The Gospel of the Twin (5 page)

Chapter Seven

Verse One

Jesus engaged in many discussions with the elders of Nazareth who were too old to work but thought of themselves as in charge of all village business. Few could resist his gentle style and his device of praising his respondents and expressing his great fortune in benefiting from their instruction. “You are wise, sir,” he would say. “Blessed I am that I can learn so much from you.”

Then he would push their comments to their logical undoing. He'd steer the line of thought with, “I wonder if you have considered . . .” or “Surely a man of your knowledge would agree that . . .” On a few occasions, we had heard the itinerant Greek Cynics who wandered through Sepphoris conduct discussions in similar fashion.

Perhaps Jesus had borrowed their technique, but his method was much gentler. The old Nazarenes would find themselves tangled in their own web of poorly spun arguments and find that Jesus' views were their only escape. I usually joined the debates, but I did not really care what these old wind-bags thought, so I directed most of my energy toward restraining myself from telling them how self-absorbed they were.

I agreed with Jesus about the need for unity among our people, especially the poor, about how the Temple had lost its authority, and about how militant resistance to the Romans was the wrong approach, even though his views were far from being well-thought out. I was more interested in arguing for any position that countered those the elders advanced and defended. And while I lacked Jesus' patience, eloquence, and single-minded dedication, the old men praised both Jesus and me for our insights (though all recognized Jesus as the true genius).

They would ask me about him: “Where does he get these ideas?” “Has he journeyed to foreign lands and learned a secret wisdom like that of the Magi?” I had no answers for them, of course, although they assumed I was merely being reserved. At other times, they would mistake me for him—which was easy for anyone, especially these old men who, like me now, had lost some of their sight—and I would imitate him, uttering his signature phrases like, “Yours is an excellent point, but have you considered a case such as this . . .” and I would invent some wild scenario, say,
What if a Jew somehow became the emperor of Rome?
, to try baffling them. Usually, they quickly discovered the ruse, but I was never sure why.

Those who were not enchanted with Jesus usually considered him either a nuisance or simply a clever young man who was a bit too full of himself. Increasingly, however, Jesus angered our townsmen, not just for what he said, but often more by his demeanor. His concentration was so intense that he would seem to speak in another voice and, at times, his eyes would change color. Others also noticed these peculiarities and regarded him with more than a touch of fear. Sometimes that fear would manifest itself as anger.

About a dozen of the men would gather at old Menachem's house on the Sabbath. They considered themselves an elite group, and one had to be invited to attend. Old Menachem himself asked Jesus and me to sit with him. I was not really interested, but Jesus, of course, insisted that we go. I am sure that we were expected just to listen and speak only after we had remained in deferential silence for a few meetings. At our first visit, the men discussed a passage from the book of Isaiah. Jesus could not hold his tongue. “Who in our land,” Jesus asked, “has been anointed to bring relief to the poor, sight to the blind, freedom to the oppressed? Why do we have no Isaiah?”

“Do you name yourself this prophet?” one man asked. “Is the prophet's business to accuse his own people of idleness? We are all aware of our ills. Why must you remind us?”

“As Isaiah says,” said Jesus, “I bring good news.”

“Then you
do
think yourself a prophet,” another said. “And what of you, twin? Are you another prophet?”

“Such impudence from the sons of a common laborer,” said still another. “This is dangerously close to blasphemy!”

“I did not call myself a prophet,” said Jesus, “yet you already treat me as one, for all prophets were rejected in their own homelands.”

“Look how his eyes are flashing,” said the first man. “Will this Elijah call down fire from the sky and thrust it upon us?” Some laughed, some shook their heads, and others kicked nervously at the floor. I wished that Jesus could indeed bring fire down on the whole bunch.

“Is that what you think you deserve?” Jesus asked them.

The men all looked astonished. “How dare you speak to us like that!” one yelled. I was beginning to enjoy this gathering.

“I think that is enough for today,” said Menachem.

The others left while I tarried for a moment to apologize to Menachem. He was a kind old man, and I assured him Jesus had not meant to sound so harsh. Menachem said that he understood, but added that perhaps my brother and I should not return until a few Sabbaths had passed.

Afterwards, I could not find Jesus and thought he had gone home without me. Then I noticed a crowd moving with much clamor toward the edge of town. I went to see what was happening, and I found six or seven of the men from the pack dragging Jesus toward the steep hill and calling him a blasphemer. Others from the village followed in curiosity. I went into the crowd where men held Jesus by his cloak.

“You have the wrong man!” I yelled. “This man is my brother, but it was I who spoke.”

The men argued about what to do. “Let's kill them both,” said one man.

“Those are Mary's sons,” said an old woman. “They're good boys.”

I saw Leah and her mother in the group. I think Leah was crying.

