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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

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Mary’s hair is white and thinning by the time the foreign doctor comes to visit; her joints are sore and stiff. He speaks halting Aramaic with a heavy accent; she wishes she’d been educated, so she could talk to him in his native Greek tongue. 

People have been talking about her son for decades, but no one has asked her so many questions before, or listened so carefully to her answers. He has some trouble understanding the rural accent she’s never lost, so she has to repeat some things several times before he seems able to follow. He says—if she understands him correctly—that he wants to know exactly what happened. He says he’s heard more than one version of every story and he wants to get it right. So she tries to tell him everything, but it takes so long, and there’s so much to talk about, she soon settles for smiling widely and nodding as soon as he seems to understand the heart of what she’s said.  

After he’s gone through all the common stories and sayings, he asks her about when Jesus was born. No man has asked her about that before. Some men, back in the village, used to look away from her because of whispers they’d heard about it, but no one ever asked. 

So she tells him. About the angel, and the prophetess. About how she almost fell off the donkey when the tightening pains became hard and rapid. She laughs as she remembers trying to tell Joseph to let her get down and have the baby on the side of the street, and explains how frustrating it was that whenever she’d get his attention, the pain would have grown too strong for her to talk. 

He asks about Jesus’ childhood, but she quickly gives up trying to explain all the places they lived and why they went there. She tries to express instead what a perfect child he was, how infuriating that perfection could sometimes be, and how sometimes, even as a child, he’d say strange things that would sink straight down to the deepest part of her heart, where she’d keep them. Though it wasn’t until later, years later, after everything had happened, that she finally understood what he’d meant. 

She falls quiet. 

“Do you miss him?” asks Luke. 

She smiles. “No,” she says. “He’s not gone.”

*

They keep telling the story: from land to land, language to language, generation to generation. The stories change as they travel: people remember the Passover matzah as loaves of their own leavened bread, Mary’s son’s spring birth gets moved to winter. But the heart stays strong even in such mistakes: it’s the darkest time of year when the people of the north celebrate the coming of the Light. 

The stories don’t mind shifting a little to fill the shapes of their listeners’ deepest needs.  

And I believe they’re all true. Because I’ve walked into the water, seen John’s shape carved across its surface. And that shape is a knife that still opens hearts, so that by the time you reach the water, you’re aching to give up all the wrongs you’ve ever done. 

And you tell Jesus: “I can’t go on this way.” 

And he says: “You don’t have to.”

And you say: “But how?”

And he shows you how to take the stories in your hand, and tear the pride of this world apart. 

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

This is the final post from “The Five Books of Jesus.” To read the entire series, click here.

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“The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul.”

1.

Andrew and Nathanael hear from the men in the fish market, who heard it from a passing soldier.

James hears from John when he gets back in the late afternoon.

Simon and Philip hear from a passerby shortly after they wake up, panicked, in a filthy alley. Matthew and Thomas hear from them an hour later.

Peter, the big Judas, and the little James hear it from a servant who Joseph the rich man sends.

Their minds go blank. Their hearts break.

They feel weak, when they hear it, and sick to the bottom of their souls.

*

It is spring.

But the whole world feels dead.

It is spring.

But there is nothing to hope for anymore. Ever.

In what strange way has this spring come?

*

The men from Jericho can’t bear to stay in the city for the rest of the holiday. It’s a festival of freedom, but they’re too close here to the crosses on the hill to feel free at all. They buy some flatbread from the villagers and hurry home.

James’s mother leans on him and Jesus’ mother leans on John. Mary from Magdala suggests they walk to Bethany to see if any of the others are there.

Matthew and Thomas meet them on the road into the village and show them a place between two trees where Simon and Philip are hiding. Simon’s face is badly bruised.

“What do we do now?” asks Matthew.

“We’re ready to take you back home if that’s best,” says Thomas to the women.

As the older Mary imagines the road north, she’s filled with an echo of the long-ago dread of realizing, on the way home from the festival, that her son was missing. And she wants to look for him again now, to spend three days searching every corner of the city, though she knows she won’t find him this time.

“We can’t leave yet,” she says. “We have to go back to Jerusalem.”

*

Andrew and Nathanael don’t know where to go. They

waited all day in the market because they could never make it safely out through the gate toward Jesus but were never willing to give up and walk away.

But now that Jesus is dead, there’s no real reason to go through the gate.

Which also means the soldiers aren’t questioning anybody.

“Where are you going?” asks Nathanael.

“To see him,” says Andrew.

Nathanael shudders. “Why?”

“I’ll meet you back at the house in the upper city,”

Andrew says, and as Nathanael watches, Andrew walks straight past the soldiers and out the fish gate.

*

Joseph the rich man has spent most of the day waiting to see the governor. But when the governor has time to receive him, it’s only because what Joseph wanted to stop has already been done.

“With your permission, I’d like to take Jesus’ body and bury it according to our customs,” says Joseph.

The governor looks up from his meal. “The king? Is he already dead?”

A captain nods.

“I knew he was harmless,” says the governor to the captain. “Didn’t even last ten hours.”

The captain stiffens and bites his tongue.

“The body is yours,” says the governor to Joseph. “Just take it down from the cross.”

*

Andrew sees Jesus’ body from a distance.

It still doesn’t help him believe this could have happened.

Not far from the cross, another body is spread out on the ground, face down and lying almost absolutely still.

“Judas?” says Andrew.

But Judas doesn’t turn or answer. Andrew kneels down beside him, looks him over for signs of wounds—but his only injuries are scraped knuckles.

“Why didn’t they come?” says Judas. “It’s all my fault.”

“Don’t talk like that,” says Andrew. “We did what we could, there just wasn’t time enough.”

“You don’t understand,” says Judas.

“It’s going to be all right,” says Andrew. “Somehow it will be all right.”

“No,” says Judas.

“Let’s go back to the house,” says Andrew.

