There was a fleeting smile. “Right. All it really accomplished was that Joseph now got the blame instead of some unknown person in Judea.” Her shoulders lifted, then fell again. “Anyway, six months after I returned I brought forth my firstborn.” She hesitated, once again her eyes fixed on Simeon. “Not our firstborn. My firstborn. We didn’t consummate our marriage until after Jesus was born.”
There it was again in stark, unmistakable, inescapable words. “So the father of Jesus . . . ” He had to stop. He couldn’t even bring himself to say the words.
“Yes,” she exclaimed. “The father of Jesus is God the Father. My son is literally the Son of God.”
It was too much for him to grasp. He dropped his head in his hands, staring at nothing as he tried to take it all in. There was never even the slightest question about whether what she had told him was true. He could no more doubt this woman than he could doubt his own mother.
Smiling now at his confusion, she said, “When my time came, it was nearing Passover. That was the year of the census called by the Romans. We had to go to the city of our ancestry for registration so—”
He jumped in quickly and finished her sentence. “So you went to Bethlehem.”
She stopped. Now it was she who was surprised. Simeon quickly told her about his father’s experience.
“He was there?” she asked. “He was one of the shepherds who came that night?”
“Actually, he was not one of them, but he was with them. And yes, he was there.”
“I would very much like to meet your father, Simeon. I had no idea.”
“I’m not sure even Peter knows about that,” he responded.
They both lapsed into silence, lost in their thoughts. Finally Mary looked at him. “If you have to be in Sepphoris, you’re going to have to leave soon.”
He glanced at the window, measuring the shadows cast by the sun. She was right.
“I warned you, didn’t I, Simeon of Capernaum? I warned you that what I had to say would only bring greater questions, more unrest to your troubled mind.”
“But—” he threw up his hands. “The Son of God? How can such a thing be?”
She took no offense. She understood exactly what he was feeling. “Even now, after thirty years, I still can scarcely take it in. But think about it for a moment. If what I tell you is true, doesn’t that make it easier to understand what he does? He stills a storm with a single word. He makes the blind see and cleanses leprosy with a touch. A withered hand becomes whole in an instant.” She peered at him more deeply. “Five loaves and two fishes multiply endlessly until five thousand are fed, leaving more at the end than there was at the beginning.”
“Yes, I see that. But a man who is the Son of God? Why?”
Mary became very sober, and her eyes were also troubled. “I have told you that I do not yet understand everything. But this much I can say. The angel told both Joseph and me that we were to call him Jesus. As you know, Jesus in its Hebrew form, Yeshua, means Savior. But Simeon, Jesus did not come just to save us from Rome. He came to save the world from sin. All of us. Every soul.”
She let that sink in for a moment, then pressed on. “It would take a great and charismatic man to be the Messiah for which you are looking, Simeon. Such a man comes along only once every few generations. But what if you are talking about a Messiah who saves all men? Who redeems us not just from political bondage but spiritual bondage of every kind? Who somehow offers himself as a ransom to pay the debt of all the wrongs of all time so that we can return to live with God? What man could work such a work as that?”
And then, in one flood of understanding, he saw it. His head came up slowly, and he began to nod. “No man could work a work such as that.” He breathed in deeply, tingling in every pore. “It would take someone who was more than just a man.”
Chapter Notes
The details about Mary’s conception and the nativity of Jesus are given in such detail by Luke (see chapters 1–2) that some scholars believe Mary must have shared the story with him so that it could be recorded for all generations. Matthew includes the story of the angel’s visit to Joseph (Matthew 1:18–25).
The author took the liberty of speculating about some of the feelings Mary may have had about those experiences, but did so based on the information that is included in the scriptural record or that is known about Jewish customs and practices at that day.
Chapter 28
There is a snake hidden in the grass.
