by Ron Cooper
Everyone except Judas. Tired of Jesus’ cryptic, incomplete, or nonsensical replies, depending upon your temperament, he spoke directly to Jesus less and less. At times, I was afraid that Judas would forsake us and strike out on his own.
“Where is he taking us, Thomas?” Judas asked as we walked a narrow road out of Chorazin, I think, beside a wheat field. A child behind us complained that she was tired and begged her father to tote her.
“Nazareth. You know that.”
“You know what I mean, Thomas. Nazareth, then what?”
“Your impatience is tiresome, Cousin,” I said. “Why can’t you just let things reveal themselves to us, or talk to Jesus yourself? Do you think I know his every thought?”
“Is that a joke? He’s your twin.”
“Yes, and he’s your cousin whom you’ve known all your life. Sometimes you act as if you’re intimidated by him.” I knew that would provoke Judas. I was weary of his complaining. Mary was a few paces from us, carrying another woman’s child on her back. She looked toward us, but I could not tell from her expression if she knew what Judas and I were talking about.
“Intimidated?” Judas said. “Now who’s known someone all his life and yet sounds like a stranger?” He took a sip from a wineskin. “I’m leaving this group in the next village.”
I believed he was serious. “What about Mary?”
“She can do as she wishes.”
Each time we left another village, Judas repeated the same threat but continued to stay with us. Despite his impatience, he had faith in Jesus. His was a complex faith, though, paired as it was to his sense of pride. He could no more abandon us than a man who has spent a great sum on an infertile tract of land can finally admit that no crop will ever emerge from his dusty furrows. (Now that’s an illustration people can understand. Even now, I sometimes lay awake wondering how Jesus would have fared had his speeches been more straightforward—had he been more pedant and less poet.)
Somewhere along the line (I think it was during this trip, but does the order of events matter, especially now?), we came to Capernaum. Peter said that we could spend the night at his mother-in-law’s house. This was the first I’d heard of his being married.
“She’s back in Bethsaida,” Andrew said to me. “She came to the river that night Simon brought the fish. They had a big quarrel, and she returned home. Thinks we’re insane and should go back to fishing. At least we made a living then.”
“Do you have a wife?” I asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Too poor. Same as you, right?” he said. “Simon barely provided for his wife, but she wasn’t used to much to begin with. Apparently, she wasn’t interested in improving her status. Not too many like her around.”
“I suppose,” I said. “On the other hand, there’s Judas and Mary.”
“That’s different,” said Andrew. “Mary’s driven by ideals. Judas represents something to her—Israel, the Lord, identity, something. The last things on her mind are home and family.”
“Are you saying that she doesn’t love Judas?”
Andrew pulled a small brown object, maybe a fig, from the pouch hanging from his shoulder and nibbled. “Oh, she loves him,” he said. “But her love for Judas and her dreams for our people and her faith in Jesus are all of a piece. Believe me, I admire Mary and wish that in some ways I could be like her. But is that the kind of wife you’d want—one who’d make you an aspect of her aspirations?”
“Is that worse than one who simply wants a man to put bread on her table?”
“You’ve got a point,” Andrew said, “especially when Provider of Bread might be the tougher role these days.”
Verse Two
Assorted relatives crowded the house of Peter’s mother-in-law. A woman told us they were there because they had heard that Peter/Simon had come to town, and they hoped he had brought his wife, who was their niece or cousin. She said that the mother-in-law was ill and had eaten almost nothing for days. When we got to her bedside, the old woman drew up slightly and reached for Peter.
“Simon,” she said as she began to weep, “you’ve brought my darling home to me. You’ve brought her home to tell me goodbye.” Peter bent down and hugged her. “Simon, bring me my darling. Bring her to me, Simon.”
Peter was silent. Andrew contorted his face and jerked his head, at once expressing disgust with his brother, who sat motionless, like a dumb ox, and telling Peter that he had to speak. This scene dragged on interminably—the old woman asking for her daughter while Peter sat, apparently thinking his wife might arrive if he waited long enough. Andrew finally punched Peter on the shoulder, and Peter blurted out, “She’s not here.”
