by Ron Cooper
He narrowed his eyes as if deciding whether to hit me. “Why didn’t Jesus tell me himself?”
So that was it: He resented not hearing the order directly from the high command. Peter liked to think of himself, not me, as my brother’s top officer, fearless muscle trumping lifelong blood.
“Jesus wanted to spend a few more hours with my mother. He said he knew he could count on you to get everyone else ready and moving.” That placated him enough to send him stomping about, snapping orders to finish meals, gather possessions, and get to sleep. He was a model of enthusiasm, yet I worried that we might come to regret his blind devotion.
Verse Five
I witnessed that enthusiasm in a group years later in Thessalonika. This was a period during which I traveled constantly, staying nowhere for long. It is difficult for me to keep these memories, at least what are left of them, ordered. About twenty years after Jesus’ death, I returned to Jerusalem to meet with James and Peter.
Their bizarre partnership had tried to keep Jesus’ dream alive, or at least their version of it, while I was in the East. Not only had I aged, but I had also lost an eye and received a wide scar on my cheek from some Parthian thugs. No one could ever mistake me again for Jesus. I thought I should be able at last to safely return to my homeland.
I was in Jerusalem for only two or three days, trying to explain to James and Peter how what I had learned abroad helped me make better sense of Jesus’ ideas, when we were visited by Paul of Tarsus. James briefed me a bit about him, but I knew a little already. This Paul was well known for running around the Mediterranean calling Jesus “the Christ.” He had written to James asking for a meeting and claiming that he had “good news” about Jesus to share. He sounded like a lunatic to me, and Peter agreed that we should have nothing to do with him. James, on the other hand, said that we should indulge him.
“After all,” said James, “what’s the worst that could happen? We could listen to him, send him away, and be done with him.”
The moment Paul entered James’ house, I thought he looked familiar. He had a stern countenance and a commanding presence, and he spoke excitedly and arrogantly about how Jesus the man was unimportant, and that what mattered was the risen Christ within. I thought of some of the Buddha’s followers who were fond of talking about the Buddha within. I asked Paul if he knew of the Buddha, but he shrugged and returned to his argument.
The professed reason for Paul’s journey was to get James’ approval for him to “spread the good news of the risen Christ” to Gentiles. Paul had, in fact, already begun doing this, so what he really wanted was for us to join him and defer to him as the leader, lending insiders’ validation to his movement. His two assistants nodded at his every word, and I thought he expected us to do the same.
The nub of the matter was whether the Gentiles must thereby become Jews first. Jesus’ movement, both while he was alive and after, was conducted by Jews and was thought of by all of us as a particular way of being Jewish—a way to respond, as Jews, to the political pressures that threatened to eradicate us. Paul essentially wanted permission to assure Gentiles that they could worship his Christ without becoming circumcised and while continuing to consume swine.
Peter, about whom my suspicions following Jesus’ death were still strong, seemed excited by Paul’s repeated use of the word “empire.” “We must bring the empire to the world,” Paul said, and “Gentiles need the empire, and the empire needs the Gentiles.” It was vague talk, as if he were used to people agreeing with him without asking for clarification. Jesus had spoken of the Empire of the Lord, but I suspected that James and others around Peter during the decades after Jesus’ death no longer favored that term. Paul was a Roman citizen, so perhaps Peter understood Paul as meaning that we could convert the Romans into our followers.
After twenty years, Peter still had grandiose notions of a new kingdom—crown, throne, army, and all—and he must have realized that he would never be part of one so long as he remained in Jerusalem with James and a small group who believed Jesus had meant something more valuable.
I had little concern for what Paul did in Anatolia or Greece, but this “risen Christ” drivel could not be ignored.
“What have you made of my brother?” I asked. “Yes, he was my brother. An extraordinary man, but a man no less. Flesh and bone like you and me. He died. He lives in the work that we are trying to do, and he hasn’t risen into your heart, or whatever you said.”
Paul gave me a ferocious look. He was a man unaccustomed to opposition and surely thought me insolent, although I was probably his senior by a few years and had seen more of the world than he. He was formally educated, but I could read too, and in six languages.
“Your brother, as you call him, indeed died,” he said, “but he arose, and no longer as a man. Have you forgotten those who witnessed the resurrected Christ? Do you deny that he appeared to me?”
Paul must have doubted that his “risen Christ” could have had mortal brothers, much less a twin. I could have revealed to him what those witnesses really saw, but now was not the time to break that silence. “He appeared to you? I don’t believe you,” I said. “We’re talking about my brother, not some Orpheus or Mithras!”
Paul’s face turned crimson in an instant. Tremors ran the length of his body. His attendants leapt to embrace him as if to keep his body from bursting apart.
“He’s having a seizure,” one said. “It’ll last a moment, then he’ll rest.”
Saliva bubbled from Paul’s mouth. His jaw clenched so hard that I thought I heard his teeth grind. Then it stopped as suddenly as it had started. The attendants gently stretched him out on the floor to sleep. It was then that I knew why Paul looked familiar.
