by Tracy Groot
James had his back to Simon. His brother could not see the slow grin. James went to the window and placed his hands on the sill. He looked on the commonyard and saw a little boy at play, creating a city with rocks and cast-off pieces of wood.
“There are some who doubt it happened,” Simon added.
“I don’t care.” Then he said, “Paul believes me.”
“Sure. You both have some brotherhood of the appearances going. Why Jesus didn’t appear to me . . .”
James shrugged. “He liked me better. Always did.”
Simon laughed out loud. “Sure, if it makes you feel better. I think he just felt sorry for you, as he did Thomas. The rest of us could believe without an appearance.”
James couldn’t help laughing with him. He put his hands behind his back and turned to stroll back to Simon. “Where were we?”
“‘If any of you . . .’”
“Lacks in wisdom,” James said very pointedly, “let him ask of God.”
“Oh, very good,” Simon muttered. “Charming.” He dipped his pen, touched the excess to the felt, and put the pen to the scroll again.
Author’s Note
Then he appeared to James . . .
1 CORINTHIANS 15:7 (ESV)
“That there was a meeting of James and the risen Christ is certain. What passed at that sacred and intimate moment we shall never know. But we do know . . . James who had been the hostile and unsympathetic opponent of Jesus became His servant for life, and His martyr in death.”
WILLIAM BARCLAY, The Letters of James and Peter
Research is to writing what a hinge is to a door. The story of James turns on John 7:5: “Not even his brothers believed in him” (ESV). It turns on 1 Corinthians 15:7, where we learn that Jesus appeared to James after his resurrection. It turns on Acts 1:13–14, where we learn James was with the believers in Jerusalem before Pentecost. The epistle of James is certainly a hinge, and in some fascinating historical documents, I found other hinges as well.
The early Jewish historian Flavius Josephus speaks of the martyrdom of James in his Antiquities of the Jews. Eusebius, a Greek Christian writer (circa 260–339), draws his account of James from an earlier writer, Hegesippus, a Jewish Christian historian who belonged to the first generation after the apostles. Jerome, Latin Bible translator and scholar (circa 347–419), refers in his writings to a fragment of an apocryphal Gospel of the Hebrews, which provides another account of Jesus’ appearance to James after the Resurrection.
From the sources outside canonized Scripture, I pick and choose what I actually believe about James. For instance, I would like to believe Hegesippus, that James’ knees were reputed to be as leathery as a camel’s, from his earnest habitual prayer upon them. The idea of James refusing to eat until he saw Jesus risen from the dead, as Jerome quotes the apocryphal Gospel of the Hebrews, is the dramatic sort of thing writers love. Eusebius even says that James was so esteemed for his righteousness, by Jew and Gentile alike, that the sack of Jerusalem in 70 ad was payback for the martyrdom of James the Righteous. (This may have been news to Vespasian and Titus. If the Romans had no qualms about crucifying Jesus, it is doubtful they would have torn their garments over his younger brother—let alone level an entire city.)
These historical documents contain fascinating hinges, but we cannot be certain what is true. Even in the event of James’ martyrdom, we have options: Hegesippus says he was thrown from the parapet of the Temple, then stoned because the fall didn’t kill him, then clubbed because the stoning didn’t kill him. Josephus doesn’t mention the Temple at all, nor the clubbing; only that James was delivered along with others to be stoned on a charge of breaking the Law.
The hinges in the Bible hold the most fascination for me. It was the life of James, not his death; his unbelief, then his belief; what he said and what he didn’t say that gets my attention. I wonder why he never once mentioned his common blood with Jesus? Instead of beginning his famous epistle with “James, a blood brother of the Lord Jesus Christ, so listen up . . . ,” he opened with “James, a bond-servant of God and of the Lord Jesus Christ.” He went from blood brother to bond-servant, and for me it means the story of James is not about James at all.
The hinges I found in books reminded me of the shells and stones I found in Israel.
