7

HALF HIS TUNIC clung wetly to him, and the other half was streaked and spotted with damp purple. He shook his head to one side to loosen water in his ear. Simon stepped back at the ensuing spatter of drops.

It was Simon who finally broke the silence in the courtyard. “What are you going to do, James?”

James looked down and picked bits of hyacinth from his shoulders. He fingered his beard and removed anything he found. Stems, pieces of bark. Fortunately he wore his beard short, in the Roman style.

“I am going to change my clothing.” Unfortunately his other tunic was soiled. Washday was the day after Sabbath.

Jorah came close to examine the new color. She fingered the wet fabric. “James, I could dye the rest of this.”

“I was not talking about your clothing,” Simon stated. “What are you going to do with your apprentice?”

“You think I am going to wear lavender?” James asked Jorah. “I will donate this to Annika’s poor box first.”

“I could finish the rest in the purple, then soak it in the yellow. Then it will turn to a sort of —” Jorah cocked her head to the side —“dullish brown. Maybe gray. What do you think, Mother?”

Mary murmured something in agreement. She, too, fingered the fabric and sent a swift glance to James’ face. James cracked a tiny smile that only she could see.

Simon waited, but James did not answer. Ideas were plentiful, of course, especially when his face was pressed at the bottom of the pot. He touched his nose and wondered if it was bruised. Why did this dunking not ignite the rage? Strangely, his stomach was peaceful, as if filled with warm milk.

“I do not know what I will do with Nathanael,” James answered. “I will think on it.” As he shook out his tunic, he quietly asked his mother, “Where are you going? Where will you stay?”

Mother went to the basket of soiled laundry against the wall near the smallyard. She rummaged through it until she came up with James’ other tunic, wadded and rumpled. She shook it out and brought it to him —holding it away from her, with her nose wrinkled.

“I would not wear this around Keturah,” she commented with a small smile.

James felt his jaw come down. “What . . .”

“Oh, James, don’t be ridiculous,” Jorah chided as she fussed about, picking flowers from his tunic. “Everybody knows.”

“Knows what?” Simon and James demanded at the same time. James felt his face grow warm. Fortunately, neither Mother nor Jorah replied. But they did trade a look with each other. He grimaced and all but snatched the tunic from Mother. He ducked into the storage room at the back of the courtyard, pulled off the wet tunic, and tossed it out near the pots. He struggled his wet body into the dry —he wrinkled his own nose —and smelly tunic, then joined the others.

“Where will you go, Mother?” Joses asked.

Mary drew a breath. “I plan on going to Bethany to stay with Devorah until I can find out where he is. Then I will join him.”

She had gone to him before these past three years, especially when he stayed around Galilee. A few weeks at a time, once an entire month. But she always came back. This time, her announcement had finality.

“Why don’t you wait until we all go for Passover?” Judas said. “It is only a month off. We could travel together, stay at Devorah’s again the way we did last year.”

“Devorah’s first child will come soon. I want to be there for her.” Mother folded her arms, and her gaze drifted. “I need to go now. I must go now.”

No, being forced into a dye pot like an armful of wool did not sizzle his stomach but talk of Passover did. James tried to smooth out the rumples in his tunic, glancing at the others. Passover was not a popular subject with any of them these days. What used to be a joyous occasion, something much anticipated, was now a source of worry, even fear.

“What is it going to be like this year?” Judas muttered as he handed a cup to Jorah, who had begun to clean up.

“Everyone thought he would declare last year,” Simon said, crossing his arms and leaning against the whitewashed wall. “And the year before. What will happen this year?”

“Who knows what he will do,” Judas said darkly.

James snorted. “We know what he will not do. I only wish those poor fool idiots realized it as well. Save them a whole lot of time and dreaming. They could pick out someone else to be their messiah.”

“Like Raziel,” Joses said. He sat at the cistern with the dipper in hand. He drank and replaced the dipper, then folded his arms and asked wearily, “What happened?”