“You still don’t understand,” says Judas, “I killed him!” Andrew takes Judas firmly by both arms. “You didn’t kill anyone,” he says. “The Romans did this and none of us knew how to stop them.”

But Judas pulls away. “You don’t understand,” he says, and then he turns and runs before Andrew can stop him.

*

Joseph goes home to get a white linen cloth to wrap the body in. He checks to see if the three apostles waiting there are all right and finds ten of the apostles and three women in the upper room.

He tells them he has permission to take the body and that he has a garden outside the city walls with a newly-cut tomb. He says it will be better, in case anyone is watching, if none of the men come with him, but he invites the women.

Salome stays with her sons, but the Marys go.

Andrew is still at the cross when they get there, but no one seems to be watching anymore. He helps Joseph take the body down. The women wrap it, and then Joseph and Andrew carry it to the tomb.

It’s good Andrew is there to help, because the stone at the tomb’s entrance is too heavy for Joseph alone to roll aside.

*

Judas doesn’t know where to go. He thinks about going to the neighborhood where he grew up, but he’s not sure he could bear to be there now. He thinks about going back to face Peter, James, and John, but he doesn’t think they’d stone him like he deserves. He thinks about going to the high priest’s house, throwing the money in his face, shouting every curse he knows—as if it were the high priest’s fault and not his own. As if curses mattered in a world to which the Day of Judgment will no longer come.

He decides to go to the fig tree on the mountainside where Jesus wept.

All the leaves are brown and the branches are brittle. Even the roots have dried up.

*

Joseph, Andrew, and the women make it home just before sunset ushers in the Sabbath.

Everyone says the prayers together, and though they’re still devastated, an unmistakable part of the peace of the Sabbath settles over the house.

The Sabbath must be one of the greatest gifts God ever gave to mankind, because not even a tragedy as great as this can take it away.

2.

Late that night, after everyone else is lost in bone-tired sleep, Andrew and Peter talk like they used to, like two young brothers worried about their friends. They talk about Mary, and about Simon’s wounds, and about how grateful they are to have Joseph’s hospitality and help. Then they fall quiet for a moment.

“I’m worried about Judas,” says Andrew, “I wish he were here with us.”

Peter doesn’t answer.

“I saw him, for a moment, in the afternoon,” Andrew says, and he fidgets with the knots on his sleeve. “I think he blames himself for what happened.”

Peter bites his tongue. He already hates Judas for betraying Jesus, but now he also hates him for how the truth will hurt his brother. His caring, trusting brother.

“Where do you think he might have gone?” asks Andrew. “How can we find him?”

“Andrew,” says Peter, but he can’t fit any words out of his mouth. The shapes they take in his mind are too awkward and ugly for his tongue to carry.

Andrew waits in silence. That’s the worst part. The way Andrew is always so willing to patiently wait for him to speak.

“It is his fault,” says Peter. “He’s the one who led them to Jesus.”

Andrew doesn’t say anything for a long time. Peter feels like there’s a fish hook caught in his side and the silence is pulling on it, but he doesn’t know how to beg Andrew to say something. Anything.

“Are you sure it was him?” says Andrew at last.

“He was carrying one of the torches,” says Peter. “He walked right up to us and pointed out Jesus. That’s how they knew who to arrest.”

“Why would he do that?” asks Andrew.

“Why do most traitors turn on their friends?” says Peter. “Maybe they paid him well; maybe he carried a silent grudge.”

“He feels terrible now,” says Andrew.

“Good!” says Peter. “I hope he feels terrible the rest of his life. Maybe someday someone will turn him in, and he can find out how it feels to be nailed to a cross.”

“Don’t say that,” says Andrew.

“He deserves it,” says Peter.

“Don’t say that,” says Andrew. “I’m worried about him. We should find him.”

“Jesus is dead because of him!” says Peter. “Can’t you understand that?”

“He’s my friend!” says Andrew, and he starts to cry.

“He betrayed you,” says Peter. “He betrayed all of us.”

But Andrew doesn’t stop weeping. And so Peter cries with him. He cries for his dead Master, for his dying hopes, for the crushing loneliness of this giant, violent city. But most of all he cries because the pleading tone of Andrew’s voice sounded so much for a moment like Jesus last night in the garden.

*

While the Jews of the city are observing their Sabbath,

the governor gambles with an old friend who’s come to visit. As he rolls the carved bone dice, the governor explains how he convinced half the city to support the execution of a man who claimed to be the heir to the old Jewish kings.

The governor’s friend laughs when he hears about the crown of thorns. “Probably the only crown he ever wore,” he says—and then he stops laughing when the dice rolled against him.

“Shall we play again?” asks the governor.

“I think I’ve suffered enough,” says his friend.

“Just once more!” says the governor. “You know the

whole city’s shut down on their seventh day: what else can we do?”

The governor’s friend hesitates. It’s true that Jerusalem is cheerless today—but that doesn’t give him more money to lose. “Why don’t you take me to see the king?” he says. “I’d enjoy that.”

“You’ve come too late, my friend,” says the governor. “He’s already dead and buried. For a king, there wasn’t much fighting spirit in him: he only lasted a few hours. We could visit the tomb, if you like. The man who took the body is quite wealthy, so it should be impressive.”

A soldier who’s been watching their game speaks up: “I saw where they took him. It is beautiful—a new place in a garden with a freshly carved cave. I think it was meant to be the merchant’s own when he died.”

The governor’s friend raises an eyebrow.

“Should we go?” says the governor.

“Aren’t you worried about this?” asks his friend.

“About the tomb?” says the governor. “Why should I be?”

“Does this man you crucified have a son?” says the friend.

“I have no idea,” the governor says.

“You should find out,” says the friend. “If a man claims descent from their legendary line of kings and is executed, his son is heir to both the kings and a martyr. And since the merchant gave this would-be king a nice tomb, where people can come to offer the wine and gifts for the dead every year—soon you may have big crowds and that grave will be a dangerous shrine.”

“Jews don’t give anything to their dead after the burial,” says the governor. “Except for their one god, they’re strict atheists.”

