Thirty-One

There it was. The claim: clear, unambiguous, unmistakable. There was no way to construe it other than as he had said it. He was not saying that he was "with" God or was "sent from" God, or even that he was "full of" God. Not only did he assert that he was in existence before Abraham, and that Abraham himself was anticipating his coming with joy; he used the very name of God to do so: I AM, just as the Master had said it to Moses in the burning bush.

And as usual, he was nowhere to be found. Matthew looked around and saw Mary and her relatives leaving, and longed to join them, but could think of no excuse. He gazed after her, and realized how much he loved her, and how empty his life was without her. "As it was bound to be even if she had stayed," he sighed, but not really believing that he could never persuade her to accept him. It was only his way, he half realized, of making the separation bearable.

And even now he hoped--how could one not? She had never outright refused him, as Judith had refused David--that on Jesus's visits to see her, he might speak to her, or be able to look at her, at least. And some day--and his imagination failed him. How could such a beautiful woman care for a tax collector? And one she thought of as almost an old man? Reason would intrude on such things, and tell him there was no hope. But hope remained nonetheless, and in unguarded moments would stifle reason for a moment or two.

He noticed someone beside him, and then became aware that he was in a soldier's uniform. Longinus.

"Health to you," he said in Latin.

"Salve," answered Matthew. "Does your commander wish something?"

"Not precisely. That is, not unless you know something from Galilee that might interest him. When your Master is here, he has people discreetly placed to listen. It seems that --your friend--shows a certain delicacy in intruding on you personally."

"He is to be commended for that. Tell him if you see him."

"Then you are not inclined to pay him a visit?"

"Not unless I must. You need not tell him that."

"I will not. And I feel sure he will not ask. It is part of the delicacy. He merely told me that if I should see you, I was to ask if there was any relevant information."

"As far as I can tell, nothing. Did you hear what he said today, for instance?"

"I did. And I must confess, it did not make a great deal of sense."

"Perhaps not to a Roman. But it made a great deal of sense to the Judeans. But not in any way that would threaten Rome." He paused, thoughtful, and added, "Only himself."

"You think? I noticed the uproar. He did not seem to be endearing himself to his audience. But where did he go?"

"Ah, that is an interesting question. He has a way about him."

"I could swear I was watching him the whole time, but I lost him."

"As I say, he has a way about him."

"I fondly hope we never have to try to capture him."

"I can assure you that if he does not want to be captured, you may try as you like, but you will not take him. I saw him once early on in his home town, no less, and the citizens actually had their hands on him and were about to throw him over a cliff, and he simply was not there."

"In truth?"

"I saw it with my own eyes."

"Well, may it never come to that."

"Amen."

"And there is nothing beyond this--way with him--that your friend might like to know?"

"Well. . . you can tell him this, I suppose. From some things he has said, it is conceivable that Rome might become involved some day, and in that case, he would probably allow himself to be taken. Probably I fervently hope that what he has said does not bear that meaning; but it is what his words seem to indicate."

"That might be messy. Many of the people are ardent followers of his. You, for instance."

"I doubt if we would put up any resistance if he did not; and if he does not simply disappear as you saw him do, he will not. He is anything but violent. And so if you do take him, you will probably not have a riot on your hands. I am no prophet, but that is what I think--at the moment, anyway."

"Ah, well that is what my commander wishes to know. Stay healthy, Matthew--It is still Matthew, is it not?"

"It is. Vale, Longinus. It was--not unpleasant--to speak to you."

"The pleasure was mine." And he left.

Matthew mused as he walked away that any pleasure definitely had to be on the part of Longinus. He felt distinctly uncomfortable with such encounters; almost as if he were betraying Jesus. But he had said nothing that would incline Rome against him; on the contrary, he had stressed that he was no threat to Rome.

He was walking through the narrow streets of Jerusalem, with the high stone walls of the building closing in on either side, jostled from time to time by people passing him in both directions, but paying no attention to it, until one figure seemed to keep pace. He turned, wondering whether Longinus had come back, and saw that it was Jesus.

"I had another errand that I would like to accomplish," he said. "But you are pensive, Matthew. Was it because of the soldier?"

"Oh, did you see us?" Of course he did.

"I noticed you were talking."

"I told you last year that Pontius Pilate was once my master, and he asked me to provide any information about you that Rome might be interested in."

"And the soldier was gathering it?"

"There was none to gather, except that you manage to be able to extricate yourself from difficult situations when you choose. I told him that if ever they tried to capture you and you did not wish to be captured, they would not be able to hold you, because you suddenly would simply not be there."

"Well, you need not think of yourself as a spy for mentioning that. I saw that very soldier this morning, and I must say he looked a bit bewildered himself."

"So he said. Well, implied, at least."

"Well, sometimes such things are necessary. You see, there are things, as you have divined, that I must say before my time has come; and I must continue until my time does come."

"I do not pretend I understand. But I suppose I must accept it."