Down the hill, I saw a detachment of about twenty Roman soldiers on the main street, probably passing through on the way to Caesarea. A centurion on horseback noticed the disturbance and, bringing five soldiers with him, approached us. He spoke in Latin to a soldier who asked us, in passable Aramaic, “What goes on here?”

“One of these men is a criminal, and we must kill him,” said the man who had suggested both our executions. I think it was Oren, who had worked for years alongside us in Sepphoris.

The soldier spoke to the centurion, who said something back. “Do you Jews never learn that you are under the emperor's rule?” the soldier asked. “You are not allowed to execute under Roman law. What is the man's crime?”

“He blasphemed,” said one.

“Did he curse the emperor?” the soldier asked.

“No,” another said. “He said he was a prophet.”

The soldier spoke again to the centurion, who laughed and said something to the soldier. “Ah, you mean he is a liar,” said the soldier. “Who would be left in your village if we executed all liars?” The centurion spoke to the soldier, turned his horse, and headed back down the hill. The soldier said, “Let them go.” He turned to us. “On your way.” And then, with a formidable fist to the chest, he sent first Jesus and then me to the ground. We scrambled to our feet. I was so angry that I took a step toward the Roman, but Jesus took my arm and pulled me away. What had I been thinking—that I would strike a Roman soldier?

The soldiers descended the hill to join the rest of their comrades. A young villager of about sixteen years old―I think his name was Caleb, son of Hezi the goatherder―was walking near them when a blow from the hilt of a Roman sword sent the boy sprawling. Two soldiers lifted him onto the back of a horse, and the detachment galloped from town. My townsmen made their way down the hill but could do nothing except watch.

Leah had remained on the hill and came and embraced me. “Thomas, I was so frightened.” She sobbed into my shoulder. Jesus put his hands on both our heads, almost as if he were blessing us in some way.

“Leah!” her mother called. “Come!” Leah stepped back and wiped her eyes. Then she returned and pressed her face to my chest for an instant, pulled away, and ran to catch up with her mother.

I trembled on the walk home. Jesus put his arm around me and said, “Be cheerful, my brother. Is this not funny, that we were saved by Romans?”

“We must leave Nazareth,” I said. “I have had enough of these hypocritical old men, enough of the Romans, enough of . . . of everything here.”

“Yes,” he said. “I agree. We are wasting our time here. But I don't know where we should go. Where do you think?”

“I don't care. Maybe Bethsaida. We have family there. We could become fishermen.”

“I've been thinking of another sort of work—work for our people. Something to give us all hope.”

I stopped walking and squeezed Jesus by the shoulders, as if trying to wring something out of him. “What? What will bring them hope? This is something else I've had enough of, all this talk but no direction. Tell me what to do, and I'm with you.”

Jesus flared his nostrils like an angry bull. I thought for a moment that he would strike me. Through clenched teeth, in part whisper, part growl, he said, “I . . . don't . . . know.” He dropped his face to my shoulder and wept.

This episode should make clear that anyone expecting a clichéd tale of sibling contests, like our decrepit myths of Cain and Abel, Jacob and Esau, the Romans' Romulus and Remus, the Greeks' Atreus and Thyestes, will be disappointed. Sometimes my brother bewildered me; often he tried my patience. At times, of course, we fought, as all brothers do.

I recall one such fight when we were about five and were making some little human figures out of mud. Mother was angry (I suppose now, looking back, that she saw them as the same sort of dolls that witches were said to use). I said, “Look, Mother. Mine is a girl, and she is beautiful like you.” Mother's eyes watered, and she kissed me on the head.

Out of jealousy, Jesus pissed on my doll. I pushed him to the ground, and he cried. Mother scooped him up and took him inside, pausing to slap me across the face. Yet even when we argued later in life—we never came to blows—our devotion to each other never subsided. I would have died for him and, in these late years, I still lament missing the chance. It is my greatest regret from this long and woeful life.

Chapter Eight

Verse One

From time to time, we received news of our cousin John. He had a compound by the Jordan River where many came to hear him teach about a great judgment the Lord would render to restore our homeland. The rumor was that all who joined him would be safe from the Lord's anger when the great cleansing of the land came. I'd always suspected that he'd cause some trouble sooner or later.

“Let's go to visit John,” I said to Jesus. “Maybe he has a plan. At least he's saying something that's getting attention. What have we to lose? Besides, we are no longer at home here.”

“Where are we at home, Brother?” he asked. “If we go seeking a home, we'll return in failure. And what about Leah?”

I was surprised. So often Jesus was oblivious to things happening right in front of him. “I don't know” was all I could reply.

“Are you going to tell her you are leaving?”

“No. I'm not even sure if she would care.”

