Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Interesting,” he said again. “Others I have spoken to use similar words to describe their feelings.”

  “Am I hearing this correctly?” Deborah blurted. “You have been asking people about why they believe in Jesus?”

  Aaron tipped back his head and laughed, his ample girth bouncing merrily. “I have surprised my sister? Wonderful.” Then he sobered and leaned forward earnestly. “Believe it or not, I am convinced that we can learn a few things from this Jesus about how to have greater influence with the common people. Some of my colleagues vigorously disagree with me on that, but I feel it strongly. We are finding that we too often offend people because they perceive us as being rigid and unbending.”

  “Really?” Simeon said with an absolute straight face.

  His sarcasm went right past Aaron. “Yes, I’m sorry to have to admit to that, but it is true. In actuality, we have only two serious objections to Jesus,” he said. “The first and most obvious is that he is always condemning us. He tells the people we are hypocrites and that we don’t love God.”

  His eyes were suddenly spitting sparks. “We—I!—find that highly offensive. To disagree with our teachings is one thing. To question our devotion, our love of God? That is quite another.”

  “Aaron,” Deborah started, but he cut her off with a wave. Surprisingly, as quickly as his anger had flared, it was gone again.

  “The second thing,” he said, still addressing Miriam, “is how he goes about teaching. We don’t expect everyone to agree with us. We are used to differing opinions. But why won’t Jesus come into the synagogues or the yeshivas and debate the Law with us? Debate is the very lifeblood of the yeshivas. Someone proposes an interpretation of the Law; then everyone goes at it with all the energy and determination they can muster. Even some of the greatest of our sages disagree with how the Law should be interpreted.”

  “That is not Jesus’ way,” Simeon said quietly, not making it a question.

  “No, it is not!” Aaron snapped back. “And that is exactly the problem with him. He speaks as if there is no other possibility. He speaks as if he is the ultimate authority. If he were a renowned sage or had spent a lifetime studying under one of the great masters, then maybe he could make such pronouncements. But no! He sits atop some lofty intellectual mountaintop, hurling down his pronouncements as if they were the only truths in all of existence.”

  The four visitors looked at one another, and something passed between them. Finally, David turned to his brother-in-law and said what they were all thinking. “Yes,” he said, “you have captured it exactly. It is almost like he is the Son of God or something.”

  Aaron’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That comes dangerously close to blasphemy, David,” he said.

  Deborah stood up before anything more could be said. “We really must be off, Aaron. We want to reach Beth Neelah before nightfall. We need to join up with Leah and Livia and get back home. There is much to do before Hanukkah arrives.” She turned to Hava. “It is so good to see you again. Come whenever you like; there will always be a place for you in our home.”

  Then she took her brother’s hand. “Thank you for being willing to perform the ceremony, Aaron. We’ll see you before Hanukkah then?”

  He gave her a sharp look, realizing she had shut off any further comments about blasphemy, but then only nodded. “Yes, before Hanukkah.”

  Chapter Notes

  The ketubah, or premarital contract between the groom and his intended bride, was described in some detail in Fishers of Men, pp. 182–84 (see also Jacobs, pp. 41–43; Bloch, 34–35).

  The marking of time in Judea at this point in history was also described previously, but a brief review here might be helpful to the reader. (1) Unlike our day, which begins at midnight, the Jewish day was measured from sundown to sundown. Thus, the evening is always the first part of the new day, and the afternoon the last. We see remnants of this system in Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve, both of which precede the actual holiday. (2) The work day was divided into twelve “hours” of equal length, beginning roughly at 6:00 a.m. and ending at 6:00 p.m. Therefore, the third hour of the day would be approximately 9:00 a.m. for us, and the eleventh hour about 5:00 p.m. Since the amount of daylight varies with the seasons, the “hours” in summer would be longer than the “hours” of winter. (3) The night was divided according to the Roman custom of “watches” or the amount of time during which guards stood watch. There were four watches of about three hours each. The first watch would generally run from 6:00 to 9:00 p.m., the second from 9:00 p.m. to midnight, and so on.

