by Russ Durbin
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Meanwhile every day more people came, listened and were baptized.
The young man recalled standing at the water’s edge, watching as John performed the ritual that had been attracting hundreds of Judeans since he started preaching and baptizing a year ago. John, now called the Baptizer, was the talk of the countryside, particularly in Galilee. He preached with authority, so said the people of Nazareth who had seen him. The carpenter had come to see for himself.
He, too, had heard the speculation about John. He was the Messiah, some said. Others said he was Elijah returned from heaven. But deep within his heart, the sober-faced man watching from the shore knew this was not so. For John was his cousin, nearly a year older than himself. Jesus had known he must leave Nazareth and go see his cousin and be baptized by him in order for the scriptures to be fulfilled.
Of course, Jesus knew the stories from Isaiah and Micah and the prophets of old. But these stories were more than 400 years old. He looked about him. Couldn’t any of the others who were being baptized be The One? Why did it have to be him?
Even as these questions filled his mind, his heart was telling him the answer. He possessed the secret knowledge given to him by his mother; stories told and re-told a hundred times between mother and child. It was the story of his birth.
Ironic that it had been a Roman, Quirinius, governor of Syria, who had decreed that a census should be taken. That order caused his parents to make the journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem because Joseph, his father, was of the house of David. Of course they had to go and register. It was there, in that small town, in the cold of one night that he had been born.
Oh, the story was familiar to him. Common people like shepherds in the fields came to see him, though he was but a tiny babe wrapped in birth cloths. They said some stranger had told them to come. They came in dumb wonderment, smelling of the sheep they tended.
Later when he was eight days old, three men, all richly robed according to his mother, came with their servants and caravans from far lands to see him. They all claimed they had followed the birth of a new star in the heavens. Their individual calculations led them to meet on the journey, and eventually had led them to this town, known only to those whose families were of the house of the great king David. They said they had not known what they would find but they knew that it would be wonderful, since a new star in the sky always heralds a momentous event. How could his birth be wonderful?
It was all very strange. He had grown up pretty much like other boys of his village of Nazareth. There was a time he dimly remembered of living in a foreign land because his parents were afraid of someone who they said might seek to harm him. But that was long ago.
Always there were the stories his mother repeated over and over to him. He was the chosen one of God, she said. He wasn’t sure he believed the stories but they were wonderful to listen to as he grew. And yet, despite his doubt, his mother had always been truthful with him, hadn’t she? He had never felt different from the other children with whom he played. But was he?
There was that incident when he and his family went to Jerusalem for the holy days. He had been intrigued by the old men in the temple. Such knowledge they had! He had enjoyed talking with them and answering their questions. Somehow, he had known the answers almost before the questions were asked. These old men listened to him as if he was their equal. His parents, when they found him, were quite upset and scolded him for wandering away from them. That didn’t bother him because he knew their scolding was only because they loved him and had been afraid for him.
Standing on the bank of the Jordan and watching the waters swirl about his feet, these thoughts and questions swirled in his head. He sighed and looked about him. He was struck by the looks of desperation and hope in the eyes of the other pilgrims as they gazed at John. He read in their eyes the suffering and the oppression to which they had been subjected. Suffering seemed to be largely the lot of the common man; it didn’t matter whether they were Judean, Roman, Egyptian or Greek. He felt deep emotions as he saw these people reaching out, clutching for this straw in the wilderness; this wild man who lived on locusts and honey, his cousin John.
As he stepped into the water, Jesus knew he must be baptized by John. Would his cousin recognize him? What would John do?
As he waded through the shallow water, his eyes met those of the Baptist as John raised a man from his watery grave. He could see John’s eyes widen in recognition. For John, too, knew the story of his birth, as told to him by his mother Elizabeth.
“Praise the God of our fathers,” John breathed. “It is YOU!”
Jesus’ hesitation was gone and he reached toward John.
“Baptize me, John.”
The wild man bowed his head and said, “No, no, it is not fitting.” Raising his eyes, he stammered, “I…I…should be baptized by you.”
Jesus smiled and said softly, “It is written. The stories must be fulfilled. This is your work, John. Baptize me.”
Jesus remembered how he felt as the cool clear water closed over him as his cousin gently lowered him beneath the surface. As John raised him from his watery grave, Jesus felt reborn with a new sense of purpose and dedication. In that instant, he had somehow been transformed from a carpenter into a new person. As he opened his eyes and looked into John’s, both men knew this was a beginning…and an ending.
For a moment, the clouds parted and the sun cast brilliant rays upon the water and the men as they stared into each other’s eyes. Jesus’ lips moved as if repeating a silent prayer. A dove fluttered overhead, as if God had sent a sign from heaven. There was a rumble of distant thunder.
Jesus nodded to John and walked from the water. John’s eyes followed him as long strides took Jesus into the wilderness beyond the Jordan.
The desert stretched dry and arid before Jesus. Why had he come this way? What was it that drove his feet on this wilderness path? Unconsciously, he licked his lips at the thought of what might lie ahead. A shepherd’s staff was his only companion, his sole support as he set off in easy, seemingly tireless strides. He could feel the burning summer sands beneath his sandals, but he never broke stride.
Mile after mile dropped away until darkness came. For the first time, he paused near a waterhole, now nearly dried up. He dipped his hand into the water and scooped up precious drops to soothe his parched throat. With what remained, he bathed his face.
