The Gospel of the Twin (20 page)

“The apostle?”

“The apostle Paul of Tarsus.”

Nausea hit me, and I felt that I had somehow been tricked. Could I dispel the myth Paul had spread here? How many other cities were infected? What could I say?

I decided to use Paul's language to turn them in the right direction: His “risen Christ within you” should be understood to mean Jesus' message about the body of God, and the “resurrection” is best interpreted as the perpetuation of an empire of the Lord despite the Romans' tyranny, and so on. I spoke well into the night about God as the depths of things, as love, as the ground of things—all the themes that Jesus emphasized. I heard murmurs as I spoke and, when I finished, they questioned me as if they had heard nothing I said.

“So the Christ has resurrected in us, and thus we shall resurrect, right? When Christ speaks to me in my heart, how do I answer? When will he return in glory? Will I see him before I die? How does Christ wish for me to suffer for him? Will my mother resurrect too?”

Nearly all of these Paul devotees were on their feet, and the questions were more like taunts than inquiries. I pled that Jesus' message had nothing to do with such issues. I quoted his “let the dead bury the dead,” and a few other references that I took to be relevant. I told them that his message was about life, not death, that he wanted them to triumph, not suffer, that they should work to realize the empire of the Lord, not wait for my dead brother—whom Paul, by the way, had never met—but this only irritated them more. They had no concern for Jesus' message, and they resented having sat through my speech because it answered none of the questions Paul had left them with.

When I realized that, in my excitement and desperation, I had let “my dead brother” slip out, I feared that I had constricted myself further into what was already a tight spot. They might think I claimed to be Jesus' brother just to usurp authority from Paul.

“My brother and Lord is not dead,” spouted one of the wall leaners. He was now lurching forward. “He has risen and he lives in my heart and he will raise me up and he will return! This is the way.”

Good. If this guy was representative, then my “my brother” reference was heard in the familiar sense. They were dissatisfied with what I had said, but did they see just how far their views were from my reports of Jesus' message? I believe they considered me not an outsider, but a wayward lamb to be led back to the flock with a few sharp raps of the staff.

I rose to my feet and was about to ask Jason if he would escort me to the door and maybe to the other side of town when he finally stood and restored order in his home, admonishing his compatriots to remember the dictates of hospitality. They obeyed and became silent. A few took their leave while the rest sat and stared. I didn't know what was expected of me. Jason nodded at me and swept his upturned palm in a broad arc to indicate that I was free to speak my mind.

I had nothing to say. They had rejected what I told them of Jesus, and I got the impression that they were waiting for me to recant it all and say that Paul was my true leader. A woman seated to my left pulled a yellow shawl from around her face and smiled as if encouraging me to speak. Perhaps I could tell them about the fine silken garments sold on the streets of Baghdad. A man standing at the wall to my right twirled a coin through his fingers. Maybe he'd like to hear about the magicians of India who produce flames in their bare hands. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and coughed to stall a few more seconds. Why didn't I have my brother's oratorical gifts? Should I sing a song about King David battling the Moabites? Had these Gentiles even heard of David? A little girl asked someone if they could go home.

“I am Jesus' twin brother.”

The words seemed to come of their own will, as if I were hearing them instead of saying them. My chest pounded. My legs shook. I leaned against Jason's chair to steady myself.

Jason stood. “And I am Jesus' twin brother as well.” Someone else repeated the statement. Then another.

“Damn you!” I shouted. “Will you not listen to me?”

It was too late. My shouting was drowned out by the Paulines, who were chanting, “I am Jesus' twin brother.” Even the women did. They took nothing else I said seriously, but they seized from me the one truth that only I could rightly claim.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Verse One

We left Nazareth in high spirits. No one tarried. No one questioned the logic of the journey. Leaving such a barren village was reason enough for most. Belief in a Jerusalem victory of some sort drove the rest.