“He came all the way from Kerioth to bring Mother a scarf,” James told him. “Gave us some nonsense about —what did he say? —knowing what it was like to be the village pariahs.”

“It wasn’t nonsense, James,” Jorah protested.

“You mean you believed him?” James gave a hard laugh. “Think, Jorah. Avi and his friend, both fanatical followers of Raziel, show up on our doorstep one week ago. Now Raziel. What does it say to you? You are the one who always wants to be included. You figure it out.”

Simon frowned. “Two of his disciples, here last week?”

“Nathanael chased them clear to the plain,” Jorah said with a small smile.

“Yes, just who is this Nathanael?” Simon demanded.

Joses waved him quiet. “We can talk about him later. I agree with James. He could not have come all the way from Kerioth just to bring Mother a scarf. That makes no sense.”

“Where is Kerioth?” Jorah asked as she stacked cups together and placed them in a willow basket. She took the platter of dried fruit and slipped it into its hanging net near the bread cupboard.

“South of Hebron, west of the Salt Sea,” Judas answered.

“It is a great distance,” Jorah said slowly, fingers resting entwined in the hanging net. “Farther than Jerusalem.”

“Kerioth,” Joses murmured.

“I don’t like that Nathanael.” Simon brooded in a slouch against the wall. “He is disrespectful and rude. Father would never have tolerated —”

“Father would never have tolerated your own rudeness,” Jorah snapped at him.

“God have mercy on us. What can it mean?” Joses whispered, staring into the air. His hands gripped the prayer shawl still draped about his shoulders.

“Joses . . . ?”

Joses said, “One of his disciples is from Kerioth. And rumored to be a Zealot.”

Simon straightened. “One of whose disciples? Jesus’?”

Face white as his tallith, Joses nodded. “His name is Judas. Judas Ish-Kerioth.”

Simon sat down heavily at the low couch. Judas began to pace. Jorah whispered, “What can it mean?”

“It means we go see this Raziel now,” James said. “We find out what he is planning.”

“He is using Jesus,” Joses said in a voice of quiet wonder.

“Who is?” Simon asked, frustrated. “Raziel or Judas?”

“Raziel,” James said at the same time that Joses answered, “Judas.”

Joses went on, shaking his head, speaking as if to himself. “One of his closest friends . . . planning to use him.”

“We do not know that, Joses,” Jorah said. Doubtfully, she added, “Maybe Raziel and this Judas do not even know each other.”

“Both Zealots? Both from Kerioth?” Simon demanded.

“He did not seem like a person planning an uprising,” Jorah said. She appealed to Mother. “Did he, Mother?”

James groaned. “Jorah, if you are going to plan a rebellion, you are not going to seem like it.”

“We have to stop it.” Joses rose from the cistern. “They cannot use him like that; it is not what Jesus is about. That we know.” He put both hands to his temples. “This cannot be happening. Jesus must be told. We have to warn him.”

Jorah turned angrily on Joses. “How do you know there is a plot against Jesus? Stop talking like that! I liked Raziel. I do not think he would do anything to hurt Jesus!”

Joses came close to Jorah. “Jorah, Passover is only a month away. Jerusalem will be flooded with Jews. The Zealots see that as an opportunity to launch a campaign. With the great number of Jews, they can make it look as though we are all united against Rome. These Zealots will do anything —anything, Jorah —to get as much support for an uprising as they can. Numbers are what they need. A few months before Passover is when they are at their busiest . . . they travel all over the country, agitating the people to —” he opened his arms, gesturing for the word —“passion, or at least hope for the return of our land. Then, at Passover, all they have to do is shout the loudest.” He took her shoulders and searched her eyes. “Don’t you see, Jorah? They will use Jesus. Not from spite —I do not really believe that. But because they believe so deeply in their mission.”

“‘The cause is everything,’” Simon muttered. “It is their battle cry. We got an earful of it on the road. They even display it on signs, with other things like, ‘Jews for the Land. The Land for the Jews.’ When the Romans are not looking, of course.”

