Judas (17 page)
Jesus began speaking of his death, not an idea we either grasped or accepted. We had barely begun our journey and were not willing to hear about its premature end. The countryside and this disorganized accretion of farmers and fishermen were barely aroused in sufficient numbers to expect any of them to band together and face the might of Rome. It was too soon to speak of endings.
Acrid smoke from a guttering campfire added an extra irritant to these conversations. Peter protested vociferously. Occasionally, Jesus would snap at him. “You don’t know what you ask of me, Peter. You do not understand.”
“But Master, you cannot be put to the test.” Peter preferred to put it that way. “Death” did not fit comfortably in his mouth.
“Peter, either I do the will of the Father or all will be lost.”
“For the sake of all of us, for your mother and the many who have come to rely on you, do not say these things.”
“If you acted any more like Satan, I would have to cast you out.” Jesus said, his voice uncharacteristically curt. “Get behind me.”
We sat in embarrassed silence. We all believed as Peter did and were upset he had to take the brunt of Jesus’ anger.
“Master,” I said, hoping to shift the talk along a different path, “how do we answer the critics who grumble about the women.”
Jesus’ head snapped around and his eyes glittered. “Women? What do they say about women?”
“Well…”
I caught sight of Mary out of the corner of my eye, saw her anger. I had stepped on a wasp’s nest but I couldn’t turn back.
“Some question the time you devote to women. They think women should stay at home, fetch water, and not traipse around with us.” Peter nodded his head. Now that the conversation had shifted away from him and into the area he, too, worried about, he seemed much relieved.
“Do they?” Jesus asked, his face darkening.
“Yes, they do. These are good men but raised a certain way. It is hard for them to see how women can be an important part of the kingdom. They call you ‘the Women’s Rabbi.’ Many left us because of this.”
There are moments in life when you know you have overstepped, drawn in where you did not want to go. This was one of those times. At that moment, I felt supremely stupid.
“Well, they should return to their studies,” Jesus said between clenched jaws. “They should remember Ruth, and Rachel, and Jael, and Deborah. They should meditate on Rebecca and Sarah, especially Sarah. They should think about their own mothers and ask themselves where they would be if their mothers had never been born. Some day they will hear that heaven lies at the feet of mothers. For as it is necessary for each individual to have been born of a woman, so the covenanted people of God had to be born, as a nation and as individuals. Each must have a mother. Without one, without our women, none of us would be here today. The land would belong to the tribes of Canaan. Tell them that.”
***
Once, outside a town, I cannot recall which or where it was now. In the Galilee, certainly, the subject of law came up. You understand that is a topic which fascinates Jews beyond reason, it seems. Jesus said, “You remember the man at the lakeside asking me, ‘Who do you think you are, God?’” Some of us remembered—I did.
“God gave the Law to Moses and he gave it to us. We are people of the Law. Scribes, lawyers, and rabbis study it day and night, and write about it. You know it from the Torah
.
You were raised in it, correct?”
Everyone mumbled and nodded except me. I did not have advantage of a lifetime of study in the holy books and scrolls. Only John knew the books well, I think.
“In this,” Jesus continued, “we are unlike any other race or nation. Our law comes only from God. Rome has many laws, is famous for them. But those laws are the work of men, and however grand or just they may be, they are still only the work of men. Therefore, they can be changed as circumstances dictate. Our Law does not change. It is not subject to time or place. It does not vary from king to king because it is the immutable Word.
“We live it day in and day out. Thus, it defines the core of our existence, the path we follow, our
Way
.
“As it is from God and unvarying, it also defines truth. Again, we are unique in this. The Greeks have given us philosophers. There are cynics, stoics, the disciples of Zeno, and many others. They search for truth through philosophy and intellectual exercise. Their truth, like Roman law, may shift over time, a moral precept may decline in their culture. They seek universal truth but live in a world where truth is transitory. For us, the Torah is
Truth
; we need look no further.
“And, therefore, it is our
Life
. We live within the Law, we believe it to be true, we obey it, and we accept that it is, for us, all we need to know to structure our lives. It is our Way; it is our Truth; it is our Life, you see. It and it alone, is our pathway to God.”
He paused. It was a long speech. Not so long as some, but for the fifteen or twenty of us there, it seemed long. I could barely make out the faces of the others, but from what I could see, they were puzzled. John cleared his throat, uncertain if he should speak. Jesus nodded to him.
“The man hearing you describe the terms of the inheritance believed you were pronouncing Law, or at least adding to it. Is that why he said what he said?”
Jesus nodded again. John furrowed his brow in deep concentration.
“So then, if this man understood you correctly, Master, as you acted as Lawgiver, you may be thought of as the Way, and the Truth, and the Life and, therefore, the pathway to God.”