“What?” the old woman asked. “Where is she? What have you done with my darling?”
“She’s in Bethsaida,” said Peter. “I’m following my master, Jesus, who will make a new kingdom for us with no Gentiles—”
“Damn you!” she yelled as she punched Peter in the mouth. This was no frail woman’s slap of exasperation, but a full-knuckle fist like one a man would throw. Blood spurted through his lips, but Peter did not flinch as the old woman continued to hit him. “You abandoned her, you son of a bitch! You took her from me and then left her to die in hell, you goat-lover!” She fell back flat on the bed. “My darling, my darling—why? Why did the Lord let this mound of shit take my darling?”
None of the old woman’s relatives made the slightest move or showed any sign of concern. I asked one of them nearby about her ailment.
He shrugged. “No one knows. She lies in bed and yells and says that her time has come. No fever. Not even complaints about pain. We think she’s just crazy, but she’s still family. What can we do?”
Jesus leaned in. “Does she live alone?”
“Yes indeed,” the man said. “We check on her from time to time, but she’s too ill-tempered for anyone to bear for more than an hour.”
Jesus asked Peter to get up from the bed. He did, but the woman kept swinging, even when he was out of reach. Jesus sat on the bed and somehow got his hand on the woman’s head without getting punched. He rubbed her forehead, and the old woman relaxed and sighed.
“Woman,” Jesus said. “Mother. Good mother. Look upon these people. They are here for you. Look at them. They are all yours, all of them your darlings, and you are theirs.” He took her hands into his and placed her palms upon his chest. “Feel the breath, the life, move through me.” Then he laid her hands upon her chest. “Feel the same life moving through you. Now look upon these people again. That very life moves through them as if we were one spirit—one, together.”
He reached up to the nearest person, a woman about the age of Peter’s mother-in-law. “Come,” Jesus said, taking the woman by the hand. He placed Peter’s mother-in-law’s hand upon the chest of the standing woman. “Feel,” he said. Then he pulled the next person and did the same. The others, without prompting, fell in line, parading by the bed to have the old woman touch them. After passing the bedside, some of them stood together and hugged and cried.
Judas and I exchanged puzzled glances, and I could tell that a scheme was churning in that knotty head of his. Nevertheless, we got in line as well, and when I came to the bed, I saw Jesus’ tear-dampened face just as he pressed the woman’s hand to my chest, and I swear I felt something move, either from me and into her, or from her into me. Andrew was on the other side of the bed, and his eyes swelled when he saw me jerk.
The last to approach the bed was Peter. He stood a cubit away, until Jesus tugged on his cloak. Peter bent down, and the old woman wailed and grabbed him. I thought she was trying to choke him until I realized that they both were crying in a fierce embrace.
I thought, and perhaps everyone else did too, that the show was over. I also thought that, in a few days, the old woman would die peacefully. Evidently, she had made up her mind
to die. The reconciliation, if that’s what it was, that Jesus had brought about between her and Peter would have been enough to be labeled a miracle by everyone concerned, but Jesus was not finished. “Arise,” he said, and Peter stood with the old woman clinging to his neck. After a few steps, she found her footing and began to walk around the house, smiling and hugging everyone.
People said, “She’s been healed!” and “Who is he?” and “That’s Jesus!” and “Oh, he’s Jesus?” I soon understood two things: These people, who moments before had considered Peter’s mother-in-law (whose name I can’t remember) a raving, hypochondriac nuisance, now believed that a miraculous healing had occurred. Also, they had known of Jesus before we got there.
As these things were becoming clear to me, Judas pulled me out of the house. He was trembling, his eyes as big as plates.
“Do you know what happened in there?” Judas asked. “That was amazing! Exactly what we’ve been waiting for!”
“What do you mean?” I said. “You don’t think Jesus really cured her of anything, do you?”