“Only one of us must go to Raziel,” Judas said, frowning and pinching his lower lip. “If we all go, it will look too suspicious.”

Suspicious? James wanted to laugh. If the Romans knew Raziel was in Nazareth . . . and that one of Jesus’ own disciples was from Kerioth . . .

“I will go,” he said, his own voice hollow.

“You?” Simon asked, one eyebrow arched. Simon knew of James’ reluctance to leave the workroom.

“Yes, me,” James snapped, glaring at Simon, daring him to say something else. Simon shook his head and looked away.

“You should leave now,” Judas said to James. “Sabbath is only a few hours off. Take the back ridge. Most people will be hurrying to finish work or busy with Sabbath preparations. It is not likely you will be noticed.”

Simon snorted. “They noticed Joses and me. ‘There go two more sons of God,’ one of them yelled. Another said, ‘Come, Simon, perform a miracle for us. Surely it runs in the family.’ The louts.”

“Devorah is the only one who had the sense to escape,” James muttered, siding with Simon in spite of himself.

“Devorah does not have a soul,” Jorah declared.

“Jorah!” Mother gasped.

“She doesn’t! The only thing Devorah ever cared about is Devorah.”

Jorah was right, and somehow it did not surprise him to hear her speak so plainly. It seemed everyone spoke plainly these days. Why hold anything back when your brother was Jesus of Nazareth?

“I will wager a month of wool sales that she was never even in love with Matthias,” Jorah went on, arms folded. “He was her passage out of Nazareth.”

“Jorah of Joseph, I did not raise my daughter to speak so,” Mother said, drawing herself up.

“You raised your daughter to speak truth, Mother!” Jorah protested, coming to her side to plead with her hands. “All Devorah ever wanted was a perfect life. If things did not go perfectly, then she pretended that they did. She could never handle anything that threatened her idea of a —”

“She loved Jesus,” Mother protested.

“Of course she did, Mother. But if anything unpleasant ever crossed her world —”

“She was the first to deny him.” It came from Simon, and it surprised them all, that and the fact that it was the truth.

He sat at the couch, elbows on his knees, absently rubbing his hands together. “She denied him by ignoring him. My, but she had a talent for that. It was one of the reasons why I wanted to visit her when we were in Bethany. I wanted to see if she could ignore him now.” He looked up at the attention on him and cracked a bitter smile. “Lazarus, you know.”

“You never told me that,” Joses said, quiet and surprised. “You never said that was your reason to see her.”

Simon half chuckled. “You never asked. You had your own plans. I wanted to see how Devorah could ignore him now, with Lazarus in her new hometown. What a joke. She could not escape Jesus after all.”

James’ mouth was suddenly as dry as Mother’s newly cleaned wool. Was it as bizarre to anyone else, speaking so casually of a recent event that most people denied and the rest refused to speak of? Just like the day Jesus came back to visit Nazareth. Nobody spoke of that day. Not the villagers, not the family, nobody. “This Lazarus was on your list of people to look up?”

“He was,” Joses said, then added a touch too quickly, “But we could not find him. Neither Lazarus nor his sisters.”

“We did not look very hard, did we, Joses?” Simon said, turning his gaze onto Joses. “Something I could not quite figure out, as hard as you sought for the truth.”

But Joses would not answer. James had his suspicions . . . a man once mad with demons scared Simon. Maybe a man risen from the dead was enough to scare Joses.

James would ask later; he was wasting time. He took a cloth belt from the dirty laundry basket and wrapped it around his waist. He spared only a moment to send a swift glance at his family, then headed for the passageway.

“Godspeed,” Simon murmured.

“The back ridge,” Judas called after James as he trotted from the courtyard.

The One True God’s response brought him to an abrupt halt.

“That is why you chose Melkor?” Balthazar shook his head. Who could have known?

