Chapter Eleven

Verse One

Many years later, I left my homeland and became a world traveler. I suppose I was as much running from the failures of my past as I was seeking a new start on a future.

I made it as far as India and, soon after my arrival there, I saw a man sitting by the street in the center of a small village. He was completely naked, his matted beard reached his waist, and his hair was plaited into many long braids that looked like worn ropes. His followers, perhaps a thousand, outnumbered the villagers. They sat and tried to emulate his routine—drinking a cup of water once a day, eating only what could be held in the same cup every other day, and relieving himself every three days. While most came and went, some followers were rumored to have been with him for years.

He was known as a sadhu, and I was told that he had been in that same spot for twelve years and that, during that span of time, he had not slept. Insects plagued him, but he seemed not to notice. A woman claimed that, years earlier, she saw a cobra bite the man, and while the man sat motionless, the snake crawled up and draped itself about the man’s neck like a scaly shawl and died. The snake remained on the man for weeks without decaying, until it was stolen by a group of mischievous boys.

The sadhu died while I dwelt in the town. No tears were shed. His followers arose and returned to their villages and fields. I heard no mention of the man until I asked my landlord about him.

“Movement?” he asked. “Who would lead a movement for a dead man? He was not Krishna, you know.”

“But his followers were so dedicated. How could they forget him so soon and not establish something in his name?”

My landlord laughed. “You Greeks!” (He called anyone from west of Persia “Greek.”) “Always looking for ways to worship men! Eventually you’ll have more gods than we Indians.”

Verse Two

As we headed for Bethsaida, Mary, Andrew, Judas, Jesus, and I followed the Jordan north, crossing empty stretches of uninhabitable dirt, passing through settlements of eight or ten families, and meeting other groups of seekers, fugitives, and malcontents. All along, Jesus spoke with strangers, asking them about how they made their livings, how they dealt with the Romans, and if they had heard of John the Baptizer.

Nearly all put food on their tables by working at whatever they could be hired to do—helping landowners plant and harvest, chopping wood, repairing wagons. They stayed out of the Romans’ way as best they could, and those who knew of John had heard wild tales. One man said he was told that John had commanded the Jordan to open and swallow up a Roman regiment just before his arrest. Another said John had been beheaded, and the severed head prophesied that Antipas and all the Romans would be devoured by terrible bear-like beasts that would descend from the great frozen wilderness of the north before a year had passed.

Jesus was at ease with strangers, and his habit of slightly twisting his head to favor his good ear was endearing to many, as if it indicated earnest concern for their misfortunes. After a short conversation, he would seem to discover things about them that they had not told him—things that even they had forgotten—and they would marvel.

“How did you know that I was orphaned?” one might ask. “Are you a magician?” demanded another. A few left their hoes in the field to come with us. Many, however, eyed us down their noses and spat on the ground when we looked their way. Who could blame them? Galilean villages could barely support themselves, and no one needs a bunch of beggars who look no better than common thieves passing through their streets. Every now and then, a few of John’s followers would abandon us, but we managed to gather more than we lost.

Jesus did not maintain that easy composure with me, however. On the second day of our journey, he pulled me a few strides away from the group and told me his secret: “Thomas, I’m frightened.”

I could not remember ever hearing him say that before.

“Frightened? Of what? Things are coming together now. You have people who believe in you, who count on you. In two days, we have—well, despite losing a few—picked up another dozen. Isn’t this what you want?”

He took a deep breath and blew, as if trying to extinguish a distant candle. “Yes, but I can’t quite course out our path. We’ll be in Bethsaida tomorrow, and we can rest there. Then what? I know that people get inspired when I speak to them, but what is the real substance of my words?” He wiped his eye. It may have been dust; it may have been a tear. “I’m not John, Thomas. John had a vision, and even if it wasn’t the right one, I sensed an energy from him, something that could push me to die for his cause. Instead, he died, in a way, for us.”