—Virgil, Eclogues, iii.93
I
8 June, a.d. 30
When Simeon left the village of Nazareth, he struck out on the road back to Beth Neelah, but a mile out of town he turned off the road and plunged into the heavy pine forests that covered the long stretch of the Nazareth Ridge. His step slowed, and he breathed deeply, soothed by the rich smell of the pines and the soft crunch of the needles beneath his sandals. Angling to the right, he worked his way through the trees until he came to the edge of the hillside. For a long time he stood there, drinking in the spectacular panorama. There before him lay the vast richness of the Jezreel Valley. Off to his left in the distance, Mount Tabor jutted upward from the flat plain like a half-buried catapult stone—round, majestic, completely separate from everything around it.
Far below him the green patches of melon and vegetable gardens stitched together the browns and golds of the wheat fields, some already harvested, others waiting for the scythe and the sickle. His eyes picked out signs of life here and there. An entire family was going through a melon patch, carrying the fruit to a cart to which a donkey was tied. Half a mile away, several women were bent over with sickles. Behind them, sheaves of grain stood at attention like rows of soldiers waiting for a command to march away. To his right, along the line where the fields gave way to foothills, he picked out a shepherd boy at the head of a sprinkling of white and black dots—the white, the thick wool of sheep; the black, the long hair of goats used to weave the tents the nomadic tribes lived in.
He moved over to the shade of a large oak tree and sat down. Though he knew that even at this moment Yehuda and Daniel were probably anxiously watching the road for him, he pushed the thought away. He lay back, closed his eyes, and, word by word, began rehearsing in his mind all that Mary, the mother of Jesus, had told him.
II
Sextus Rubrius, centurion in charge of the detachment of the Tenth Legion Fretensis, currently on assignment at the garrison in Capernaum, stepped inside the tent of his commanding officer and saluted sharply.
“Ah, Rubrius. You’re here.”
“Yes, sire. We just arrived.”
Marcus Quadratus Didius, Rubrius’s commanding officer, flicked a hand at his aide, who bowed quickly and backed out of the small tent. When he was gone and they were alone, Marcus motioned to his fellow soldier. “Take off your helmet. Sit down.” He picked up the silver pitcher on the collapsible table beside him and poured a goblet of wine. He handed it to the centurion as he settled into one of the camp chairs across from his commander.
“You made excellent time, sire,” Rubrius said. “We didn’t expect you for another two or three hours. The messenger said—”
“I know,” Marcus responded quickly. He was pleased that Rubrius had come this early. He had feared it might be close to the ninth or tenth hour of the day before Rubrius came to see him, for that was when Marcus had expected to arrive himself. “We pushed hard from Damascus yesterday, made more than thirty miles.”
“I thought you would be staying in Capernaum, sire. We’ve got things in readiness there.”
Marcus shook his head. “No. Here on the Plains of Kinnereth we’re five miles closer to our destination.” He grinned ruefully and lifted his own cup. “Besides, you were the one who taught me that Capernaum is not the best place for a Roman to spend the night.”
Rubrius smiled too. “Yes, sire. We do try to keep a low profile there.” He took a drink, then leaned forward. “Do you plan to go all the way to Ptolemais tomorr
ow then?”
Marcus pulled a face and shook his head. “We’re not going to Ptolemais. We’ll take the Joknean Pass straight on to Caesarea.”
Sextus lowered the cup slowly. “The Joknean? Is that wise? Ptolemais is farther, but it’s a much safer road. With the wagons—”
Marcus cut him off. “Drink your wine, Rubrius. There is much I have to tell you.”
A quarter of an hour later, Sextus’s cup was still barely touched. Now, however, deep lines had appeared around the corners of his eyes, and his mouth had pinched in a little. “So the Zealots know we’re coming,” was all he could think of to say when Marcus finished.
Marcus nodded, letting him assimilate it all.
“The men won’t like the idea of surrendering. Not without a real fight.”
“That’s why we’ve cut back to only two hundred men—two-fifty with what you’ve brought—instead of the full cohort. Our source in Jerusalem is saying the Zealots will have about double that. That should make it a little easier to convince the men that surrender is our only option.”
