by Ron Cooper
I did not ask for the source of the call. His eyes watered, and I could see that his cheeks were pale. Any further response from him would be more babbling and more frustration. I put my arm around his shoulder, rocked him, and whispered, “Shhh,” as he moaned from his headache. In a short time, he went limp in my arms. His wiry hair smelled like freshly cut acacia.
Verse Three
Breakfast was usually a communal affair, but this next morning, Jesus led us away from the crowd to sit out of sight by the tall reeds. Andrew, Simon, the brothers James and John, Mary, Judas, Jesus, and I sat in a circle and passed around small loaves of bread, each of us tearing off a handful. Simon and Andrew spoke of the various fish to be caught this time of year and, as brothers will do, teased each other about their fishing skills, each boasting about being the better boatman. James and John told of oddities they had drawn up in their nets, such as the giant eel that bit off their uncle’s finger.
Mary told a story of a traveling healer who’d seemed to have cured a woman of her leprosy until Mary’s father realized that the woman was not of their town, and the husband and wife charlatans were exposed and stoned to death that very day.
Judas and I told stories of our childhood mischief and how Jesus, too, tossed rocks at donkeys pulling carts and put sheep dung in shoes left by neighbors’ doors. Despite the casual air, edgy eyes darted about, for we all suspected that Jesus had something important in mind to say.
Judas finally pressed the moment. “Jesus, what do you want to tell us?”
A few of us, including me, expelled unintentional grunts at Judas’s inelegance. But that was Judas—pragmatic, impatient, indelicate, and not one to play by others’ rules.
Jesus drew in the dirt with a reed, and at first seemed not to hear. It looked like he sketched a simple fish and wrote something below it in Greek letters. It may have been simply ichthys, or Greek for fish. He folded the reed, in protracted deliberation, to crease in the middle to form a point. He made a fist and placed one end of the reed between his index and middle fingers and the other end between his third and smallest fingers so that it almost resembled a spearhead. We looked on bewitched the way that, years later, I would see people entranced by Indian magicians who would produce fire from their open palms or swallow ropes and then pull hissing serpents from their nostrils. The Indians would sit cross-legged in complete silence, less like they awaited a wonder and more like they were steeped in a ritual requiring silent respect and astonished reaction.
Jesus held his arm in front of his chest to point. The fist with the folded reed looked somewhat like a spearhead or perhaps a viper’s head. “We shall traverse the Galilee, stopping in every town. I shall speak to the people about the empire of the Lord. Some will join us at each stop. Then we shall turn our attention to Judea. When we have a strong walking empire, we shall win Jerusalem. When the rest of our people see what we have done in Jerusalem, they will all join us in a united Israel.”
He had never spoken so straightforwardly to us. Judas nodded and placed his arm around Mary’s shoulders. Simon grinned and punched Andrew’s arm. I was relieved that he had some idea of where we were going, but much still needed to be explained.
“How long do you think it will take to gather enough followers?” Andrew asked.
“Months, perhaps a year. I think we should go to Jerusalem during Passover so that the pilgrims will join us. Maybe this coming Passover, maybe the next.”
“This is very exciting, my dearest Jesus,” Mary said, “but how will we eat? Some of these people will bring children. We will endure any discomfort, but how long do you think the others will be willing to live like beggars and sleep on the ground?”
“Mary,” Jesus said, “I think you underestimate our fellow citizens. Even those who do not leave their homes to come with us will believe in our mission. We shall not lack food and clothes. Most of these people have spent their lives not knowing how they would get through the day. They are used to hard living. Those with roofs over their heads struggle no less for their daily bread. Many will believe in what we are doing but will not join our travels. They’ll see their best participation as contributing to their brothers and sisters who are clearing the path for them. They’ll share what meager comforts they have and offer their homes to the young families among us.”
“We’ll need arms, Cousin,” said Judas.
“Yes,” said Simon, “and the men will need to be trained.”
Judas spat on the ground. “And are we to suppose that you’re the one to train them?”