I tend toward sentimentality, and arrival in Israel for contextual research was only the beginning of a sticky, humid, nonstop epiphany. As we walked out of the Tel Aviv airport, I breathed to my husband, “Jack, Jesus walked here.” When I got out of the car in Nazareth I said, “Jack, Jack . . . Jesus walked here.” When we walked along the beach of the Sea of Galilee, Jack snapped the coolest picture of a trail of my footprints on the shore. I picked up shells and stones and crooned, “Jack . . . Jeeee-sus walked here!”
The headiness had me fit to walk on water. I was about to attempt it when Jack spoke.
For the whole trip, he had remained silent while listening to my impassioned ruminations. While I bawled and sprawled and wailed over a stone Jesus may have kicked with his sandal toe, Jack maintained an indifference that irritated me. It was on the shore of Galilee when Jack had had enough.
“Tracy.” He put his hand on his chest and said, “Jesus walked here.”
It’s neat to think the stone I brought home was kicked by Jesus. And maybe the fact that James had blood in common with Jesus awed a few people he hung around with; James himself had enough indifference not to record it. Stones in Israel, hinges in history books, even common blood—all quite interesting.
Rich Mullins said, “Where are the nails that pierced his hands? Well, the nails have turned to rust, but behold the Man.”
What if James had knees like a camel, and what if people thought he might walk on water too, and what if we put Josephus and Eusebius in a ring and let them fight it out while we placed our bets? I fancy James himself wouldn’t care what the historians said about him. If we asked him about his knees or what was up in 1 Corinthians 15:7 or what exactly happened at his death, I fancy he’d only shrug and say something like my husband did that day in Galilee, just one thing:
Jesus walked here.
Tracy Groot
Discussion Questions
If you are not familiar with the epistle (letter) of James in the Bible, take a few minutes to read it. What themes from the epistle has the author woven into this novel about James? Do you like the way they are incorporated? Why or why not?
James struggles to accept that his brother Jesus is truly acting in the will of God. Have you ever faced a similar challenge with someone you love? What is the best way to approach such a situation? How does James deal with it?
Many people wanted Jesus to be a different kind of deliverer than he turned out to be. In what ways do people still try to overlay God’s plans with their own motives and goals? How have you seen this in the lives of people you know?
Joseph, who has died before the novel begins, continues to have great influence in the lives of his children. How have your parents or grandparents impacted your life in ways that will continue—or have continued—even after their deaths? How can you have this kind of influence over younger members of your family or circle of friends?
What did you think of Annika? Have you ever known someone like her? What are some of the important roles such people fill in our lives?
Various characters in the novel experience a specific calling from God: Seek James. Did this seem realistic to you? What are some of the ways God might call or direct a person today? How have you experienced his direction?
How does Nathanael’s opinion of religious people change as he gets to know James and his family? What are some of the differences between an outward display of religion and true faith? Can the two coexist?
Nathanael reflects that “it was not Mother’s fault she was the way she was. Nathanael was very sure she would be . . . different today . . . if her own mother had been like Mary. Or Annika. . . . A pity, that one could not choose one’s own grandpare
nts.” Do you agree that our choices are largely determined by our upbringing? How does personal responsibility come into play? Do we have more control over our lives today than Nathanael’s mother would have had in her time and place?
Nathanael says, “It is much to ask,” referring to the command “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your might.” Why was James shocked by Nathanael’s reaction? What was it about Nathanael’s perspective that prompted his question? What are some beliefs or assumptions that we take for granted, which might strike the uninitiated more forcefully?
Later Nathanael says, “It makes you wonder if [God] loves us the way we are supposed to love him. . . . Does he have a mezuzah in his doorway in heaven? . . . Does he wear things on his arms and forehead? . . . Does he love us?” How would you answer Nathanael’s question? (If you need help, read some of these passages from the Bible: Isaiah 43:1-4, 49:15-16, 54:10; Lamentations 3:22-24; Jeremiah 31:3.)
Why does James tell Nathanael the story of Jesus and the woman caught in the act of adultery? What effect does it have on Nathanael?