He glanced over his shoulder toward his homeland, where the sun soon would disappear. Melkor was from Arachosia, much farther east than Susa. He had been a fellow keeper of the flame of Ahura Mazdah. Another man singled out, tempest-tossed into the maelstrom that had swept across a sun-baked land, plucking others along the way, gathering them into its vortex, depositing them in a hapless little town called Beth-L’hem.

There would be others this time. Who would they be? Which unlikely ones had the One True God chosen now? Balthazar chuckled. Ever fond of choosing the unlikely ones, he was.

He faced westward and started walking, glad for the coming of twilight, comfortable with the stars.

It was nearly springtime in Galilee. The skies were clearer now every day, and the heavy winter rains left behind a countryside awash with the first suspicion of vibrant color. The land from the ridge fell away into valleys that rose again into other hills, and those hills were cloaked in lush green. New flowers would soon decorate the cloak, embroidering it with yellow and red, purple and white. The breezes were growing gentler, filled with fragrance and a hint of the warmth to come.

From where James walked on the ridge, he could see down into the homes that grew in number the closer he got to the village. With the coming spring, most activity moved from the inside of the homes to the courtyards again. Summer shade awnings were beginning to replace winter rain awnings. Rooftops were ready to be smoothed from the season of rain in preparation for a season of baking in the sun.

When had he last walked this ridge? To go to synagogue, maybe, sometime last summer. It was always nicer to take the ridge down into the village. Longer, yes, but the ridge rode some of the highest parts of Nazareth, and you could see far from here. Mount Carmel, in the distance near the Mediterranean, on a clear day. The mountains of Megiddo and beyond.

James’ reason for the ridge was not only for anonymity. His eyes scanned the land that fell away to the left; he would be upon Keturah’s home soon.

Keturah lived with her father, just the two of them. Her mother had died at Keturah’s birth, and her father, Therin, never remarried. He raised his only child with help from his sister until she left to marry and have her own children. Therin had been a close friend of his own father. Mother used to ask Therin and Keturah to come for a meal.

He came upon the rocky outcrop that meant her home was a glance away. He paused, deliberately gazing to the right, south toward Jerusalem, as if enjoying the view. He avoided looking straight down; below the outcrop was a ledge, a ledge Jesus had had an appointment with nearly two years ago. He had escaped that appointment, and to this day nobody knew how he had done it. Only that, James was told later, one moment Jesus was on the edge of the cliff, and the next he had passed through the entire crowd. Passed through an angry mob, untouched. James did not see it happen; he was back at the synagogue.

The sun fell in the west, and in an hour or two the shofar would sound. He knew he had to hurry. Of course, the Law did not prevent travel within one’s own hometown, but the implication was there. Sundown meant Sabbath, and Sabbath meant home and family. He would soon have no business arguing with a Zealot in a home not his own. James studied the cloud streaks in the pale sky and kept his back to Therin’s home. He thought about not looking.

He did not see her at first, but then there she was. Seated on a step at the back passage of the home. She had something in her lap; he could not tell from here what. Maybe she was mending something. Maybe carving.

He should be watching from the safety of one of the ridge trees, but even if Keturah saw him she could not recognize him from this distance. At least he didn’t think so. He was on the verge of leaving, feeling increasingly uncomfortable staring at her in this secretive way, when suddenly Keturah looked up and directly at him.

He froze, and the foolishness he felt warmed his cheeks. If he dashed away, as instinct told him, he would look guilty . . . spying on her from on high, like David with Bathsheba. He made himself give a wave, then started on down the path. But Keturah called out, “Wait!”

James clenched his fists and cursed, first in Aramaic, then in Greek. Nathanael had taught him a few interesting expletives, which he had learned from some Roman soldiers in Caesarea. Somehow cursing in a different language didn’t seem wrong at all. He practiced the words as he watched Keturah hastily set aside whatever was in her lap and hurry to the slope.

She first took the path that wound up through their strip of terraced farmland. Then, holding her skirts with one hand and using the other for balance, she made straight up the hill for James.