Simon was about to respond to Judas when Jesus laughed. “I have my own centurions in these two!” Jesus was surely as aware as I that Judas’ remark indicated his lack of confidence in Simon, but Jesus diffused the tension. “Let’s not think of swords and daggers now. Ours will be a fight without bruises—a siege without blood.”
“But we need organization,” said Simon. “We need structure—a chain of command.”
Jesus placed his hand on Simon’s shoulder. Simon’s chest swelled as if he believed Jesus was anointing him as a special officer. “We need many things, Simon—courage and strength, which you have in abundance. We could all learn from your fearless resolve.” Simon’s eyes darted about as if to make sure that all of us had heard this praise. “But I need greater gifts that you, all of you, possess—wise counsel above all. The messages, my visions, come to me like roughly hewn beams. The wood is sturdy and of fine, beautiful grain, but I am not a master carver. It is of little use if hastily gouged and hacked by one too impatient to apply the correct tools.”
My brother, the metaphor monger! He surely had a talent for the illustrative turn of phrase, but sometimes he would become too enamored of his own colorful speech, and pull and strain an image until it snapped like a wet leather thong too slight to bind a love-drunk donkey to a post. He continued to saw at this metaphor, using every related word he could call up—“chop,” “axe,” “plane,” “bevel,” “peg,” “file,” and “hammer”—until he slid into stonecutting—“chisel,” “mallet,” “cleft,” “mortar,” and “wedge”—and finally to metalwork—“furnace,” “forge,” “ore,” “sharpen,” and “hone.”
Many more of his poetic indulgences will follow, and at least some, I hope, will contribute to the likelihood that his words will pass down through the generations. Often people remember how something was said more than what was said, which may be the true message anyway.
“Cousin,” Judas interrupted, “we shall of course be your craftsmen, but what’s our next step? You’ve given us not quite a beam—more like a splinter to work with. Gather followers. March on Jerusalem. That might be enough for some like this one,” he pointed at Simon, who appeared to take no offense, “but other than culminating in Jerusalem rather than Caesarea or Capernaum, how does your plan differ from others who were summarily routed by the Romans and nailed to trees?”
Everyone stiffened. I suspect that we all harbored similar doubts, but Jesus deserved a wider berth, even if granted mostly out of timidity. We’d asked for a plan, and he’d given us something that showed some direction. Now Judas was pressing him unfairly. The muscles in Jesus’ jaw worked as if he were grinding down toasted barley. Simon’s face shot to red, and he bared his teeth. He took a notion to stand as if he were about to attack Judas, but he glanced at Jesus, who glared back, and Simon sat, clutching his knees.
Jesus’ face softened. He drew again in the dirt. “I cannot guarantee that we shall not meet the same fate, my cousin, although I know that each of you is ready to make such a sacrifice.”
“I am ready, Master!” said Simon.
“I know you are, Simon,” Jesus said. I was used to Simon’s impetuousness, but I was puzzled by his newly zealous devotion, even obsequiousness, to Jesus. Equally puzzling was Jesus’ failure this time to renounce the title “master.”
Judas rolled his eyes and sighed.
/> “Remember, Judas,” Jesus said, “our struggle is not against the Romans alone. You seem to think that our fellow Jews will readily join our mission, like burrs clinging to the hems of our clothes. But I’m not so hopeful. Many have been beaten down for so long that they can imagine nothing other than survivalist collaboration. One strategy will not suit them all. Some can hardly buy bread after paying the emperor’s taxes. Some were driven from their homes by soldiers. Some wish only to walk the streets without fear of a random thrashing. We’ve enjoyed peaceful days here, but every Bethsaidan, when not fretting over the day’s catch or hoping the flour doesn’t run out this week, worries that tomorrow the Romans may sweep through and ransack the village or, worse, set up camp and administer daily torment. Some worry that their children will forget the traditions we have shared for centuries, and may even take to Latin as their preferred tongue. A few want nothing less than blood vengeance for their slaughtered fathers and sons.”
