The Gospel of the Twin (24 page)

I heard people gasping and saying “Hallelujah!” Men slapped each other's backs, and women hopped and clapped like playful children during Purim. I heard a woman say, “The Lord is with us!” as I got to the front of the group and saw this:

Jesus stood on Lazarus' front steps, smiling and waving, with a half-asleep-looking Lazarus hanging upon his shoulder. Lazarus' sisters were just behind them in the doorway, holding each other and weeping.

“Thomas, here,” Jesus said. He held his hand out to me, and took it and joined him on the steps. Lazarus' arm was around Jesus' back, and Jesus placed my hand on Lazarus' so that, I supposed, I could feel the warm flesh of a living man. It probably looked to the others as if the three of us were in an embrace or else holding each other upright.

“I love you, Brudder,” Lazarus' sister Mary said.

James, Andrew, and Philip began to work the crowd: “Behold! Jesus has brought Lazarus from the dead!”

“See him, right here—risen from his deathbed!”

Soon all the townspeople crowded around the house. They filed by to kiss Lazarus' cheek, although most surely had not been aware of his death before learning he was alive again. In minutes, a procession formed, with most returning to pass by again, forming an oblong ring of gawkers and petitioners in a heathen rite. Some knelt before Jesus and thanked him or prayed for him, or maybe to him. Jesus finally said that Lazarus needed to rest and took him inside. I told Mary to wait while I talked with Jesus. I raised an eyebrow at James and John, and they turned to watch her.

My brother James caught up with me as I entered the house, where servants scurried about carrying jars as if gathering items in a fire. I suspected that the jars held perfumed oils with which they planned to anoint Lazarus' body, but now they were removing them to another part of the house, maybe because of a superstition about funeral items among the living. Perhaps they believed that the place might become inhabited by demons, angered that a soul had been snatched from them, so they needed to hide the evidence that someone had cheated death.

James was jumpy, and I was sure he had something to say. I paused for a moment, but James remained silent, so I walked through the house until I found Jesus and Lazarus' sisters sitting on rugs beside the bed where Lazarus slept. Jesus smiled at me, but I didn't know what to say.

“So, he lives,” I said.

“Yes, Thomas. He's sleeping now. Perhaps he was only sleeping before. But he lives.”

I had no interest in Lazarus and whether he had died or was asleep, or had been faking the whole thing. I did not say this to Jesus. “Are we leaving, then?”

“I would like to watch over him for a day or so,” said Jesus. “The others are not impatient, are they?”

“Mary wanders the street pining for Judas. She thinks he's in great peril. I worry that she'll try to seek him herself. I'm sending the Zebedee brothers with her to Jerusalem.”

“I think that is wise, Brother.”

“I'm leaving too,” I said.

“For Jerusalem?”

“Home,” I said.

James heaved a chestful of air as if he were about to dive underwater. “I'm going with Thomas.”

Jesus stood. He laid his hand upon James' shoulder, and then looked at me as if searching for a gnat in my eye. “I understand why James wishes to return to his family. But you, Thomas—why are you leaving? I need you.”

“You've told me about your powerful sensations—bright colors, aromas—that point you to unseen destinations. I have my own, Brother, like a fig syrup, sweet but musky like a buck goat, pouring over me and coating my eyes and ears so that the world is seen and heard through this varnish.” I looked around the room, thinking that something among the swirling patterns painted along the walls' border would inspire me to stretch out my rambling speech: the finely tooled olive-wood bedposts with perching hawks carved on the tops; or the glimmering bed sheets, perhaps silk, embroidered with the scene of our ancestors leaving Egypt, led by Moses and chased by the Egyptian army.

