Twenty-Three

Now that the Twelve were by themselves, and no one wanted to bring up the subject of Mary, John's brother James took the opportunity, and said, "Aside from what just happened, however it turns out, things are becoming serious, He is coming closer and closer to a showdown with the Pharisees, and that is bound to mean that the Reign of God has all but started. Agreed?"

"Well, either it starts soon, or he and we are all destroyed," answered Thomas. "I have seen the looks on their faces."

"I agree," chimed in the other James. "It seems (hem) clear that they cannot allow him to continue much longer or (ha) the whole world will go after him and they will be left with (hem) nothing."

"And so?" said John.

"Well," answered his brother, "the Master seems too other-worldly to recognize that a Kingdom will have to have some kind of organization and structure. Someone will have to be in charge of its finances--and we have Judas for that--but someone will have to take care of order and seeing to it that the Master's decrees are enforced, and of protecting the Kingdom from outside threats, such as Rome, for instance. And someone will have to take care of diplomatic relations with other nations, and so on."

"And so?" said John, skeptically.

There it was. Nathanael dropped back. He could no longer believe that there was going to be a Finance Minister and a Foreign Minister--it was laughable to think of this group in that way--and he wanted no part of their picking who was to do what.

It seemed that, during a rather extended discussion, several of them had the same idea as Nathanael--or at least were questioning the propriety of their taking the initiative in naming who was to hold the different offices. It would be interesting to see how Jesus would handle this.

Nathanael noticed Jesus, having finished his talk with Mary, coming up behind them just as Thomas was saying, "Oh yes? I can see someone going up to him and saying, 'Master, I admire your holiness and spirituality, but do you not think that someone else would be better suited to choosing who is actually to govern this Kingdom of yours--or of God's, I mean.' I dare anyone to try!"

"What is it you were discussing as you walked along?" came Jesus' voice.

There was a dead silence.

Nathanael at once felt joyous relief that he had not joined in the discussion, and chagrin that he was one of the group that was doing it. But of course, if Jesus was God (there was that "if" again), he knew.

There was a little boy on the edge of the crowd. Jesus beckoned him over, sat on a rock beside the road, stood him beside him, and put his arm around him. He looked at them. "Amen I tell you," he said, "if you do not turn back and become like children, you will not enter the Kingdom of God. Whoever lowers himself and becomes like this child is the one who has a higher position in the Kingdom of God, and" he looked at the little boy, "whoever accepts one child like this in my name accepts me. One who accepts you is accepting me, and one who accepts me is accepting the One who sent me. Now let us have no more of this. Thank you, my son," and he sent him back to his mother.

So it was, first and foremost, a rescue mission, not a political kingdom--but secondly, Nathanael realized that he had a task of becoming like a child. How? Presumably, being docile and trusting. Well, he was beginning--and trying--to learn, and some day might trust. He did trust--as much as a mustard seed that had just begun to sprout. He hoped.

At this point, Jairus, the head of the local synagogue, came up to Jesus and said something to him. The people of Magdala had come out with Jairus, and the crowd around Jesus was now oppressive in its mass.

Jesus listened and then started out, with Jairus leading the way, when he suddenly stopped and looked around. Mary, who had come up close behind him, shrank back, expecting a rebuke at her presumption.

"Who touched me?" he asked.

The look on his face did not encourage anyone to volunteer, and those next to him hastily denied it. Simon Rock blurted, "Master, with a crowd around like this, you get bumped into. What do you mean, who touched me?"

"No, no, someone touched me," said Jesus. "I felt power go out of me." And he kept looking around at the people, and finally an old woman came cringing forward and said, "It was I, good Master, I think."

Jesus looked at her. "Forgive me, my good Master," she went on. "I meant no harm; it is just that I had had this trouble for such a long time, and my daughter told me--you see, the doctors had eaten up my whole savings and almost everything my daughter could earn--I have not been able to work for years and years, though I once was known as a seamstress inferior to none--"

Mary, now that she knew that Jesus was not rebuking her, looked over at the woman, and suddenly seemed to recognize her. That was interesting. Where could she have met such a person?