“Then maybe they’ll pray to their god in the grave or they’ll weep at the grave’s entrance,” says the friend. “Every nation does something. And suppose one day his son—or, who knows, maybe a younger brother?—comes and makes a fiery speech from the tomb. You might have a serious problem.”

The governor takes a slow drink of wine and rubs his temples against an oncoming headache. “I hate this place,” he says. “We should have left these fanatics to the Persians.”

“Do you want my advice?” asks his friend. “Just seal up the tomb now so no one can go in to offer sacrifices and put a guard there a few weeks to keep people away from the entrance. Then they’ll forget it. The easiest time to stop a shrine is before it develops.”

The governor leans forward, then rises and walks to a window that looks out over the hills to the north.

“Maybe it doesn’t matter,” his friend says, absently toying with the dice, “but in your position, I wouldn’t gamble on it.”

*

In the last hours of the Sabbath, Mary from Magdala thinks about her life. About how she stayed at home after all her sisters had married and moved on. About how lonely she felt when her parents died. About all the struggles with both mind and body she had before Jesus came and—with one touch of his hand—drove them out. About how much it meant to her when he said she had great faith.

She thinks about the time she spent following him. About all the people she’s told of his work and all the people she’s come to love like sisters and brothers. Is that life over now? She can’t imagine how it could go on with Jesus dead, but she also can’t imagine going on without it. She can’t imagine her life without the faith that’s made her feel whole.

She thinks about her savings, all gone now, so there’s nothing to start a new life with.

But she doesn’t regret how she spent it.

“I want Mary to,” he said, “I want her to anoint me this time and the next.”

And all at once, Mary knows what to hold onto in all her confusion. For tonight at least, her life still has a clear purpose. Jesus wanted her to help anoint his body for its burial.

*

The three women go out after sunset with their own lamps, carrying burial spices and oil Joseph has sent. They sing softly as they go, as they walk out of the gate and see the hill with rocks shaped like a skull:

The Lord is my light and my salvation: who should I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life: why should I be afraid?

I can do this, Jesus’ mother thinks. Women have always done this. I buried my husband and I can bury my son.

I need to do this, thinks the other Mary. If my whole life has only been to serve on this evening, I’ll be able to tell God it was enough.

Salome jumps back when her light shines on a figure outside the grave. Two soldiers are waiting there.

“What are you doing here?” says Salome sharply.

Her tone catches the soldiers off guard, and they’re not quite sure how to respond. “We’re supposed to be here,” one of them says. “We have orders from the governor.”

“Do your orders say to stand in the way of a dead man’s mother?” Salome asks, and she gestures at Mary. “She’d like to finish the preparations for her son’s body.”

The soldiers hesitate. “We can’t,” says one. “Our orders are to keep people away.”

“We’re very sorry,” says the other.

Salome looks at them. “You seem like kind men,” she says. “I know you have your orders, but couldn’t you just let his mother in? The rest of us can wait outside if you’d like.”

One soldier bites his cheek; the other shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“We’re extremely sorry,” the first soldier says, “but they already called in someone to seal the stone. So we really can’t let anyone in, no matter how much we might want to.”

“We’re not even supposed to let anyone linger in the area,” says the other. “But if she needs a moment,” he adds quickly, “we won’t get in the way.”

The older Mary takes the other two women’s arms and walks right up to the entrance stone. It’s sealed all around. They should be able to find a time in the next day or two when the guards are asleep or willing to be bribed, but it will be hard to break in quietly.

Mary closes her eyes for a moment and hopes she looks lost in more typical motherly thoughts.

She nods at the guards. She hopes she appears at once grave and grateful as she walks away.

“Thank you,” Salome says to the guards. “I hope we see each other again someday.”

*

Joseph the rich man listens carefully to the women’s questions. People don’t usually ask a man of his dignity how to break into something, or how much to offer Jerusalem’s Roman soldiers for a bribe—which is a terrible shame, because his years of experience on these subjects, from his childhood in Arimathea up through the time when he first established himself here in the city, really should not be wasted. He gives them detailed advice on which tools they’ll need to break into the tomb, on how to use a cloth to dampen the sound, on how to walk the fine line between being gouged on a bribe and offending a soldier by showing insufficient respect. He gives them advice on how early to leave the house if they want to start their work when it’s light enough to see what they’re doing without lamps but still dark enough to keep them from being seen from a distance.

“How do you know all this?” asks Thomas, who’s a little skeptical about the whole plan, but Joseph the rich man just smiles. He wonders out loud if the three women, working together, will be able to push the heavy stone aside once they’ve cut it loose, but they insist they’ll manage and that it will be safer to commit a crime if they don’t bring any men with them.

Joseph sighs and then settles into helping Mary from Magdala practice some of his techniques with a chisel while Mary and Salome get some rest.

She stays up half the night working, Joseph serving as her mentor and a succession of apostles as chaperones, until she feels the plan has been successfully transferred from her mind’s memory into her hands’. She’s nervous, of course, but she tries not to think too much about that. She’s tempted to wait, to plan another day and train another night, but with a dead body to attend to, she doesn’t have much time. She has a purpose in life, and if she’s going to fulfill it, she has to try now.

The women get up in the last watch of the night to reach the tomb by early morning. Their bodies are exhausted from days of stress and pain but their minds are bright, because their minds are on fire with a love that will burn for the rest of their lives.

*

It’s still dim as they approach the garden, so they can’t see at first where the soldiers are.

They get closer. The soldiers aren’t there.

They move toward the tomb. The entrance stone isn’t there either.

They get worried. What’s happened? Has someone stolen the body from the grave? Are soldiers hoping the apostles will come: are they lying in wait to arrest them?

Jesus’ mother walks into the chamber anyway, the other two close beside her.

*

The body is gone, the linen burial cloth folded neatly where it once lay.

A shining being with eyes bright as lightning and a cloak spun of purified light stands on the cave’s right side.

