I said: "You compare me to Beelzebub. But if I am a demon who is able to destroy other demons, am I not also destroying myself? When Satan can cast out Satan, he has become a house divided. Do we not know that a kingdom divided against itself cannot stand?"
These scribes went away, their faces stern. Severity can also be the expression of those who have no reply.
It was a day of many ills. Two messengers came to this same house from John the Baptist. He had spoken to them while in the prison at Machaerus. Now they were furnished with questions to ask. "Are you the one who is to come?" was John's question. "Or am I to look for another?"
My disciples were distrustful of Johns disciples. They said: "The Baptist is jealous of you."
I would not believe that. If John no longer said that I was the one to follow him, it was because he had heard I was consorting with sinners. In how much distrust must John now live! The walls of a dungeon weigh upon thought; they bend certainty. John might no longer know me. Could he understand that my power to work miracles was a sign that the Lord was not displeased that I sat at table with sinners? Could John not see that I was still his messenger? I said to the two people who had come from John: "The lame walk. Lepers are cleansed. Demons are driven out. Those with palsy no longer tremble. Blessed is any man who shall not be offended in me." And I sent these two messengers away. But among my own people, I defended John: "Among those who are born of women," I told them, "there has not risen a greater man than John the Baptist." Now, my disciples did not understand. They could only hear my words as a diminishment of myself.
Not even with all they had seen were my disciples certain who I might be.
To this same house now came my mother with my brothers, James and John. Standing outside, they called for me. But a multitude was all about and I did not hear them. Then one man cried: "Behold, your mother and your brothers look for you." I still did not reply. I had heard that my mother was arguing with my followers. She had said that I was wrong to perform cures on the Sabbath and so must be full of devils. My brothers said worse. They said that I was not of a proper mind. They had come to take me home. Indeed, I had always known that my brothers were jealous of me. So when the man cried out again, "Behold, your mother and your brothers look for you," I answered, "Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?" And I stared at all in the room as if I had need of every man and woman there. I said, "These are my brothers! Those who are with me. For he who does the will of God is my brother and my mother."
Later, I would hear that my mother wept when my words were repeated to her. How I wished to gather those words back. I owed much to her, even if our ways together had never been smooth. She had lived in so much fear. When I was young, she had made me afraid of Romans, too afraid. And she was lacking in pride when she spoke to wealthy Jews; she felt they were more important than herself. All of this had served to feed my anger.
22
In the evening, being not without remorse at what I had said about my mother, I felt a need to go to the sea and said to my disciples, "Let us pass over to the other side."
Now, they had been feasting in every house that welcomed us. They had certainly noticed that the rich in these towns around Capernaum were often ready to receive us. So my disciples ate well and drank much and had few cares. But I needed peace.
In these weeks many sick people had been conducted to me, and many who were mad; also those with sore limbs. I had tried to heal them all. And when the Holy Spirit passed from my heart to my hand, one touch could make them well.
Yet at such times I would recall the leap I had not taken on the invitation of the Devil. Now, even as the grace of healing passed from my hand into the body of whoever was before me, I could still feel the mark of cowardice on my own flesh. For it is cowardly to fear death as I had feared it. Now I would make amends by recalling my shame. That was just. I would not be proud of my good deeds. I would brood upon my hour with the Devil. Had I given some of my fealty to him?
Such sentiments would return whenever I found people whom I could not cure. I saw darkness in their eyes, and that could make them seem like angels of Satan. I knew I had need again of the sea, or of a lake as large as the Sea of Galilee, so that I could free my breath of thoughts as heavy as these.
I told my closest followers to send away our multitudes. By evening, when most were gone, we walked quickly to a ship; still there were some who followed and embarked after us in smaller ships. Whereupon a great wind swept across the water.
The waves beat upon our vessel. Some washed over the bow. If others were terrified, I knew nothing of their panic. I was sleeping peacefully. Such peace had been given to me by the rocking of the ship. Yet when my disciples awakened me, it was to say, "Many boats are about to founder. Master, do you care if we perish?"
So I said to the wind, "Be still." And soon there was calm. In truth, I do not know if I can say that this miracle was mine. Even on awakening I could sense that the end of the storm was near. Yet I was pleased to say: "Why are you all so fearful? Have you no faith?"
I could hear them, one to another, saying: "Who is this man? Even the seas obey him."
Now, the wharf where we landed was in the country of the Gadarenes near the shores of Decapolis, a pagan city in the land of the gentiles. I was not easy. This was neither our land nor friendly, and we had come to a beach beneath high cliffs containing many tombs.
From one of these tombs descended a giant, and he was carrying a torch. His spirit was so unclean that the fire of the torch blazed fiercely with the force of his breath. Quickly, he came toward me. No one of my followers, not even Peter, was ready to resist this man, for as all could see, he was a son of the Nephilim, the fallen ones. His ancestors had been angels who lusted after women and fathered children who grew into giants. These pagans, huge men, brought carnage and disorder to everyone.
Yet even as I said, "Peace," he stopped.