“And what if the Zealots don’t honor their agreement to let us pass once we’ve laid down our arms? We’ll be in a terrible trap, sire. The Joknean Pass is not a good place to fight.”
“We’re going to turn and run only until the rest of the troops arrive. The governor and his maniple will be bringing enough weapons to rearm us; then we’re going right back into the fray.” His lips pressed together. “Only the officers are to know any of this, of course. I want our soldiers to be angry. We’ve got to convince these rebels that they’ve totally humiliated us and we’re on the run.”
“It’s a . . . risk,” the centurion said after a minute.
Marcus sensed that he had almost said “terrible risk.” “It’s all been carefully orchestrated, Rubrius. And this is not a suicide mission. If we can catch the Zealot leadership and deal them a shattering blow, we’ll set their movement back ten years. Twenty years.”
Though it was clear that he still did not like what he had heard, like all good officers, Rubrius accepted what was decreed.
“Brief the other officers,” Marcus said, obviously ready to conclude. “If those other maniples are discovered, we’ll get word of it. If no messengers come by tomorrow afternoon, then I want to be at the entrance of the pass at least an hour before sundown.”
“But you said—”
“Yes, I know. I said that the other maniples won’t be in place until about midnight.” He lifted his cup one last time, raising it in a toast. “We want the lestai to see us clearly while it’s still light. Get their appetites up. Then we’ll have our little accident, which will delay us for several hours. That will give the rest of our force time to get into place.”
“Yes, sire. I’ll go alert the others.”
“Don’t worry, Sextus,” he said, calling him by his given name for the first time. “All of this has been very carefully orchestrated.” Then he felt a little foolish for telling a man of Sextus’s wisdom and experience not to worry. “Not that we have any choice. Pilate wants this very badly.”
“I can understand why,” Sextus grunted. He almost added, “But it is not the governor who is going into the pass to get it.” But of course he did not.
III
It was more than an hour later. Simeon stood at the edge of the steep hillside, absently throwing rocks down into the trees. Time and again he tested the questions that tumbled over and over in his mind against the new truths he had discovered, but he couldn’t make them fit.
Then, as he was remembering what Mary had said about the village and their reaction to the news that she was with child, one of her comments jumped out at him. “What was I to tell them? That I was a virgin with child?” At that, a passage from Isaiah leaped into his mind. It was something he had not thought about for years, but as a young boy in the yeshiva, his teacher had made him and his classmates memorize a passage from the prophet because of its Messianic significance. Now the words roared in his mind like a clap of thunder.
“Therefore, the Lord himself shall give you a sign: Behold, a virgin shall conceive, and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.”
Simeon drew in his breath sharply. A virgin shall conceive. He sat down slowly, unmindful of where he was. Now the memories came back sharply. The word in Hebrew was ha’almah, usually translated as the maiden, or the virgin. The old teacher, a rabbi of short temper but deep wisdom, had pontificated on that word at some length. It was, according to the rabbi, a passage that had triggered much disagreement. That it was Messianic in nature no one disputed. Exactly what was meant by the woman whom Isaiah designated as ha’almah was not as clear. Some, the rabbi explained, believed that Isaiah was talking about his own wife and some future child of his, but that didn’t make sense. First, Isaiah never had a son called by that name. Second, though ’almah was occasionally used to refer to a married woman, typically it was reserved for a woman who had come to maturity and was now ready to be married.
What if he literally meant a virgin, an unmarried woman? He was staggered by the thought. Had Isaiah actually been shown Mary seven hundred years before she was born?
And then the second insight slammed in. “And she shall call his name Immanuel.” Simeon rocked back. Immanuel. The name meant “God with us.” God with us! He had never before considered the significance of the name. Many proper names incorporated the Hebrew word for God, which was El. Daniel meant “God is my judge,” and Joel, “the Lord is God.” Though not terribly common, Simeon knew more than one woman who, inspired by Isaiah, had named her son Immanuel. It was not the name that electrified him. It was the context. “My son is the Son of God,” Mary had stated, her words ringing like steel on stone. And Isaiah said, And she shall call his name, “A God is with us.”