"--harm could it do, she told me," the woman was continuing, "and she said I should go and ask you, and I said that we had no money to pay you, and so I felt I had no right to bother you; but it occurred to me that if I merely touched the tassel of your robe, that would be enough, and--you see, it is not that we would not pay you, it is just that we have no money, and I had no idea that it would cause you any distress, and . . ." She trailed off under Jesus's gaze.

"Just what is this trouble you have had?" he asked.

"Bleeding, Master. Twelve years I have been bleeding, every day, not as wom--but always, you understand. Sometimes enough to fill a drinking-cup. You may ask my daughter; she has taken care of me these many years, she is such a wonderful daughter, and has worked also to keep us both alive."

"And you spent all your money on doctors."

"Whenever we could scrape any together, Master. Every mite went to them; everything we have left from food and the barest necessities. But nothing helped. Nothing. I was at my wits' end, especially since my daughter had lost her work, and--" Her voice trailed off once again.

"And so you believed that merely by touching my robe, you could be cured," Jesus was saying. The woman started once again to protest that she would pay when she could, and Jesus held up a hand. "You were correct. It was your belief that cured you; you may go in peace."

As the woman held her hand up over her heart in incredulous relief and joy, Jairus, who had been growing more and more impatient at the interruption of his quest by this insignificant woman, but who did not dare remonstrate, managed to put himself in Jesus's line of sight once again, and Jesus turned anew to follow him, when someone came up to Jairus and whispered in his ear. His face fell, and he looked over at Judith's mother with fury.

His head then dropped in despair. He stood there for a moment, unable to move, and finally began to turn away, when Jesus laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "Do not be afraid. You believe also, and all will be well with her. Rock, I wish only you and John and James to come with me; have the others remain here. There must not be a mob around the house; the girl is very sick."

The four of them left with Jairus and his servant, while everyone else crowded round the woman, who was praising God at her deliverance, and extolling the goodness of Jesus. She was almost jumping up and down for joy.

Mary had been looking around for someone in the crowd, when suddenly she turned, hearing a voice behind her, which said, "I knew that I would find you here!"

And there was a young girl, around David's age, beaming at Mary. She was evidently the daughter of the woman who had been cured, and the two of them conversed earnestly with Mary for a considerable time, during which the girl ran off and later returned carrying a huge and obviously heavy bundle, which she brought to Mary, who took her behind some bushes.

So it was not merely the rescue from the hemorrhaging, but there seemed to be the rescue of the daughter from being a slave of her mother--and a reuniting with her former mistress, Mary, now that Mary herself was rescued. And what of Jairus? He looked as if he had been told that his daughter had died, even though Jesus said that she was "very sick," probably to avoid having a crowd over when he brought her back to life. It would be like him to act thus; he would not let the one rescue destroy the other; but it was still probably too early.

Too early for what? Too early to make it clear that he was a man who was not merely a man; to be able to convince people that he was God the Son.

Nathanael wished him well, but thought that if he could do this, it would be a miracle far beyond raising to life a girl who had just died.

And, indeed, Jesus returned, and suddenly, the whole group was buzzing with the news that he had brought Jairus's daughter back to life.

Nothing much happened after that, if one excluded little events such as like curing lepers with a touch. Nothing having anything particular to do with Jesus, that is. But there seemed, at least, to be something disturbing that Nathanael observed. As he was walking at the edge of the group (as usual), he saw Thomas lick his lips, evidently thirsty, and turn to Judas, who happened to be walking beside him and say, "Have you water? Might I have a drink?"

"Of course," Judas answered. "I have two canteens, water and wine." He handed Thomas one, and he took a mouthful.

His eyes widened with fear, as he held the liquid in his mouth, and then with a supreme effort, he managed to spit it out. It must have been wine. Nathanael sucked in his breath. "What are you trying to do? Kill me?" he screamed at Judas.

"What?" said Judas. "Oh, Thomas, I am sorry! I thought it was the canteen of water! Here! Drink this!" and he handed him the other one. Thomas took a mouthful--of water, this time--and tried to rinse away the taste. He spat it out and then took a long, long drink.

He handed the canteen back. "Well," he said, "no damage was done. Thank you."

"I am dreadfully sorry, Thomas. I cannot think! I was sure that one was the water!"

"It is of no consequence," said Thomas.

"I am happy to think that you suffered no ill effects," he said. "Very happy." He smiled a rather rueful smile, and they walked on together in silence. What did that smile mean?