Jesus' mood changed from what it had been most of our time in Nazareth. He was happier, more open, and given to light, informal chats rather than serious discussions or brooding ruminations. I welcomed our frequent talks during the dusty journey, but what he said to me hardly varied from his remarks to anyone else. He spoke about the nice weather and how he enjoyed passing through the countryside. He didn't confide in me why he had decided to go to Jerusalem. I could not avoid a measure of jealousy, and I was not sure what to make of this jolly Jesus. You would have thought that we were on our way to a wedding.

While Andrew, Peter, Mary, and the others reveled in this cheerfulness, I wondered if they were only masking their true nervousness about how we might be received in Jerusalem. Were Pilate's police as ruthless as we'd heard? Would they see us as revolutionaries and arrest us all? While we were still walking through the Galilee, I pulled Jesus a few cubits away from the others. I had to know what he was thinking.

“Brother, what's running through your head? Is there something you haven't told me?”

He smiled as if I had made a joke, then raised one eyebrow and cocked his head. “Thomas, have you lost your trust in me?”

“Of course not. It's just that you've had little of substance to say to me—to say to your closest associates― about how specifically you envision things unfolding once we get to Jerusalem.”

He laughed to himself, and looked ahead at the stretch of empty road, as if searching for a landmark. “Funny you should say ‘unfolding.' That's the way it feels to me—like our purpose needs no plan, like it just happens as long as we don't impede it. Sometimes, it's as if I am hovering over my life, seeing it open like a crocus or watching wine and water swirl in a cup.” His eyes narrowed and he tilted back his head, as if he detected a pleasant aroma. “I think I've finally come to terms with John's death, Thomas.”

“That's what's been occupying you? You've said almost nothing about John since we left his camp.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I should have discussed it with you. I'm sure it affected you as much as it did me. It's just that, since I . . .” He picked up something from the road, maybe a seed, and examined it before tossing it into the ditch. “I inherited the leadership of the group, and I felt as if he died so that I would take over. That made me feel that I was, in a sense, responsible for his death. I just didn't know how to say that to you.” He took my hand for an instant as we walked. I noticed that our strides were synchronized. “Does that sound crazy?” he asked.

I initiated this conversation to get him to open up, but this was more than I'd expected. “Yes, it is sort of crazy. He died and you took over, but that doesn't make you responsible.” I looked past Jesus and caught a glimpse of Peter, about fifteen cubits away, staring at me. “Maybe his death was a good thing. Wait. I didn't exactly mean it that way. I mean, we haven't harvested all the good that can come from John's death. He was, after all, a martyr, right? He died for this cause.”

“You're suggesting that we make an emblem of him, a symbol of how we are being destroyed by our oppression.” For all the glee he'd expressed lately, his eyes looked weary, like those of a man enduring far more hardship than he deserved.

“Exactly. He was a martyr for all our oppressed brothers, Galileans and Judeans alike. I think it will resonate with many of our people who feel that life is being crushed from them too and who want their deaths to have some meaning.”

Jesus smiled. His eyes brightened. “That's just what Mary said to me. The possible importance of martyrdom for a movement like ours.”

“Is that what you meant by saying you've come to terms with John's death?”

“In a way,” he said. He looked up as if following a bird across the sky, but I didn't see one. After a moment of silence, I heard his breathing deepen, then return to normal. “The patterns are forming, Thomas. I do have things to tell you about them. I must wait, though. When the moment has come, I shall let you sip from my bitter cup.”

I stopped walking. For a time after the events in Jerusalem, I believed that Jesus had indeed glimpsed his—our—fate, and was resigned to it. I am no longer sure of that, but those words are just as chilling to me now as that morning when I stood in the road and rued the day we had left our mallets and chisels behind and set out to find John.

We followed my brother's customarily circuitous route, meandering through the Galilee before dipping far south into Judea. A few Judeans joined us, and we must have numbered about four hundred when we turned back north toward Jerusalem six or seven days before the beginning of Passover week. I expected James to be excited about another visit to the holy city, but he seemed more interested in the poor villages.