Judas rolled his eyes. “No, no! Remember that woman whose child had died? And Jesus tried to comfort her, and we paraded him through the crowd? That was the start. I think half of those people think the woman went home to find her baby chirping in its bed. I wasn’t sure how it worked, but now I see. They want nothing more than to believe in miracles. They don’t care about the kingdom of the Lord or the holy life or even their own liberty. Oh, they’ll listen to his sermons if that’s all he offers, but what they really want is magic.”
“Judas, you’re suggesting that we exploit these poor people’s desperation,” I said. “You and I know that Jesus’ true miracle in there was making that old woman feel needed again. She was without hope, but he somehow gave it back to her—no, that’s not all. He gave something, although I can’t say what it was, to everyone in that room. Maybe it was beyond words, too profound for a label, but he’s in touch with . . .”
I did not know what to say next, and I stammered for a moment, trying to complete my thought. Judas fidgeted, impatient with my mumbling because he planned to ignore whatever I said anyway. “The depths of things,” I said. “When that woman with the dead child came to him, and he spoke to the crowd, he spoke of depth. Remember? I knew it meant something then, and now I think I see it more clearly. He’s in touch with the depths of things, and that’s where the Lord is. He’s showing us the Lord.”
Judas pressed the heels of his palms hard against his temples. “Fine. Depths. Maybe he’s showing that to you, but what those people saw was a woman wrung from the fist of death. They’ll follow him anywhere. As long as he feeds them magic, they’ll eat only at his table.” Judas grasped my forearms and shook, as if trying to awaken me. “This is our chance, Thomas. This is what we’ve been working for. We’ve found what the people want! This is the dream of our nation.”
A hand touched my shoulder. I winced and spun as if I had been burned. Mary stood close behind me, smiling and nodding like a reassuring mother. How long had she been there? She must have heard everything, for she was obviously signifying her agreement with Judas. Had they conspired? They couldn’t have, for the episode with the old woman was only minutes old.
“We need a trail of miracles stretching across the Galilee,” Judas said. “We can easily supply the afflicted.”
Mary tilted her beautiful head and closed her eyes. “The words flow from Jesus like milk when he retrieves one of these lost souls,” she said. “They are brought back to life as surely as if they had been sealed in a tomb.” She opened her eyes. They pulsed like water against a riverbank. “The sick and the lame will soon come to him daily, Thomas. All we need do is encourage them a bit.”
My chest felt paralyzed, as if caught between two great stones.
“We may need to aid the process at first,” Judas said.
Their teamwork was seamless. Had they rehearsed and waited for Jesus to call an old woman up from bed so that they could approach me with this scheme? Or could Mary, sweet, tender Mary, anticipate the shadowy workings of Judas’ mind? I was agreeing more with Andrew’s assessment that Mary loved Judas for what he stood for to her, but that she thought like him was unfathomable.
I took a slow, labored breath. “What do you plan to do?” I said. “Haul in a cripple, and have Jesus tell him that walking in righteousness is greater than walking on legs?”
“Thomas, that’s quite good,” said Judas. “You should suggest that to your brother.”
“Judas!” said Mary.
“I am not mocking you, Cousin,” Judas said, “and I do not mean to belittle Jesus’ speeches. But now is the time for numbers. We need throngs of Galileans. Then perhaps the Judeans will take note and follow. Thomas, we can’t get the masses we need with a mere man leading us. The people need something else—someone more than human.”
I sat upon the ground and leaned back on my hands. “You want to proclaim that Jesus is the Messiah,” I said.
“That would not be wise,” Mary said. She sat cross-legged beside me, and her voice took an even softer tone. I think she considered the dispute over, and now we were getting down to business. “If the people wish to call him that, so be it. The point is that they long to place their faith in something more powerful than themselves.”
“That should be easy for them,” I said. “Isn’t this all about their feeling powerless?”