“Sometimes,” I said, “at the edges of our minds, we see, feel circles spiraling like storm clouds or the wheels of Ezekiel that I think I finally understand. Threats may sit on our shoulders like dark birds of prey waiting for us to make the wrong move into the clearing so they can swoop and carry us to doom. The Lord knew when to pull our people from Egypt. He waited for Moses—”

Jesus put his hand over my mouth. “Brother,” he said, almost in a whisper, “why are you afraid to speak your mind to me? For God's sake, it's me. Why are you abandoning me just when I need you most?”

I wanted to embrace him and slap his face, both at the same time. Instead, I removed his hand from my mouth and clasped it to my breast. “Feel my heart. It beats for you, but it also beats for Leah. Jesus, I must see her. I watched Mary ache for Judas all that time he was gone, and I feel that same longing. Now Mary is desperate and thinks she may never see him again. Her pain has opened something in me, Brother, like a crack in the grain that reveals the weakness of the beam.”

“Why now? Thomas, the most important part of our journey is in Jerusalem. A great force is pulling me—us—toward . . . ” His voice trailed off. His eyes were wet. “Stay with me, Brother. Please don't go.”

James jerked away from us and walked across the room so fast that I thought he would slam into the wall before he spun around. “You don't know what it's like!” James shouted. “Have you any idea how difficult it is for Thomas to feel torn apart by two loves? I feel it too—that no matter what I do, I'm betraying someone. I want to stay with you, Jesus, but I cannot live two lives. Thomas has lived yours for long enough. Let him live his own life now without giving him more guilt than he already has.”

Jesus tilted his head as if weighing incompatible ideas.

“When you heard this morning that Lazarus was dead,” said James, “didn't you, if for only an instant, feel two great forces pulling you—one to run to Lazarus and the other to continue to Jerusalem?”

Martha entered the room with figs and bread and a wineskin. I had not noticed her leaving. Mary produced cups from somewhere in the room and placed them on a table at the foot of the bed. Martha filled the cups while Jesus tore off handfuls of bread.

“At least let me give you a bit of nourishment before you leave,” Jesus said as he handed bread to James and me. “How long will you be gone? No, I know you cannot answer that.”

I dipped my bread into the wine. “No more than you can say when you'll come back to Nazareth.”

Jesus peered into his wine cup as if expecting a prophetic vision to emerge. “Hold this moment close to your heart. We may not share bread and wine again.”

James coughed and stomped a foot. He was never one for sentimentality. “I have to get some things. I'll be back here soon,” he said, and left.

I didn't want an overwrought goodbye with tears and dramatic promises about how I would come back soon to help carry out whatever Jesus planned to do, or to give him the chance to plead with me further, but I didn't know how to walk away. If I stayed, though, and looked at Jesus' long face, I'd have second thoughts about returning to Leah. He believed we were at a crucial point of his mission. I knew that, but I had to follow my heart, even if part of it pulled me in the opposite direction.

Just then, Mary, our Mary of Magdala, rushed into the room with the Zebedee brothers behind her. She threw herself upon the floor and clasped Jesus' knees. “Jesus, I am going to Jerusalem,” she said. “I love you. I love you too, Thomas, but I can't let Judas go again. Jesus, I can't bear another day not knowing if he lives.” She stood and kissed my and Jesus' cheeks. “Goodbye.”

She left just as quickly as she had entered. She had made it seem as if she were embarking on a journey of a thousand miles, although she would likely see Jesus in a day or two. Her exit, though, set the stage for mine. I kissed Jesus' cheek, turned, and walked away without looking back.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Verse One

Like the others swarming the streets, Leah's mother was so excited about the Lazarus miracle that she forgot the trip to Jerusalem and could hardly focus on anything at all. At the same time, I detected an air of apprehension when I told her of my intent to return to her daughter.

“You're leaving now?” she asked. “Look at this, Thomas!” She swept her arm before her. “These people and what Jesus has done. It is so much, Thomas. So much here with us and Jesus. Everywhere. All the people. So much!”

She was incoherent. I thought that she had encouraged me to go to Leah, but maybe she'd decided that she needed me to stay and care for her instead. I took her hands and looked into her wide eyes. “Do you wish to come with me?” I said. “I know that Leah must miss you.”