Ezra came up to Thomas later, evidently having caught the suspicion that rose into Nathanael's mind. How could he have mixed up the two canteens thus? Not a man as intelligent and careful as Judas. And that smile. Chagrin? Or what? What had he been trying to do? Play what he considered a harmless joke? It made no sense.

The two of them spoke for a while in undertones, and finally Thomas said, "Fear not, Ezra, I will try no experiments," Nathanael fervently hoped not, and was relieved when, shortly afterward, Thomas went to Jesus and told him what had happened. Jesus stroked his beard, and said, "You did well, Thomas."

"But I am afraid that it might lead me to--" He let the rest hang there, a plea.

"Do not rely on yourself. Trust in me, and do not worry."

"I will try, Master."

"Fear not, Thomas."

Well, it could have been an honest mistake, thought Nathanael, and tried to dismiss it from his mind.

Not long afterward, Nathanael was with Andrew for some reason, and they happened to notice Matthew sitting and conversing (of course) with Mary, yet still apparently not aware that he had anything but an avuncular interest in her; but this time, Thomas was with them.

"Shall we join them?" said Andrew.

Nathanael agreed. He had not exactly shunned Thomas, but he still felt a bit--constrained--with him. He could not rid himself of the residue from the revulsion he had felt when Thomas in all his filth fell against him. Certainly Thomas now deserved his respect, especially considering how badly Nathanael was doing in conquering his multitudinous fears, and how nobly Thomas had spat out the wine. They went over as Matthew said, "--he wants us to be holy, but he does not seem to care what we do. You will notice that in the story he told on the morning after you arrived, the son did not have to do anything to make amends for his wasting his father's money."

"I noticed that," said Thomas. "I wondered if he had left it out because of the business of the other brother, or whether he meant it."

"I certainly hope he meant it," answered Matthew. "I have no idea what I could do to make amends for what I was forgiven for."

"Nor I, for that matter," said Thomas, and they all lapsed into silence, each evidently contemplating his own sins and what could possibly be done to make up for them.

'May we join you?' said Nathanael, and, assuming an affirmative answer, sat down, as did Andrew.

"Matthew says that the Master wants us to be holy, but does not care about our sins." said Thomas.

"Actually, that is one of the strangest things about him, I think," said Mary, too interested in the topic to wait for Nathanael to reply. "Who would have put up with me but he? Most people I know can forgive another person, but only if they can find something to excuse what he did--in fact, we can only forgive ourselves if we can excuse our acts. In my case, I could find nothing whatever to excuse myself, once--once the mask had fallen from the sham I was living. But he had said that if I wished, I would be forgiven. Simply if I wished. Of course, before that night, I had not thought that anything I did required forgiveness, I even thought of it as virtue, because--well, for a stupid reason. But then, when I could see what I had done--and he seemed to know what I had done far better even than I--I saw that nothing could excuse it. But he forgave it without looking for an excuse. It was as if he said, 'Well, you did it, and you now wish you had not done it, and that is enough.'"

"--Provided, of course, that you do not wish to continue doing it," said Matthew.

"Of course," she said. "I wonder," she mused, "what would happen if one did something again after having been forgiven."

"As to that," said Thomas, "you must not think that it has not happened. Some of us have been with the Master almost a year now. It is just what you would expect. Do you remember, Matthew, when John provoked the Rock almost to a fight twice in the same day, and the Rock forgave him both times, and then went up to the Master, feeling so very virtuous, and asked him, 'How many times should I forgive a person who has wronged me? As many as seven times?' obviously thinking he would hear the reply, 'Oh, once is quite sufficient'--and you should have seen his face when the Master answered, 'Oh, no, not seven times; I tell you seventy times seven!'" He laughed huge guffaws, in which Andrew, who had so far kept silent, joined. Even Nathanael chuckled.

"I wonder why that is," said Mary, pensively.

"I think I can answer that," said Nathanael, speaking for the first time. "I think he does not envy the sinner."

"He does not envy him?" said Thomas. "Come now, make at least a modicum of sense!" Nathanael flinched, and came very close to getting up and leaving. Nonsense! he told himself. You probably deserve it. He said, "No, I am serious. Have you noticed how good people react to a sinner? They hate him and want to be sure that he is punished. Now why is that? Why should they care if someone else is doing what he should not? I think it is because they themselves would like to be doing it and getting away with it, as they see him apparently doing. But they are afraid that if they do what is forbidden, they will be punished, and so they want to make sure that he suffers for it."