“These Judean peasants are no different from Galileans,” James said to me as we passed through another hamlet with no sheep or cattle in the fields. “I'm used to thinking of anyone outside of Galilee as enjoying some measure of comfortable living. I guess I should have been more observant when we came to Jerusalem as boys and saw the effects of this empire on everyone. Is it what you expected?”

I was more occupied with my mounting apprehension about entering Jerusalem during Passover. The bitter taste of that place still lingered on my tongue, and I had a slight urge to suggest to James that we return home.

“Among the dozens of miserable villages in the two regions,” I said, “the only distinction is that the Judeans were more wary of our entry than our Galilean neighbors, but their general hopelessness is the same.”

I was referring to the working people, the farmers, shepherds, and skilled and unskilled laborers, who composed the bulk of the population. Only the outcasts—the lepers, the blind, the limbless—were noticeably worse off than everyone else. The gulf between all these and the wealthy, however, was egregious. Few of this tiny but powerful class of wealth resided in the Galilee, but maybe we had it better than our poor brothers in Judea, who were reminded of that gulf with each sighting of the privileged riding in their wagons and surrounded by servants (although most of them in Judea hid from us as if we were assassins).

The rich had reason to fear strangers, for they were increasingly the targets of Zealot extremists. A new faction known as the Sicarii, rumored to be hand-picked from the most zealous of the Zealots by a criminal called the Dagger, focused upon prominent Judeans. On the streets of Jerusalem, outside the Temple, or during town council meetings, a wealthy Judean, without warning, could feel a blade plunge between his ribs or slide across his throat, and before he crumpled to the floor, the knife-wielder would disappear into the crowd. The luckier ones were dragged from their beds and shunted off into the shadows, where they would trade their fortunes for their lives and return home minus only money and maybe an ear.

For all anyone knew, these deeds were conducted by unrelated groups of killers and brigands, but those who felt endangered took some slight comfort from the belief that the threat issued from a single source, and could be extinguished if the leader was apprehended and executed. They had forgotten that the Romans had cut off the heads of countless serpents for nearly a century, trying to quell uprisings of all scales, only to have more sprout with sharper fangs.

Deep into Judea, perhaps in Hebron, we had a confrontation with a town official named Beshur or Bazur; the accent there was odd. Jesus spoke from a partial wall where a large house was being built. The workers laid down their tools and were joined by a few dozen townspeople. Jesus was talking about the empire of the Lord, and some in the crowd asked to hear how it would arrive.

“The empire of the Lord is like a man who wanted to kill a person of power,” said Jesus. “He thrust his sword into the walls of his own home to see if his hand would pass through. Afterwards, he went out and killed the man of power.”

Many listeners, including me, were puzzled. Should we all get swords and practice thrusting them through walls? I expected Jesus to add a warning about assassinations and a preference for peaceful means, but most in the crowd cheered, and Jesus continued with other parables. When the entire crowd began to sway, Beshur, with the assistance of several large men I suspected to be his bodyguards, clambered up onto the wall. Jesus stopped, and Beshur nodded and surveyed the crowd, like one accustomed to commanding silence merely by his presence. At first, I thought he would not speak, but we were not so fortunate.

“We Judeans stand here in need of no one,” he said. “You come amongst us and you say things that we would not listen to if you were in our homes. Do you know where to find power in our days? Have you been invited unnaturally to tell us?” He sneered as if he had advanced a devastating argument, but from the murmurs and puzzled looks in the crowd, I didn't think anyone, not even his fellow townsmen, had any idea what he was talking about.

He raised one hand to point at the heavens, and as he placed the other upon Jesus' shoulder, someone with a shawl over his (her?) head ran from the crowd. The runner looked as if he simply sped close by Beshur and disappeared beyond the construction site. Then Beshur screamed. He grabbed his side with both hands and tumbled toward the spectators in the front. Men gasped and women screamed. Beshur's henchmen scattered, probably fearing that they were the next targets or would be accused of the stabbing, leaving Beshur bleating like a lamb in the dirt.

