The Gospel of the Twin

by Ron Cooper

  The father of the bride was pleased. “You have given us a finer wine than any before,” he said, “and you have spoken better than the priest.” He then sent servants to nearby farms to purchase any wine they had in storage.

  All the guests marveled at how Jesus had diffused the tension and put everyone back into a celebratory mood. They whispered together and glanced at him as he passed. Several people mistook me for Jesus―a common occurrence, of course―and some praised me for the speech. One woman—I can’t remember her name or even if she gave it—asked me to explain it to her. “Walk with me through the orchard,” she said, “and instruct me about the ways of love and flesh.”

  I was quite happy to do so, even if it meant failing to correct her error, at least for a while. As soon as we were behind the fig trees, she took me by the shoulders. Her hands were strong. She had obviously spent more of her time outside in the fields than inside in the kitchen.

  “I was told you are from Nazareth,” she said. The outer points of her eyes curved upward, an effect that Egyptian and Persian whores produce with pigments. “How did a young Nazarene become so wise?” Her half-smile told me that wisdom was not all she wanted from me. At least that’s what I hoped.

  “What is wisdom?” she asked. Be enigmatic, I thought. “Is it not what you already have?”

  She placed my hand upon her throat. “Tell me, what do I have?”

  My hand felt scorching hot on her neck. For an instant, I saw Leah’s face and could do nothing but shake with desire. I struggled to formulate a response, probably something to do with blood and life and longing, when she lifted my hand from her throat and inserted my index finger between her lips and gave it a soft bite. Nausea hit me; I thought I would piss on myself. My vision blurred, and I could not tell if the figure at the end of the row of trees was a person or one of those dream images that appear as you begin to swoon.

  “Thomas!” It was Jesus, waving his arm high above his head like a stupid child. “There you are!”

  The woman drew away as she looked at my brother and back at me in confusion. She might have figured out that I was the wrong man, but hadn’t she just witnessed Jesus’ colossal naïveté? Hadn’t she seen his inability to sense what was happening, to see what should happen, between a man and a woman alone in an orchard? Could she really want him? She didn’t stay around long enough for me to find out, for she ran through the orchard, leaving me to decide whether explaining to my brother the true ways of the flesh would do any good.

  “You’re missing out on all the fun,” Jesus said. “I want you to make some new friends.”

  “I was making a friend.”

  “Why did she run away? I’m sure she’ll be back when she hears that the servants are returning soon with more wine.”

  As we walked back to the house, Judas and Mary from Magdala approached. Mary said to Jesus, “Your words rang in my ears like bells. Are they from scripture?”

  “The scripture we need is that which is written upon the hearts of the bride and groom,” Jesus said.

  “How do we read what is on the heart?” asked Mary.

  “Reading the heart is like learning to read another tongue,” said Jesus. “You must first forget and start anew, as if you were a child.”

  “I must start anew,” said Mary.

  “Then come, sit, and talk with us,” Jesus said.

  Any other young man would have given me a signal to leave them alone, but not Jesus. I hoped he would, so I could spoil his little moment as he had mine. Instead, we conversed with Mary for the rest of the day. She was a strong woman unafraid to speak her mind. She would not bring children into a world ruined by a savage government, she said.

  “I agree,” said Judas. “So we must destroy that government.”

  “You dwell too much on the governments of Earth and men and kings,” said Jesus. “What about a government of the spirit?”

  “I ache for that government,” said Mary. “There is no bondage worse than the oppression of the soul.”

  “Then we are of one mind,” said Jesus.

  Jesus and I left the conversation briefly for food, while Judas remained with Mary. I kept my eye out for the fig orchard woman, but no luck. When we returned, Mary had cut a lock of her hair and woven it into a bracelet that she tied to Judas’ wrist.

  On the way home, Judas said, “I am in love, and I wish to marry.”

  “Blessed are you!” said Jesus. “But first we have work to do.”

  Chapter Seven

  Verse One

  Jesus engaged in many discussions with the elders of Nazareth who were too old to work but thought of themselves as in charge of all village business. Few could resist his gentle style and his device of praising his respondents and expressing his great fortune in benefiting from their instruction. “You are wise, sir,” he would say. “Blessed I am that I can learn so much from you.”

  Then he would push their comments to their logical undoing. He’d steer the line of thought with, “I wonder if you have considered . . .” or “Surely a man of your knowledge would agree that . . .” On a few occasions, we had heard the itinerant Greek Cynics who wandered through Sepphoris conduct discussions in similar fashion.

  Perhaps Jesus had borrowed their technique, but his method was much gentler. The old Nazarenes would find themselves tangled in their own web of poorly spun arguments and find that Jesus’ views were their only escape. I usually joined the debates, but I did not really care what these old wind-bags thought, so I directed most of my energy toward restraining myself from telling them how self-absorbed they were.

  I agreed with Jesus about the need for unity among our people, especially the poor, about how the Temple had lost its authority, and about how militant resistance to the Romans was the wrong approach, even though his views were far from being well-thought out. I was more interested in arguing for any position that countered those the elders advanced and defended. And while I lacked Jesus’ patience, eloquence, and single-minded dedication, the old men praised both Jesus and me for our insights (though all recognized Jesus as the true genius).