I thought about our dead Nazarene neighbor Nathan and the grief brought upon Leah and the rest of his family. I wondered if, as Jesus described, Leah and her family lived in fear of the Romans descending upon Nazareth. Perhaps they did. How would I know, having been away so long?
Jesus paused, flipped the folded reed to the ground, extended his arms, and cracked his knuckles as if waking from a long nap. “They must come to believe that the empire of the Lord will sate all these longings for them—will salve all their wounds, stem their fears,” he said. “No one is better than you, my cousin, at revealing to others their victimization and how they are due justice. My entire life, I have witnessed how people can feel the heat of the compassion that rises from the deep recesses of your heart, and they need no further convincing that you are plowing the furrow from which destiny sprouts.”
I was fascinated at how Jesus, who had, of course, charmed these people long before, crystallized their allegiance to his vision. Or maybe to him. His private conversations with us were usually much more ordinary, with little hint of the charismatic orator that he could be in front of the crowd. But now, he was bewitching even us.
“Andrew, what a complement to your brother!” Jesus said. “He is forceful yet gentle; you are a gently guiding force. Where he is fire, you are the cool water. Your strength lies in your character, Andrew, and anyone near you is shaped by your sincerity and grace.”
He held his arms out toward James and John. “Sons of Zebedee! No prouder father ever strode these shores. Sons of thunder! With the two of you flanking me, I would march into Tiberius’ palace itself! Your quiet determination will be the banner behind which many will march.”
Jesus arose and walked through the circle to sit between Mary and Judas. “Mary, oh Mary,” he said. “Never have I known a more remarkable woman. Yes?” He looked around at the rest of us, and we all nodded. “You inspire us all, my sister, and none more than I, with your wisdom. When I suggest a course of action, and you smile and nod, your lovely hair bouncing around your neck, I need not second-guess. Mary, my treasured one, you bring joy to my troubled heart.”
Faces were lit with smiles, but Judas’ was forced. I saw the twitch in his lip. It seemed like a flash of jealousy toward the man who’d joined them in marriage, but I just could not accept that. Was he embarrassed that he had not uttered so nice a compliment about his wife? Did he resent Jesus treating Mary as an equal?
I looked toward the others to see if they had detected Judas’ spasm, but they seemed unaware. Simon, though, had a perturbed look of his own. He smiled, but his face darkened, as if he’d remembered that his boat had sunk. He could keep little to himself, so I knew he would soon loosen his mouth.
Jesus stood and brushed a tuft of hair back from his forehead. His brow was crimped, as it rarely was. For those who looked closely, the way to tell us apart was Jesus’ unwrinkled skin compared to mine. Anyone would think that he never worried. He reached down and pulled Mary to her feet, looking across the lake toward the sun. He then turned toward the west. “Tomorrow we’ll begin our trek through the Galilee, first to Magdala,” he said. “Will we find more in your town with a heart like yours, my jewel?”
Mary kissed Jesus’ palm. “My dear Jesus, Magdala is a peaceful village, but my people have grown restless. They need you—have needed you for many years. They will give themselves to you just as I have.”
Judas arose and took Jesus by the arm. “Let’s move, Master,” he said. The word “master” fell from Judas’ lips like a fishbone, yet Jesus seemed to miss the sarcasm. “We have to prepare the others.” He led Jesus through the reeds and up the bank.
Verse Four
We gave the others time to have their breakfast before we called them together. In one of his most beautiful speeches yet, Jesus told them what he planned to do. He repeated the phrases “blood of our fathers” and “tears of our mothers” so often that I thought the crowd would begin to anticipate the rhetorical rhythms and begin to chant. He slipped into “visions of the prophets” (or maybe it was “dreams of the prophets”) and, for the first time, he used a phrase that I would soon hear him employ often: “the body of the Lord.”
“Will the Lord Himself come to lead us?” someone shouted. I do not think this was meant to challenge Jesus. Everyone in the crowd was so moved by his speech that they felt on the cusp of a revelation.