Mary from Nazareth gasps. The angel’s face is just like her dead husband’s.

“Don’t be afraid,” the angel says in a voice that feels smooth against their souls. “You won’t find him here. He’s risen!”

The angel smiles like Joseph used to, and though he doesn’t touch her, Mary feels lost in his arms. Then he walks out of the chamber and leaps up onto the top of the great stone.

“Tell his friends first,” he says. “Then tell everyone!”

Then he leaps again, straight up, higher than any human being could go. The sun starts to break over the hills in the east, and he’s gone.

*

The women stare at that first sliver of the rising sun.

Sometimes, it’s hardest to believe the miracle you see with your own eyes.

“Should we go back to the house?” asks Salome.

“Yes,” says the older Mary.

Mary from Magdala can barely stand, barely see well enough to put one foot in front of the other after the brightness of the angel’s light. “I’ll wait here,” she says. “I should stay and watch so I can warn you before the men get here if any trouble comes.”

Salome and Jesus’ mother nod and hurry back toward the upper city.

Mary from Magdala falls to her knees, onto the soft, dew-damp soil.

*

“I don’t mean any disrespect,” says Thomas, “but are sure that’s what you saw? Not a trick of the early morning light?”

“Have you ever seen an angel?” asks Mary.

“No,” says Thomas.

“Obviously,” says Salome.

Thomas sighs. “I know we all would give anything to see him again. But there are some things no sacrifice can buy.”

“What if it wasn’t our sacrifice?” says John.

*

There’s a distinct element of danger. There’s a strong possibility the whole thing is a complicated trick, that the high priest or governor didn’t think one crucifixion was enough and is looking for more.

There’s also a strong chance of further heartbreak. If you abandon your rituals of mourning for impossible hope after impossible hope, how will the mourning come to an end?

But Peter, Andrew, James, and John don’t have the patience to listen to reasonable arguments from the others, and they go running to see the empty grave right away.

*

“He was here,” says Mary from Magdala when the four men arrive at the tomb. “I saw him. He talked to me.”

In court, a woman’s witness isn’t valid. But the four men who ran believe.

*

Peter, James, and John run back to the house to tell the others, but Andrew lets himself fall behind. They can bring the good news to the faithful: Andrew wants to find Judas.

When Judas hears Jesus is risen from the dead, he won’t be able to shut out hope any longer. And though he’ll still carry the guilt of all he’s done, the news may give him the courage to come back and be forgiven.

Then they’ll work together and they’ll pray together until Andrew and Judas stand side by side on the day when their risen Master lifts the veil that conceals the full beauty of the kingdom of God.

Andrew doesn’t know where to look, but he needs to find Judas. He needs to tell Judas. He passes the fortress and the Temple and searches through alley after alley. But he finds nothing. So he walks straight to the street where the high priest lives and knocks on the bloody door.

*

A servant answers: it’s still Passover, she says. Doesn’t he know the high priest is far too busy to talk with every poor pilgrim in town?

“I’m not here for the high priest,” says Andrew. “I’m looking for my friend.”

“Who?” asks the servant, and Andrew tells her what Judas looks like and when he might have come.

“We haven’t seen him,” she says. And she closes the door.

But Andrew doesn’t know where else to go. So he knocks again.

The door opens. “Why did you come here?” the servant asks. “Aren’t you afraid of what could happen to you?”

“No,” Andrew says.

Another servant comes to the doorway. “He was here,” the second servant says, and the first servant glares at him. “Are you looking for the money?”

“What money?” Andrew asks.

“You don’t know?” says the servant. “Then if you promise not to come back and not to mention any money to our Master or anyone else, I’ll tell you where your friend went.”

“I promise,” says Andrew. “But what makes you so certain my friend won’t speak with your Master about it again?”

The servant takes a long look at Andrew. “You didn’t hear the way your friend talked,” he says. “Or see the look in his eyes.”

“Besides,” says the other, “We saw him headed for the potters’ field.”

*

Andrew runs so fast he’s afraid the blood will burst out of his veins. He runs so fast he feels he might drown in the exertion.

But he’s too late.

Judas’s body is hanging from a tree.

Andrew screams out his anger: “Why?” he shouts, “I wanted to help you. Why didn’t you come to me?”

Andrew cuts the body down and cries over it. “I was your friend, Judas,” he says. “I’m your friend.” And he sobs until his throat aches and his mind feels numb.

Then he wraps the body in his coat, digs a grave with his hands through the clay-thick dirt, and says the prayers for the dead.

“Why couldn’t he wait just a little longer?” he asks God. “Why couldn’t he wait for me?”

*

As soon as Andrew steps back into the house, he can hear the others singing upstairs:

I’ll declare your name to my brothers; I’ll praise you before a great assembly. 
If you love the Lord, praise Him! All you sons of Jacob, honor Him!
Let reverence for Him fill the whole house of Israel—
because He hasn’t forgotten or forsaken the suffering one,
He hasn’t hidden his face: when the sufferer cried out, He heard.

Only Thomas sits silent, still in mourning, here in the lower level. When Andrew joins in the song, Thomas stands up and leaves:

My praise for You joins the praise of the congregation,
among those who honor him I will fulfill all my vows.
The meek will eat and be satisfied; whoever looks for the Lord will praise him.

Andrew thinks about going after Thomas, but he needs to sing more first. He needs the strength he feels in this chorus, so he walks up the stairs:

All the ends of the earth will turn and remember the Lord, 
people from every nation will come and worship before Him: 
Because the kingdom is the Lord’s, and He will govern among all the nations.

Andrew looks around the room at the faces of his brothers and sisters. And he runs his fingers over the knots he tied on the fringes of his shirt.

Our children will serve Him,
We’ll tell all His stories to the coming generations:
they will come. And they’ll talk of his righteousness to a people 
yet to be born: they’ll tell them what he has done.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

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“I am like a candle that has gone out on the grave of a poor man.”—Ghalib

Torches shine like scars on the dark, smooth face of this spring night when the clanking of steel against a rock startles eight of the apostles awake. A group of armed men—the high priest’s Temple guards and a few Roman soldiers—pass close by, muscles tensed in anxious anticipation.

