The Gospel of the Twin (8 page)

But then I realized how masterful they were at subjugation. Had they brought a legion, that would have meant we were deemed a serious threat, and we might have gotten puffed up and fought. This tiny, light cavalry indicated that we were only a minor annoyance, and hardly worth their attention. It worked, too, for as the horses trotted into the crowd, people scurried to clear the way. Some shouted curses at the soldiers, who continued on as oblivious as the horses to the insults.

“We have to stop them!” said Andrew.

“Quiet,” I said. “Don't be a fool.”

“Better a fool than a coward.” He picked up a fist-sized rock and hurled it. It struck a horse's haunch, but the well-trained animal showed no reaction. Andrew drew a knife and lurched forward. I grabbed him, and Judas locked his arm around his neck, undoubtedly saving his life. If he believed Andrew might spoil the plan, Judas, I suspect, would have choked Andrew to death. I felt nauseated. This was really happening. John would be taken away and probably executed.

What have I done?
I thought.
He's my own blood, and his blood will now be on my hands.

The soldiers stopped in front of the platform. “Are you the one called the Baptizer?” asked a centurion.

“I am,” said John.

“Antipas has sent us for you.” Three soldiers were already dismounting.

“Tell Herod he is welcome to come join us here,” said John.

A soldier swung his lance into John's leg. The shinbone snapped, and John fell like a stalk of wheat. It felt as if the blunt end of that lance had slammed into my gut. Soldiers lifted John, deftly threw him across a horse, and swept him away before most in the crowd even knew what had happened.

Judas and I exchanged confused glances. What had Herod Antipas, the Roman puppet king of Galilee, to do with this? Why would the Romans have taken my and Judas' accusations against John to Antipas? They didn't need his permission to make an arrest. Could this have been a separate affair? Did Antipas have his own reasons for the arrest? Would that mean that I had not actually betrayed John?

That night, many people fled under the cover of darkness, probably embarrassed to be seen so quickly leaving their dreams behind. By morning, fewer than half the followers remained, and more were gone by nightfall.

“It doesn't matter,” Judas said to me. “What's important is that John is gone. This will convince any doubters that neither Herod nor anyone else in high office is our friend.”

“But whatever they think of Herod, they must think little of Jesus,” I said. “See how many have scattered?”

“But that's good, too,” Mary said. “We need only the truly devoted—those who would choose death over tyranny.” She took my hand and pressed it against her cheek. She closed her eyes a moment, then looked into mine. “Dear Thomas, I believe that Jesus has been chosen by the Lord to deliver us from this empire of demons. When I am near him, I can feel a power like the bristling from a woolen robe on a cold morning. I see it moving through others as he speaks. You feel it too, Thomas. You become lost in his words, as if the world has fallen away and he
is
those words, and he is all.”

She was right. I could not make sense of it then, but I believed that my life and the destiny of my people were contained in my brother. I'd always thought of him as a leader who could get people to recognize how they were being exploited, and that only their own actions could deliver them, and then only by banding together to act.

But those were distant thoughts, dreamlike visions of Jesus sitting at the head of a national council, top judge and high priest, refusing to sit upon a throne but receiving complete loyalty from the people nonetheless. Now, my sense of destiny was much more concrete, no longer a fantasy of a just world that magically appears by the sweep of God's hand.

The record of my people demonstrates that historical change comes about through righteous leadership, through a Moses, a David, a Judah Maccabee, and now a Jesus. With the right people around him to fuel and direct that raw, God-infused energy, we could liberate and reshape our nation. Barren fields would be plowed and planted again. Vineyard fences would sag with fat grapes. Chickens would scratch in every yard. No more work to feed oppressors or support puppet rulers and a corrupt Temple. Or was I dreaming again?

For the next few days, Judas, Andrew, and I kept the peace as best we could. Jesus spoke from the platform, urging calm and assuring everyone that John would return safely. Each day, more left. Judas, Mary, and I pleaded with Jesus to leave in case the soldiers returned and so we could take the crowd with us before it dwindled to nothing. He ignored us, despite his acknowledgment that he might be the next target and that we might have to build anew from the ground up.