What does it mean to James when he discovers the box inlaid with lapis lazuli? Has God ever used something like this to reveal truth to you—something that was there all along, but the significance of which you never saw before?
About the Author
TRACY GROOT is the author of three Christy Award–winning novels—Madman, Flame of Resistance, and The Sentinels of Andersonville—along with The Brother’s Keeper, Stones of My Accusers, and most recently The Maggie Bright.
She loves books, movies, knitting, travel, exceptional coffee, dark-chocolate sea foam, and licorice allsorts. She lives with her husband, Jack, in a Michigan home where stacks of books must be navigated to get anywhere, and if she yet lives at the reading of these words, she is likely at work on her next historical novel.
For more information about Tracy and her books, visit www.tracygroot.com.
1
JORAH WATCHED as Annika marked the height of the child with the flat of her hand and scored the limestone wall with her thumbnail. The child stood back and watched the addition of his newest notch.
The occasion was a solemn one, Jorah could tell, a mysterious bargain struck between the old woman and the little street scamp. After making the mark, Annika pursed her lips and, with a mistrustful look at the boy, bent to examine the distance between the last notch and the fresh one. The mistrust turned to surprise, and her fists went to her hips. She regarded the child with suspicious interest.
“Well, Jotham. What have you to account for nearly two finger-spans of growth? Are you wearing sandals?”
“No, Annika,” the child said, lifting a foot for examination. “I have been eating the loaves.”
One eyebrow came up. “Every day?”
“Every day.” He nodded, dark eyes large in his thin face.
She glared at him a moment more, then the eyebrow came down. “Good boy.”
His face broke into a sunny smile, and he turned to skip to the tall cupboard in the kitchen. He waited until Annika got there, and she reached to take down a wooden box. Jorah could not see what she gave Jotham, but the boy received it with a smile, then scurried through the kitchen and out the door.
Annika watched him go, smiling fondly. “Little rogue.”
Seated at the table, Jorah looked out the window to watch him dash away. “Little ungrateful wretch. I didn’t hear a thank-you.”
Annika replaced the box. “One thing at a time.” She turned to the shelves and took down the cups to set them on the table. She waved a few fruit flies from the pitcher of watered wine and set it next to the cups, then she set out a loaf of spiced honeycake and fetched a few plates.
Gazing out the window, chin on her fist, Jorah murmured, “It’s hard to think of him as a boy, but he was, you know. A little boy like that.”
Annika hesitated only a second as she sliced the bread. “Which him would you be speaking of?”
“You know.”
“I do. Try and say his name now and again. Else it would be as if he never was.”
Pain surged. As if Nathanael never was? But he was. And never would be again.
Jorah made her lips small to keep them from quivering. Annika was busy with the serving, she would not notice when Jorah pretended to adjust her head covering to wipe away tears.
Three weeks since they had buried Nathanael at Bethany. Three weeks of endless tears, and they did not appear to be slowing. There was too much to grieve over. The loss of the man she would marry. The loss of her old life. The loss of . . . but she could not think about Jesus. She lost him long ago, the day he left their home.
Annika was speaking. “. . . family from Sepphoris still interested in your place?” She shook her head and gave a heavy sigh as she slid a slice of honeycake from the knife to a plate. “I never could have imagined such a thing: no tribe of Joseph left in Nazareth. My steps may stop at the well, but my heart will ever wander past it. Up that old hill to that old home.”
“They are interested. But Jude and James do not want to sell until they talk to Simon about it, and he’s off on some crazy lark to Decapolis. They want to talk with Joses and Mother too, but that’s not the reason they’re going to Jerusalem.” No, it was the same old story. People leaving her for God. Jorah never seemed to figure in.
“So,” Annika said as she slid onto the bench across from Jorah. “Caesarea Maritima for you.”
“Someone has to tell her.”
They fell silent. Jorah’s glance kept straying to the uncut portion of Annika’s honeycake. What was it about that loaf . . .
