Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Miriam,” Simeon said, almost sternly. “Jesus is the Christ. He is the Promised Messiah. He is the Son of God. Your father cannot do anything that Jesus is not capable of dealing with.”

  That almost startled her. She had been so consumed with worry about what her father might do, she hadn’t considered that. “You’re right, of course.” But her concern didn’t disappear. “My other worry is that he will try to do something to Lilly and Ezra.” She looked away. “Or to your family.”

  Simeon started to wave that away, but she went on quickly. “I’ve almost decided it isn’t wise for me to stay in Capernaum. I will—”

  He cut her off. “That is a problem, Miriam, and we have to face it. But I think there is a solution to it, and it’s not running away or hiding. Eventually, he’ll find you. He has too many resources at his disposal.”

  “What is your solution then?”

  “I would like to hold that answer for a moment, if I may, and talk to you about the second thing.”

  “Can I ask you a question first?”

  “Of course.”

  “One of the Ten Commandments says that we are to honor our father and our mother that our days may be long upon the earth.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly, suspecting what might be coming next.

  “How do I honor a father who is not himself honorable? Am I still obligated to keep that commandment? I wish it said, ‘Honor your father when he does what is right; otherwise, you can ignore the requirement,’ but it doesn’t.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Simeon agreed.

  “You know now, I think, that it was Father who arranged the betrothal between me and Marcus.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I do.”

  “Am I under obligation to accept my father’s will in this matter? Normally, the father has a say about whom his daughter should marry.”

  “True, but not without the consent of the daughter.”

  “He’s angry with me for a host of things I’ve done. He doesn’t care whether I give my consent or not.” She took a breath, glad to finally be saying all of this to Simeon. “I refused to accept his will in this. I have run away from him in order to escape it. Am I honoring my father, as God commands me to?”

  She drew her knees up and laid her head on her arms. Simeon watched her for a long time and then spoke quietly. “Do you believe God has infinite power, Miriam?”

  She answered without looking up. “Of course.”

  “And yet he doesn’t use that power to force his children to do his will. Why not?”

  Her head came up. “Because he wants us to come to him of our own choice.”

  “But if following him is what is best for us, wouldn’t it be better if he did force us to be obedient?”

  She knew he was pressing her because he wanted to make a point, but she was curious what the point was. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure. If he forced us . . . ” She thought about it more carefully. “If he forced us to be good, then it wouldn’t really be good, would it?”

  He was obviously pleased. “Exactly! If there is no choice, how can you impute good or evil to an act? For example, if a man forces a woman to submit to him physically, he has committed a great evil, but she has not. She had no choice.”

  “I agree.”

  He leaned forward, ready to make his point. “So do you think God would say that it is all right for his children to do what he himself will not do?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then that’s your answer. If God himself won’t force you to do something, why would he grant that right to your father?”

  She began to nod slowly, a glimmer of hope showing in her eyes.

  “We bring honor to our parents by doing what is right, no matter what they think about it,” he said. “We always dishonor our parents when we do evil, even though they may approve of that evil.”

  His eyes softened as he looked at her. “What you have done, Miriam, brings honor to the house of Mordechai ben Uzziel, even though your father doesn’t believe that. I think you can be at peace about whether or not you have violated that commandment.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “It means a lot to me to hear you say that.” Then she straightened. “What else did you have to say to me?”

  Simeon took a quick breath. To Miriam’s surprise, he was suddenly nervous. He began to pluck at something unseen on his tunic. “Have you ever considered that our relationship is somewhat odd?”

  She stared at him incredulously. “Did it ever occur to you that there is not one thing about our relationship that isn’t odd?”

  He chuckled. “Agreed. Every time we have met or had time together, it has been in some kind of crisis.”

  She tipped her head to one side. She hadn’t considered that.

  “Think about it. The first time we ever saw each other was that terrible morning with Moshe Ya’abin. Next was when your father had Yehuda and me come to Jerusalem. Another time, you slipped away from Jerusalem and came to Capernaum to warn me about your father’s trap. I raced off to save the world while you and Livia and my mother sat off in the distance waiting to see what happened.”

  “Then there’s you in prison in Caesarea,” she broke in, “and me a prisoner in Rome.” She suppressed a sudden, wild urge to laugh. “And how about you dropping into my bedroom from a rope in the middle of the night or putting on a wig and selling candles? I don’t see anything odd about that.”

  He smiled briefly; then his voice became wistful. “That’s exactly what I mean. Look at us even now. Here we are out in some desolate corner of the Roman Empire, on the run from people who would put you back in confinement and probably hang me from a cross if they could catch us.”

  She wished that she could see his eyes, read what was behind them, but in the darkness they were mostly in shadow. “I won’t argue with any of that. The past year and a half have been one long crisis for both of us. So why are you saying all of this?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like for us to get back to Capernaum and settle into something even close to a normal life.”

  “That’s not going to come easily,” she responded gloomily. “I have no money. The only thing I can do to earn a living is peel vegetables, and I picked up that skill only in the last few months.” In spite of herself, her shoulders sagged a little. “It will be a long time before my life is normal again, Simeon.”

