by Ron Cooper
“Jews want money for the telling,” the Roman said. “No money. Go.”
“No, no money,” said Judas. He tried to make his language as simple as he could. “John make war. Make Romans angry. We do not want Romans angry. We want peace.”
The two soldiers spoke together. One entered a small tent and returned in a moment with another soldier wearing only a simple tunic. Obviously, he’d been asleep. We assumed he was in charge.
“What John say of war?” asked the one who had been speaking to us.
Judas said that John had sent messengers throughout Galilee and Judea bidding every Jew to gather there. Efforts had been made to join forces with rebellious Egyptians. Women were busy stockpiling food. The Essenes, the Pure Ones, of whom John was a leader, posed as studious monks, but actually had underground caches of swords and armor from Arabia. Chariots and well-trained horses had been purchased from Persia and would arrive within a week.
I was puzzled by Judas’ extemporizing and worried that if the scheme sounded too grand, the Romans might grow incredulous. But our soldier translated to his superior, who nodded and seemed eager to hear as much as we were willing to say.
“Yes,” said our Roman. “Centurion say this good.” The centurion handed us a small sack. “Money for pay,” the soldier said.
“No,” I said, but Judas put one hand over my mouth as his other one accepted the bag of coins.
“It’s their law,” Judas told me as we walked away. “By law, they must reward information about crimes. Besides, if we’d refused, they would have grown suspicious.”
“I don’t like it.”
“We’re beyond liking anything about this.”
Verse Four
Two days later, as John spoke to the multitudes (which had grown to three or four thousand), seven soldiers on horses approached the crowd. Only seven! I was insulted. Here they were to arrest the leader of this massive assembly. Did they not entertain the possibility that we might stop them? Their polished helmets and segmented armor made them look like giant, silver locusts glistening in the afternoon sun, enough to cause anyone to take note. Still—only seven! Did they think Jews so pathetic that a handful of Romans could overpower several thousand of us?
But then I realized how masterful they were at subjugation. Had they brought a legion, that would have meant we were deemed a serious threat, and we might have gotten puffed up and fought. This tiny, light cavalry indicated that we were only a minor annoyance, and hardly worth their attention. It worked, too, for as the horses trotted into the crowd, people scurried to clear the way. Some shouted curses at the soldiers, who continued on as oblivious as the horses to the insults.
“We have to stop them!” said Andrew.
“Quiet,” I said. “Don’t be a fool.”
“Better a fool than a coward.” He picked up a fist-sized rock and hurled it. It struck a horse’s haunch, but the well-trained animal showed no reaction. Andrew drew a knife and lurched forward. I grabbed him, and Judas locked his arm around his neck, undoubtedly saving his life. If he believed Andrew might spoil the plan, Judas, I suspect, would have choked Andrew to death. I felt nauseated. This was really happening. John would be taken away and probably executed.
What have I done? I thought. He’s my own blood, and his blood will now be on my hands.
The soldiers stopped in front of the platform. “Are you the one called the Baptizer?” asked a centurion.
“I am,” said John.
“Antipas has sent us for you.” Three soldiers were already dismounting.
“Tell Herod he is welcome to come join us here,” said John.
A soldier swung his lance into John’s leg. The shinbone snapped, and John fell like a stalk of wheat. It felt as if the blunt end of that lance had slammed into my gut. Soldiers lifted John, deftly threw him across a horse, and swept him away before most in the crowd even knew what had happened.
Judas and I exchanged confused glances. What had Herod Antipas, the Roman puppet king of Galilee, to do with this? Why would the Romans have taken my and Judas’ accusations against John to Antipas? They didn’t need his permission to make an arrest. Could this have been a separate affair? Did Antipas have his own reasons for the arrest? Would that mean that I had not actually betrayed John?
That night, many people fled under the cover of darkness, probably embarrassed to be seen so quickly leaving their dreams behind. By morning, fewer than half the followers remained, and more were gone by nightfall.
“It doesn’t matter,” Judas said to me. “What’s important is that John is gone. This will convince any doubters that neither Herod nor anyone else in high office is our friend.”
“But whatever they think of Herod, they must think little of Jesus,” I said. “See how many have scattered?”
“But that’s good, too,” Mary said. “We need only the truly devoted—those who would choose death over tyranny.” She took my hand and pressed it against her cheek. She closed her eyes a moment, then looked into mine. “Dear Thomas, I believe that Jesus has been chosen by the Lord to deliver us from this empire of demons. When I am near him, I can feel a power like the bristling from a woolen robe on a cold morning. I see it moving through others as he speaks. You feel it too, Thomas. You become lost in his words, as if the world has fallen away and he is those words, and he is all.”
She was right. I could not make sense of it then, but I believed that my life and the destiny of my people were contained in my brother. I’d always thought of him as a leader who could get people to recognize how they were being exploited, and that only their own actions could deliver them, and then only by banding together to act.
But those were distant thoughts, dreamlike visions of Jesus sitting at the head of a national council, top judge and high priest, refusing to sit upon a throne but receiving complete loyalty from the people nonetheless. Now, my sense of destiny was much more concrete, no longer a fantasy of a just world that magically appears by the sweep of God’s hand.