  The tax rebellion that led to the formation of the Zealot movement began about a.d. 6. After the death of Herod the Great, his kingdom was divided between his two sons, Archelaus and Antipas, both of whom functioned under Roman patronage. The new arrangement of the kingdom called for a change in the tax system that had existed under Herod. To implement this new order of things, the legate of Syria, Sulpicius Quirinius (the New Testament spelling is Cyrenius—see Luke 2:2) ordered a census of the province. This not only involved counting people but also cataloging resources. (This form of census, or taxing, is referred to twice by Luke, in Luke 2:1–2 and Acts 5:37.)

  Though the Jewish population mostly hated the Herods, at least they were nominally Jewish. But under the new system, tribute would go directly to Rome. That alone was bad enough, but Augustus Caesar had encouraged a growing cult who said the emperor was divine. In the minds of the more fanatical opponents of the tax or tribute, this meant that by paying taxes they would be directly supporting idolatry.

  In an effort to combat the tribute, a man named Judas from the Galilee led a rebellion that quickly mushroomed into a full-scale war. Though the rebellion was eventually crushed by the Romans, the seeds had been planted. The rebels took upon themselves the name of Zealot (from Numbers 25:11). The Zealot movement ebbed and flowed until a.d. 66, when another Jewish revolt broke out, ending in the destruction of Jerusalem in a.d. 70. (See Brandon, 15:632–34.)

  Chapter 6

  Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.

  —Proverbs 31:10

  I

  Beth Neelah, in the Upper Galilee 22 November, a.d. 31

  The home of Yehuda of Beth Neelah was not a large one, but it was neatly kept—thanks mostly to Shana. They sat before the fire, mellow and relaxed after a plain but generous meal. There were just the seven of them—Simeon and Miriam, Deborah and David, Livia, Leah, and Yehuda. Shana and Samuel had been present for the supper but left immediately after. They said they were expected by Samuel’s family. But, in addition, there was still some strain in having Shana and Simeon together again. So Shana and Samuel excused themselves and went to spend the evening with Samuel’s family.

  Yehuda was in an expansive mood and had been a consummate host. He was now reminiscing on the first time Livia and Miriam had visited Beth Neelah.

  “I remember it well,” Miriam said with a rueful laugh. “My feet were so blistered I wondered if I would ever walk again.”

  Yehuda grinned at her. “I remember it too. I asked you to dance with us, and you gave me this feeble excuse about your feet being too tender.”

  “Feeble?” Miriam cried. “Thanks to Simeon, we had marched almost thirty miles that day. I was in agony. I still have scars on my feet from some of the larger blisters.”

  The big Galilean glanced at Livia quickly, then turned back to Miriam. “Do you remember what happened next?”

  “Perfectly. I’ll never forget how you and Livia danced that night.”

  Simeon was nodding, smiling softly with the memory. “I remember now. Daniel played the flute. You astonished all of us, Livia. In a matter of minutes, it seemed as though you had been dancing with the villagers for years. It was amazing.”

  “It was a beautiful night in a beautiful place,” Livia admitted softly.

  Miriam looked at her friend. “So have you danced again since you got here?”

  Livia’s fair s
kin instantly glowed red. “Only twice,” she murmured, shooting a quick look at Yehuda.

  “And?” Miriam pushed.

  “Let us just say,” Yehuda answered for her, “that her visit to Rome did not diminish her ability nor add any weight to her feet.”

  Leah smiled. “The villagers say she dances as though she was born here. That’s a high compliment indeed.”

  Miriam watched her friend with interest and was glad she had pushed Livia to make the trip to Beth Neelah. She seemed very happy to be here.

  Deborah stirred. “Well, we were up and on the road very early this morning. And we have to leave early again tomorrow. We’d better go to bed.”

  Yehuda frowned. “You just arrived a bit ago. Surely you can stay one full day.”