  “If you’re looking for sympathy from me, woman,” he growled roughly, “you’ve come to the wrong place. You’re talking to a has-been Zealot chieftain who is so worried about loving his enemies and treating the Romans as if they were really people, he can’t even pick up a bow anymore.”

  She tossed back her head and laughed. He watched, fully smiling now, seeing the starlight reflecting off the blackness of her hair. Simeon continued, “I also thought about a career in diplomacy, but my first attempt at that a few days ago didn’t go so well.”

  She hooted softly. “I definitely would recommend something other than diplomacy.”

  He kept his face completely sober. “See what I mean? Even my friends mock my efforts to make an honest living.”

  Miriam thought back to the first day she had met Simeon. She had never met a man more aloof and cutting. His tongue bit like acid on the flesh. He was infuriating. Then moments later he would be gentle and considerate, filled with quiet, subtle humor. Now here it was again. The night he had come to rescue her he had hurt her more deeply than anything she could ever remember. She suddenly started at that thought. He hurt me even more than Father did. That filled her with wonder. Why was that so?

  And here he was again—teasing, witty, droll, and utterly charming. One part of her wanted to curl up here with him beneath this oak tree and never leave. At the same time, another part of her was shouting, “Warning! Warning! Intense pain ahead!”

  She realized that he had stopped talking and was watching her steadily. “You
said there were three things you wanted to say,” she reminded him. “The first was my father and what he’ll try to do. The second was the strangeness of our relationship. What is the third?”

  There was a deep sigh, tinged with pain.

  “Simeon, you promised. I don’t want to talk about the other night. I mean it.”

  “It’s not about the other night.”

  “All right. Go on.”

  He paused for a long time; then he began, speaking quietly. “The first time you saw Jesus, you believed in him, didn’t you?”

  That question was the last one she had expected, and she had to shift her thoughts into a completely different direction. “I think ‘believe’ might be too strong a word,” she finally answered. “I didn’t know him at all. I don’t think he said anything that day other than telling the moneychangers they had turned his Father’s house into a den of thieves.” Then she shook her head, remembering back. “But even then, there was something about him. Yes, I guess I did believe in a way.”

  “It wasn’t that way for me.”

  “I know. Your mother told me how you struggled at first.”

  “Even after I was convinced he was the Messiah, I couldn’t reconcile Jesus’ teachings with what I expected him to be. I grew angry. Why couldn’t he just be what I expected him to be?”

  She said nothing, for she sensed that he was peeling back a layer of his soul that she had not seen before.

  “Then something started happening inside me. I reached the point where I could not not believe. I watched with my own eyes as he worked some incredible miracles. I went to Nazareth and spoke with his mother. When I came away, I knew that he was far more than just the Messiah. I knew he was the Son of God.”

  He stopped, looking past her, seeing back into the past, sifting through the memories as though they were single sheets of paper. Then he laughed in soft self-condemnation. “That should have changed everything, but in a way it only made things more difficult. I told Yehuda that I couldn’t lead our band anymore. Then came the situation at the Joknean Pass. Because I asked Yehuda and others to help me, Daniel ended up dead and Yehuda landed in prison awaiting a sentence of death. It seemed like everything I tried to do to be a more faithful follower of Jesus only led to deeper complications.

  “Then I began to notice a pattern developing. I was trying to stay faithful to Jesus, and yet I couldn’t seem to get the sword out of my hand.”

  “Sometimes we have no choice but to fight against evil,” she suggested.

  He didn’t seem to hear. “I began to develop these elaborate schemes that I thought would allow me to fulfill my duty and still be true to my discipleship. Every one of them turned out to be disasters.”

  “Like what?” Miriam asked, moved by the depths of emotion she could feel in him now.

  He uttered a short, bitter laugh. “Did you hear about my clever plan to purchase Roman uniforms so I could break into the prison at Caesarea?”

  “Yes. Ephraim told me all about it one night.”

  “It was cunning, brilliantly planned, and would have been flawlessly executed. It had only one small problem. It was insane. Everyone could see that but me.”

  “Simeon, you—”

  He went right on. “Or how about my next idea? Just saddle up a horse and ride straight into the Praetorium in Caesarea. Dangle three talents of gold in front of the nose of the governor and ride out again. I planned it all so carefully. I thought I had even made allowance for possible treachery. So what happened? Marcus sprang the trap so neatly, all I could do was stand there and stare at him.” He waved an arm in the air. “Again, it was brilliant strategy, immaculate planning. And utterly stupid. Even a child should have seen what was coming.”

  “You were trying, Simeon.”

  “That’s my point. I was trying. My motives were good. My desire was sincere. It was my execution that was flawed. I charged ahead like a blinded bull, knocking over fences, trampling on people, breaking every vase and pot in the village as I went through.”

  “You got Ya’abin. That worked. Ezra says your plan was brilliant. You didn’t lose a single man, and yet you met Pilate’s demands. You are free, and I don’t have to worry anymore about whether or not the governor will find out that it was me that betrayed him. Surely you can take satisfaction in that.”