After a week, three young men who had trailed John and the soldiers to Tiberias came back to tell us that Herod had executed John. The crowd wailed, and most immediately left for their homes. I guess they had remained only because of the dim hope that John might return.

“What shall we do, Brother?” I asked Jesus. We sat by the river in the cool early evening with Mary, Judas, and Andrew. “We could return to Nazareth, regroup. Take some time to think things through. Besides, I promised Mother that I would bring you home if we faced danger.”

“Are we not at home wherever we find the poor in spirit?” Jesus asked.

“The
poor in spirit
?” I asked. “I thought we were all about the poor in purse, the poor in hope. It seems that too many here were poor in courage. The few remaining will follow us home. We can come up with a plan and perhaps pick up some more followers along the way. We are behind you, Brother, but this place has lost its power.”

“Nazareth isn't safe,” said Judas. “Sepphoris is probably still filled with Romans.”

“Come with me to Bethsaida,” said Andrew. “It's a quiet fishing village where the Romans rarely pester us. Yet the people there need some hope and will listen to you.”

“We've been to Bethsaida, Andrew,” I said. “It's bigger than Nazareth and may be a good place to start. Brother, listen: The Romans took out John”—I felt a tremor in my gut as I uttered those words—“and it had exactly the effect they wanted. His followers have left or are leaving. Perhaps the good news is that we,
you
, probably do not appear to be much of a threat to them, but that's because so few people have remained. Tomorrow, more will leave, and more the next day. If we leave now, at least many of those still here will come with us.”

Jesus threw a pebble into the river. The splash startled something in the reeds, a fish or a bird. “Why would they go to Bethsaida?”

“They believe in you, Brother. You give them hope. But they associate this place with John. Without him, this river, this bank we're sitting on, that stage where you speak, have grown feeble, like a sick tree that no longer produces olives. The young, inexperienced farmer hopes that the tree's health will be restored and resists cutting it down, but he lets it infect surrounding trees. The wise farmer wields the axe and saves the orchard.”

Jesus smiled and punched me in the shoulder. “Thomas, when did you begin spinning parables? I thought that was my job!”

Everyone laughed. It was a needed release of tension and even seemed to make Jesus a bit more agreeable to our suggestion.

“Perhaps you're right,” he said. “Let's discuss this more tomorrow. Right now I think I'll spend a few minutes in the river.” He went to the water's edge and removed his clothes. Jesus looked thin and pale in the fading light, not the robust figure you'd expect of someone preparing to challenge an empire. He waded out until the water was waist-high, then went under. He emerged in the center of the river, a dark silhouette outlined by moonlight.

Verse Five

The next day, Jesus preached to the fifty or so who remained. Perhaps Mary was right—we were better with a dedicated few than with a large, skittish throng. Jesus had them energized and led them in a song, something about a kingdom of the heart. When he finished speaking, Mary, Judas, Andrew, and I pulled him in to continue our discussion about our options. Judas was making a half-hearted case for going to Jerusalem to establish some notoriety (he often darted between keeping ourselves inconspicuous and daring the world to ignore us) when a young man and woman approached him.

The man appeared nervous and made a slight bow. “Teacher, my wife and I are troubled.” The woman did a little bow as well and kept her eyes on the ground.

“What troubles you, friend?” Jesus asked.

The man looked at his wife, who kept staring at the dirt. She seemed to shrink. “Teacher,” the man said, “we fear this place. We want to stay with you, but we think this place has become stained.”

None of those who had already left had paused to ask for advice, to offer a reason, to express regret, or to condemn us to Hades. They had all scampered away as if they had just been passing through to begin with. I wondered if he and the woman had argued and decided to let Jesus settle their dispute.

“Stained?” Jesus asked.

The man looked at me as if for the first time (it may have been for all I knew). He looked puzzled, then turned back to Jesus. “John's blood. That's why the others are gone.”

Now Jesus looked puzzled. He looked at me, but I didn't know what the man was talking about either. Superstitions of this sort were rather common, but not for an entire group of the size that had left. Ten or twelve more people had sneaked up close to listen.

The woman raised her head. “Teacher, will you stay here, or do you plan to take us somewhere else?” Her voice was squeaky, like a tiny lamb's.

“Do you know of Bethsaida?” Andrew asked.