  Deborah shook her head. “The betrothal is in two weeks. We left Joseph with Ephraim. And now with Aaron and Hava and their children coming, there are things I need to do to get the house ready.”

  He grimaced, but nodded. “I understand.”

  “You will be coming down?” Simeon asked.

  “Of course. I had become so convinced you’d never find a woman who could stand to live with you that I wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world.”

  Laughing at Simeon’s expression, Yehuda stood too. “Deborah, you and David will take my bed. Shana is staying with Samuel’s cousin, so Livia, Leah, and Miriam will take her room. I’ll bring in another mat.” He looked at Simeon. “For you and me, it’s the stable.”

  “That will be better than a lot of places we have slept in lately,” Simeon said. “But then, on second thought, I haven’t had to listen to you snoring either. That’s the real reason I didn’t ask you to go to Rome with Ezra and me.” He looked at Miriam and Livia. “It’s like sleeping next to a working gristmill.”

  Quick as a cat, Yehuda leaped, grabbing Simeon in a headlock, then twisted sharply, driving him to his knees.

  “Ow!”

  “What say you, Miriam? Would you have me do away with this impudent pup once and for all and save you much sorrow and heartbreak?”

  Though the others were laughing, Miriam pretended to look perplexed, troubled by the question.

  “Hey!” Simeon yelped. “Let’s hear a protest of some kind from over there, please.”

  Miriam gave a pained sigh, then: “Oh, Yehuda. What’s a woman to do? The arrangements are all made. And, believe it or not, his mother still loves him. I guess I’ll just have to learn to live with him.”

  II

  “Simeon?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re surely not asleep already. We just lay down.”

  “No, I’m not asleep. But I’m ready to be. I’d forgotten how soft a pile of hay can be.”

  “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “All right.”

  Yehuda sat up, pulling his knees up beneath his chin. In the darkness of the stable, Simeon could barely make out his shape. “Something serious.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “If you laugh, I’ll bust your nose.”

  Simeon threw off the blanket and sat up too. They both were still fully clothed; they knew it was going to get chilly before the night was over. “I’m listening,” he said again, this time completely serious.

  There was a long silence; then he heard an expulsion of breath in the darkness. “You’re going to think this is crazy.”

  “From you? Don’t be silly. You’ve never done anything crazy in your life. Why would you—”

  “I want you to speak in my behalf.”

  “What?”

  He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “I want you to speak in my behalf. To Livia.”

  Whatever else flashed through Simeon’s mind, it was not a desire to laugh. He was completely dumbfounded. “What do you mean, speak to her in your behalf?”

  “Come on, Simeon,” he snapped. “You know exactly what I mean. She has no father or mother. I can’t just approach her directly. That wouldn’t be right. Your family is as close to a true family as anyone she has.”

  “Are you saying . . . ?” He stopped. He couldn’t say it. It was too fantastic, too completely unexpected.

  “I want you to ask Livia if she would ever . . .” A soft explosion of air sounded in the darkness; then the words came out in a rush. “Look. I know that what has happened to you and Miriam—to come to love each other before you’re even betrothed—is wonderful. But it’s certainly not typical when most marriages are arranged through the parents or a matchmaker. You know that all too often the two parties don’t even meet until the day of the betrothal. My parents didn’t, and yet, eventually, they came to love each other. So it’s not like—”

  Simeon’s hand shot out and grabbed Yehuda’s arm. “Slow down! I’m still trying to catch up here.”

  A low rumble sounded, but nothing else.

  “You want me to ask Livia if she will marry you?”

  “No. Well, yes, but that’s far too much to hope for. I would like you to speak to her and see if she would at least consider me as a possible suitor.” When Simeon didn’t answer, Yehuda gave a miffed grunt. “Do you find that possibility so unbelievable?”