I felt that kick in my gut again. Jesus had no idea what I and others had done for him or what we would be willing to do in the future. I ached to tell him how I had betrayed John, to unburden myself, but Jesus would never have forgiven me and perhaps, out of what I am sure would have been his notion of dirty hands, would have gone home and cut stone the rest of his life. Besides, he may not have even believed me, especially if I had told him that Mary had contributed to the scheme.

“Brother,” I said, “then do this for John. He practically announced to the world that you were his successor, didn’t he? Do you want him to have died in vain?”

“Of course not. But what if John was the anointed one? Is it possible to be the chosen one and yet die before you fulfill your destiny? Does the Lord direct every twist and turn of our history, or does he have to deal with contingencies? What if John was the best the Lord could do, and now he’s just a disheartening reminder of what could have been?”

“Perhaps,” I said, “John’s death was part of the Lord’s plan, too. Maybe he accomplished what the Lord needed from him, preparing the way for you and becoming an emblem by dying for a cause that you now lead. Look, anyone would be nervous in your position. You’re a strong man, Brother, but you’re allowed to second guess yourself from time to time.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” He rested his hand upon my shoulder and left it there as we walked. “I can’t express to you what a comfort you are to me. You know, don’t you, that things will just get harder?”

“I’m counting on it.”

Jesus squeezed my shoulder. “I’d be lost without you, Brother.”

I worried that he would be lost with me as well.

Verse Three

When we got to Bethsaida the next day, Andrew was eager for us to meet his family. The rest, who numbered maybe eighty by then, camped in a stand of willows by the lake only two or three minutes’ walk from the village and waited for our return. As we neared Andrew’s house, he pointed to a boat on the water and waved his arms. “Look,” Andrew said. “My brother and his friends.”

A large and powerful man shouted from the boat, “Andrew! You’re home!” The four men came to shore with a boat filled with fish.

“This is my brother Simon,” said Andrew. “And these are brothers James and John, and their father Zebedee.”

“I see you have a scar on your chin,” Judas said to Simon. “You are the Simon who demanded money from us when we were children.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Simon. “I was a thug then, but that was long ago.”

Judas grunted, a noise that others could have taken for approval. It took a moment for the memory to gel in my mind. A bizarre coincidence. I recalled that Jesus had said that Simon might be the sort of person we could use in our movement. I looked at him, but Jesus gave no sign that he remembered this big fisherman.

“Come to my house, and we’ll eat,” said Andrew.

The fish were cleaned and cooked, Andrew’s mother made bread, and Simon poured wine for us all. John and James joined us and seemed good men, fastidious about our comfort, making sure we had plenty on our plates before they fed themselves, asking about our journey, about our childhood in Nazareth, and about what we planned to do next. Andrew told them about his life with the baptizer and the wondrous things Jesus had said. James, John, and Simon treated us as exotic royalty, bowing apologetically each time we were offered more wine or a fig, as if their fare wasn’t worthy of us.

“We must go back to the others by the river,” I said. “They need food.”

“We have many fish here,” said Andrew. He turned to Simon. “This is enough to feed our friends.”

Simon looked startled. He faced his mother, then turned back to Andrew. “Brother, these fish are our livelihood. I have to sell them at the market tomorrow morning or we may not eat the rest of the week.”

Jesus stood. “We understand, Simon. We know what it’s like to live from meal to meal. We are most grateful for your sharing with us. Perhaps tomorrow we can help you fish, yes?”

“Great idea,” Andrew said. He rose from his seat, kissed his mother, and hugged his brother. “Thomas is right. We need to tend to the others.” He seemed a little too eager to leave. “We’ll find something for them. All the children and everyone.” He practically pushed us out the door into the darkening evening.

The crowd was at first excited by our return, but when we got closer, it became clear that we carried no baskets of bread, no fish, not even an olive. “My children are hungry, Jesus,” a woman said. “But we have no money for food.” I wondered if she and others suspected that Jesus, Andrew, and I were well sated.