“The Lord does not appear as you and I do,” Jesus said. “He appears as His people force history to uncurl like a blossom on a dogwood tree, or to unleash like a stone from a sling. When we enliven the course of world events, we become the body of the Lord. His word moves through us like the breath that moves through you. Just as you have a soul that brings life to your flesh, He is the life of this body composed by His people. Is there a soul without a body, a Lord without a people? You are the body of the Lord! The body of the Lord!”
They answered him with, “We are the body of the Lord!” Many joined hands, many embraced, and all were ready to march across the sea to disassemble Rome brick by brick.
Chapter Fourteen
Verse One
Magdala was no different from scores of other decrepit fishing villages. The hovels, shops, and even boats seemed as crooked as the backs of their inhabitants who labored daily just to put a plateful of scraps on their leaning tables. No cattle or sheep could be found. A few scabby curs eyed us from behind dusty shrubs. This place was so worthless that the Romans did not bother to patrol it. From half-dead hamlets like these, my brother planned to gather his army to level the deadliest empire the world had ever known.
Although I think others were fighting back their doubts, Mary was laughing and skipping with excitement as we reached the edge of the village. How could someone from such a desperate recess have the slightest reason to believe that God cared whether she lived or died? Nazareth was no better, and any of my brief moments of hope, even now, were soon replaced with hours of despair. I suppose that we had that in our favor: Those resigned to this irredeemable life had nothing to lose by joining our ill-fated parade. Yet Mary was joyful.
“There’s my aunt’s house where I learned to spin wool,” she said, clucking and chirping like a child with stolen sweet cakes. “Over there used to be an orchard that grew the fattest olives you’ve ever seen, back when Micah and his family tended it. See that little hill with the palms leaning toward the road just beyond the broken fence? My house is just beyond it. Oh, when my family meets you, my Judas, my beloved!” She threw her arms around Judas’ neck, but he did not look happy about the upcoming introductions.
We continued along the ruts Mary called roads. A group consisting of several hundred strangers usually draws attention, but the villagers here mostly ignored us. Dusk approached, and fishermen were returning from the water. Some cocked their heads and leered at us, less from curiosity than with pity that destiny had driven us to their woe-begotten land. Mary pointed out her house just as a man emerged from the door.
“My brother, Samuel!” Mary squealed. She began to run toward him, but the man stepped back into the house. In an instant, a stocky old woman ran out.
“Whore! Why did you come back?” the old woman yelled. Mary froze as the old woman grabbed her hair with one hand and struck her face with the other. The man who had been at the door came out of the house with two more men. They yelled at Mary and the old woman. They tried to get between the two women, but the old woman cursed them and yelled that they should help her “kill the bitch.” The oldest man yelled instructions that no one seemed to heed just as the old woman fell, pulling Mary down on top of her.
Judas jumped into the midst of the struggle. Two of the men grabbed Judas as a woman from our group tried to pry the old woman from Mary, who had yet to try to defend herself. Judas broke free of one man and punched the other in the throat. The man dropped, writhing, to the ground. Jesus yelled something as James and John each pushed a man away from Mary and Judas while Andrew and I tried to separate the women without hurting them.
Somehow, between cursing Mary and calling me a demon, the old woman managed to get her broken teeth around my hand. I yanked my hand away but felt a searing pain in my little finger. The old woman spat something at me that bounced off my face and hit my foot, and then she went back to calling Mary a whore. I looked down by my foot and saw a bloody fingernail.
Judas slugged the man John held. Blood spurted from the man’s mouth. Two from our band pulled Judas aside as Jesus did the same with Mary.
“Death! Did you come back to break my heart into smaller pieces and put me into the grave?” the old woman said. Tears ran down her face, and she waved her stumpy hands and appeared to draw in the air, perhaps tracing some kind of witchcraft signs. “And with this legion of whores and whore-mongering dogs!” She hocked up phlegm from deep in her gullet and, demonstrating a technique with which she was surely practiced, jutted a rolled tongue through pursed lips, snapped her head forward and, with a thoo, spat at Mary from a full fifteen cubits away. Mary ducked and the glob flattened against Jesus’ cheek. Jesus did not flinch or wipe the yellow mass from his face.