She shifted her feet, almost like a dance. “Leah will be so happy to see you, Thomas. I'm happy, too. We love Leah, right?” She pulled her hands away and wiped them on her robe. “Do you want to marry her? You will be happy the rest of your lives. Yes, you will be. Happy. We need to be happy.” She trembled. One foot kicked at the dirt.

Her babbling confused me. I thought she'd be delighted. “If you go with me, I can bring you back soon. Maybe Leah will come with us, and we can all continue with Jesus.”

Before, she had been trying hard to smile, but now her face fell. “What will happen, Thomas? Something is building here, like when you hear rumbling far away, and then the clouds move over the treetops and the wind bends the tree limbs and birds fly low. And you want the rain to come, but you also fear your home may be destroyed in the storm. Can you hear the rumblings, Thomas?”

“It's no storm,” I said.

“There has to be, Thomas. It has to sweep me away.” She pulled at her hair, then covered and uncovered her mouth with her fists. “I love my Leah, Thomas, but I cannot leave. Until now, I've known only Nazareth. I am an old woman. A person needs more.” She took my hands. “Go to Leah then.”

I nodded and left her with her rumblings.

Verse Two

The walk with James back to Nazareth was uneventful but tiring. We circumvented Samaria and followed the Jordan for most of the journey. We walked upstream, against the current not only of the water but also the stream of people on their way to Jerusalem for Passover. Probably because so many Roman soldiers were already in Jerusalem to keep order during Passover, we saw only two groups—a
centuria
on its way to Jerusalem, and a small detachment languishing by the Jordan River, as if they were relaxing in their own yards.

I wondered why the Romans bothered to keep an eye on the fishermen. Perhaps they were suspicious of anyone who had a somewhat steady income. The men casting their nets from the boats, unlike the masons, coppersmiths, weavers, and others in the towns, could at least make a meager living hardly worse than their fathers and grandfathers had. They were away from home so much that tallying up their family members was no easy assignment for the toll collectors, who otherwise made off with nearly half a worker's income. Maybe the Romans believed that the fishermen sold enough fish and avoided enough taxes to fund the rebels, which was absurd, since any peasant Jew who could actually feed his family just wanted to be left alone.

About halfway home, I was struck with worry about how the residents of Jerusalem would regard my brother's followers. The Judeans were far more concerned with social boundaries than were Galileans, and no Judeans more than those in Jerusalem. The proximity of the Temple gave them unhealthy notions of purity and contamination.

From my boyhood visit, I remember how the Jerusalem residents snorted at all outsiders, especially Galileans, whom they considered low-class Jews, maybe even worse than the Gentile merchants. Mother, who hadn't cared, ignored most of what took place around us, but Joseph was incensed by the derisive comments. “So much trash,” they'd say. “Romans and Galileans—how will we ever cleanse this city?”

I am just now reminded of the incident in which Jesus stumbled on the way to the Temple and fell against a woman. She did not lose her footing, did not drop anything, nor even grunt in pain. Her husband shoved Jesus and said, “Get away, you filthy Galilean swine!” I jumped between Jesus and the couple, but the man turned his face toward the Temple as if I were inconsequential. Joseph huddled all of us children together and said nothing to the man, although Joseph's face was red and his lips moved, whether in a curse or a prayer―I did not know.

I hoped that Jesus remembered these class prejudices. If Jesus was anything, he was accepting of everyone, regardless of status. Of course, most of his followers were destitute, but a few had means. One woman―I seem to recall her name as Johanna―was the wife of Herod's steward. She left her stuffed bed and meals of peppered calf to sleep on the ground and share stale bread.