"So must we all." He stared down the street, thinking, and then revived. "But there is yet a small while. I must give the people more of a chance--a chance, that they will not take, I am sorry to say, though they could, they could. I will not force them, however."

"May I ask this, Master? You seem to be saying that the Kingdom will fulfill the prophesies, and I think particularly of those of Isaiah, like the lion and the lamb, and so on, when I see your cures and your statements of today, for instance. And yet I also read in Isaiah about the suffering servant taking our sins upon himself--prophesies that fill me with dread. Is that perhaps what is involved in the choice?"

"You are very astute, Matthew. I will say this. It is not simply poetry, and yes, it is connected with the choice."

"Then--" and he could not finish. Then the transformation of the world would not take place.

"Do not despair. It is not as dismal as you think. But as I said, I have an errand to perform, and I would have you accompany me, if you would be so kind."

Matthew hoped he was taking him to Bethany, but after they left Jerusalem, he went north rather than southeast, in the general direction of Ephraim. He chatted about inconsequential things as he strode along, Matthew rather struggling to keep up, even after all the practice he had in walking since he had joined Jesus. He did not have much breath for more than laconic replies.

After a while, the land became familiar-looking, though Matthew could have sworn that he had never gone this way before. But there were rock formations that he seemed to remember either from a dream or from some time in the distant past, and a general feel of the landscape that he seemed to know from somewhere.

Finally, after what must have been almost two hours, they came to a farm, which Matthew recognized with a shock was remarkably like the farm he had lived on when he was a child--except that the house seemed much smaller than he remembered it. It was reasonably well kept up, rather better than the house he had lived in, he thought.

He was musing at this, when Jesus went up to the door and knocked, and said, "I think I will leave you now. You will be able to find your way back, I trust."

Matthew nodded, bewildered, and Jesus was gone before an old woman opened the door. "Yes?" she said, and shaded her eyes from the declining sun with her gnarled hand.

It was the gesture. He could not believe it. "Mother?" he asked, tentatively.

She stared at him. "Why do you call me 'mother'? I had but one son, and years ago--" She stopped, her mouth open in astonishment. It was his mother's voice, a bit cracked with age, but the same voice, the same intonation.

"You had a son named Matthew, did you not?"

"I did, that was his name. I thought he had died. He ran off one day, and I never saw him since."

"He ran off because he tried to plow the field--that field over there--and he was too small to be able to push the plow into the ground. And he could not bear to tell you."

"I do not believe it!"

"It is true, though, Mother."

"Matthew! My Matthew! I cannot believe it!" She took his head in her hands with their fingers bent from arthritis and brought it down to her wrinkled face and planted a kiss on his forehead, saying, "Matthew! Matthew! Come home at last! I cannot believe it! I thought you had died!"

Dear God, did Jesus want Matthew to stay here, as he brought Mary back to her family!

"But come in, come in and sit down!" she said. "And tell me about yourself. I was sure you had died! I almost died myself, you know, when you left me to plow the field by myself. It was hard, very hard, and I very nearly could not do it. If it had not been for Roboam, I would have died! He came over once he found out that I was all alone and said that he would take me in--your uncle, you know. And he and Leah kept me for some months in their house until I recovered somewhat. That was a very hard year. A very hard year, Matthew--I cannot believe it, Matthew!--but when I said that I did not want to impose on them; I could not bear to be dependent, and I love this farm, he said he would come over twice a week and help with the work that was too much for me.

"So he did. It was difficult, all these years, but I managed without Asa and without you. Both of you gone in the same year! But I managed. Not well, but I have kept myself alive, thanks to him and to Leah--though she tended to avoid me as much as she could. Of course, she had four children of her own--they help out on the farm now, but not willingly, not willingly; it is not as if they are my own children. But my child had run off to God knew where, and might as well have died, for all the help he was to me." She looked at Matthew reproachfully, giving him a vivid reminder of why he had run off, and making him sympathize with his cousins, who must be about his age by now.

He said, "I almost actually did die, Mother. I wound up in Jerusalem, and eventually became a slave to a Roman."

"A slave! Did he beat you? How did it happen?"

"Oh, it is a long story, and a boring one, I am afraid. He did beat me once or twice, but in fact, we were more or less friends--to the extent that a slave can be a friend. He still calls me his friend; he has found me again recently. I was taken on as his companion, you see, and we studied together. I ran away from him also, after five or six years, but he does not hold it against me now--I think."

"You seem to delight in running away from people, and leaving them helpless. I knew not what to do when I found that you were gone, and the donkey dragging the upturned plow back to the house when he got hungry. What did I know of donkeys and plowing? What did I know? But I had seen Asa do it, and I knew that it had to be done, and there was no one, and so I did it! The donkey objected, but I managed. Everything fought me, but I managed. I managed. But then it became too much for me, and I fell ill. I fell ill, and had to ask help from Roboam and Leah. I never liked Leah, and she never liked me, but I had to ask, and so I did!