  “No, I—in fact, Miriam and I have talked about whether there might ever be something between you two. But—”

  Yehuda chuckled softly. “But old Yehuda caught you by surprise on this one, right?”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “I find Livia to be a remarkable woman, Simeon. I’ve thought that from the first time we saw her and Miriam in Samaria. But since she’s been here, my eyes have really been opened. She’s intelligent, kind, gracious, gentle—”

  “You don’t have to convince me of that.”

  “I had about decided that I might never find someone, but now . . .” His voice trailed off in the darkness. After a long moment of silence, he spoke again. “So? Will you speak in my behalf, or do you need some more time to think about it?”

  Simeon laughed. “You just punched me in the stomach, my friend. At least give me a moment to catch my breath.”

  “Take whatever time you need.”

  The silence stretched on for a considerable length; then Simeon cleared his throat. “Let’s suppose for a moment that Livia says yes. When do you think the betrothal might take place?”

  There was a long silence before Yehuda spoke. “If I had my way,” he quietly said, “we would get betrothed and married the same day.”

  He must have heard Simeon’s quick intake of breath. “I know, I know. But I’m getting old, Simeon. I’ll be twenty-seven next summer. Some men my age have eight and nine-year-old sons. I don’t care what people might say. I don’t care if she doesn’t have a dowry.” Then he sighed. “But that’s only me speaking. If she’ll have me, I’ll agree to whatever she thinks is appropriate. If she wants to wait a year, then we’ll wait a year.”

  Simeon was hesitant. “I need to be honest with you, Yehuda. There are a couple of concerns I have.”

  “Let me guess. The first is the fact that I am a Zealot, a man of war. The second has to do with Jesus.”

  “You really have been thinking about this, haven’t you.”

  “I’ve thought of little else this past week.”

  “If I speak to Livia in your behalf, I’ll have to be honest with her as well.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “As you said, Livia is a gentle woman. She is quiet and introspective by nature.”

  “And I’m loud and brash and—”

  “Are you going to let me talk or do I need to put a rag in your mouth?”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “You are a Zealot, Yehuda, not just in mind but in heart. And now that I have withdrawn from our band, you are a leader of Zealots. I’m not sure Livia can live with that. It’s not just the danger. It’s the constant hate, the desire for revenge that never goes away. It’s nights lying awake knowing that you may not come back. It’s bands of men in h
er kitchen plotting rebellion. It’s knowing that your sons will want to be just like you.”

  He looked at his friend in the darkness. “I’m not being critical, Yehuda. Why do you think I waited so long for marriage? I didn’t feel like I could ask a woman to live with that. I only finally agreed to marry Shana because she is as much a Zealot as you and I are.”

  “I know,” came the quiet reply. “I know full well that what you say is true.”

  “And?”

  Again there was silence in the stable. Simeon waited, knowing Yehuda was deciding how best to say what he had to say.

  “You won’t believe this, but I’m tired, Simeon. You and me, we’ve been at this business now for . . . what? Six? Eight years?”

  “About that.”

  “This last year I spent with you out chasing Ya’abin really affected me: the nights without sleep, day after day riding in a bitter cold rain, eating food that a jackal wouldn’t touch, always looking over my shoulder to see who’s coming, going to bed with a spear in one hand and a sword in the other, never sleeping.”

  There was a shuffling sound in the darkness as Yehuda shifted his weight. “It has felt so good to me these last few months to be home, to have my only worry be about my grape vines.”

  Simeon didn’t know what to say. He knew this man too well to suspect this was just a ploy to win Livia’s hand. And he could feel the weariness in Yehuda’s soul as he spoke.

  “I know you find this hard to believe, Simeon, but I mean it. I’m ready to hang up my bow too. Oh, if there were a major eruption, if the Romans invaded the Galilee, or something like that, I couldn’t just stand by idly. But then, who could? I suspect even you would take arms again to protect your family.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Yesterday, as I made up my mind to talk to you about all of this, I realized that I was glad Livia can’t live as a Zealot’s wife. I’m ready for a change.”

  “She really has affected you, hasn’t she,” Simeon said in wonder. “And I can tell Livia that you are willing to make that commitment to her?”