Having stopped, he said, "No man can bind me. No man can command me."
"Then of what are you afraid?"
"Of all things," he replied. "I live in the darkness of these tombs, and I weep. With sharp stones I cut my flesh. But of you I have heard. I worship you."
"What have you heard?" I asked.
"That your eyes have a great light," he said, "and your name is Jesus. Or so I have heard from those who dare to speak to me." And by the trembling of his lips I saw that he was ready to call upon his strength but only in the name of blind strength.
"Many speak in terror of who I am," he said. "I contain more devils than any other. I adjure thee: Torment me not, Jesus! I give warning."
I was not without fear; this man was as powerful as a large bull. Moreover, the fellow was filthy. His hair grew into his beard, and his locks were like the fardes of thick rope that hold a ship to its mooring.
He said: "I live in the tombs of those who are damned."
"What is your name?"
He answered: "My name is Legion. We are many, and the sum of this many are in me."
I knew he was filled with devilsùso many that they might be too much for me. Yet the hand of the Lord was on my back and urging me forward. "The unclean spirits who devoured King Herod are now in you," I said. "Flee from Legion. Flee." And I growled like a beast, which is what the Essenes do to enforce a commandment they receive from the Lord. And as I growled, so did a great herd of wild swine come rushing from the field beneath the tombs, and a turmoil of devils issued from the throat of Legion. How they screamed! I heard: "Let us in! Let us into the swine of Gadarene." A demon must inhabit a body. Whereupon I let them enter the herd, and they rushed with a great noise into these swine, who, upon receiving them, ran violently down a gorge into the sea. The number of these beasts was two thousand, and they all drowned, all the swine of Gadarene. Even these low animals could not bear such foul invaders.
Others soon came forward to look at a man who had been possessed by so many devils. But now they found Legion clothed and bathed and in good spirit. No matter.
The elders from the town of Gadarene were afraid. They entreated me to quit their shore.
Yet as I returned to my ship, Legion began to beg that I let him come with my people. I was tempted. He would make a mighty apostle. But their number was twelve, and I could not add another. Moreover, he was a pagan. Still I could take no pride in saying: "Go instead to your people and tell them what happened." In truth, I abhorred the man. The rush of those demons who came out of his throat had been unfathomable in its uproar. Who could vouch for the cause of such a misery?
After he left, Legion spoke well of me among the gentiles in the city of Decapolis, where he went to live. They marveled at his words of praise. In former days, he had never had a good word for any man.
23
On my return to Capernaum, one of the elders of the synagogue (his name was Jairus) stepped forward and knelt at my feet. Until now, not one of the Pharisees had offered more than a place to teach (and this grudgingly). Yet here was Jairus. He pleaded with me, saying, "My little daughter lies near death. I pray thee, come and heal her so that she may live."
By now I had learned how close was faith to the loss of faith. Both stole silently into the heart. So I understood: The rulers of the synagogue might disapprove of me, but that did not mean I had failed to enter their hearts. Much strengthened, then, by this meeting, I went with Jairus to his house, and a horde came with us. As we passed through the street, I knew that someone had done me an ill. All virtue had suddenly left me. I turned and said, "Who touched my clothes?"
A stranger said: "You see the multitude, yet you ask 'Who touched me?' " But then a woman cried out and fell down before us. "I have had an issue of blood for twelve years," she said, "and have spent all I own on physicians and have only grown worse. Hearing of you, I touched your garment. I thought: 'That shall make me whole.' And it did. I have stopped bleeding."
I could see by her eyes that she spoke the truth. So I was gentle. I told her, "Daughter, go in peace and you will be wholly healed by tomorrow." No sooner had she left, however, than a servant from the house of Jairus came to him and said, "Your daughter lives no longer."
Had the ailing woman taken the virtue I had been gathering to save the child?
But in that instant my Father was with me, and feeling His strength, I turned to this ruler of the synagogue and said, "Jairus, be not afraid. Only believe." I had to hope that the daughter was not dead but resting in that long shadow of sleep that is near to death. For then I might save her. I did not know if I had the power to bring back those who are truly dead.
I recited to myself the words of the prophet Isaiah: "Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust."
At the house of Jairus there was much disturbance. Many were weeping and wailing. I entered and said: "The girl is not dead but sleeps."
And I spoke in this manner to calm the air. The dead are best raised in silence; tumult can only drive them further away. So I asked the mourners to leave the house and went with Jairus and his wife to where their daughter was lying. I held her hand and recited words I remembered well from the scroll of the Second Kings, saying: " 'When Elisha was come into the house, behold, the child was dead, and he prayed unto the Lord. And he lay upon the child and put his mouth upon the child's mouth and his eyes upon the child's eyes and his hands over the boy's hands, and he stretched himself upon the child and the flesh of the child was now warm, and the child sneezed seven times and opened his eyes.'