Jesus bade the people to sit. “You have put your trust in me, my brothers and sisters, but I do not know how to provide for you. In time, we shall eat, but for now, think of all we have been through. Has not the Lord been by our side? Blessed are you with something in hand, but more blessed are you with nothing to hold, for your hand has room for more.”

I wasn’t sure what evidence Jesus could produce that the Lord had been by our side. John was dead, hundreds had returned to their homes in despair, and this sorrowful group had no food to eat. Jesus’ words calmed the people all the same.

As he was speaking, though, a woman from Bethsaida came to Jesus. “Rabbi,” she said, “I am a poor woman. I have little to offer, but what I have is yours.” And she handed Jesus a basket that contained a few fish and some bread.

“Good woman,” said Jesus, “you are willing to give to strangers. Who is more blessed than you? You call me ‘rabbi,’ but your compassion has taught us more than I could ever teach.” Then Jesus held up the basket. “Bring to me the children, and I’ll divide this food among them.”

As we meted out the food as best we could, only a morsel for each tiny hand, someone emerged from the darkness carrying torches. We turned to see Simon and the Zebedee brothers, John and James, all bearing great baskets of flour and fish.

“Behold!” said Jesus. “Compassion in the form of men!”

Andrew laughed and clasped hands with Simon. I had the suspicion that Andrew had known all along that his brother would not let him down.

We built two fires. On one, we roasted the fish. On rocks placed around the other fire, the women mixed the flour with water and spread circles of dough. We distributed the food as Mary sang, “The Lord feeds us and we are one. Blessed is the work that is done.”

After all had eaten, a few more torches were made from fallen willow limbs, John and James brought blankets and sheets for tents, and Jesus spoke to the people as they sat upon the bank, with more and more townspeople warily approaching.

“You are poor in pocket but rich in spirit,” said Jesus. “You sit in a strange land, eat others’ food, and sleep on others’ pallets. But those with ears should listen. You are like the fisherman who drew many small fish into his net. Among them was a large and curious fish so, without hesitation, the wise fisherman threw out the small ones and kept the large one. Did his wisdom lie in knowing what to keep, or in knowing what to let go? Fortunate are you who let go that which others grasp.

“Fortunate are you whose stomachs are full, but more fortunate are those who hunger. Fortunate are you whose hearts are full, but more fortunate are those whose hearts are empty, for they make room for the empire of the Lord.”

The crowd murmured, uncertain. “Tell us about the Lord’s empire!” shouted Simon.

“The Lord does not watch over us like an emperor who sits upon a throne. He does not sit. He does not watch. You cannot look upon Him as you would each other. He is not a being like us, but He is being itself, the ground of all.” I saw a small squint in Jesus’ eye, and knew that he knew he was in danger of losing the crowd. “Listen: The empire of the Lord is like a woman who carried a jar of flour. The woman did not know that the jar had a crack, and by the time she arrived home, the flour had spilled along the road.” Or, at least, I think he said flour. He may have said oil, but flour seems a better image to me, and more credible. She would be more likely to notice oil pouring out. For one thing, she might hear the splash on the ground, and some might hit her ankle. Also, oil is much heavier, and she would feel the jar getting lighter.

Jesus heard the mumblings of the crowd. He held up his hand to quiet them and continued: “Listen, a farmer went out and scattered his seeds. Some fell upon the road and were eaten by birds. Others fell upon rock and did not take root. Some fell into the weeds and brambles and were choked. But some fell upon rich soil and grew to an abundant harvest. If you wish to know the empire of the Lord, open your ears.”

The people were more pleased by this parable. I was unsure why. Perhaps it was because the woman ended up with nothing and the farmer got a good harvest, or because this one seemed more obscure than the flour jar story. Perhaps obscurity strikes them as profundity. In any case, as they called for more stories, Judas drew me aside, hissing, “Why is he speaking to the people as if they are children? If they’re so simple-minded, what good are they to us? We need to gather our forces, and they need to hear the truth if they are truly worth our trust.”