  They would ask me about him: “Where does he get these ideas?” “Has he journeyed to foreign lands and learned a secret wisdom like that of the Magi?” I had no answers for them, of course, although they assumed I was merely being reserved. At other times, they would mistake me for him—which was easy for anyone, especially these old men who, like me now, had lost some of their sight—and I would imitate him, uttering his signature phrases like, “Yours is an excellent point, but have you considered a case such as this . . .” and I would invent some wild scenario, say, What if a Jew somehow became the emperor of Rome?, to try baffling them. Usually, they quickly discovered the ruse, but I was never sure why.

  Those who were not enchanted with Jesus usually considered him either a nuisance or simply a clever young man who was a bit too full of himself. Increasingly, however, Jesus angered our townsmen, not just for what he said, but often more by his demeanor. His concentration was so intense that he would seem to speak in another voice and, at times, his eyes would change color. Others also noticed these peculiarities and regarded him with more than a touch of fear. Sometimes that fear would manifest itself as anger.

  About a dozen of the men would gather at old Menachem’s house on the Sabbath. They considered themselves an elite group, and one had to be invited to attend. Old Menachem himself asked Jesus and me to sit with him. I was not really interested, but Jesus, of course, insisted that we go. I am sure that we were expected just to listen and speak only after we had remained in deferential silence for a few meetings. At our first visit, the men discussed a passage from the book of Isaiah. Jesus could not hold his tongue. “Who in our land,” Jesus asked, “has been anointed to bring relief to the poor, sight to the blind, freedom to the oppressed? Why do we have no Isaiah?”

  “Do you name y
ourself this prophet?” one man asked. “Is the prophet’s business to accuse his own people of idleness? We are all aware of our ills. Why must you remind us?”

  “As Isaiah says,” said Jesus, “I bring good news.”

  “Then you do think yourself a prophet,” another said. “And what of you, twin? Are you another prophet?”

  “Such impudence from the sons of a common laborer,” said still another. “This is dangerously close to blasphemy!”

  “I did not call myself a prophet,” said Jesus, “yet you already treat me as one, for all prophets were rejected in their own homelands.”

  “Look how his eyes are flashing,” said the first man. “Will this Elijah call down fire from the sky and thrust it upon us?” Some laughed, some shook their heads, and others kicked nervously at the floor. I wished that Jesus could indeed bring fire down on the whole bunch.

  “Is that what you think you deserve?” Jesus asked them.

  The men all looked astonished. “How dare you speak to us like that!” one yelled. I was beginning to enjoy this gathering.

  “I think that is enough for today,” said Menachem.

  The others left while I tarried for a moment to apologize to Menachem. He was a kind old man, and I assured him Jesus had not meant to sound so harsh. Menachem said that he understood, but added that perhaps my brother and I should not return until a few Sabbaths had passed.

  Afterwards, I could not find Jesus and thought he had gone home without me. Then I noticed a crowd moving with much clamor toward the edge of town. I went to see what was happening, and I found six or seven of the men from the pack dragging Jesus toward the steep hill and calling him a blasphemer. Others from the village followed in curiosity. I went into the crowd where men held Jesus by his cloak.

  “You have the wrong man!” I yelled. “This man is my brother, but it was I who spoke.”

  The men argued about what to do. “Let’s kill them both,” said one man.

  “Those are Mary’s sons,” said an old woman. “They’re good boys.”

  I saw Leah and her mother in the group. I think Leah was crying.

  Down the hill, I saw a detachment of about twenty Roman soldiers on the main street, probably passing through on the way to Caesarea. A centurion on horseback noticed the disturbance and, bringing five soldiers with him, approached us. He spoke in Latin to a soldier who asked us, in passable Aramaic, “What goes on here?”

  “One of these men is a criminal, and we must kill him,” said the man who had suggested both our executions. I think it was Oren, who had worked for years alongside us in Sepphoris.

  The soldier spoke to the centurion, who said something back. “Do you Jews never learn that you are under the emperor’s rule?” the soldier asked. “You are not allowed to execute under Roman law. What is the man’s crime?”

  “He blasphemed,” said one.

  “Did he curse the emperor?” the soldier asked.

  “No,” another said. “He said he was a prophet.”

  The soldier spoke again to the centurion, who laughed and said something to the soldier. “Ah, you mean he is a liar,” said the soldier. “Who would be left in your village if we executed all liars?” The centurion spoke to the soldier, turned his horse, and headed back down the hill. The soldier said, “Let them go.” He turned to us. “On your way.” And then, with a formidable fist to the chest, he sent first Jesus and then me to the ground. We scrambled to our feet. I was so angry that I took a step toward the Roman, but Jesus took my arm and pulled me away. What had I been thinking—that I would strike a Roman soldier?

  The soldiers descended the hill to join the rest of their comrades. A young villager of about sixteen years old―I think his name was Caleb, son of Hezi the goatherder―was walking near them when a blow from the hilt of a Roman sword sent the boy sprawling. Two soldiers lifted him onto the back of a horse, and the detachment galloped from town. My townsmen made their way down the hill but could do nothing except watch.