The record of my people demonstrates that historical change comes about through righteous leadership, through a Moses, a David, a Judah Maccabee, and now a Jesus. With the right people around him to fuel and direct that raw, God-infused energy, we could liberate and reshape our nation. Barren fields would be plowed and planted again. Vineyard fences would sag with fat grapes. Chickens would scratch in every yard. No more work to feed oppressors or support puppet rulers and a corrupt Temple. Or was I dreaming again?
For the next few days, Judas, Andrew, and I kept the peace as best we could. Jesus spoke from the platform, urging calm and assuring everyone that John would return safely. Each day, more left. Judas, Mary, and I pleaded with Jesus to leave in case the soldiers returned and so we could take the crowd with us before it dwindled to nothing. He ignored us, despite his acknowledgment that he might be the next target and that we might have to build anew from the ground up.
After a week, three young men who had trailed John and the soldiers to Tiberias came back to tell us that Herod had executed John. The crowd wailed, and most immediately left for their homes. I guess they had remained only because of the dim hope that John might return.
“What shall we do, Brother?” I asked Jesus. We sat by the river in the cool early evening with Mary, Judas, and Andrew. “We could return to Nazareth, regroup. Take some time to think things through. Besides, I promised Mother that I would bring you home if we faced danger.”
“Are we not at home wherever we find the poor in spirit?” Jesus asked.
“The poor in spirit?” I asked. “I thought we were all about the poor in purse, the poor in hope. It seems that too many here were poor in courage. The few remaining will follow us home. We can come up with a plan and perhaps pick up some more followers along the way. We are behind you, Brother, but this place has lost its power.”
“Nazareth isn’t safe,” said Judas. �
�Sepphoris is probably still filled with Romans.”
“Come with me to Bethsaida,” said Andrew. “It’s a quiet fishing village where the Romans rarely pester us. Yet the people there need some hope and will listen to you.”
“We’ve been to Bethsaida, Andrew,” I said. “It’s bigger than Nazareth and may be a good place to start. Brother, listen: The Romans took out John”—I felt a tremor in my gut as I uttered those words—“and it had exactly the effect they wanted. His followers have left or are leaving. Perhaps the good news is that we, you, probably do not appear to be much of a threat to them, but that’s because so few people have remained. Tomorrow, more will leave, and more the next day. If we leave now, at least many of those still here will come with us.”
Jesus threw a pebble into the river. The splash startled something in the reeds, a fish or a bird. “Why would they go to Bethsaida?”
“They believe in you, Brother. You give them hope. But they associate this place with John. Without him, this river, this bank we’re sitting on, that stage where you speak, have grown feeble, like a sick tree that no longer produces olives. The young, inexperienced farmer hopes that the tree’s health will be restored and resists cutting it down, but he lets it infect surrounding trees. The wise farmer wields the axe and saves the orchard.”
Jesus smiled and punched me in the shoulder. “Thomas, when did you begin spinning parables? I thought that was my job!”
Everyone laughed. It was a needed release of tension and even seemed to make Jesus a bit more agreeable to our suggestion.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Let’s discuss this more tomorrow. Right now I think I’ll spend a few minutes in the river.” He went to the water’s edge and removed his clothes. Jesus looked thin and pale in the fading light, not the robust figure you’d expect of someone preparing to challenge an empire. He waded out until the water was waist-high, then went under. He emerged in the center of the river, a dark silhouette outlined by moonlight.
Verse Five
The next day, Jesus preached to the fifty or so who remained. Perhaps Mary was right—we were better with a dedicated few than with a large, skittish throng. Jesus had them energized and led them in a song, something about a kingdom of the heart. When he finished speaking, Mary, Judas, Andrew, and I pulled him in to continue our discussion about our options. Judas was making a half-hearted case for going to Jerusalem to establish some notoriety (he often darted between keeping ourselves inconspicuous and daring the world to ignore us) when a young man and woman approached him.
The man appeared nervous and made a slight bow. “Teacher, my wife and I are troubled.” The woman did a little bow as well and kept her eyes on the ground.
“What troubles you, friend?” Jesus asked.
The man looked at his wife, who kept staring at the dirt. She seemed to shrink. “Teacher,” the man said, “we fear this place. We want to stay with you, but we think this place has become stained.”
None of those who had already left had paused to ask for advice, to offer a reason, to express regret, or to condemn us to Hades. They had all scampered away as if they had just been passing through to begin with. I wondered if he and the woman had argued and decided to let Jesus settle their dispute.
“Stained?” Jesus asked.
The man looked at me as if for the first time (it may have been for all I knew). He looked puzzled, then turned back to Jesus. “John’s blood. That’s why the others are gone.”
Now Jesus looked puzzled. He looked at me, but I didn’t know what the man was talking about either. Superstitions of this sort were rather common, but not for an entire group of the size that had left. Ten or twelve more people had sneaked up close to listen.
The woman raised her head. “Teacher, will you stay here, or do you plan to take us somewhere else?” Her voice was squeaky, like a tiny lamb’s.