“I’ve met this man before,” I said to James and Peter. The three of us stepped outside while I told them the story.
About fifteen years prior to this meeting, four or five years after Jesus’ execution and before I left for the East, I wandered mostly in Syria, dodging the Romans and laying low, working temporary construction jobs, ever fearful that I would again be mistaken for my dead brother. Outside of Damascus, a small band of travelers caught up with me.
“Off the road!” came a voice from behind. I turned to see four or five men, one on a horse, the others on foot. One of the walkers brandished a staff that I supposed he would use on me. Though angered, I wished no fight and obliged. But then one of them said, “It’s Jesus! How can this be?”
I tried to explain, but he insisted that I was Jesus, that he had heard Jesus speak in Jerusalem, and that he had seen him crucified. He said, “I saw you with my own eyes,” over and over, and nothing I could say in protest would convince him otherwise. The man on the horse dismounted, and the one claiming I was Jesus took the horseman by his sleeve and led him to me. The one calling me Jesus came right up to my face and stared. Then he turned with wild eyes to the other man and said, “It’s true what the fanatics say! Jesus arose from the dead!”
At that moment, the other man fell to the ground, writhing like an eel. His companions held him fast so that, I reckoned, he would not hurt himself. I took the opportunity to hurry away.
“But they called him ‘Saul,’” I said to James and Peter. “I remember that distinctly.”
“That was his given name,” said James. “He changed it after he had what he calls his vision.”
“I have to tell him that he saw me. End this nonsense.”
“He won’t believe you. Do you think he’ll admit to his followers that he did not really have a vision of Jesus? His whole career is based on that vision.”
“Maybe this is finally working out in our favor,” said Peter. “We took a great risk with the resurrection. We didn’t know where it would lead. This could be it.”
For an instant, I thought of slicing that stupid ox with my dagger. “We? How dare you!”
I turned to James. “D
o you agree with him? Should we join Paul and act as if we believe this resurrection shit?”
“No,” said James. “We should let Paul go about his business. If it catches on, then we can figure out how to use it.”
“You’re crazy,” I said. “I’d hoped that this resurrection nonsense would have died out by now, but see what’s happened? This is exactly what I’ve feared. This man knows nothing of Jesus. Do you think Jesus would have agreed to this?”
“I remember your agreeing that our people needed miracles,” said Peter. “I helped, remember? But I also helped in ways that you do not even know. You were his twin, but that means nothing now. You have no idea what the Master would have approved of.” He wiped sweat from the channels in his brow. “I bided my time for twenty years. I wanted to hoist up Jesus as a banner and gather men like troops, but instead I listened to James when he said that the time was not ripe. In the meantime, I grew old while you abandoned us and dressed in silk in India.”
“Listen to me,” James said. He actually stepped between Peter and me as if he thought we would fight. “The two of you are at the extreme ends, and my view is the mean, is it not? You’re fond of Greek thought, Thomas. Shouldn’t we take the moderate route?”
Before James could explain what he meant—I think he used that extremes and mean stuff just to try to placate us—we heard Paul’s voice. We went back inside and found him in a chair, looking pale but calm. An attendant dabbed a rag at the thin line of blood trailing from Paul’s mouth.
“Forgive me,” Paul said. “I have bitten my cheek. I hope I didn’t startle you. These convulsions come unpredictably on occasion, often at the worst moment. An unfortunate effect is that I usually do not remember what I was doing as they occurred. So, what were we discussing?”
Paul’s memory loss may have been a ruse to avoid my challenge to his characterization of Jesus. James was happy not to revisit it, and proceeded to tell Paul that he could develop his program among the Gentiles as he saw fit while we continued our work with our people. I held my tongue until Paul left. Afterwards, James and I quarreled as Peter paced around the room, trying to work something out in his stony head.
The next day, I set out for Joppa, where I boarded a ship to Cyprus. I had no planned destination. I took another to Ephesus and then another to several ports, ending up in Thessalonika. I saw very few Roman soldiers and felt safe there.
The Macedonians were somewhat odd—Greek for the most part, but insistent that they were a distinct people. They spoke the common Greek that I knew, although with their own peculiar idioms. They could discern from my accent that I was a Jew, yet none seemed particularly interested, for Thessalonika was a busy port with many foreigners trading at the market.
One man who sold sandals in a small booth at the market—a man whose name, I seem to recall, was Jason—asked if I knew of the Christ. Perturbed, I answered, “If you mean the ghost that some have imagined, then no. If, however, you mean Jesus, son of Joseph of Nazareth, whom some have taken to calling the Christ, then yes. I traveled with him.”
He looked puzzled for a moment, and then invited me to his home for supper. We spoke casually over wine and olives. His home was better appointed than I imagined for a shoe peddler: a large couch and rugs like those popular in Persia. I found out later that Macedonians think of luxurious furniture as necessities.
I recounted my travels to Egypt, Persia, and India. While he listened, more politely than attentively, other people assembled in the room. He must have sent his children to gather them as his wife prepared fish stew and bread. By the time the meal was served, thirty or more people squeezed into the room, sitting on the floor or leaning against walls.