  Leah had remained on the hill and came and embraced me. “Thomas, I was so frightened.” She sobbed into my shoulder. Jesus put his hands on both our heads, almost as if he were blessing us in some way.

  “Leah!” her mother called. “Come!” Leah stepped back and wiped her eyes. Then she returned and pressed her face to my chest for an instant, pulled away, and ran to catch up with her mother.

  I trembled on the walk home. Jesus put his arm around me and said, “Be cheerful, my brother. Is this not funny, that we were saved by Romans?”

  “We must leave Nazareth,” I said. “I have had enough of these hypocritical old men, enough of the Romans, enough of . . . of everything here.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I agree. We are wasting our time here. But I don’t know where we should go. Where do you think?”

  “I don’t care. Maybe Bethsaida. We have family there. We could become fishermen.”

  “I’ve been thinking of another sort of work—work for our people. Something to give us all hope.”

  I stopped walking and squeezed Jesus by the shoulders, as if trying to wring something out of him. “What? What will bring them hope? This is something else I’ve had enough of, all this talk but no direction. Tell me what to do, and I’m with you.”

  Jesus flared his nostrils like an angry bull. I thought for a moment that he would strike me. Through clenched teeth, in part whisper, part growl, he said, “I . . . don’t . . . know.” He dropped his face to my shoulder and wept.

  This episode should make clear that anyone expecting a clichéd tale of sibling contests, like our decrepit myths of Cain and Abel, Jacob and Esau, the Romans’ Romulus and Remus, the Greeks’ Atreus and Thyestes, will be disappointed. Sometimes my brother bewildered me; often he tried my patience. At times, of course, we fought, as all brothers do.

  I recall one such fight when we were about five and were making some little human figures out of mud. Mother was angry (I suppose now, looking back, that she saw them as the same sort of dolls that witches were said to use). I said, “Look, Mother. Mine is a girl, and she is beautiful like you.” Mother’s eyes watered, and she kissed me on the head.

  Out of jealousy, Jesus pissed on my doll. I pushed him to the ground, and he cried. Mother scooped him up and took him inside, pausing to slap me across the face. Yet even when we argued later in life—we never came to blows—our devotion to each other never subsided. I would have died for him and, in these late years, I still lament missing the chance. It is my greatest regret from this long and woeful life.

  Chapter Eight

  Verse One

  From time to time, we received news of our cousin John. He had a compound by the Jordan River where many came to hear him teach about a great judgment the Lord would render to restore our homeland. The rumor was that all who joined him would be safe from the Lord’s anger when the great cleansing of the land came. I’d always suspected that he’d cause some trouble sooner or later.

  “Let’s go to visit John,” I said to Jesus. “Maybe he has a plan. At least he’s saying something that’s getting attention. What have we to lose? Besides, we are no longer at home here.”

  “Where are we at home, Brother?” he asked. “If we go seeking a home, we’ll return in failure. And what about Leah?”

  I was surprised. So often Jesus was oblivious to things happening right in front of him. “I don’t know” was all I could reply.

  “Are you going to tell her you are leaving?”

  “No. I’m not even sure if she would care.”

  Our mother was hurt and afraid when I told her of our plans. “John has lived with the Pure Ones, and I hear disturbing things about them,” she said. “They live in caves in the wilderness and talk in spirit language. They wear no clothes. They eat raw meat.” Mother had talked herself into a fright and was clapping her hands together around her head as if swatting gnats. �
�Besides, the Romans won’t stand for any gathering of what may appear to be an army. They’ll come after the Pure Ones and John’s people as well.”

  “Don’t fret, Mother,” I said. “The Pure Ones live under a shroud of secrecy, and people always form rumors about what they don’t understand. They’re just a group of men who’ve gone into seclusion because they think the Temple became polluted by the Hasmons after the Syrians were driven out. You know the story of that revolt. I hear that in Judea they celebrate it and call it the Festival of Dedication. The Pure Ones saw it differently and built a commune by the Dead Sea. They are strange men, I hear, but mostly scribes who study incessantly, which is what John does if he truly does live with them. But more importantly, we surely are not safe here. Jesus already has enemies among the elders. Mother, I cannot be certain what we hope to find, but we seek only peace, and I am sure John does also.”

  “Leaving?” My younger brother Joses was standing in the doorway. I had not been aware of him and didn’t know how much he had heard.

  “Yes,” I said. “For a while. Not long.”

  “Can I go?”

  “No.” Of my younger siblings, Joses seemed the one who most looked up to Jesus and me. I’m not sure why I refused him so curtly. At twenty-one or twenty-two, he was no longer a child, but I still felt protective of him. “Mother needs you here.”

  He didn’t argue with me, so I turned back to Mother. “If danger arises there, we’ll be careful, and I promise we’ll return home.”

  “You may,” she said, “but what of Jesus? He fears nothing. He would not know to dodge the falling sword.” She began to weep.

  I put my arms around her. “I shall protect him, Mother.” What could I say to her? She believed she would never see us again. If Jesus were harmed, the only comfort she would have was knowing that I’d die trying to protect him.