Jesus smiled on his favorite pupil and nodded.
Thomas had grown out his beard, and by then he bore a striking resemblance to Jesus, so much so, we took to calling him
Didymus
, the twin. Jesus was, of course, taller and broader than Thomas, but their proportions were such that unless the two stood next to each other, strangers could easily confuse them.
“My twin,” Jesus would say and clap Thomas on the back. Thomas would spread his arms wide and look heavenward like Jesus at prayer. We did not know if we should laugh with or be embarrassed for Thomas, but Jesus laughed and we relaxed and joined him.
***
“You have been doing some writing, Judas?” The question startled me. I thought Jesus was away in the hills praying, as he always did in the morning. I felt a pang of guilt for having gone behind his back and a little foolish for thinking I could.
“Yes, Master.” What else could I say? I had nothing to hide. I had taken on this task to help our cause, to strengthen our position, not to compromise him.
“Why?”
I could not read his expression. I decided to tell him the whole story. If I had done something wrong, then I could make up for it somehow. If not, then he should know about this potential source of support.
“These are men, Master, with position and influence who can help us. But they cannot be seen with you except in large gatherings. You remember how Nicodemas came to you under cover of night. They wish to support us, to support you, and they asked only that I write what I remembered of your teaching, nothing more. They wish to be sure of you.”
When I spoke these words, doubt crept into my heart. Said that way, I think I must have sensed their shallowness. But I had committed to that course and unless he called me off, I would stay with it.
“And you think they may help us?”
I shrugged. “Can it hurt? Master, the people are behind us. Every day, the crowds grow larger and the willingness to make a stand more obvious. These men can hasten that day.”
“Judas, I have told you again and again, my kingdom is not of this world. Why do you persist on believing otherwise, you, of all people? You have seen the face of our oppressors. You have felt their wrath and you have measured their power. Do you truly believe our people will push them into the sea?”
“I do not know any other way to think about it. All I can conceive is marching against them. I don’t have your vision. I only see what I know. Something will happen soon. I do not know how I know this, but I do. And I know it will concern you. I can only assume these men will be a part of that, somehow.”
I do not know if the urgency of my voice or something else moved him, but he turned toward the hills and closed his eyes for a moment. The air seemed filled with the oily aroma from the olives hanging heavy on a nearby tree.
“Someday you will see as I do.” He paused, letting his words hang in the air. He plucked an olive and crushed it, rubbing its oil into his hands.
“Then you feel it, too? Something in the air, something is about to happen?”
“Yes, something important, perhaps even terrible.” I said, and in that brief moment, sensed my words, like the olive tree, bore more fruit than I imagined.
“It is the way the air tingles before a great storm or when the earth moves and brings down the mountains. It’s like that, isn’t it?” he said.
“I had not thought about it quite that way, but yes…something like that.”
He shook his head like a man who has been clubbed, trying to clear it, to regain his balance, to collect his thoughts. He put his fingertips to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. It was a gesture I had seen many times. He looked for a moment like a man afflicted with the headaches that flash fire. He would hold his head like that for a short time or even an hour and then it would be over. At first it frightened me and the others, but after a while, we grew used to it.
“Is something wrong, Rabbi?”
In a moment whatever possessed him passed and he turned his gaze back on me. He looked at me and with the saddest expression ever I remember seeing. I felt as if I had been stripped naked and every thought, every deed, every wrong I had ever done was laid out for him to see. He shook his head again and breathed a sigh.
“It is enough, Judas. God is directing both of us now. We must be in Jerusalem for Passover. You will make the arrangements as usual and…” He paused and stared at me with sad eyes for a long moment. “And you will know what you must do.”
What would I know? He left me then, I suppose, to continue his prayers. I never knew what he did when he left our company. None of us did.
I turned away and walked along a shallow wadi toward an ancient sycamore. I smelled the honey before I saw the bees. A split in the trunk of the tree held the hive. Hundreds swarmed into its depths. I sat and contemplated bees. I knew little about them. I grew up in cities and beekeeping belonged to the country. I did know they would sting if aroused, and attempting to take their honey was the surest way to do that. Bees had short lives characterized by hard work, no recompense, and an anonymous death. Somewhere in the depths of the hive, the ruler, removed from all this activity, dictated their fate.
It would be easy to wax philosophical about that—bees are the conquered people, the ruler is Caesar, and so on, but that is not where my thoughts took me. Bees work for others. They contribute beyond their needs and combs fill to overflowing. My colleagues were like bees. They worked the nets together, each contributing a share.
I remembered the solitary wasp that stung me when I tried to retrieve my honey cake. Wasps do not make honey. Wasps do not gather in communities like bees. They fly alone, caring for no one but themselves. I worked alone and always, only for myself. I did not qualify as a bee. Did I ever belong with this man? Could I be transformed from solitary wasp to communal bee?