Thomas and Andrew reach for the swords, only to remember giving them to Peter and James before they fell asleep, though now they can’t see Peter and James anywhere. Nathanael starts to ask what’s going on, but Simon covers his mouth tightly and pulls him further away from the search party’s torchlight.

“We need to get Jesus away from here,” Simon whispers. “Where did he go?” Matthew whispers back.

The eight look as far as they can without moving and don’t see any sign of their Master at all. The men with the torches slow down and start fanning out.

“What do we do now?” whispers Philip.

“If they get any closer, we run,” Simon whispers back. The torches get closer. Eight apostles rush to escape.

*

Peter shakes James and John when he hears men running. Torchlight is scattered across the garden now. Something is wrong. Jesus is slumped down against the trunk of a nearby olive tree. As soon as they see him, the three apostles hurry over to his side, but John trips over a root on the way and falls hard.

Several men shout in the distance about the noise and the torches start moving in Jesus’ direction.

“Let’s go!” says Peter, but Jesus doesn’t even try to stand up. John pulls himself up as the lights start closing in. As the men come closer, first their weapons, then their faces become visible.

A torch shines clearly on Jesus, Peter, and James. The man holding the torch is Judas.

Judas hands his torch to one of the high priest’s servants and walks toward the tree. Then he kneels down next to Jesus. “Master,” he says, and he kisses him.

Jesus stares as Judas rises, and his voice sounds more tired than Peter can remember. “Did you have to do it with a kiss?” Jesus says.

*

After that, everything happens so quickly, it’s difficult later to recall. Two of the high priest’s servants come, grab Jesus roughly by the arms, and drag him up. James draws his sword and warns them to stop, but they don’t. He brings the sword down on one of them with a rough hacking motion. The sword misses the servant’s head, but takes off a chunk of his ear. The servant screams, and men from all over the garden come running. James curses his clumsy fisherman’s arms and raises the sword to strike again.

“Put that away!” says Jesus. “Whoever lives by the sword will die by it.” Then he places his hand on the side of the servant’s head and the bleeding stops.

The servant touches his ear and stares at Jesus. Two of the Temple guards take Jesus’ hands and tie them behind his back. James slips back into the shadows and hides.

“I came back to the Temple when you asked me to,” says Jesus. “You could have taken me then.”

The guards start to drag Jesus forward, and a soldier joins them.

“Have we found any of his fighters yet?” the soldier asks.

“I don’t need fighters,” Jesus says wearily. The guards laugh: if anyone could use some fighters, it’s this prisoner. They’re about to tell him so, but he speaks again first. “Don’t you know I could call down twelve legions of angels now if I needed them?” Jesus says, looking up into the hollow darkness of the night sky.

And for a moment the guards don’t dare turn around, don’t dare look up—their prisoner’s eyes seem so calm and certain, they’re afraid of what they’ll see if they do.

A Roman soldier stares at them and at this strange Jew, then shakes his head. He calls in the men who are still searching the garden, and the whole party heads back toward Jerusalem.

In the dark space between two trees, James shudders as he watches their torches grow distant and cold. He doesn’t know what to do—or what he’s done.

*

Peter follows from a distance, knowing but only half-caring that he might also be caught and arrested. He doesn’t want to lose sight of Jesus.

Jesus looks defeated. Though he’s walked through the night many times before, he can’t seem to keep pace now with the guards beside him. They drag him and push him: Peter hasn’t seen them beat or cut Jesus yet, but there are already bloodstains all over Jesus’ clothes.

The guards pass by the fortress and head into the upper city. They walk down streets where Peter helped a stranger carry water and pass the house whose owner saved a room for his master, the house where Jesus’ mother and the other Mary are asleep. Peter wonders if he should stop and wake them, if he should warn them the world seems to be falling out from under his feet, that everything feels wrong. But he doesn’t want to lose sight of Jesus, so he passes the house and follows the guards and soldiers a few more blocks until they walk into the courtyard of the villa that belongs to the high priest.

Peter stands on the street a few houses down. His legs feel empty and his throat is drier than the crisp Passover bread. But he pulls his shawl up around his face, walks into the courtyard, and hopes everyone will assume he’s another of the high priest’s servants.

*

It’s the middle of the night, but the witnesses have already been gathered. A man from Jericho testifies that a hundred or more fighters from his city followed Jesus to Jerusalem and that when the beggars called Jesus the Son of David, Jesus blessed them for it. He says he heard Jesus saying something about secrets on the road up from Jericho and suspects he was making plans for a revolt.

The high priest seems convinced by this evidence, but the attending jurists disqualify the testimony on the grounds that too much of it is indirect, or else relies on unsubstantiated assumptions.

Peter recognizes the next speaker and pulls back further into a shadow. This witness is from Galilee. He used to follow Jesus. He testifies about having heard with his own ears how Jesus offered a man forgiveness of sins, and relates having sat outside a tax collector’s home where Jesus was staying one evening while several prostitutes went in. Peter knows he has to hide, but he wants to shout. Any other night he’d be willing to go to prison for the truth, but tonight he knows he can only help Jesus by staying free.

The jurists disqualify the second accusation after learning the man couldn’t see into the house to know with certainty what happened there, and the first accusation when they learn that although many have heard from different sources of Jesus’ claim to forgive sins, no second direct witness is present to substantiate the claim as required.

Next, the jurists themselves testify they heard Jesus speak against the law in the Temple. But though both are sure this event took place, each of them remembers Jesus’ words slightly differently, so they inform the high priest that their testimonies, also, should be considered invalid.

The high priest begins to grow frustrated. “Tell us yourself,” he says to Jesus, “did you bring men with you to Jerusalem for a revolt? Do you claim the power to forgive any sins they commit in the process?”