"But I hated it. But I managed, without Asa and without you, who had run off. I still manage; it will take a great deal to kill me off! A great deal. You do not want help from me, I hope. I can barely manage by myself with the little help I get from Roboam's children, and--"

"Oh, no, Mother! I knew not I was even coming here! I happen to be a follower of Jesus of Nazareth--"

Jesus of Nazareth! You mean the one everyone is calling a prophet?"

"Yes. He brought me here for some reason."

"Well, I hope he does not expect a contribution from me! I hope not. I have little enough as it is; I cannot be donating to prophets! And they say he is making wild claims about himself. I think he is a fraud, myself."

Matthew bristled, and then swallowed his rancor."Well, he saved my life," he said.

"Well, I am glad of that, I suppose. Except that you have not been much of a son to me all these years. Not much of a son."

"That is very true, Mother. Is there anything I can do for you now?"

"Oh, you would come to me now, to try to make amends? Nothing you could do could make amends to me for all that you did not do all these years, when I could have used your help. But I managed. I managed. And I managed on my own, with a little help from Roboam, after Asa and you both had deserted me. I never forgave him for killing himself, and I never forgave you for running off as you did--though in a way, it was a mercy, because I only had one mouth to feed. And little enough I had to put in it sometimes. Little enough.

"But do not think that you can come here to live with me now, and eat my food. I have barely enough for myself. I have enough, but barely enough."

"Mother, I would not dream of it!" Not in my worst nightmares, thought Matthew.

"Then why did you come?"

"Actually, as I tried to say, I did not know I was coming. The Master told me he had an errand to perform, and I followed him and found myself here. He left after he knocked on the door."

"He did, did he? He grew tired of you, and wanted me to take care of you. Well, I cannot. I can barely take care of myself. I cannot."

"Mother, I have no desire to have you take care of me." He bit his tongue and then said, "It was merely to give me the pleasure of seeing you once again after all these years."

"Well, it is small pleasure on my part to remind me of what you and that father of yours did to me in abandoning me! But I managed. I managed without you, and managed very well, considering, though I do not have much, no thanks to you or your father!"

"I would I could give you something to make your life easier," Matthew said, "but as it turns out, I have nothing myself." And then he thought of the jewels.

"Well, you can expect nothing from me."

"I do not, believe me."

"I hope not. Sons usually help their mothers once their mothers grow old."

"I would if I could, Mother, but I am no good at farming, and--"

"I would not have you touch this farm. And then think you could inherit it after I have worked and sweated over it all these years? I would not have you touch it!"

"Believe me, mother, the last thing in the world that I would wish is to have anything to do with this farm!" It was all Matthew could do keep his tone even reasonably respectful.

"Well, rejoice at that, because if I have anything to say about it, you will never get your hands on it! Why do you stay here and make an old woman's hair gray? You are no better than that father of yours! I did better at the farm than he ever did! Better! Much better! I managed by myself. By myself! And without any help from you either! And I can keep managing!"

"Well, I wish you well, Mother." He wanted to say, "It was a pleasure to see you," but the words stuck in his throat. "Peace," he said, and turned to leave.

"Be sure to close the door when you leave."

He fled as the sun set over the hills to his right, and then realized that he was following more or less the route he had taken on the day he ran away. So that was why everything looked familiar!

Why had Jesus taken him there? Obviously, his mother "could manage" without him. But she was his mother, and he did abandon her. Another of his sins, one that he had never paid attention to. But how could he not have abandoned her? He could not have stayed anothing instant without shouting at her.

Perhaps Jesus wished to assuage his conscience by showing him what his life would have been like had he not run off. It was abandonment, but on the other hand, his mother had no right to expect a nine-year-old to do a man's work; it would have killed him.

Still, she was his mother, and he did abandon her. The jewels rose once again into his consciousness.

Ah. That was it. Those jewels, the thread that would have to be broken if he was to fly. He had never mentioned them to Jesus--he was too ashamed--but Jesus knew, of course. And he was providing him with an opportunity to fly. As long as he had nothing definite to spend them on, they would be there, always calling for him, always making him trust in them and not give all his trust to Jesus. He had to get rid of them, but had no reason--up to now--to seek them out, to spend them on someone other than himself, and since all he had cared about previously was acquiring, not spending on himself (except for the house), he had no desire actually to have them until now.

But, "Go, sell what you have and give the money to the poor, and then come follow me" is what Jesus had said to the rich youth. All this time, Matthew had tried to follow without the precondition.

Oh, yes, technically, they were not his. But Gideon knew nothing of them, and Gideon would not demand them if he went and showed him what he had forgotten, and explained that he would like them to go to his poor mother to make her final days comfortable. Gideon had more than enough without them; how could he refuse?

That must be why Jesus brought him to her. The time was growing short, and Matthew must begin to fly before the crisis came, or perhaps it would crush him.

Yes, he would go and retrieve the jewels, give them to his mother, and free himself from them once and for all.

He shuddered in dread.