“Stupid idiot,” he growled at himself. Now what was he going to do? He had to get to Annika’s! He had no time for foolishness with a . . . beautiful young woman.

Keturah’s face was flushed from exertion by the time she reached the top of the ridge. She stood breathing hard, looking at James, and pulled up her apron to whisk sweat from her face. Her hair was not covered, as it should have been. Had Keturah a mother, she would have worn a covering all the time. Then again, maybe not. James kept his lips from a smile. After all, this was Keturah, master carver. No one told her how to be.

“What are you smiling at?” she said, smiling herself.

“I thought I wasn’t,” he answered. “And I am smiling at you. You are not wearing your head covering.”

She pulled some wayward hair behind her ear and hastily smoothed down the rest. “I am at home. Why should I wear one around the house?”

“You never wear one.”

A delicate eyebrow came up, making James flush. He had as much as admitted he noticed.

“I have to be going,” he mumbled. “Good Sabbath, Keturah. Good Sabbath to your father.” He started away.

“Going where?”

He stopped, looking out to the hills. Over his shoulder he said, “I am —taking a walk.”

“May I join you?”

“No! I mean —I have to go talk with someone before sunset.”

“Oh.”

But he did not leave. He stood with his back to her, looking out on the spring-filled hills. How would things be different, this day, if his brother had never been born? James blinked. Could he take his thinking so far? A thought for Jesus to never have been born? Is that what he wanted? He was close enough to the edge to be able to see several feet down to the ledge; he made himself look at it now. What if Jesus had died that day, as the crowd and the leaders had intended?

“Were you here that day, Keturah?” he asked softly. “The day they brought him here?”

Keturah came beside him and gazed at the ledge. It was a ledge that had caught many lawbreakers thrown down from the top. The distance —“not less than the height of one man, not more than the height of two” —was far enough for bone-breaking damage upon the fall, but not always far enough to kill. The ledge bore the lawbreaker while stones finished the job. Four or five others had been dragged to this precipice in James’ lifetime; twice his father had been among the crowd for the righteous judgments. One had been a murderer, one an adulteress.

“I was weeding the garden,” Keturah murmured. “It was a quiet morning, and I was angry that I could not be at the synagogue. I wanted to hear what Jesus had to say. I knew Father would tell me later, but —well, I heard something in the distance. I remember standing up, looking around, trying to figure out what the sound was. It was coming closer. And then I realized it was coming from the ridge.”

Keturah moved to the edge of the cliff, directly above the ledge. She looked down at it, arms about herself. A gentle breeze from the valley caught her long wavy hair, lifting it in a swirl for a moment. She sat down and looked up at James, and patted the ground next to her.

God of Israel, he did not want this. Why was he doing this? Why was he reliving a day he had tried hard since to forget? But he was moving to the edge, and he was sitting down beside her. And he was looking at the gray rocky ledge below.

Keturah crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap. “It had happened twice before, that I remember. I would always feel such . . . pity . . . horror . . . for whoever was being condemned. Knowing that the condemnation was just did not make it better. Those other times I had run around the side of the house to cover my ears against the screams. When I saw the crowd this time, I wanted to run again. I was ready to —and then I saw Joses.”

Joses had gone with the crowd. James was . . .

“He was on the outside of the crowd, trying to get to someone in the middle. He was screaming, and —” She put her fingertips to her lips, perhaps to make them stop trembling. “He was beside himself. They would not let him in.”

James had been on the ground in front of the synagogue. Gravel imbedded in his beard and cheeks. Dust in his mouth, the taste of the crowd that dragged his brother away. The memory came back in relentless strokes.

“Tell me what happened, James.”

He thought he had seen his brother for the last time, and so he tore his tunic down the middle in a torrent of grief and rage.

He realized Keturah had spoken and heard what she said. “Why?” James snapped. “Why do you want to know what happened? You already know. Everybody knows.”

She shook her head. “James, the explanation my father gave is no explanation at all.”