  “Yes,” Simeon said, again surprising her. “I came home from the wilderness of Judea feeling like at last I had learned something, that at last I was making it work.”

  “So why can’t you accept that you did something right?”

  “Because within a month of that, what am I doing? I’m brooding about this woman in Rome who has promised to follow Jesus too, but now she seems to have turned her back on him. I’m sitting there getting angrier and angrier when I think about her marrying some pompous Roman tribune, the very man who once nearly killed me, who almost sold my mother and sister into slavery, and who betrayed his word to me and clapped me in chains.”

  “Simeon, don’t. You promised.”

  He swung on her. “I’m not talking about the other night, Miriam. I’m talking about me.” Then his voice softened. “There are some things that very badly need to be said. Do you really want me to stop?”

  She lowered her head. “No.”

  “Oh,” he went on, more softly now, his voice heavy with irony, “my motives were good. My desires were sincere. My planning was impeccable. I was going to charge in and save Miriam bat Mordechai, the woman who had saved my life. But what did I do?” There was a mocking laugh. “Like I said, I was an angry bull, swinging around at every sound, charging at every movement, smashing every decent thing I had supposedly come to save. That’s when I realized I hadn’t changed at all.”

  For a very long time they sat there, not looking at each other, enveloped in their own thoughts and emotions. Finally Simeon turned to her. “I am so sorry, Miriam. How could I have been so blind? How could I have thought that you, you who accepted Jesus the first time you saw him, could turn away? I knew that you could never marry Marcus, and yet I wouldn’t believe it.”

  For a moment, she wasn’t going to answer; then she smiled slightly. “That next morning, I told Livia that you were a stubborn, hardheaded fool.”

  He shook his head. “You were always far too generous with me.”

  “I thought so at the time too,” she said, teasing him just a little. Then she was serious again. “But Livia added one word to my assessment.”

  His eyes lifted to meet hers. “What?”

  “She said you were a stubborn, hardheaded, jealous fool.” Her eyes lowered, the dark lashes covering them from his view. “Is that true, Simeon?”

  He stared at her for a moment; then he nodded very slowly. “Yes.”

  She felt her heart skip a beat and her breath catch in her throat. “Go on,” she said.

  “I was sick when Marcus told me he was going to marry you. Once Ya’abin was caught, I had dreams of coming back to Capernaum, of you coming back from Rome.” There was a sigh of pain. “Of perhaps having a time when life was normal and we could walk along the Sea of Galilee and just talk.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that, Simeon?” she whispered.

  “Because all I could think of was Marcus and you. I kept saying over and over to myself, ‘What if it’s true?’”

  She slid off the rock and moved over to sit beside him. After a moment, she reached for his hand. He grasped it as though he were sinking in deep water. “Thank you for telling me now, Simeon.”

  He nodded. “There’s one last thing.”

  She laid her head against his shoulder. “I’ll say this, Simeon, son of David, when you finally decide to talk, it is a wonder to behold.”

  He laughed, loving the feel of her against him.

  “Don’t stop. I wasn’t suggesting that. Say on.”

  “All right. I told you that I have a possible solution to this problem with your father.”

  She lifted her head. “Yes?”


  “If you had married Marcus, or even if you had gone ahead with the betrothal, at the moment it was finalized, your father’s legal hold on you would have ended.”

  They were close enough that he could see that her eyes were wide. “But—” she started.

  He put a finger to her lips. “A husband, even a betrothed husband, has first claim on his wife, not the father. You are of legal age now. You don’t absolutely have to have his permission to marry now.” He drew in a deep breath. “I know I have no right to say this, no right to hope that it could ever possibly be, and I won’t speak of it again until we reach Capernaum and things settle down.”

  She jabbed him sharply in the arm. “Simeon! Just say it!”

  “I had thought that if I could ever convince you to forgive me, I might, when the time is right—”

  She briefly clamped her hand over his mouth. “Tell me!” She was barely breathing now. “What do you plan to do?”

  He stood and pulled her up to face him. He reached out and touched her cheek, brushing it with the tips of his fingers. “I plan to ask you if you would ever consider accepting another offer of betrothal. That would still give you a year before the marriage to see if there is any hope of taking this old has-been Zealot in tow and—”

  She cut him off again by going up on her toes and kissing him soundly. “Yes, Simeon,” she whispered exultantly. “The answer is yes. But please, don’t wait too long to ask. A girl might lose hope.”

  His countenance changed to awe and wonder. Slowly and with great gentleness, he took her face in both hands. She closed her eyes as he bent down and kissed her softly. When he finally pulled back, she didn’t move, nor did she open her eyes.

  “Hanukkah candles, m’lady?” he asked.

  Her eyes flew open. He laughed at her expression.

  “Are you saying . . . ?”

  He nodded gravely. “I think Hanukkah would be a perfect time for a betrothal. The slowest portion of our journey is behind us. If we keep moving, we can reach Capernaum by then. Assuming, of course, I could find a woman who was willing.”

  “Willing to marry a hardheaded, stubborn fool?” she whispered contentedly.