And Matthew was a toll collector. When that information made its way through the ranks, some wanted to run him off, but Jesus gave a couple of short sermons on the difference between social and spiritual equality and on love without exception. He said that when rivers meet at the sea, they give up their names, forget their sources, and mingle as one. For several days, he had Johanna and Matthew sit by him and share his cup, an act that, for others of their rank, was almost as defiling as kissing an Ethiopian.

My
arhat
teacher in India later told me that the Buddha broke from Indian tradition by rejecting its strict social classes. The Buddha was born into the Kshatrya class of rulers, traditionally just below the Brahmin class of priests, who had respect and spiritual authority but no wealth and little political sway.

Below them both were the landowners and, at the bottom, the shudras or peasants. Unlike my peasant father (despite Joseph's estimation of himself as being above Galileans), the Buddha's father was a powerful Kshatrya warrior-prince who provided his son a life of opulence, and the son renounced a birthright never imagined by Jesus and me. Maybe by giving up so much, the Buddha committed a more impressive act of dedication and humility than did Jesus. Then again, the Buddha had no fear of Roman soldiers hauling him away without notice or charge, and he died in his old age.

In any case, the Buddha wandered about India living by the generosity of others who themselves could spare little. He welcomed all who would listen. He was hated by those whose notion of supreme fulfillment was nothing more than avoiding contamination from unclean commoners. I have come to think that the most important of the qualities that the Buddha and my brother had in common was that they were not afraid to get dirty.

In Jerusalem, though, mixing the classes, administering to lepers, and welcoming outcasts would be considered abominable crossbreeding and nothing less than the ultimate insult to traditionalists. Passover was a sensitive week in Jerusalem. In the spirit of collaboration, the Temple police were eager to point out to the Romans any possible insurgents.

Yet the Sanhedrin, the aristocratic political body that ran the court and Temple, was surprisingly tolerant of critics who lined the streets to loudly condemn its leadership. Perhaps Jesus would have been treated as one of these lesser annoyances had he not marched into the city with his mongrel pack, virtually daring the authorities to make a move.

“I imagine it more dangerous each time I think of it,” I said to James as we walked along. “I don't know what sign he thinks will emerge there, but I just hope the crowds block any view Pilate may have of him.”

“Pilate is too busy trying to root out the Zealots,” said James. “Why would he care about a group of beggars whose idea of rebellion is to sit and listen to their leader preach?” James was in a much better mood than I. He'd cleansed his mind of regret, if he actually had any, and spoke cheerfully and often of his wife and child.

“Judas, now, is another matter,” he went on. “I was relieved when he left for the city on his own. This scheme of freeing his friend, who must already be a known criminal if he's been missing only a few days and his comrades immediately suspect he's been arrested, surely will not end well. Better that the authorities not associate him with Jesus when the trouble happens. I'd bet Judas himself has already been arrested. If Peter is in the cell with him, Jesus is even better off.” James gave my shoulder a playful shove. “Forget all that, Brother! We'll soon be home, and in a few days you'll be married!”

This did perk me up. A year earlier, James would not have joked with me like that. I suspect that he actually did believe I would marry Leah. Marriages in Nazareth were often simple and speedy affairs. One day a boy is driving an oxcart when he sees a girl glance his way. The next day they're stacking rocks for a house as husband and wife. Only I hadn't thought even that much ahead.

Verse Three

We arrived in Nazareth on the fourth day of our travels and were greeted by an excited Joses as we entered town. It was as if he expected us.

“Where's Jesus? Has something happened? Did you go to Jerusalem? How long will you stay?”

“How are Varda and Ezra?” James asked.

“They're fine, and Simon, Deborah, Sharon—everyone's fine,” said Joses. “They'll be elated to see you. Is Jesus safe? Why are you back?”

“He's fine,” I said. “He's probably in Jerusalem now. James and I were just homesick. How is Mother?”

Joses looked puzzled. “Probably in Jerusalem? You mean you don't know where he is?”

“He was on the way there when we left,” I said. “He's probably at the Temple making a sacrifice in your name. Nothing is wrong. Now, how's Mother?”