“What did he tell you?” He had seen Therin in the crowd. Therin had turned on Jesus too.

Keturah drew her knees up. She rubbed a water spot on her sandal, then sighed heavily. “He said Jesus deserved to die for the shameful things he’d said. That was it. He does not speak of it, will not permit me to ask questions about it.” She paused and said reluctantly, “And since that day he changed his mind about Jesus. He used to support your brother. Now he will not even speak of him.”

James nodded slowly. Pretty much the whole village changed after that day. And though Keturah seemed embarrassed for her father, at least Therin was one of the few who still treated the family with a . . . determined sort of normality. Perhaps to honor the memory of Joseph.

“Keturah, you and Therin are rare. Not many want much to do with my family.”

“Father is a good man. Most of them are good, James; they have good hearts. They simply do not understand Jesus.”

James shook his head. “You are wrong, Keturah. They understand him perfectly. That’s why they wanted to kill him.”

“Tell me, James,” Keturah insisted, turning her dark eyes full on him. “Tell me what happened that day.”

And so James told her.

The paradox was that it started out as the finest moment in the whole of Jesus’ mission. Sitting in the synagogue that day, listening as Jesus spoke . . . in those moments an idea formed in James’ mind, in the minds of all who were in the synagogue that day. For a short and wondrous time, the mission of Jesus seemed clear, and hope rose.

The brothers had sat together, the five of them, as they used to, in the same old place on the same old bench. After a whole year, it was so good to have Jesus back again —but it was more than good; it was time. It was a day for answers, and if Jesus had not exactly promised he would explain himself at last, why, it was more than implicit. Expectation lit the faces of all who attended. Jesus, their own son of Nazareth, had returned to set down once and for all his purpose and his plan.

“Take gracious pleasure, O Jehovah our God, in thy people Israel, and in their prayers. Accept the burnt offerings of Israel, and their prayers, with thy good pleasure.”

The blend of male voices had resonated in the room. They were all together again, save Joseph. All the brothers, one in voice, one with the rest.

“And may the services of thy people Israel be ever acceptable unto thee. And, oh, that our eyes may see it, as thou turn in mercy to Zion. Blessed be thou, O Jehovah, who restores his Shechinah to Zion.”

James had glanced about the room, tense with emotion; pride, of course, that his brother sat next to him; anxious that he would say the right things. James himself did not know what Jesus would say; he only hoped that it was . . . right. That the elders would approve.

James cast a look down a row of men; some were scholars, one or two were sages, and all were the chosen of Nazareth, Jews who had kept the faith —often at great personal cost. They were men he had known all his life, good men whose familiarity brought comfort, whose presence brought security and sane thinking to a world of Roman violence and Gentile godlessness. Men who took care of their families, men like neighbor Eli, sitting behind Joses, who once found James when he was lost as a child and carried him home to his mother. Men like gentle old Rimson, who carried sweets in his pockets for children. Jotham, whose family had often shared Sabbath meals with them. Benaiah, the father of a girl James once liked. James could relax when he saw those faces, once Jesus said the right things.

They had every right to expect a full report. All the things they had heard these past several months . . . of healings and grand speeches to hold a crowd spellbound. Why, the fame of Jesus had spread to even the distant places of Galilee. This son of Nazareth had much to explain, and today every man present would discover at last what he was about. After all, these things had not happened in Nazareth, had they? Surely there was a reason for it.

Pride and anxiety, hope and worry, joy and anticipation. All of this, and the Sabbath service too. James had to force himself to keep from fidgeting like a little boy. The service had proceeded as usual, with measured deliberateness, as if the attendants would not brook a casting off of piety in favor of excitement over this famous son of Nazareth. They would allow Jesus to speak at the proper time. But glances from the attendants themselves joined the stares from everyone in the assembly . . . attention always came back to Jesus and the brothers. Sometimes James would share a nervous grin with one, with Joses in particular. He remembered the way he and Joses had looked at each other and the way Joses had looked at Jesus. With confidence. Assurance.