“Do you know of Bethsaida?” Andrew asked.
“I have heard of it,” the man said.
“I know of Bethsaida,” said one of the listeners. “Are you taking us there, Teacher?”
Jesus looked at Andrew for a long, silent moment. Then he looked at me. He raised one eyebrow, almost imperceptibly, but I knew that he was asking me what I thought. I returned a slight smile.
“Yes,” Jesus said. “We shall leave in the morning.”
The man and woman embraced. The other people standing nearby began chattering. A few clapped their hands. Others called to loved ones and sounded elated when they relayed the news.
“This is good,” said Mary, and she threw her arms around Jesus and kissed his cheek. “They are your followers now, not bewildered mourners for John.”
Jesus laughed. “They may have more bewilderment to come.”
The next morning, we set out for Bethsaida. We looked like a colony of outcasts, just large enough to draw attention.
Chapter Eleven
Verse One
Many years later, I left my homeland and became a world traveler. I suppose I was as much running from the failures of my past as I was seeking a new start on a future.
I made it as far as India and, soon after my arrival there, I saw a man sitting by the street in the center of a small village. He was completely naked, his matted beard reached his waist, and his hair was plaited into many long braids that looked like worn ropes. His followers, perhaps a thousand, outnumbered the villagers. They sat and tried to emulate his routine—drinking a cup of water once a day, eating only what could be held in the same cup every other day, and relieving himself every three days. While most came and went, some followers were rumored to have been with him for years.
He was known as a sadhu, and I was told that he had been in that same spot for twelve years and that, during that span of time, he had not slept. Insects plagued him, but he seemed not to notice. A woman claimed that, years earlier, she saw a cobra bite the man, and while the man sat motionless, the snake crawled up and draped itself about the man’s neck like a scaly shawl and died. The snake remained on the man for weeks without decaying, until it was stolen by a group of mischievous boys.
The sadhu died while I dwelt in the town. No tears were shed. His followers arose and returned to their villages and fields. I heard no mention of the man until I asked my landlord about him.
“Movement?” he asked. “Who would lead a movement for a dead man? He was not Krishna, you know.”
“But his followers were so dedicated. How could they forget him so soon and not establish something in his name?”
My landlord laughed. “You Greeks!” (He called anyone from west of Persia “Greek.”) “Always looking for ways to worship men! Eventually you’ll have more gods than we Indians.”
Verse Two
As we headed for Bethsaida, Mary, Andrew, Judas, Jesus, and I followed the Jordan north, crossing empty stretches of uninhabitable dirt, passing through settlements of eight or ten families, and meeting other groups of seekers, fugitives, and malcontents. All along, Jesus spoke with strangers, asking them about how they made their livings, how they dealt with the Romans, and if they had heard of John the Baptizer.
Nearly all put food on their tables by working at whatever they could be hired to do—helping landowners plant and harvest, chopping wood, repairing wagons. They stayed out of the Romans’ way as best they could, and those who knew of John had heard wild tales. One man said he was told that John had commanded the Jordan to open and swallow up a Roman regiment just before his arrest. Another said John had been beheaded, and the severed head prophesied that Antipas and all the Romans would be devoured by terrible bear-like beasts that would descend from the great frozen wilderness of the north before a year had passed.
Jesus was at ease with strangers, and his habit of slightly twisting his head to favor his good ear was endearing to many, as if it indicated earnest concern for their misfortunes. After a short conversation,
he would seem to discover things about them that they had not told him—things that even they had forgotten—and they would marvel.
“How did you know that I was orphaned?” one might ask. “Are you a magician?” demanded another. A few left their hoes in the field to come with us. Many, however, eyed us down their noses and spat on the ground when we looked their way. Who could blame them? Galilean villages could barely support themselves, and no one needs a bunch of beggars who look no better than common thieves passing through their streets. Every now and then, a few of John’s followers would abandon us, but we managed to gather more than we lost.
Jesus did not maintain that easy composure with me, however. On the second day of our journey, he pulled me a few strides away from the group and told me his secret: “Thomas, I’m frightened.”
I could not remember ever hearing him say that before.
“Frightened? Of what? Things are coming together now. You have people who believe in you, who count on you. In two days, we have—well, despite losing a few—picked up another dozen. Isn’t this what you want?”
He took a deep breath and blew, as if trying to extinguish a distant candle. “Yes, but I can’t quite course out our path. We’ll be in Bethsaida tomorrow, and we can rest there. Then what? I know that people get inspired when I speak to them, but what is the real substance of my words?” He wiped his eye. It may have been dust; it may have been a tear. “I’m not John, Thomas. John had a vision, and even if it wasn’t the right one, I sensed an energy from him, something that could push me to die for his cause. Instead, he died, in a way, for us.”
I felt that kick in my gut again. Jesus had no idea what I and others had done for him or what we would be willing to do in the future. I ached to tell him how I had betrayed John, to unburden myself, but Jesus would never have forgiven me and perhaps, out of what I am sure would have been his notion of dirty hands, would have gone home and cut stone the rest of his life. Besides, he may not have even believed me, especially if I had told him that Mary had contributed to the scheme.