Our mother was hurt and afraid when I told her of our plans. “John has lived with the Pure Ones, and I hear disturbing things about them,” she said. “They live in caves in the wilderness and talk in spirit language. They wear no clothes. They eat raw meat.” Mother had talked herself into a fright and was clapping her hands together around her head as if swatting gnats. “Besides, the Romans won't stand for any gathering of what may appear to be an army. They'll come after the Pure Ones and John's people as well.”

“Don't fret, Mother,” I said. “The Pure Ones live under a shroud of secrecy, and people always form rumors about what they don't understand. They're just a group of men who've gone into seclusion because they think the Temple became polluted by the Hasmons after the Syrians were driven out. You know the story of that revolt. I hear that in Judea they celebrate it and call it the Festival of Dedication. The Pure Ones saw it differently and built a commune by the Dead Sea. They are strange men, I hear, but mostly scribes who study incessantly, which is what John does if he truly does live with them. But more importantly, we surely are not safe here. Jesus already has enemies among the elders. Mother, I cannot be certain what we hope to find, but we seek only peace, and I am sure John does also.”

“Leaving?” My younger brother Joses was standing in the doorway. I had not been aware of him and didn't know how much he had heard.

“Yes,” I said. “For a while. Not long.”

“Can I go?”

“No.” Of my younger siblings, Joses seemed the one who most looked up to Jesus and me. I'm not sure why I refused him so curtly. At twenty-one or twenty-two, he was no longer a child, but I still felt protective of him. “Mother needs you here.”

He didn't argue with me, so I turned back to Mother. “If danger arises there, we'll be careful, and I promise we'll return home.”

“You may,” she said, “but what of Jesus? He fears nothing. He would not know to dodge the falling sword.” She began to weep.

I put my arms around her. “I shall protect him, Mother.” What could I say to her? She believed she would never see us again. If Jesus were harmed, the only comfort she would have was knowing that I'd die trying to protect him.

Verse Two

Jesus, Judas, and I set out to find John. First, we went to the Lake of Kinneret, and the village of Magdala, where Judas visited Mary, whom he had not seen in months. When she heard what we aimed to do, she decided to go with us. Her family was angry. “You will be an unmarried woman traveling with men,” they said. “You will bring us shame.”

“Then I shall marry,” said Mary.

Verse Three

We found several cults in the harsh land near the Jordan. One group called themselves the Watchers, awaiting what they called the last days. They refused to have children and did not bathe. They slept during the day and sang hymns at night.

Another group followed a man named Nahor. He rode about on a mule and said that he would lead his people to Rome as Joshua of the scriptures had led our ancestors against Jericho to reclaim our homeland, a seven-hilled city that would flatten like a slain seven-headed beast.

Others had come to hide, either as fugitives or scheming radicals, but none escaped Roman eyes. Soldiers passed through often, making sure to be seen.

“This is not good,” I said. “Whatever John is doing, he will be seen as one of these militants.”

“He
is
a militant,” said Judas. “Is that not why we are here?”

Jesus smiled. “Judas, my beloved cousin, John is not interested in bloodshed. Neither are we.”

Mary stroked Judas' forehead. “Listen to Jesus, my love, and cool your anger.”

“Do not worry about him, Mary,” said Jesus. “His blood is hot, but his heart is larger than he will admit.”

Far south along the Jordan, we came to a place where two or three hundred sat by the river, listening to a gaunt man who shouted from atop a crude wooden platform. He accentuated every third or fourth sentence by ending with “ha!” or “unk!” and foamed at the mouth like a possessed dog. I hoped this spastic lunatic, dressed in rags that barely covered him, with hair matted like a forest goat's, was not John. Besides, the audience seemed too small to account for the attention John was receiving.

“Rejoice, my people!” he shouted, pointing at us as we neared the front of the crowd. “These are good men from Nazareth, these three out of tens of thousands, who have much to teach us.” I knew then that this crazed man was John, and I wondered what would happen next.

A man near us said, “I've heard that nothing good comes from Nazareth.”

Judas scowled, but Jesus said, “You speak truly, my friend. Why do you think we left?”

The man laughed. “I have also heard that nothing good comes from anywhere else in the Galilee,” he said, “so we share the same fate.”

He was a fisherman named Andrew. We spoke with him for some time, and he told us that John had a way of providing hope to his listeners, more by his intensity than by anything in particular that he said. Andrew was in John's inner circle and smart enough not to be a mere follower.

Verse Four

For two months, we lived as outcasts with John and his straggly assembly. In the mornings, some would try to catch fish while others pulled up reeds with bulbous roots that tasted like grainy radishes. Jesus and I built a proper platform from which John could deliver his sermons.

He would start at midday and preach for hours about how we were in another form of captivity, this one worse than what our ancestors had faced under the Egyptians, the Babylonians, and the Greeks. He would call for God's wrath to bring about a great apocalyptic cataclysm. When I witnessed his ferocious speeches, his knotted hair jerking, spit flying from his lips, his bare feet stomping the rough stage, I could almost believe him.