Judas squatted at my other side. “They know that bands of insurgents attack the Romans, and they also know how futile those attacks are. Their fellow men accomplish nothing, and they’ve waited for the Lord too long. You—we can have the depths of things. We can live in the kingdom of the Lord. We can be the body of the Lord.” I was surprised that Judas remembered that phrase. “But for most people, all that’s just something else to wait for. A miracle worker gives them what they want now.”
As the shadows of dusk formed around us, Mary and Judas’ faces seemed to spread and blur like low clouds about to wrap me in their mist. I was not sure whether they had convinced or charmed me, but I felt that we were already proceeding with a scheme.
“We’ll need Andrew and the others,” I said.
Verse Three
Peter’s in-laws begged Jesus to go to a meeting house to speak to townspeople who had heard about his “healing” (that’s the word they used repeatedly) the old woman. “They want to be blessed by you,” they said. “They need your touch and they need your words.” I wasn’t sure if they meant that the people wished to hear his message or if they thought his words were spells.
The next day, on our way across town, a leper stepped onto the road some thirty cubits ahead of us and angled toward us as if the ground were unsteady beneath him. He raised his arm, and from his raggedy cloak sleeve emerged a scabbed hand, its three fingers pointing at Jesus. A man yelled, “Be gone!” and threw a stone at the leper, who did not bother to dodge and let it bounce off his ear. A woman began chanting and moving her hands about her body as if following the trails of serpents.
Jesus held up his hand to stop the crowd just as the leper said, “Are you the healer?”
“Yes,” Jesus said.
If he embraces this role, I thought, this could be easier than I thought.
“Can you remove this affliction?” the leper said. His eyes were like muddy pools. “No man should suffer this. I live like an animal, slipping about, eating garbage, nesting in the woods so that the people will not kill me.”
One of Peter’s in-laws, I think a brother-in-law, said to Jesus, “Master, look, a walking corpse. Can’t you smell him? He has no place here. Come, good people await you.”
Jesus spun with a fury, his arm slicing out like a viper. The back of his hand struck the in-law’s face like a wet cloak slapped against a river rock. “He is a child of the Lord no less than you!” Jesus yelled as the man stumbled back a step and clutched his face. �
��Listen, his ailment is not leprosy. It is the sickness with which you and your townspeople have infected him. You have dumped your iniquities upon him and driven him to the edge of humanity, where you can gaze upon him to see the dim shapes of your own faces as in a dark glass.”
I was not sure which was more astonishing—Jesus’ analysis of the social function of lepers or the way he had backhanded that man with lightning speed. I had not seen such anger on Jesus’ face since our brother James made me cry when he pushed me into a pile of cow dung back when Jesus and I were about six years old. Pretending to fight Philistines with Nazarene boys was the closest I ever saw Jesus come to violence. The others in the crowd now stood slack-jawed, silent as scared children. I’m sure the slap impressed them more than the words.
Jesus removed his upper garment and placed it around the leper’s shoulders. “Be whole. Return to us and lead the way into the kingdom of the Lord.”
Jesus waved his hand to signal that we should continue walking as James (or was it John?) removed his own upper garment to drape over Jesus. The leper watched us pass, unsure if he should join, or even lead, the group. He clutched and sniffed his new garment as he crouched, better to guard against thieves. I looked back trying to see if he would follow us, but I soon lost sight of him and don’t remember seeing him again.
We arrived at the meeting house to find a group waiting in front. James and John stepped forward to clear a path to the door just as the man whom Jesus struck pushed his way ahead. “Jesus healed the leper!” he said. “Jesus wrapped his garment around the leper and now he’s as clean as you and me!”
I had seen no such healing, of course, but amazingly, this man was boosting Jesus’ reputation and, somehow, being hit by Jesus had only further endeared the man to him. Later, I joked that Jesus should strike a few thousand more.
“I let my anger sweep me away like the wind,” Jesus said. “I feel weak.”
“You have nothing to regret,” I said.
“I have much to regret.”