Chapter Eighteen

Verse One

As I later found out first-hand, the Persians worship a god they call Ahura Mazda. I often wondered if they were actually worshiping our Lord, but under a foreign name. The Persians say that their god created the heavens, the earth, men, and animals. They also say, as did the prophet Daniel, my cousin John, the Essenes, and others of my people, that a man will come from the heavens to lead a great cosmic battle in which evil will be defeated, truth will be uncovered, and peace will reign for eternity. My people believe that the Persians were chosen by the Lord to deliver our ancestors from their exile in Babylon. Wouldn’t the Lord reveal himself as the one, true god even to a Gentile people if he were to have them do his work?

They honor a founder known in Greek as Zoroaster, who is somewhat akin to our Abraham—their god spoke directly to Zoroaster and forged a covenant with him and his people. They cloud the similarities with their own legends, however, most notably of Zoroaster rising from death to ascend to heaven and become a demigod.

The Greeks inject such a myth into the tales of nearly all their heroes, and it may have grown new and deeper roots in Persia when Alexander conquered it. Greek lore has spread across the land like burrs clinging to travelers’ woolen garments.

The Romans, with some name changes, acquired Greek religion almost in its entirety and expanded it to include their emperors, claiming that Julius, Augustus, and probably other throne-warmers rose from the dead to race through the sky (Julius was said to become a comet) and be transformed into gods.

How many nations have tired of their gods and replaced them with men? Even our scriptures have Elijah and Enoch taken up into the heavens. Where did they go? Is that my people’s version of men becoming gods? Does it make us feel closer to such a god, being half his nature? Can we more easily blame him for the suffering so prevalent in every life since the human remnants in his nature would render him less than perfect? Who thought he was perfect to begin with?

Verse Two

In the weeks following Judas’ departure, Mary alternated between stoic and despondent. Each time we entered a new village, she would ask people if they’d seen him. She tried to describe him, but it was how you’d describe any Galilean peasant: stocky frame, dark hair, dark eyes, and undyed garments. Even his cleft chin and full lips were common traits. He probably did not use his real name.

Not knowing if Judas was alive or dead caused her much grief and, in her worst moments, only Jesus was able to comfort her. They would walk arm-in-arm, she would lay her head upon his shoulder, and he would sing, as if putting an infant to bed: “O Mary, child of the moon, mother of oceans . . .” or some such drivel. If she looked wistful, he could be in the middle of speaking to the inner council and stop to brush her cheek. Sometimes Jesus would end a meeting early, and he and Mary would take a walk together, leaving the rest of us to wonder if Jesus preferred her company to ours.

“Judas should have taken her with him,” Peter said one evening after a council meeting and Jesus and Mary had strolled away, leaving the rest of us sitting by the fire. “A woman at council!” Peter went on. “She is showing what women essentially are—distractions.”

“Mary is a good thinker,” said Andrew, “and she’s an inspiration to anyone who pays attention. No one here is more driven for this cause.”

Peter slammed his fist against his chest. “No one?” Peter’s great head flushed crimson, and slobber bubbled at the corners of his mouth. I wondered if his impatience for a more focused plan had begun to sour into disillusionment. In the time after Judas’ departure, Peter grew increasingly irritable, snorting at all suggestions, grunting disapproval more often than engaging in discussion.

Peter spat into the fire. Then he spat into it again. Then again. He was leaning so close to it that his beard began to singe.

I took a risk and put my hands upon Peter’s shoulder, pulled him back from the flames, and nodded toward him the way Jesus did when he stilled troubled hearts. “Peter, we all miss Judas. Maybe you miss him more than all.”

His response was the heel of a broad palm like a mallet against my chest. It rolled me onto my back. My wind was gone; all I could do was wait in a swirling panic. The stars clustered around each other like minnows at the edge of a lake. Voices rose about me as if coming from another room. A commotion was going on, but it felt distant and of no concern to me. Then someone lifted me by the arms and, in a painful gasp, air rushed into my throat.

Jesus could have uttered exactly the same words as I had and Peter would have been weeping in his arms. How did he do it? What did I lack?

Peter, Andrew, and five or six others scuffled and grunted and cursed—I couldn’t tell who was shoving or trying to detain whom—until, like some many-legged animal, they all tumbled into the fire. For an instant, I hoped someone would burn to death; perhaps we could make him into a martyr whose death would breathe life into us. We had missed the chance with the baptizer. I caught myself in that desperate thought and vomited.

The squabblers rolled from the fire. They heard and saw me vomit, which must have reminded them that I had been assaulted. They formed a circle around me, asking if I was injured. I felt cramped, as if they were stealing my air, and I just wanted to tell them to move away, but all I could do was retch. The retching strained my bruised chest, as if an oxcart wheel were expanding inside me. From the pain in my sides, I feared I had some broken ribs. Andrew bent down and said he saw no blood in the vomit. I was praying that I would not throw up again. Then arms lay across my back and shoulders—Jesus and Mary.

Mary was in a terror, asking if I was well and what had happened and where was Peter and if I felt cold.

I felt a little better. “Peter and I had a disagreement,” I managed to say. “I provoked him.” I took a slow, deep breath. “Nothing serious.”

My hands were pressed against my chest. Jesus placed his hands upon mine. For a moment, I feared he was attempting to heal me. I tried to move away from him before he embarrassed us both, but he grabbed my robe and leaned toward me, his eyes wet, and I realized that he was thanking me—whether for defending him against slurs or trying to tame Peter―while at the same time not blaming him for failing to show needed authority.

This was another unspoken exchange between us, the meaning of which is difficult to articulate. I sensed that Jesus had come to some new level of awareness that he was sharing with me. Maybe his private conversations with Mary had led to a great insight. Maybe he detected something in me that neither he nor I had seen before. Regardless, I was in no condition to talk about anything, but at least I forgot the pain in my chest.