"Say that again," said Matthew. "There may be something in it."

"It is total nonsense!" said Thomas. Again, Nathanael thought. Thomas had noticed his coolness toward him, and was telling him he did not like it. Well, he had been cool, and it was unjust. He did not know how to respond.

"I think not," said Matthew. "I assume you are saying that people do not sin, not because they see it as bad in itself--or bad for them in itself, and so they would actually like to commit the sin if there were no punishment attached to it."

"Exactly," said Nathanael.

"And so they envy the sinner. . . . Hm."

"--and therefore want him punished," finished Thomas. "I must admit there might be sense in it at that. And you are claiming that the Master does not look on things in this way?" Thomas now seemed to be apologizing for his rudeness.

Nathanael looked over at him, with just a hint of "I forgive you" in his face, and said, "I would think that Mary and Matthew, of all people, would understand this. From what I gather, you two devoted your whole lives to sin--and the kind that people envy most, in fact." He very pointedly did not mention Thomas's drunkenness, and wondered if Thomas would notice.

"What I mean is that Mary could have any man she pleased, and discard him as soon as she had used him," he went on. "And you, Matthew, how much did you overcollect on the taxes Rome asked for? Twice as much?"

"Oh, no!" said Matthew. "It was more like five times."

"And you kept the difference, of course." He turned to Mary. "And you should have seen his mansion! We went there to eat after he joined us. It is sold now, of course, and here he is, as poor as the rest of us. Are you sorry you are not rich?"

Matthew smiled. "There is something in me that still is, of course, but I see what you mean. Being rich . . . has its advantages, I suppose I could say, in some ways. But in very few ways, when it comes to that. But I certainly would do anything rather than go back to the life of scheming how to cheat others without being cheated myself, worrying about how to prevent all those who hated me from killing me--and even worse, from stealing back what I had in effect stolen from them--and all the rest of it. I had not a moment's peace or rest. Often and often, I wished that they would come and kill me and put an end to all of it. And what was all of it, in fact? A soft bed, upon which I could find no sleep, and luxurious food, which my stomach would not digest. You are right."

"Is it not the same with you, Mary?" he said.

"Oh, yes. There may be women, to be sure, who are tired of their husbands and who would have looked at me and envied me--though I am sure they would never admit it--for having a different man every night. What they do not realize is that not being able to have the same man night after night makes the whole thing a mockery and a horror. And all the perfumes and the carved wood and the rich surroundings are merely so much bait. Nothing could ever be enjoyed for what it was, least of all the act that everyone calls 'pleasure.' No, you are perfectly right; he rescued me from agony; my sin, far from being enviable, was a punishment far beyond any conceivable suffering which could be added to it."

Thomas broke in before Nathanael could ask him about his life, "And you are saying that it is thus in every case. That if one really understands the sin, the sinner is to be pitied, not condemned." He evidently took Nathanael's omission as an acceptance of his apology. It was an interesting bit of swordplay underneath the conversation.

Nathanael answered, "I would say that the sinner is condemned. And all the worse if he continues to think of his sin as something desirable." Just as he had considered his idleness pleasure when what it was was escape from doing things he was afraid to do.

"True," said Matthew. "I know some tax-collectors who think I am a fool. But what can one do? They refuse to listen, and I see the torment they daily undergo, but they in their delusion call it joy."

"That may be," said Thomas. "I do not deny that he probably sees sin as misery from which he can help us escape. How else can one explain his actions?" The innuendo evidently was now at an end; now it was simply the topic that controlled the conversation.

"I am inclined to think, though," said Matthew, "that there is even more to it than this. I think he sees a misery even greater than the one we see, even when we are the sinners ourselves. Perhaps he sees a future for the sinner which we know not; the Pharisees say that life does not cease with death, and the life afterward might be the garbage-dump of Gehenna he speaks of about where the worm does not die and the fire is never extinguished." Mary shuddered at this, probably thinking of what she escaped. She had demons within her, after all, who were intimately acquainted with what might await us after death.