The Shema was recited, as well as the other prayers and blessings. Then the readings began. The first reading came from Torah. Then came the reading from the Prophets. The leader who was designated to read that day turned instead to Jesus. The brothers exchanged looks as Jesus rose; to offer the reading to someone else was an honor. It signified acceptance. It recognized piety. The day was only getting better. After nearly a year of uncertainty, it seemed as though things at last were being righted.

They handed to him the book of Isaiah, and the passage scheduled for that day seemed providential at the least. Jesus found the text and began to read.

“‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because He anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed, to proclaim the favorable year of the Lord.’”

James remembered how very small he had felt, because those words loomed large. They set his skin to tingling, coming from the lips of Jesus. Did anyone else feel the same? To be sure, a reverent hush had come upon them all. As transfixed as James, the men in the synagogue watched as Jesus gently rolled up the scroll, smoothed his hands reverently over the outer cover, and gave the book back to the leader. He took his seat, and they could not take their eyes from him.

And then Jesus spoke, firmly and clearly. “Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

There it was. Exactly what they wanted to hear.

The collective pent-up breath was released, and astonished murmurs rose. James closed his eyes briefly, then turned to look at his brothers with a weak smile. In their eyes he saw what he felt. Relief. Wonder. Awe. And the murmurs around him were a balm to his soul.

“Fulfilled? Why, yes —of course! The healings . . . the miracles!”

“This is Joseph’s son, is it not?”

“Yes, blessed be his memory. Would that he had lived to see this day!”

“His own boy . . . our own Jesus!”

There was time enough for imaginations to kindle. There was time enough for expectation to brighten their senses. There was time enough for James to hear things spoken in the rushing ebb and flow around him, things to lift his heart and, for the first time in a year, to change the wistful fear inside to something more like hope. Something more like belief.

“All the marvelous things he has done . . . it has truly been a sign of God’s hand upon him!”

“Could it be that he fulfills the words he just spoke? Release for the captives? Think of it!”

“The days of Rome are numbered!”

“Then . . . Isaiah wrote those words for this time, this place . . . astonishing!”

“That I have lived to see the day of Israel! The freedom of our people!”

His own brother. God’s hand upon his own brother! It was enough to make James sag in his seat, to exchange wondering stares with Joses. Recovery of sight to the blind. Freedom for the oppressed. And oh, God, most of all, release for the captives.

All about him imaginations ran riot; speculations came fast and thick. Was it the beginning of a new era? Time at last for the end of all foreign domination? For Israel to rise again? And would Nazareth —think of it! —be at the heart of it all? They would all be famous! Those in Jerusalem would come to see their Galilean brothers not as the rustic provincials they supposed, but as the chosen of God.

Yes . . . yes! Nazareth would be the headquarters. Jesus ben Joseph would be their leader . . . their Prophet! And the people of Nazareth would be like David’s mighty men of old. A rush filled the room, a force of heady power that left James trembling. God was on the move! God was going to really, truly restore Israel. Through his own brother.

They were the last moments James remembered being happy.

Everyone was so busy whispering and murmuring and imagining that no one had taken notice of Jesus himself until a single voice rose above the murmurs.

Clear and resonant, new words came. “No doubt you will say to me this proverb: ‘Physician, heal yourself.’”

Jesus is speaking again! Quiet, everyone!

“And ‘Whatever we heard was done in Capernaum, do here in your hometown as well.’”

What is this? Shhh, I cannot hear him! What is he saying now?

“Truly I say to you, no prophet is welcome in his own hometown.”

The murmurs fell away.

Confusion came.

And what had begun in the synagogue that day, as the mighty swell of a single wave, what should have ended as a magnificent crash upon the shore, instead stopped short of the land because Jesus did next what he always did —he took it too far.

“I say to you in truth, there were many widows in Israel in the days of Elijah, when the sky was shut up for three years and six months, when a great famine came over all the land; and yet Elijah was sent to none of them . . . but only to Zarephath, in the land of Sidon, to a woman who was a widow.”