The jurists start to explain that under the most expert interpretations of Jewish law, a confession is not admissible as evidence, but the high priest isn’t interested. “Can you explain away the things they’re saying? Don’t you want to defend yourself?”

But Jesus doesn’t say anything. Even if he wanted to defend himself, thinks Peter, he looks too exhausted to speak.

“Who are you?” asks the high priest. “Are you a fraud or a prophet? Are you a lawbreaker or a saint?”

But Jesus doesn’t even meet the high priest’s gaze.

“Are you the promised one?” the high priest asks.

Jesus looks up, then, and answers—not in everyday Aramaic, but in sacred Hebrew. “Ehyeh,” he says, which can mean either “I will be” or “I am.”

“Ehyeh asher ehyeh,” says Jesus. I will be whatever I want to be, or I am who I am.

Peter hangs his head, but he can still hear the high priest rip his own robe as a sign of shame. It’s all over now, thinks Peter. All over.

“You all heard exactly what words he said,” says the high priest. “We’re all direct witnesses now of his blasphemy.”

The jurists nod solemnly. There’s no need to disqualify this evidence.

*

Some of the guards spit in Jesus’ face. Others hit him.

When Peter looks away, a young servant meets his eyes. She looks at him closely. “Weren’t you with him in the street yesterday?” she says. “Are you one of his disciples?”

Peter wants to get out of this place. He wants to get out and go tell the others what happened, so he can’t afford to be caught.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter says.

Across the courtyard, the guards are blindfolding Jesus. They take turns hitting him and shouting “Prophesy who did it!” as they laugh. While the young woman watches, Peter slips away to the porch.

He hasn’t been there long when he hears another woman whispering: “Isn’t he one of them? I’d swear I saw him in the Temple,” she says to the servants near her.

“One of who?” says Peter loudly. If he leaves while they still suspect him, they’ll tell someone he’s running off.

The woman blushes. “I was just saying you look like someone I saw in the Temple a few days ago,” she says.

“I haven’t even been to the Temple this week,” says Peter, and then realizes how odd that must sound at Passover. “It’s just always so crowded this month,” he adds. “Are you from here, then?” says one of the women.

Peter hesitates. Will they believe him if he lies?

“You must be one of them,” she says, “I can tell by your accent.”

“So everyone with a Galilean mother is a criminal?” says Peter. “I don’t know him!” he says, and he swears for emphasis, hoping that will end the conversation.

On the far end of the courtyard, the guards take the blindfold off Jesus. Jesus looks out onto the porch, right at Peter.

A rooster crows.

Peter runs out into the street, and he doesn’t stop crying until he gets back to the house with the upper room where the women are sleeping.

*

Morning comes to Jerusalem: the sun’s first rays waking the dormant vibrancy of the Temple’s white and gold, the dewdrops savoring the twinkling moments in the light before they dwindle and disappear, the birds’ songs replacing memory’s echo of the Passover psalms.

Morning comes to Jerusalem, but for the scattered apostles, it’s as frightening as the previous night.

Simon and Matthew make their way toward Bethany in the darkness and hide on the hillside above the village, waiting for the others. When the light comes, they notice Philip and Thomas are hiding nearby, but wait to make sure they’re not being watched before they call to them.

Andrew, Nathanael, the big Judas and the little James hide outside the gates of Jerusalem, waiting for pilgrims to enter the city so they can slip into the crowd to look for their Master.

James and John head to Bethphage, where the men from Jericho are staying. They know fifty men don’t mean anything against the powers of the city, but they need to feel like they’re doing something to rescue their Master, so God can make up for the rest.

In the house in the upper city, Peter tells the women what happened. Salome tears her robe in shame and anger when she hears how the guards abused God’s chosen one; Mary from Magdala studies Peter’s face as she struggles to accept the impossible words coming from his mouth; Jesus’ mother gathers her things and asks where her son might be now.

And outside the sheep gate of the Temple Judas sits, alone: looking tranquilly over at the Roman fortress where Jesus is being kept, waiting for the legions of angels to come.

*

The governor has a problem. Sometimes he feels he’s had nothing but problems since he was sent here to the rough edge of the Empire, this edge that always seems on the verge of tearing itself apart. It’s a terrible place to have to rule: the Samaritans in the province hate the Jews, and the Jews are prone to riot over any under-punished Samaritan provocation.

And Jerusalem is a disaster. The lower city people hate the upper city people just like anywhere else, but here they think they hate the Romans instead. The upper city people are terrified of the impoverished lower city people—but instead of finding comfort in the Empire’s might, their fear keeps them focused on the order of their old priestly traditions. And because of their shared, strange religion, both kinds of people would rather die than accept something as simple as army banners with standard insignia being brought inside the city walls.

The governor’s hope has been to make it through this day without trouble. He’s having several petty criminals crucified, but he also has to execute a man who started a short-lived revolt. For that execution, he has the support of the upper city people, but he’s been nervous about the lower city people, who take every common robber for a hero sent from their god. So he’s been patient. He’s waited for a holiday, when attention is focused elsewhere and when an influx of wealthy overseas Jews could add stability.

But the high priest has complicated the governor’s day. He’s brought in a popular preacher the upper city people also want executed. And when the governor said: I’m busy today, the high priest said: this man is telling people he’s the king of the Jews.

The governor wants to be very clear on this recurring point. His firm position is this: Jerusalem is no longer a city for kings. Judea has a governor, and that’s all it needs. There’s no such thing anymore as a king of all the Jews.

But he hadn’t planned on making that point today. And he doubts he can quietly crucify two popular figures, each with his own supporters and sympathizers, in the same afternoon.

The governor walks out to his balcony, yawns and stretches under the warmth of the morning sun. It’s going to be a long day.

*

“Wait here,” says Jesus’ mother to Peter. “Unless you don’t think you can trust the owner of this house—we can help you get out of Jerusalem to find a safe place to hide.”

