had been watching the road. Somehow he slipped my notice. He stood at least a head taller than everyone, even the Baptizer, who was tall enough himself and as easy to spot as a tree in a field.
John went to him, said something, and the man replied. John shook his head and looked puzzled. Finally, he shrugged and they went to the deep spot in the river and John baptized him. He stayed under a long time. Unlike nearly everyone before him, when he emerged, he did not splash and sputter. He rose up out of the water like a fast growing tree. I cannot describe the look on his face. At once an expression of complete peace and at the same time, for a brief moment, his eyes flashed like lightning.
And then it happened. I heard it in my ear or perhaps only in my mind. I glanced at the others. Some seemed to hear it, too, some not. It sounded like rushing wind or the roar of the sea…no, thunder. But all in my head. I heard: “This is the anointed one, the son I love, and he is the one that pleases me.” At that same moment, a bird, a dove, I think, landed on his shoulder and then vanished.
A gentle breeze blew away the last of the heat and made the air fresher and cooler. I looked at John hoping to make some sense of what had happened. He stood unmoving in the water, expressionless.
***
We ate our stew in silence. I could tell Andrew was about to burst, but we waited, each of us eager. John would tell us what we nee
ded to know in his own time.
“Teacher—” Andrew began. He could not wait.
John held up his hand, palm out. He shook his head like an ox plagued by summer flies and said, “Perhaps we will talk tomorrow, but tonight I must listen to the Lord.”
He left the circle of firelight and disappeared into the night. We would hear nothing more from him. Andrew looked at each of us in turn, eyes bright with excitement.
“What do you think? The man at the river this afternoon, was he the Messiah?”
“We don’t know who he is, much less who he might be,” Thomas said. “There must be more to it than that.”
I wanted to tell them what I had heard. Perhaps I imagined it. I decided to wait. The next day would be soon enough. The fire collapsed into coals. Sleep. We needed sleep. It came immediately, like an order from God.
Chapter Twenty-five
The next morning our numbers were reduced. A small crowd gathered by the river but the Baptizer sat apart, silent. He gazed into the distance, waiting for some one or some thing.
When we were alone, I said, “Teacher, I thought I heard a voice yesterday.”
He looked at me, startled. “You heard? What did you hear?”
“A voice that said, ‘This is my son, the one I love, in him I am pleased’…something like that. And there was a dove.”
“Well, that is all there is to know.”
“But what does it mean?”
He half turned. “It means that you must go with him, that’s all.”
“Him? Who?”
“My kinsman, Jesus of Nazareth.”
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