“I have heard of it,” the man said.

“I know of Bethsaida,” said one of the listeners. “Are you taking us there, Teacher?”

Jesus looked at Andrew for a long, silent moment. Then he looked at me. He raised one eyebrow, almost imperceptibly, but I knew that he was asking me what I thought. I returned a slight smile.

“Yes,” Jesus said. “We shall leave in the morning.”

The man and woman embraced. The other people standing nearby began chattering. A few clapped their hands. Others called to loved ones and sounded elated when they relayed the news.

“This is good,” said Mary, and she threw her arms around Jesus and kissed his cheek. “They are your followers now, not bewildered mourners for John.”

Jesus laughed. “They may have more bewilderment to come.”

The next morning, we set out for Bethsaida. We looked like a colony of outcasts, just large enough to draw attention.

Chapter Eleven

Verse One

Many years later, I left my homeland and became a world traveler. I suppose I was as much running from the failures of my past as I was seeking a new start on a future.

I made it as far as India and, soon after my arrival there, I saw a man sitting by the street in the center of a small village. He was completely naked, his matted beard reached his waist, and his hair was plaited into many long braids that looked like worn ropes. His followers, perhaps a thousand, outnumbered the villagers. They sat and tried to emulate his routine—drinking a cup of water once a day, eating only what could be held in the same cup every other day, and relieving himself every three days. While most came and went, some followers were rumored to have been with him for years.

He was known as a
sadhu
, and I was told that he had been in that same spot for twelve years and that, during that span of time, he had not slept. Insects plagued him, but he seemed not to notice. A woman claimed that, years earlier, she saw a cobra bite the man, and while the man sat motionless, the snake crawled up and draped itself about the man's neck like a scaly shawl and died. The snake remained on the man for weeks without decaying, until it was stolen by a group of mischievous boys.

The
sadhu
died while I dwelt in the town. No tears were shed. His followers arose and returned to their villages and fields. I heard no mention of the man until I asked my landlord about him.

“Movement?” he asked. “Who would lead a movement for a dead man? He was not Krishna, you know.”

“But his followers were so dedicated. How could they forget him so soon and not establish something in his name?”

My landlord laughed. “You Greeks!” (He called anyone from west of Persia “Greek.”) “Always looking for ways to worship men! Eventually you'll have more gods than we Indians.”

Verse Two

As we headed for Bethsaida, Mary, Andrew, Judas, Jesus, and I followed the Jordan north, crossing empty stretches of uninhabitable dirt, passing through settlements of eight or ten families, and meeting other groups of seekers, fugitives, and malcontents. All along, Jesus spoke with strangers, asking them about how they made their livings, how they dealt with the Romans, and if they had heard of John the Baptizer.

Nearly all put food on their tables by working at whatever they could be hired to do—helping landowners plant and harvest, chopping wood, repairing wagons. They stayed out of the Romans' way as best they could, and those who knew of John had heard wild tales. One man said he was told that John had commanded the Jordan to open and swallow up a Roman regiment just before his arrest. Another said John had been beheaded, and the severed head prophesied that Antipas and all the Romans would be devoured by terrible bear-like beasts that would descend from the great frozen wilderness of the north before a year had passed.

Jesus was at ease with strangers, and his habit of slightly twisting his head to favor his good ear was endearing to many, as if it indicated earnest concern for their misfortunes. After a short conversation, he would seem to discover things about them that they had not told him—things that even they had forgotten—and they would marvel.

“How did you know that I was orphaned?” one might ask. “Are you a magician?” demanded another. A few left their hoes in the field to come with us. Many, however, eyed us down their noses and spat on the ground when we looked their way. Who could blame them? Galilean villages could barely support themselves, and no one needs a bunch of beggars who look no better than common thieves passing through their streets. Every now and then, a few of John's followers would abandon us, but we managed to gather more than we lost.

Jesus did not maintain that easy composure with me, however. On the second day of our journey, he pulled me a few strides away from the group and told me his secret: “Thomas, I'm frightened.”

I could not remember ever hearing him say that before.

“Frightened? Of what? Things are coming together now. You have people who believe in you, who count on you. In two days, we have—well, despite losing a few—picked up another dozen. Isn't this what you want?”