Peter remembers his first meeting with the rich man, how it seemed as if he’d been waiting for word of a visiting teacher, saving the room for the Master that would come. “I trust Joseph completely,” says Peter. “But where are you going and why should I wait?”

“I want to be close to my son,” says Mary. “But you said they recognized you last night, so it’s not safe for you to come with us.”

“You were there in the Temple with him too,” says Peter. “Are you sure it’s safe for you to go?”

“Don’t worry,” says Mary, and gives Peter a strange half-smile. “We’re women: no one pays attention to us.”

*

James and John keep interrupting each other as they tell the story to the men from Jericho.

“Do you know who took him?” the men ask.

James nods. “It was mostly Temple guards,” he says, “but there were some Roman soldiers with them.”

One of John’s old disciples sighs. “Temple guards would be good news,” he says. “The religious courts here aren’t allowed to kill anyone.” He tugs at his beard. “If the Roman soldiers take precedence, though, your Master is in serious danger. This governor isn’t ashamed to kill decent men by the dozens.”

“What do you think we should do?” asks James.

“I say go straight to the fortress,” says the man. “And if Jesus is there, we petition the governor to pardon him.”

“Will he listen to us?” asks John.

“He’s listened to a peaceful protest before,” says the man. “Though he did threaten us all with death first. But if he didn’t kill us then, he probably won’t now.”

The other men nod their assent, but the man asks John and James each one more question before they go.

“You’re certain they didn’t get a good look at you?” he asks John.

“It was late, and I’d fallen, so my face was covered in dirt,” John says.

“Then come with us,” says the man, “you may be useful.” He turns to James next: “You said you tried to cut off someone’s ear?” he says.

“I was trying to split open his head,” James says. “Cutting his ear was an accident.”

“Stay here and don’t let anyone see you,” the man says.

*

Once they’re inside the city, Andrew sends the big Judas and the little James back to the house in the upper city to make sure the women are safe. Then Andrew and Nathanael start their search for Jesus.

They start by asking people if they’ve heard anything about a teacher from Galilee who was taken prisoner in the night. They’re surprised at how many people immediately ask if they mean Jesus. No one knows what happened to him, but many seem to care deeply. Andrew and Nathanael don’t get any news, but find themselves sharing what little they know again and again, until their own accounts start circulating back to them as rumors. Soon everyone they talk to says Jesus was taken prisoner in a garden outside the city. Each has a different way of explaining what happened in the night, but none of the stories tell where Jesus is now.

*

“Do you think your old friends would fight for him now if we asked them?” Matthew says to Simon.

“No,” says Simon. “But if the high priest has him killed secretly and thrown in a ravine, they may know where we can recover the body. And if he is still alive, there’s a good chance one of them will know where he is.”

“He’s still alive,” says Thomas. “He has to be. Didn’t he tell us not to be afraid of the high priest?”

“Yes, but if Simon’s friends are likely to know something, we should go to them,” says Matthew.

Simon hesitates. “On the last trip south,” he says, “before I knew you as well . . .”

Matthew nods.

“What happened?” asks Philip.

“I told them about the work Matthew used to do,” says Simon.

“I’ll stay here and make arrangements for us to get somewhere safe if you can find a way to come back with him,” says Matthew. “You three go.”

“He never sent us anywhere alone,” says Simon. “Thomas should go with you: he knows how to find a safe place. It will be enough if Philip comes with me.”

“We’ll find a place,” says Thomas. “And when you find Jesus, be careful who you trust. Whoever told the high priest’s men about the garden probably told them about the house in Bethany, so we wait for each other at the hiding place near the crossroads.”

*

The high priest’s men tell the governor about Jesus’ crimes. He has blasphemed, he’s slandered their law, he’s claimed divine powers, he’s led the faithful astray. Clearly, they’re jealous of him. These religious Jews are always jealous of each other’s influence: it’s like an endless fight between harried priests and sages for control of the whole worthless, downtrodden pack. Following the politics between the various sects and personalities is as exhausting as it is tedious—the last governor tried and rotated through five high priests in ten years. This governor has no desire to create the same instability as his predecessor and does his best to remain aloof from such conflicts. He suspects it will be best to leave this prisoner in the high priest’s hands.

“When he says he’s king of the Jews, does he mean it as a political claim—or a religious one?” the governor asks. “He’s told tax collectors to leave their work and follow him,” says the high priest.

“Flog him,” the governor says to his soldiers.

*

The women are gone well before the big Judas and the little James find the right house in the upper city again. But the owner of the house wants to know what’s happening.

They decide to tell him everything. He gets very quiet as he listens.

“I’m an influential man,” he says after thinking for a moment. “Do you think there’s anything I can do?”

“Do you know the high priest?” asks the little James.

“There were soldiers there, so he might also be with the governor,” says the big Judas.

“I’ve talked with both of them before,” says the owner, and he sighs. “Wait upstairs with Peter for now,” he tells them. “Tell the servants I said to feed you well if I’m not back by tonight.”

*

“The high priest didn’t hesitate to give him to the Romans,” says one of Simon’s old friends before Simon can even greet him. “Now can you see why it’s so important to fight?”

“Is he all right?” asks Simon.

“The high priest doesn’t need to hand men over unless he’s looking for a death sentence,” says Simon’s old friend. “But as far as I’ve heard, the governor’s only had him whipped so far. Our man could hear the screams from outside the fort, so your Master must still have been alive.”

Philip feels sick. He has to lean against the wall to keep his balance.

“Can you help us?” asks Simon.

“Do you regret how he treated us the other night?” says his old friend.

Simon clenches his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. “I’m sorry I came to you today,” he says, and he walks away, back toward the fortress, even after his old friend shouts after him to forget about helping Jesus and watch out for himself instead.

*

John and the men from Jericho gather outside the fortress.

“Are you ready to die for your Master?” one of them asks John.

“Yes,” John says.

“Are you afraid of death?” asks another.

“No,” says John. “I just don’t want to leave him again.”