His mind was rushing like a torrent over a precipice. He leaned back, closing his eyes, feeling almost dizzy. At first his mind had recoiled at Mary’s words. The concept was so utterly unexpected, so completely fantastic.
Then a second passage blazed into his consciousness. It too was from Isaiah and was the passage his Uncle Aaron had quoted that night when they were debating whether the Messiah was to be the Deliverer or the Suffering Servant. “For unto us a child is born. Unto us a son is given. And the government shall be upon his shoulder.” That last phrase had been the point Aaron had emphasized. Now the rest of the passage sent chills racing through Simeon’s body. “And his name shall be called Wonderful . . . the Mighty God.” He let out a long, low sigh of complete wonder. The Messiah was to be “the Mighty God.”
Any thought of Yehuda or Sepphoris or Moshe Ya’abin and the Romans was long since banished now. If Jesus was literally God’s son, born of a mortal mother, yet sired by a divine Father . . . For a moment he bowed his head, wanting to ask if such a thing could truly be so. Almost instantly, his head came up again. He didn’t have to ask. I know! As those incredible words had poured from Mary’s mouth, Simeon had known they were true. He wanted to doubt. He needed to doubt. But he knew. He fully understood that now. He looked up and spoke to the sky. “I know that Jesus of Nazareth is the Son of God. I know it!”
Suddenly shame washed over him like a crashing surf. The memory of that day on the hillside when Jesus had been teaching came back to him. He had not liked what Jesus had said. In fact, he was infuriated. I was sitting at the feet of the Son of God, and I turned my back and walked away.
IV
With a start, Simeon looked up through the trees. Sunlight filtered softly to the forest floor. It was late. He could see that the sun would be setting in less than an hour. Astonished that hours had passed, he looked around. Had he slept? He shook his head. He was not at the edge of the hill any longer. He had been walking. He no longer even knew for sure where he was. He had walked and walked, his mind like a raging furnace, alternating between wonder and shame, astonishment and bewilderment.
Sometime during that time, he had wrestled with the question of Sextus Rubrius a
nd Marcus Quadratus Didius. It had been one thing to thrust aside the call to love your enemies and forgive seventy times seven when Jesus was nothing more than a wandering teacher from Nazareth. Not so any longer. If it was the Son of God asking him to turn the other cheek, to pray for those who would despitefully use him, to go that second mile, Roman or not—that was a very different matter indeed. The parable of the unmerciful servant blazed into his mind with new power and meaning, and he went over it again and again. Then he remembered with sharp pain Peter’s questions. How many times do you suppose a man sins in his lifetime? A thousand? Ten thousand?
A low sound of anguish broke from his lips. “But what of tomorrow, O Lord? What do I do about tomorrow?” There was no answer to that, of course. And then he did something very unusual.
Traditionally when Jews prayed, they lifted their eyes skyward and spoke to God directly. It was a unique way of acknowledging that God viewed them as his children and not just creatures spun off a divine pottery wheel. But now Simeon did not look toward the sky. He found a fallen log and sank down to his knees beside it. He lowered his head and closed his eyes.
“O God. I thank thee this day for the miracle that has been mine. I thank thee for putting the thought into Peter’s heart to send me to Nazareth.” He paused. “I thank thee for what I have learned from this woman, chosen of thee to be the sacred vessel for thy beloved Son. But I am in anguish, Father. Thou knowest the circumstances that lie at hand. I have gathered good and faithful men to participate in this contest with our enemy. I know that our cause is just, yet I also know that I can no longer be driven by hate. In times past thou hast called on thy servants to rise up and smite their enemies and drive them from the promised land.”
He stopped, wondering if he had the right to let his thoughts roll out so freely. Yet this was the turmoil he had to resolve. I have to know!
“O God, it is I who have brought these good men to this place and time. Can I simply turn away and leave them to face this battle alone? They do not know what I now know. Could it be possible that I might be an instrument in thy hands to bring about a greater purpose?”
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