He took a deep breath and blew, as if trying to extinguish a distant candle. “Yes, but I can't quite course out our path. We'll be in Bethsaida tomorrow, and we can rest there. Then what? I know that people get inspired when I speak to them, but what is the real substance of my words?” He wiped his eye. It may have been dust; it may have been a tear. “I'm not John, Thomas. John had a vision, and even if it wasn't the right one, I sensed an energy from him, something that could push me to die for his cause. Instead, he died, in a way, for us.”

I felt that kick in my gut again. Jesus had no idea what I and others had done for him or what we would be willing to do in the future. I ached to tell him how I had betrayed John, to unburden myself, but Jesus would never have forgiven me and perhaps, out of what I am sure would have been his notion of dirty hands, would have gone home and cut stone the rest of his life. Besides, he may not have even believed me, especially if I had told him that Mary had contributed to the scheme.

“Brother,” I said, “then do this for John. He practically announced to the world that you were his successor, didn't he? Do you want him to have died in vain?”

“Of course not. But what if John was the anointed one? Is it possible to be the chosen one and yet die before you fulfill your destiny? Does the Lord direct every twist and turn of our history, or does he have to deal with contingencies? What if John was the best the Lord could do, and now he's just a disheartening reminder of what could have been?”

“Perhaps,” I said, “John's death was part of the Lord's plan, too. Maybe he accomplished what the Lord needed from him, preparing the way for you and becoming an emblem by dying for a cause that you now lead. Look, anyone would be nervous in your position. You're a strong man, Brother, but you're allowed to second guess yourself from time to time.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” He rested his hand upon my shoulder and left it there as we walked. “I can't express to you what a comfort you are to me. You know, don't you, that things will just get harder?”

“I'm counting on it.”

Jesus squeezed my shoulder. “I'd be lost without you, Brother.”

I worried that he would be lost with me as well.

Verse Three

When we got to Bethsaida the next day, Andrew was eager for us to meet his family. The rest, who numbered maybe eighty by then, camped in a stand of willows by the lake only two or three minutes' walk from the village and waited for our return. As we neared Andrew's house, he pointed to a boat on the water and waved his arms. “Look,” Andrew said. “My brother and his friends.”

A large and powerful man shouted from the boat, “Andrew! You're home!” The four men came to shore with a boat filled with fish.

“This is my brother Simon,” said Andrew. “And these are brothers James and John, and their father Zebedee.”

“I see you have a scar on your chin,” Judas said to Simon. “You are the Simon who demanded money from us when we were children.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Simon. “I was a thug then, but that was long ago.”

Judas grunted, a noise that others could have taken for approval. It took a moment for the memory to gel in my mind. A bizarre coincidence. I recalled that Jesus had said that Simon might be the sort of person we could use in our movement. I looked at him, but Jesus gave no sign that he remembered this big fisherman.

“Come to my house, and we'll eat,” said Andrew.

The fish were cleaned and cooked, Andrew's mother made bread, and Simon poured wine for us all. John and James joined us and seemed good men, fastidious about our comfort, making sure we had plenty on our plates before they fed themselves, asking about our journey, about our childhood in Nazareth, and about what we planned to do next. Andrew told them about his life with the baptizer and the wondrous things Jesus had said. James, John, and Simon treated us as exotic royalty, bowing apologetically each time we were offered more wine or a fig, as if their fare wasn't worthy of us.

“We must go back to the others by the river,” I said. “They need food.”

“We have many fish here,” said Andrew. He turned to Simon. “This is enough to feed our friends.”

Simon looked startled. He faced his mother, then turned back to Andrew. “Brother, these fish are our livelihood. I have to sell them at the market tomorrow morning or we may not eat the rest of the week.”

Jesus stood. “We understand, Simon. We know what it's like to live from meal to meal. We are most grateful for your sharing with us. Perhaps tomorrow we can help you fish, yes?”

“Great idea,” Andrew said. He rose from his seat, kissed his mother, and hugged his brother. “Thomas is right. We need to tend to the others.” He seemed a little too eager to leave. “We'll find something for them. All the children and everyone.” He practically pushed us out the door into the darkening evening.