“Apparently, this is what they want to hear,” I said. “This is no different from how he spoke at John’s camp, except that now he favors parables more. Maybe that’s it—people need stories, not arguments. Look, I know what he says sounds odd, but look at him. He’s pacing about, smiling and laughing, more energetic and inspired than he’s been in weeks. He seems so at home before the crowd.”

“Is this what we’ve yearned for? Jars of flour? Will Israel be saved by seeds on rocks?”

“Pay attention, Judas. He’s speaking of truth—the truth that’s within us.”

“And what I’m speaking of is action—revolution,” said Judas as he sat down again by Mary. “That won’t be accomplished with a sermon, from him or from you.”

Judas was right. As much as I loved Jesus and believed in his leadership, this was much as things had always been—I, his twin, flesh and bone, was not sure where he was taking us. Perhaps it was all wishful thinking on my, and, I suppose, Judas’ part. Maybe we wanted a movement so badly that we had deluded ourselves into believing that one of us was a born, irresistible leader.

Jesus had changed in some way since John’s death, but I was not sure of the exact nature of his change. He usually stayed up after the rest of us went to bed. He ate less. He spoke in private to me less often, but when he did, it seemed more that he was talking to himself. Was he more focused? Perhaps, but maybe he focused on a goal only he could see.

More people came to hear him speak. Someone brought an ox cart for Jesus to use as a stage. Three hours after nightfall, I surveyed the crowd to find about two hundred huddled by the water. Old people with hands cupped to leathery ears, and even children, perched on their mothers’ laps, were enthralled.

“I once thought that the baptizer was the Lord’s anointed,” Andrew said as Jesus spoke of sheep lost and found, stolen coins, and unfaithful servants. “Jesus’ voice has gotten clearer, Thomas, like a hammer striking a bronze bowl. Just listen.”

Jesus was telling a story about a man sending a servant to invite people to a feast. The moon sliced through the trees behind him so that sometimes he was illuminated, but other times he was in shadows. I just can’t believe that he did this knowingly, but he seemed to punctuate his story by stepping into or out of the moonlight. The people, seated on the hard Bethsaida clay, looked like loving children hearing their grandfather tell them of King David.

“Then go out into the street,” Jesus said, a huge grin spreading across his face, “and invite anyone you meet. Bring in the beggars, the lame, the lepers. I should have invited them first, for why should I feed those with full stomachs?”

The crowd “oohed” and clapped their hands and nodded, surely thinking that they had just partaken of such a banquet.

“Now I understand something,” Andrew said, “or I think I do. I believe that John’s purpose was to prepare us for Jesus.”

I took Andrew’s arm and pulled him some ten or twelve paces from the edge of the crowd. “What are you saying? What sort of preparation did we need?”

“Well, not us. The rest of the world.”

“The rest of the world?” Did he have any idea how big the rest of the world was? He probably did not, nor did I, before my years of travel. “What does the rest of the world need to hear? No one outside of this land gives a damn about what the Romans do to us.”

“Maybe that will change.”

I had to push him on this. “So you’re satisfied that we did the right thing?”

“What thing?”

“Damn you,” I said. I looked around. No one was near, but I lowered my voice just the same. “I’m talking about John, and you know it.”

Andrew’s entire face tightened like he was waiting out a pain in his throat. “I have no regrets. We did what we had to do, right? We had to do it. We had to.” He opened his eyes and blew into his fist as he might do to warm his hand on a cold night. “Judas said we’ve redirected history. We have, don’t you think?”

I was happy that Andrew was feeling some of the same doubt that was plaguing me. I heard my brother stomping across the ox cart slats as he spoke. “Andrew, please answer with your heart. Do you think Jesus is the messiah?”

Andrew turned to look toward the stage as if he were ignoring me. After twenty or thirty seconds in which Jesus said something about a happy servant, Andrew looked back at me and slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. What can I say, Thomas?” The crowd roared in delight at something Jesus said. “Maybe he is, but who knows what the messiah is supposed to do? Will he deliver us? Will we even recognize our deliverance?”

For decades, I’ve wondered about these questions. And I’ve wondered if I ever would have the answers.