"And this," I told the father and mother, "having been spoken, need not be done again." For I knew that if I lay upon the girl and she failed to stir, incalculable would be the harm. With the power of the Lord in my hand, I merely touched her and said, "Good daughter, unto thee I say arise." And straightaway she arose and walked. Her parents were astonished, but I told them to give her food, and give it with all the love that they possessed, and this I said because the child, half awake, seemed full of misery that she had returned to the living. Nor did I know whether she had actually died and come back. But I did understand that much unhappiness between husband and wife had laid a pall upon the girl. I could see that she lived in a house of many unclean feelings. No air was sweet in these rooms, and those stale miseries that feed upon themselves were with us. Before I left, I told Jairus and his wife to fast, to pray, and to leave a flower each morning in a small jar by the child's bed.
It had been simple when I told the girl to rise, but there was a weight on me. Much had been drained from my limbs by the woman who touched my garment, and more now by arousing this child who barely wished to live. Had I drawn too deeply upon the powers of the Lord? Would it have been wiser to save His efforts for other matters? I felt a desire to return to Nazareth, and knew I wanted to apologize to my mother for that hour when I had wounded her love.
So I went back to my own country, and my disciples followed, and in Nazareth I spent two days with Mary. Yet I do not know if I soothed her feelings, for how could she forgive me after I had said: "Who is my mother?"
24
On the Sabbath, I began to teach in the synagogue, but it was not long before I heard sounds of discontent. Soon people were saying, "What wisdom is this?" And when I told them of my works, of the leper and of the storm, I felt a loss of modesty (which loss was now like a foul spirit in me). Moreover, I was not believed. It was as if word had traveled everywhere but to Nazareth. I could hear them say, "Isn't this the carpenter, the son of Mary?" And I wondered if any blow to pride wounds more than the obligation to honor a man who has been no larger than oneself until this hour. I was pained that they would offer me no love. "A prophet is without honor in his own country and among his own kin and in his own house," I said. "Nor can a doctor cure anyone who knows him. Of course, a doctor is no better than his patient." And indeed in Nazareth I could do no mighty work.
Still, there came the next Sabbath, and again I awoke with the strength of my Father, and was able to cure a woman who had lived with an infirmity for eighteen years. Yet I was scolded before evening by another ruler of this small temple for healing on the Sabbath day. He was a rich man, much pleased with himself, and he said: "There are six days on which men are to work and in such days they can be healed, not on the Sabbath."
To which I answered, "You let your ox out of the stall on the Sabbath and lead him to water. Yet you do not allow this woman to be loosed from her bonds on the day we celebrate the works of the Lord."
But he was more than ready for debate. He replied: "Some of us do not loose our oxen on the Sabbath. Faith is a narrow road." This offended me. I should have said: "Hypocrite! You do lead your ox to water on the Sabbath. You do not want him to thirst and lose value." But I was prudent and said: "Narrow is the way that leads unto life, and the way to destruction is broad."
He nodded, as if he were the one who would now come closer to the sweetmeat of the question: "The broad highway of simple faith is without peril," he said, "on days that are fair. When it rains or it is night, such breadth in the road turns into a trackless mire. Seek ye, Yeshua, for the narrow path that mounts between the rocks. Do not look for cures on the Sabbath. That is the broad highway."
With this, he laid his hand on my shoulder as if he were fatherly and I was of lesser faith. In the touch of his fingers was all the confidence of a wealthy man. His hand said to my flesh: "Respect my words. Much position rests beneath."
He had shamed me. My powers left. Once again, and in my own synagogue, I was without strength.
25
As soon as I left Nazareth, however, some good spirits returned concerning all that we could do. Indeed the time had come to send messengers forth. Nor did I think it unlikely that they would be able to perform acts like mine. Word of my power to heal had spread among many, and so many might be ready to have faith in my apostles.
I told them to go on their journey with nothing but a staff; no bread, no money, only one coat. I said: "Wherever you enter into a house, abide there until you depart. Whoever does not receive you, leave him quickly. Shake the dust from
your feet. By so moving you will go your way with ease."
I also knew that I could give my disciples a part of what the Lord had bestowed on me only if I did not rest in my labors and never felt sorrow for myself: The destruction of each man is to be found in the pity he saves for himself. This was twice true for the Son of the Lord. So would it also be twice true for his closest followers.
I told them of other things. Indeed, there was much to learn. In a short time. So my speech was harsh. I was coming to understand that to repent of one's sins generates turmoil in a man; the soul races to and fro. That is the time when a gentle word may not be wise. If too distracted, we do not hear it.
I also told them not to worry if there were matters they did not understand. They still knew enough to teach others. "What you hear," I told them, "is the wisdom of the Lord. This you may preach from the housetops. Never fear those who can kill the body but are not able to kill the soul. Instead, fear God. He can destroy both soul and body. For, remember: God knows everything. Not one sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father's knowledge. Fear not, therefore. You are worth more than many sparrows."
What I said next did not come easily to my tongue. It was prideful. Nonetheless, these were the words chosen by the Lord, and so they were in my mouth: "Whoever denies me, I will deny before my Father." Some of the apostles drew back. They knew that they had not been ready to tell everyone they met that they were of my co-hort.
The Gospel According to the Son Page 6