I wanted so much to share the vision. I understood how to make things happen in ways the others could barely comprehend. But I did it alone. I left the company and worked my own kind of miracles,
Judas the Thief
. A solitary wasp, a honey thief, allowed in the hive and lingering only because the ruler wishes it. Should I leave before they discover I am not one of them, or stay and pretend to be something I am not? Could a wasp destroy a hive?
“They are evil,” Mother had said.
Smoke from a thousand campfires and the din of an equal number of voices filled the Kidron Valley. The bleating of at least as many calves and sheep added to the cacophony. The aroma of animals, people, and cookfires assaulted my senses. Why, I asked myself, must I cross this noisy, crowded valley and climb to the top of the Mount of Olives? To secure a donkey, and not just any donkey—a white one. Of all the things Jesus asked me to do, this ranked as the most incomprehensible and time-consuming. I approached twenty men before I found one willing to provide such an animal. He wanted two denarii for the day. I agreed, but insisted on seeing the beast first. It turned out to be a colt. That took me to my wit’s end. I had wasted hours searching and then, to end with this undersized and ridiculous animal. I could not afford to squander any more time. It would have to do, but I told the donkey’s owner that such a poor animal was not worth two denarii. I gave him one. He protested until I told him whom it was for, and then he shrugged and agreed.
***
Bethesda lies across the Kidron Valley and to the south. Mary and Martha and their brother Lazarus live there. Jesus would travel up from Jericho and turn south to Bethesda just outside the city wall. Then, on the day after the Sabbath, he would enter the city. He’d made it clear to me what I must do, and I knew better than to argue with him. He had his reasons.
My first task had been to find a family known to Jesus who, he said, would provide us rooms. I had been directed to go to the Essene quarter, the home to families who like Nahum the Surveyor, follow the way of the Essenes but prefer not to commit to its rigors. They adhere to the rules as best they can, including the calendar for feasts and holidays but remain scattered around the country, partly Essene, partly of the world. They are good people caught between two worlds. They found Jesus speaking to them.
“Look for a man carrying a jar of water,” he had said. What kind of man, I wondered, would carry water? That is woman’s work. Just then, a boy, a young man, approached me with an empty jar on his shoulder. “Are you looking for me?” he asked.
I nodded. “What is your name?”
“Mark,” he said.
“Well, Mark, my master sends his greetings to you and your family, and desires a place for himself and his friends for the Passover feast. Can your father supply these things?”
“Yes, he has been expecting you. A room has been set aside for you over our lodgings.”
Of course, the room was available. Somehow it no longer surprised me.
“My father says you will bring the food and wine.”
Ah, to be sure, another expected response. Of course, Judas will provide the wine, the food, bread…everything.
He led me to his father who showed me the room above their lodgings large enough to serve a meal for the number of people who were with us and to sleep. The room would serve us well. We also planned to celebrate the Passover in the city. Satisfied, I thanked the man and his son. I had one more task to perform but, first, the purse needed replenishing.
I had only a few coins left and most were shekels. To function in this city I would need a great deal more. I recrossed the Kidron Valley and climbed the temple steps to the Hulda gates and watched as thousands of pilgrims streamed in and out, making their way up and back down again. This smelly, noisy mass of humanity filled the temple and all its passages. I joined them, pushing and shoving my way up the inner stairs to the moneychangers. They were out in force, changing money for travelers, to pay their temple tax, or buy doves, or rams, or other sacrifices with shekels.
No image, whether king, pretender, living, or dead may adorn a coin dedicated to the Lord’s service. It would be reckoned a graven image and not permitted on the Mount. So the moneychangers were there as a service to the faithful and a source of significant income for the temple. They had been installed years ago to aid pilgrims. They charged no fees and only asked for a small donation to compensate them for their time and effort. But over the years they had become a pestilence. I made a good living in my days as a money changer and I drove some hard bargains, but compared to these vultures, I practically gave money away. They were charging twenty over a hundred that day. Twenty! Those wretches were gouging travelers from Egypt to Gaul. And John called
me
a thief.
However, it did provide me with a great opportunity. I positioned myself at the foot of the stairs leading up to the temple and offered to change money, making sure they knew my rate. Soon people were streaming back down to me. I began changing at fifteen. When I had nothing but Roman coins, I walked around the temple to the Praetorium in the Antonia Fortress, and offered to trade them to the Roman legionnaires for their shekels. They thought they were as shrewd as rats.
“What rate will you give us today, Jew?”
“Twenty,” I said.
“Five.”
“Fifteen.”
“Twelve.”
“Done.”
At twelve on the hundred from these gutter rats and fifteen from the pilgrims I was netting twenty-seven, better than the thieves at the temple.
It was a good thing I did.