When the sky was clear, we slept on the ground. If rain threatened, we huddled together like sheep under oiled sheets draped over ropes. These people were lost in their own homeland, aching to feel that they belonged, and looking to John to give them shelter. Some seemed lost in their own bodies, having no sense of identity, no belief that their lives were unfolding in meaningful stories, and hoped that John was a magician who would draw out the life hidden within them just as a conjurer draws out birds from his cloak.

Others wanted John to call down a legion of angels with flaming swords to slaughter the Romans and the Judeans as well. Still others had no idea what had lured them to this jagged edge of a crumbling world. But as each day passed without such miracles, I expected them all to lose their enchantment with him and stumble off to seek another promise-maker. It never happened.

Once a month, at night during the full moon, John would lead the group into the water and baptize newcomers. Some—those who must have thought themselves incurably soiled—would jump into the line to be dunked each time he offered.

Mary said that we should join them to represent a new beginning.

“I'm not sure,” Jesus said. “Baptism is a ritual cleansing. Do you feel unclean? Besides, John is not a priest.”

I was confused by Jesus' comment. “Ritual? Priest? When did you start caring about rites?”

Jesus picked at the back of his hand as if removing a flea. “I don't care. I just . . .” He lowered his head and rubbed his temples. “It would mean that we are putting our faith in John. He seems to believe the Lord will lead us in war, or . . . I don't know. What do we expect? Maybe the time isn't ripe.”

“When do you think the time will be ripe?” asked Judas. “Do you have a plan? Let's just get into the water. That will align us more closely with John. At least he has a following, and more people join every day. We can build upon it. It's not much now, but we could have the start of an army here.”

Jesus looked up at Judas. “You're the only one here thinking that.”

Judas laughed. “You haven't been listening to John.”

Judas, Mary, and I took our places in the baptismal line. Andrew, who had been baptized the month before, stood on the river bank and waved at us. We entered the water and John submerged us one by one, each time chanting something about entering the water as stained slaves but rising as washed soldiers for the Lord. Andrew hugged each of us as we walked out of the water.

When we looked back towards the river, we saw that Jesus had joined the line.

“Well, well,” said Judas. “Perhaps Jesus is ready to join the fight after all.”

“Stop it, Judas,” Mary said. “Jesus is only showing that he is with us. Right, Thomas?”

“Of course,” I said, although I really did not know what to think.

“I believe Jesus has ideas that none of us know,” said Andrew.

When Jesus' turn came and he waded into the river, his back straight, his head high, John announced, “Behold this man! He is upright and good and righteous. Why do you seek cleansing? Are you not already favored by the Lord?”

“Am I not a man?” said Jesus. He placed John's hand upon his head and lowered himself into the water. When he arose, the full moon emerged from behind a cloud, and he was awash in light, as if even the heavens knew that Jesus was unlike the rest of us. The people watching on the bank cheered.

A complex set of emotions—embarrassment, jealousy, admiration—swelled in me. Did Jesus expect John to say that he was not a man? What else could he be? Everyone who met him recognized that Jesus was special, but what was John suggesting when he said “favored by the Lord”? For that moment, I felt as if I were not part of Jesus—as if he had stepped into a room and locked me out.
Am I not his twin?
I thought.
Am I not a man like him?

I left the riverbank. Soon Judas caught up with me. “Do you understand what just happened, Thomas?”

I did not answer but continued to walk away.

“John did not simply baptize Jesus as he did the rest of us. He anointed his successor. You saw how John acted when Jesus walked into the water. And what about the others? Have you heard anything like that when anyone else was baptized? These people, and surely many others, will do whatever Jesus says.”

“That's their problem.”

“Thomas, you see how they look at John? Longing to be told what to do? He just repeats that the wrath of God is on its way and all they can do is wait. They sit for the same tired speech for days on end, but they ache to be given orders. If we counsel Jesus onto the right path, and if Jesus commanded it, we could raise tomorrow an army of Galileans who'd face the Romans barehanded.”

Judas actually made sense. “You may be right,” I said, “but first, John is still the leader here. Second, you know how Jesus rejects violence. If I agree with you on what we should do, we'll need a long time to change Jesus.”

“He may change if something moves him enough—something to make him hate the Romans enough to reject his nonsense about nonviolence.” Judas had a smirk that I had known since childhood. He would get this smirk just before he stole a honey cake or throw a rock at a passing soldier.

“What are you talking about?”

“We can discuss this later, Thomas. For now, let's go back to the river. I'll have John baptize me again just to show him how serious I am.”

I could tell that Judas was working on a scheme, but I could not imagine then how monstrous it would turn out to be. I returned with him to the river, where John embraced Judas before re-baptizing him.

Just before his face went under the water, I again saw the smirk on Judas' face.