The temptation to rest was great, but he knew he must move on while darkness lay upon the land. He must reach the mountains soon or the desert would drain his strength and he would be unable to climb.
He rested beneath the shade of the small bush during mid-day and then continued his journey to…where? He didn’t really know, but he knew some force greater than his own drove him onward toward the blue mountains in the distance. Step after step and mile after mile he trudged onward.
“Climb. Reach the highest peak. There you will find….” The voice in his mind gave no answer.
On and on he went. Finally, at the foot of the mountains he found a small stream, hardly more than a trickle. He greedily sucked the cool water, but there was precious little. Still, the water refreshed and soothed his thirst. He felt weak, having long since eaten the small bit of bread he carried with him.
As he turned to start his climb, he stumbled over a stone and fell, bruising his leg. Picking up the stone to hurl it from him, he paused. “What if I had the power to turn this stone into bread?” He pondered this thought. Only God could do something so miraculous! Yet, if the story of the angel his mother told was true, then he, too, could….
His mother had been awakened one night by the voice of a stranger who told her this amazing story. She would conceive and bear a son from God. Him. His mother firmly believed that it was God’s messenger – an angel – who had awakened her.
So, he reasoned, if he were God’s Son, then he could turn the stone into bread and give himself strength to go on. Yes, that would be worth doing! After all, God wo
uld not want him to starve in the wilderness. His thoughts raced as he stared at the stone in his hand.
But as quickly as these thoughts came, others pushed them aside. “This is your time of testing,” a voice seemed to say. “You must choose.” Unexpectedly, a vision of his father, Joseph, formed in his mind. He remembered a time when his father paused from his work, laid the adze aside and spoke to him. “Do you know why we work, my son? We work to earn bread for our families. But we do not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.”
Jesus paused, then dropped the stone and began to climb.
Now, here at the top of the mountain, the breeze provided blessed relief from the heat of the day. As he sat and surveyed again the vista before him, it seemed that the world was laid out at his feet. His world. He felt as though he could stretch out his hand and rule the world from this point. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to simply wave his hand and instantly correct all the wrongs of his fellow man? To have the power to order that no one could be cruel to another, to forbid torture, and to let no man enslave another would be great indeed! Ah, what changes he could make. He could heal the sick, feed the hungry, make the poor wealthy and cause all people to live in harmony.
If he really were God, he could simply decree it! He could make the world, with all its ills, sordidness and sadness, a better place. The temptation seized him. Yes! He could do that. He could be greater than all the kings of the earth. At that moment, Jesus felt power flow through him. He stood and stretched out his hands as if to change everything as a magician would instantly change one object for another.
Then, a wave of weakness swept over him. “No!” he shouted to the sky. “No, I must not do this.” He fell to his knees, tightly clasping his hands. “Lord, God, why are you tempting me so?”
“I AM does not tempt,” a voice whispered in his mind. “The Evil One speaks to your weaknesses.”
In his anguish, Jesus threw himself prostrate and covered his head with his arms. How long he lay there, Jesus did not know. He had slept.
As he awoke, his muscles felt stiff and cold. He stood, stretched and gazed at the darkening sky. Stars began to appear and finally the moon. As the silver of light bathed the landscape, he felt drawn toward the edge. Looking at the rocks far below, he wondered what would happen if he lost his footing and fell. Would he die as any other man would die? Or would God and his angels save him?
As he stared below, Jesus wondered what would happen if he actually jumped. Would God carry him back to the mountain top? If he was really God’s son, then he really couldn’t die, could he? God would have to save him. What a test that would be! Putting God to the test.
As he stood there, he again felt faint and stumbled forward, small stones rolling over the edge of the cliff and falling to the waiting rocks far below.
“Oh, God, what am I thinking?” He buried his face in his hands. He could hear the rising wind. It was singing around the rocks.
As he stood tall facing the moon, he reached up, feeling the wind beneath his arms. “Father, give me strength,” he prayed. “I cannot do this alone.” He stood there with arms extended as if he were carved from stone. As he stood there, his weakness fled and he felt a surge of power through his body.
With a loud voice, he suddenly shouted, “I shall not put my Father to the test and neither will you, Satan. Begone!”
He remembered the voice in his head. “Go to the high place. There you will find….” He had found what he was looking for…strength in his weakness and power in his refusal to surrender to his temptations. He had at last found peace.
Exhausted, Jesus lay down and slept.
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Other Stories by Russ Durbin
Moment of Glory
Demas could hear the rats scurrying about in a corner of the cell, and he thought, wryly, that Antonia was not particularly noted for its accommodations or pleasant company. He sat on a straw mat, his head against the cool stone wall, and listened to the regular breathing of Gestas. Amazing how a man could sleep so soundly only a few hours before he was to be executed! Was he completely fearless, or simply a fool? Demas only knew that he, Demas the Greek, was very much afraid of what the morning light would bring. He had seen these Roman executions before.
The Decision
Judge Henry Davis must decide whether a young man, convicted of murder, should live or die. Thanks to national media attention to the case, forces for and against execution are lined up outside the court when the judge arrives. Adding to the mounting tension is pressure on the judge from a powerful political supporter who wants him to duck the decision. What will he do?