The crowd was at first excited by our return, but when we got closer, it became clear that we carried no baskets of bread, no fish, not even an olive. “My children are hungry, Jesus,” a woman said. “But we have no money for food.” I wondered if she and others suspected that Jesus, Andrew, and I were well sated.

Jesus bade the people to sit. “You have put your trust in me, my brothers and sisters, but I do not know how to provide for you. In time, we shall eat, but for now, think of all we have been through. Has not the Lord been by our side? Blessed are you with something in hand, but more blessed are you with nothing to hold, for your hand has room for more.”

I wasn't sure what evidence Jesus could produce that the Lord had been by our side. John was dead, hundreds had returned to their homes in despair, and this sorrowful group had no food to eat. Jesus' words calmed the people all the same.

As he was speaking, though, a woman from Bethsaida came to Jesus. “Rabbi,” she said, “I am a poor woman. I have little to offer, but what I have is yours.” And she handed Jesus a basket that contained a few fish and some bread.

“Good woman,” said Jesus, “you are willing to give to strangers. Who is more blessed than you? You call me ‘rabbi,' but your compassion has taught us more than I could ever teach.” Then Jesus held up the basket. “Bring to me the children, and I'll divide this food among them.”

As we meted out the food as best we could, only a morsel for each tiny hand, someone emerged from the darkness carrying torches. We turned to see Simon and the Zebedee brothers, John and James, all bearing great baskets of flour and fish.

“Behold!” said Jesus. “Compassion in the form of men!”

Andrew laughed and clasped hands with Simon. I had the suspicion that Andrew had known all along that his brother would not let him down.

We built two fires. On one, we roasted the fish. On rocks placed around the other fire, the women mixed the flour with water and spread circles of dough. We distributed the food as Mary sang, “The Lord feeds us and we are one. Blessed is the work that is done.”

After all had eaten, a few more torches were made from fallen willow limbs, John and James brought blankets and sheets for tents, and Jesus spoke to the people as they sat upon the bank, with more and more townspeople warily approaching.

“You are poor in pocket but rich in spirit,” said Jesus. “You sit in a strange land, eat others' food, and sleep on others' pallets. But those with ears should listen. You are like the fisherman who drew many small fish into his net. Among them was a large and curious fish so, without hesitation, the wise fisherman threw out the small ones and kept the large one. Did his wisdom lie in knowing what to keep, or in knowing what to let go? Fortunate are you who let go that which others grasp.

“Fortunate are you whose stomachs are full, but more fortunate are those who hunger. Fortunate are you whose hearts are full, but more fortunate are those whose hearts are empty, for they make room for the empire of the Lord.”

The crowd murmured, uncertain. “Tell us about the Lord's empire!” shouted Simon.

“The Lord does not watch over us like an emperor who sits upon a throne. He does not sit. He does not watch. You cannot look upon Him as you would each other. He is not a being like us, but He is being itself, the ground of all.” I saw a small squint in Jesus' eye, and knew that he knew he was in danger of losing the crowd. “Listen: The empire of the Lord is like a woman who carried a jar of flour. The woman did not know that the jar had a crack, and by the time she arrived home, the flour had spilled along the road.” Or, at least, I
think
he said flour. He may have said oil, but flour seems a better image to me, and more credible. She would be more likely to notice oil pouring out. For one thing, she might hear the splash on the ground, and some might hit her ankle. Also, oil is much heavier, and she would feel the jar getting lighter.

Jesus heard the mumblings of the crowd. He held up his hand to quiet them and continued: “Listen, a farmer went out and scattered his seeds. Some fell upon the road and were eaten by birds. Others fell upon rock and did not take root. Some fell into the weeds and brambles and were choked. But some fell upon rich soil and grew to an abundant harvest. If you wish to know the empire of the Lord, open your ears.”

The people were more pleased by this parable. I was unsure why. Perhaps it was because the woman ended up with nothing and the farmer got a good harvest, or because this one seemed more obscure than the flour jar story. Perhaps obscurity strikes them as profundity. In any case, as they called for more stories, Judas drew me aside, hissing, “Why is he speaking to the people as if they are children? If they're so simple-minded, what good are they to us? We need to gather our forces, and they need to hear the truth if they are truly worth our trust.”