“No,” James whispered.

But his brother went on, relentless and calm.

“And there were many lepers in Israel in the time of Elisha the prophet; and none of them was cleansed . . . but only Naaman, the Syrian.”

Silence like a tomb seeped over the assembly. They waited, stunned, for him to explain, to justify, to retract. But, implacable, he sat next to James and did not speak again.

It did not take long for the implication of his words to penetrate. Mutters swept the crowd. Was Jesus saying he would bypass them in favor of Gentiles? Naaman was a Syrian, a hated enemy of Israel. Was Jesus saying he would go to the Romans? Heal their lepers, bypassing Israel’s own? Go to their widows, despising the widows of Israel? After all Rome’s cruel tyranny and oppression? What effrontery was this? Who did Jesus think he was? His words rang discordant in their ears, and not long after, a growl like low thunder rose.

Look at him, so haughty! He performs his mighty works elsewhere, but should not Nazareth be his proving ground? Why would he ignore Nazareth? Because they all knew how ordinary he was? Look at him! What is so special about him? He is not like David, is he? He is not like Judah the Maccabee. He is a weakling compared to the mighty men of old! Naaman the Syrian, he says? A Gentile pig widow, he says? Touch not the unclean, the Torah says! He is not for us but for our enemies.

James and the brothers twisted in their seats, quickly assessing the furious rise of emotion in the assembly, looking to Jesus to assuage the crowd. Do something! Take it back! Tell them you didn’t mean it! Implacable, he remained.

He is not for us but for our enemies! He is a traitor!

You have got to take it back! Make it right! Quickly!

Open your eyes, brethren, it is a trick of Satan! He does his miracles to lead us astray from God and the Law. We have been deceived!

Jesus! For God’s sake, say something! Do something!

“Physician, heal yourself”? Come, let us give him a chance.

James and the brothers were on their feet, instinctively forming a circle around their brother. They had to get him home, out of this hothouse of emotion. Let it die down and —

The low thunder kicked up into a roar of fury. The good men of Nazareth rose as one, spurred by righteous anger. James saw flashes of faces he knew, young and old, heads covered in prayer shawls, hands gripping garments as if to tear them, people he had known all his life, people he loved and trusted  —all bearing down upon his brother.

“Simon! Joses! We must get Jesus —”

A hand dug into his shoulder and pulled him aside, and the crowd streamed into the breach.

“No —Jesus!”

Shoved aside, pushed back and jostled, James tried to struggle back into the crowd, but the distance between him and Jesus grew. He jumped to see, and the flash of view revealed Jesus —someone was tearing his prayer shawl from his head. James jumped again, using shoulders to pull himself up —someone had a handful of Jesus’ hair, was dragging him to the synagogue door. Another jump . . . Simon! He was still at Jesus’ side, arms trying to shield, wide shoulders taking a blow meant for Jesus! James felt an insane moment of hope, because Simon was there and fighting.

But the next leap revealed Simon going down.

And the tidal wave of human wrath swept Jesus away.

“Jeee —sus!” James screamed. Oh, God, this was impossible!

“To the cliff!” they shouted.

“No! Listen to me —listen to me! He is innocent! He does not deserve a death like that!”

“The cliff!”

“Not a death like that!”

He scrabbled after them, clawed his way into their midst, only to be recognized and beaten back. He rose and stumbled down the synagogue steps, to be again forced back. He fell, and a foot ground his cheek into the gravel, filling his mouth with dust. The foot held him there, and he watched the crowd surge away while he screamed things they did not hear.

You do not know him as I do . . . no, he is good! Oh God, he is good. . . .

The roar faded into the distance, and James struggled to his knees. Please . . .

Keturah wept softly. James’ chest felt compressed, as though held in the grip of a giant. Numb, he rose, staring down at the ledge. Then, without a word to Keturah, he stumbled away, lurching in the direction of Annika’s.