“Brother Thomas,” Jason began when we finished our meal. I suspected that “brother” was a friendly address, but I wondered if he somehow knew more about me. “We are the family of the Christ, blessed to have received ‘the good news of the way’ from our brother the apostle about the Christ’s resurrection and return. Tell us, please, what you know of our lord.”
“The apostle?”
“The apostle Paul of Tarsus.”
Nausea hit me, and I felt that I had somehow been tricked. Could I dispel the myth Paul had spread here? How many other cities were infected? What could I say?
I decided to use Paul’s language to turn them in the right direction: His “risen Christ within you” should be understood to mean Jesus’ message about the body of God, and the “resurrection” is best interpreted as the perpetuation of an empire of the Lord despite the Romans’ tyranny, and so on. I spoke well into the night about God as the depths of things, as love, as the ground of things—all the themes that Jesus emphasized. I heard murmurs as I spoke and, when I finished, they questioned me as if they had heard nothing I said.
“So the Christ has resurrected in us, and thus we shall resurrect, right? When Christ speaks to me in my heart, how do I answer? When will he return in glory? Will I see him before I die? How does Christ wish for me to suffer for him? Will my mother resurrect too?”
Nearly all of these Paul devotees were on their feet, and the questions were more like taunts than inquiries. I pled that Jesus’ message had nothing to do with such issues. I quoted his “let the dead bury the dead,” and a few other references that I took to be relevant. I told them that his message was about life, not death, that he wanted them to triumph, not suffer, that they should work to realize the empire of the Lord, not wait for my dead brother—whom Paul, by the way, had never met—but this only irritated them more. They had no concern for Jesus’ message, and they resented having sat through my speech because it answered none of the questions Paul had left them with.
When I realized that, in my excitement and desperation, I had let “my dead brother” slip out, I feared that I had constricted myself further into what was already a tight spot. They might think I claimed to be Jesus’ brother just to usurp authority from Paul.
“My brother and Lord is not dead,” spouted one of the wall leaners. He was now lurching forward. “He has risen and he lives in my heart and he will raise me up and he will return! This is the way.”
Good. If this guy was representative, then my “my brother” reference was heard in the familiar sense. They were dissatisfied with what I had said, but did they see just how far their views were from my reports of Jesus’ message? I believe they considered me not an outsider, but a wayward lamb to be led back to the flock with a few sharp raps of the staff.
I rose to my feet and was about to ask Jason if he would escort me to the door and maybe to the other side of town when he finally stood and restored order in his home, admonishing his compatriots to remember the dictates of hospitality. They obeyed and became silent. A few took their leave while the rest sat and stared. I didn’t know what was expected of me. Jason nodded at me and swept his upturned palm in a broad arc to indicate that I was free to speak my mind.
I had nothing to say. They had rejected what I told them of Jesus, and I got the impression that they were waiting for me to recant it all and say that Paul was my true leader. A woman seated to my left pulled a yellow shawl from around her face and smiled as if encouraging me to speak. Perhaps I could tell them about the fine silken garments sold on the streets of Baghdad. A man standing at the wall to my right twirled a coin through his fingers. Maybe he’d like to hear about the magicians of India who produce flames in their bare hands. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and coughed to stall a few more seconds. Why didn’t I have my brother’s oratorical gifts? Should I sing a song about King David battling the Moabites? Had these Gentiles even heard of David? A little girl asked someone if they could go home.
“I am Jesus’ twin brother.”
The words seemed to come of their own will, as if I were hearing them instead of saying them. My chest pounded. My legs shook. I leaned against Jason’s chair to steady myself.
Jason stood. “And I am Jesus�
�� twin brother as well.” Someone else repeated the statement. Then another.
“Damn you!” I shouted. “Will you not listen to me?”
It was too late. My shouting was drowned out by the Paulines, who were chanting, “I am Jesus’ twin brother.” Even the women did. They took nothing else I said seriously, but they seized from me the one truth that only I could rightly claim.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Verse One
We left Nazareth in high spirits. No one tarried. No one questioned the logic of the journey. Leaving such a barren village was reason enough for most. Belief in a Jerusalem victory of some sort drove the rest.
Jesus’ mood changed from what it had been most of our time in Nazareth. He was happier, more open, and given to light, informal chats rather than serious discussions or brooding ruminations. I welcomed our frequent talks during the dusty journey, but what he said to me hardly varied from his remarks to anyone else. He spoke about the nice weather and how he enjoyed passing through the countryside. He didn’t confide in me why he had decided to go to Jerusalem. I could not avoid a measure of jealousy, and I was not sure what to make of this jolly Jesus. You would have thought that we were on our way to a wedding.
While Andrew, Peter, Mary, and the others reveled in this cheerfulness, I wondered if they were only masking their true nervousness about how we might be received in Jerusalem. Were Pilate’s police as ruthless as we’d heard? Would they see us as revolutionaries and arrest us all? While we were still walking through the Galilee, I pulled Jesus a few cubits away from the others. I had to know what he was thinking.