Jesus leapt down to see to him. Peter and the Zebedees rushed to surround Jesus from any possible threat, and Andrew, Philip, and James grabbed a few others and raced through the crowd in search of possible assailants. Leah's mother looked about in confusion as people ran in all directions. I took her arm and pulled her out of an open area between two sheds.

A hand seized my arm. Without hesitation, I planted my fist into a jaw, and he fell. Someone else pinned my arms behind me, so I snapped my head back and made contact with a face. I heard a yelp, and my arms came free. The first man was back on his feet and reaching toward me. I kicked at his hand, which I thought held a knife, and watched as, instead, a piece of papyrus fluttered over his head. He retrieved it, tossed it at me, and ran away with the other man.

Leah's mother crouched in a shed, her hands over her eyes.

Thaddeus arrived, panting. “Are you all right, Thomas? Who were they?”

I opened the papyrus. “You are protected,” it read.

“What is that?” Thaddeus asked.

“Nothing. A lost scrap.”

Verse Two

“Definitely Zealots,” said Andrew. The Zebedee brothers nodded.

“Good,” said Peter. “We could use someone looking out for us.”

“But why?” asked Mary. “Why are those violent men interested in us?” She gestured as if writing in the air with a piece of bread. “Jesus is a man of peace. He preaches a kingdom of peace and love. What do we have in common with thieves and murderers?”

Peter smirked and shifted his eyes from face to face as if to see if the rest of us found Mary's comments as absurd as he did.

“Our methods could not be more different,” I said, “yet we have the common goal, broadly considered, of resistance, right? They will join forces with anyone who takes any action against the Romans.” Peter grinned, apparently thinking I was on his side. “What alarms me,” I continued, “is that they seem to have staged this affair purposely to associate Jesus with it.”

“Perhaps they were trying to shift the blame,” said Philip.

“I thought about that too,” said Andrew. “But if that was the intent, it failed. No one has accused us; in fact, everyone present was convinced it was Zealots.”

Using a stick, Jesus traced triangles and many-sided patterns in the dirt.

“Maybe it was a warning to others not to oppose us,” said James, “and proof to us that we can enter any town without worry.”

Peter shook his colossal head and heaved a sigh. “You're all wrong again. Listen to me: They were showing us how it's done. It was
recruitment
.”

Mary huffed her own exasperated sigh. “They know that would be useless. They've obviously been observing us and are not so stupid as to think we'll suddenly begin concealing knives under our robes.”

“Knives under our robes?” asked Peter. “You mean like your husband?”

Jesus turned sharply from his patterns in the dirt, but before he could speak, Mary set her soft, beautiful gaze upon Peter. “My dearest Simon Peter, you are a proud and rough man. That is your way. I know that you do not really wish to hurt me. I also know that my husband admires you, as we all do. And although your pride may prevent your admitting it, you admire him as well. So, my dearest, will you please not speak unfairly of him?”

Peter shifted his jaw as if working gristle from a morsel of meat.

“I miss him, Peter,” Mary said, “and I worry about him. I don't even know if he is alive.” Jesus embraced her and whispered into her ear.

Peter stood. He looked as if he were going to walk away. Instead, he rubbed his chin for a moment, reached under his cloak, and produced a dagger. Peter scraped it across his cheek, dropped it in front of Mary and Jesus, and sat down.

Andrew, Philip, James, and I exchanged glances, not sure what to make of this gesture. Was it some sort of challenge? An admission? An apology? Peter looked at Jesus, and then hung his head like a child caught stealing sweets.

Jesus, still hugging Mary, surveyed the circle, briefly lingering on each face. “The Zealots are not our concern. We are not their targets,” he said. “If we have a reputation, it is for our message and for healing, not for violence. I do not think anyone will confuse us with the Zealots or any other militant group. If we have direct contact with the Zealots, perhaps we can win their hearts to our ways. In the meantime, we shall continue on as planned to Jerusalem for Passover.”