Annika was right. Soon all of the children of Joseph would be gone from the home forever. In just a few hours, Jorah and James and Judas were leaving, she for Caesarea Maritima, they for Jerusalem. The home would be an empty shell. As she was without Nathanael.
Why would a loaf of bread . . .
She remembered. This time she could not conceal the tears.
“Child,” Annika said softly, reaching to grasp Jorah’s hand.
“He brought them bread,” Jorah gasped, and bit her lip. Sorrow wrapped around her like an old black garment.
Nathanael had brought them bread, one of Annika’s loaves. He went back to ask the strangers to join their party on the road to Jerusalem, so they would feel safer traveling in a larger company. For bread, they gave him blood, his own. He died days later of the wounds.
Jorah sagged and rested her forehead on the table. Grief upon grief. Nathanael and Jesus, dead within days of each other, both murdered. One was said to have risen again. Well, Jorah never saw him. The other lay beneath a pile of stones in a common grave outside Bethany. No rumors of resurrection there.
Her face became humid with her breath on the table. “I would kill Joab if I could,” she breathed into the old oak. “I would kill him, Annika, God help me I would.”
“I would lend a hand.”
Jorah looked up, scowling. She drew her sleeve across her face. “You would lend a hand,” she sneered.
Annika smiled sadly, cheeks pushing skin into a multitude of soft wrinkles. “You and me both, Jorah. We’ll be the terrors from Nazareth. Instruments of God’s vengeance. What do you say?” She balled her fist and held up her arm to show she still had some muscle.
Jorah couldn’t even smile.
Did everyone change as much as Annika had in the past month? News of Jesus, and news of Nathanael . . . Annika had gained ten years with all the news from Jerusalem. That made her old indeed.
“You would not kill a fly if it bit you twice.” She hated the sound of her own voice. All the crying made her speak through her nose.
Annika snatched her fist from the air. “You would not either,” she retorted. “Judas tells me that boy was not responsible for Nathanael’s death. He said that Joab tried to save him—that he killed the one who attacked Nathanael. Stop making him responsible for your pain. That’s cowardice, Jorah. You are n
ot a coward.”
“Joab could have prevented it!” Jorah spat.
“Jorah, Jorah,” Annika said, voice low. “Sorrow is enough to bear.”
“He was going to marry me, Annika.”
The old woman nodded heavily. “I know, child. I know he loved you.”
Did Nathanael talk about her? Jorah scrubbed her eyes, then poked at the honeycake on her plate. “You knew he loved me?”
“He was addled over you.”
“I didn’t—know if he loved me as—” She swallowed the words and scowled at her plate. She didn’t want to cry; she was tired of sounding ugly.
Honeycake. The way her mind worked these days, sluggish as an overfed ox. Annika told her a soul hobbled in grief moved slowly for a time, like a wounded animal. She felt doubly dosed with pokeweed.
She touched the cake on her plate. Touched the wine cup and watched a fruit fly imbibe on the rim. These days she would do crazy things, like see a flower sprig in the midst of a crying spell. She’d take and hold it close to her face and see satin sparkles, pattern, and color. She’d take an orange peel and squeeze oily spray on her hand, and marvel at the fragrance. She’d examine a pinch of sand. So many colors. How could someone say, “It is the color of sand,” when sand was a rainbow up close? Marveling at orange peel and sand did more than speaking with a rabbi.
She picked up a slice of honeycake. “I used to make them exactly as you told me, and mine would always turn out dry,” Jorah murmured. “You probably told me wrong on purpose, else lose your reputation for the best.”
But Annika was in her own thoughts. “Even Judas leaves me,” she grumbled unhappily, “and he is my least favorite. What is Nazareth without a single member of the Joseph clan?” She hesitated. “Jorah. I know what James believes of Jesus. How does Jude feel about . . . the rumors?”
Moist and delicious. Or it would be, if its flavor hadn’t fled at the mention of her oldest brother. Jesus! Oh, God . . . But no—no. Jorah had piled that way with boulders. She set the bread down and brought her palm close to inspect a few crumbs. “Why don’t you ask Jude?”