“Mother is Mother. She draws in the dirt. She eats her olives in threes. You know how she is.”

Verse Four

Joses ran ahead to fetch Deborah and Sharon. They appeared just as we arrived at the house where Varda and Ezra, James' wife and son, and Simon greeted us at the door. Mother edged past the others and embraced me, then James. She stretched her neck to see past me.

“Where's Jesus?” she asked.

“He's in Jerusalem,” I said.

Mother yelped and fell at my feet. “You left him? Thomas, you left him!” She pushed her face into my knees and bounced her tiny fists upon my thighs. I tried to take her hands, but she hid them in her bent stomach and wailed, “My Jesus! I've lost my Jesus, my son!”

Neighbors burst from their homes and assumed that Jesus was dead. They gathered around Mother and wailed along with her. I tried to explain the mistake, but this was women's business, so I was as irrelevant as a shadow.

Joses and Simon lifted and carried Mother's limp form inside. The others crammed inside the house as more neighbors came by to share in the grief. One old woman stood in the doorway to inform newcomers of the tragedy. When I tried to speak, Mother held her palm to my face and said, “Ank!” as one might warn a dog away from one's food.

I tried to appear unhurt. I had expected her to be disappointed that Jesus was not here, but couldn't she rejoice just a little at seeing me?

James touched my shoulder, frowned, and shrugged to show a bit of sympathy. He then knelt and wrestled with his giggling son.

I knew the truth would surface eventually, and then the women could commiserate with Mother over betraying my vow to her to protect Jesus, which was the equivalent of swapping the loss of one son for another. Mother would get over it and forgive me by the next day, perhaps even agreeing that my brother and I had to be our own men. For the moment, though, I needed to be out of sight.

I left for Leah's house.

Verse Five

Nazarenes hailed me as I passed. Most weren't sure whether they were greeting Jesus or Thomas, and those who chanced a name invariably were wrong. I've always been the one in the habit of wandering about town alone, so I thought they would call my name when I passed by. I didn't care much that Jesus was the one whose return they preferred, but I didn't need to see them so readily pause from their mundane tasks when they said, “Hello, Jesus!” only to turn back to their chores when they heard my reply, “No, I'm Thomas.” A more accurate response would have been, “No, I'm the twin.”

As a young man, I wished to decipher the shadowy forms that stretch through the chambers of the human heart, but the more I tried, the more quickly they seemed to fade. I did not even know what my people thought of Jesus. They must have felt some pride knowing that he had raised a following and was attempting to stir up a social transformation for their benefit.

I considered making a speech in the middle of the village, in front of Menachem's house, where the old men meet when they think they have an important matter to address. I could tell them that a new day was on the way—that Jesus, the very Jesus they had watched grow up in these streets, was readying a new empire for us, one in which our people would be united as the body of the Lord, and that their lives of hoeing in depleted fields and despairing over lost sons would soon be over.

I knew, though, that they would laugh at the last part, and that Jesus had never made any such promise anyway. What did they truly want? Given the choice, would they bother to take the empire of the Lord if it put no more bread on their tables? What are the longings of the spirit compared to the aches of the gut? After these many years of peering ever more deeply into the heart, I wish I could say that I had glimpsed the fleeting objects casting the shadows.

Leah's house looked abandoned. No shoots pointed up between the dry clods that once were the little garden patch. Weeds grew around the entrance. I pulled up a few handfuls. The uprooted weeds produced an onion scent that made me anxious. I stood before the door feeling as if an ember smoldered in my gut. Had Leah left Nazareth? Had she decided she did not love me and escaped town before having to welcome me on my return?

I softly rapped three times on the door. No sound came from within. Had her grandmother died, and Leah was sitting with arms around her knees, lonely and abandoned, not eating, too weak to come to the door? I pounded five or six times with my fist, scraping my knuckles on the weathered pine.