“Good,” says the first. “The governor’s power comes from our fear. So if his soldiers draw their weapons and we face them calmly, he’ll hesitate. Because he can feel he has no power over us.”

*

On his way up from the lower city, one of Simon’s old friends sees Andrew. “Your Master is being held in the fortress at the north end of the Temple,” he says. “Come with me. I’ll get you two weapons you can hide under your clothes, and I’ll take you there.”

*

The governor sees Jesus’ back first, glances at the deep stripes of cuts shaped like letters from an old Persian inscription as he passes. He turns around to face his new prisoner and motions to a soldier to lift Jesus’ bent head.

“Are you the King of the Jews?” the governor asks, speaking slowly and clearly in his best Aramaic. As he waits for an answer, he watches closely for signs of character, for anything that might indicate how much of a threat this man is.

He doesn’t see any fire in Jesus’ eyes, only resignation. He barely notices when Jesus speaks.

“You said it,” Jesus says, and the soldier lets go of his chin.

The governor looks at the prisoner’s bowed head and the bits of dried blood scattered over the front of his body. “I don’t see anything wrong with this man,” he says to the high priest.

*

John and the men from Jericho pray to God for protection before they start to sing from a psalm:

God won’t sustain a throne of injustice—but they make persecution the law!
They gather against the souls of the righteous, and condemn innocent blood.

They sing those two lines again and again until others fill the square and join them. They keep singing when soldiers come out of the fortress and line themselves up along its walls in formation, and they keep singing when the soldiers draw their swords.

*

When he hears the noise in the courtyard, the governor remembers how much he hates Jewish songs. Songs that praise their god and deny all others, that forecast blessings for the Jewish faithful and curses for the rest of the world. Songs that promise divine deliverance or else glorify martyrdom.

The governor is tempted to have his soldiers charge the crowd before it grows any more, but since there could easily be wealthy citizens of other provinces in the square this time of year, he lets the song go on.

Then the governor gets an idea. He steps out onto the balcony, and motions to the crowd for quiet.

“I want to wish you well on your holiday,” he says. “And to commemorate it, I’m going to start a new tradition.” He waits a moment while confused whispers pass through the crowd, then goes on. “Every year at this feast-time, I’m going to offer a gift to you people. I know that some of you are upset that Barabbas will be executed today,” he says, and watches the square closely. A few people seem surprised, but not many. He’s fairly sure no one knew he’d planned on having Barabbas killed today, so he assumes the quiet means most of the people here don’t care. “Others are upset about a new prisoner named Jesus, who says he’s your king.” He watches the square closely again. More people seem to react to this one—good.

“I’ve decided to let one of them go,” says the governor. He waits for a cheer, but it doesn’t come. Maybe he needs to give the announcement some time to sink in. “Tell everyone in the city about the choice of pardon,” he says. “I’ll come back in an hour and ask who you want.”

The governor walks back into the fortress and lets out a great sigh. It’s too late to execute anyone quietly, but now he’ll be able to execute one of his controversial prisoners with full public support. He’d prefer to be done with the robber from the desert. But if he can’t have that, there will be some comfort in seeing the hope-crazy Jews choose to execute a would-be Jewish king.

Maybe he’ll be able to salvage this day after all.

*

The crowd in the square starts to break up as soon as the governor steps back inside. Simon’s old friends run to spread word to all their kinsmen and supporters about the coming choice. The men from Jericho tear their robes in mourning at the prospect of having to play a part in condemning a man to death, but hold their ground toward the front of the crowd, so the governor will be able to hear them well when they call out for Jesus.

The Galilean pilgrims in the square have heard of Jesus, but want to know who Barabbas is. Most of the Jerusalem natives know about Barabbas, but many have to ask about Jesus. Few of the pilgrims from abroad have a clear idea who either person is and try to find out enough to know who to call for.

As they move through the square, Andrew and Nathanael find Simon and Philip, then are found by John, the two mothers, and Mary from Magdala.

“What do we do now?” asks the young Mary.

“We stay here so the governor can hear us well from the fortress,” says Nathanael.

“We should talk to people in the crowd. They need to know why to ask the governor to let Jesus go,” says Andrew. “I’m a fast runner,” says Simon. “I can probably reach Bethany and return with a group of the villagers and our people from Galilee. That will be worth more than trying to persuade people we don’t know in such a short time.”

“I’ll go with you,” says Philip. “I may fall behind on the run, but I can help spread the word once we’re there.”

“Go quickly,” says John. “Andrew and Nathanael can talk with the men in the crowd; Mary and my mother can talk with the women.” He looks at Jesus’ mother. “I’ll stay here with you,” he says. “We don’t want you to get lost in the crowd. You should be the first to greet him when he’s freed.”

*

Simon and Philip aren’t even out of the city when old friends of Simon grab them.

“Where are you going?” one asks.

“That’s not your concern,” says Simon.

“Our concern is to make sure it’s Barabbas who gets released today,” another says, and Simon feels something blunt hit him on the back of the head. He stumbles forward and is shoved to the ground. Someone kicks him in the ribs, a stick slams down on his back, and someone else kicks him in the face so hard he loses consciousness.

*

Peter can’t have been waiting in the upper room of Joseph’s house for more than a few hours, but he still feels trapped and anxious by the time Joseph returns and comes up the stairs, dressed in his finest robes.

“Did you see the high priest?” Peter asks.

“No,” says Joseph. “His servants received me graciously, but he’d already gone to the governor.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say. He feels weighed down by his worries, as if his soul is made of stone.

Joseph is looking at him intently. “Your Master,” he says. “Is his heart as honest as his face?”

Peter meets the merchant’s gaze. “No one is purer,” he says.

“There’s very little purity in our governor’s heart,” says Joseph. “So I’m hoping he’ll let your Master go if I offer him a bribe. My servants are gathering the gold I have here to begin with, but we can promise more if he demands it.”

“Thank you,” says Peter. “We are in your debt.”

“There’s no need for thanks,” says Joseph. “And no debt to be paid. I’ve traded enough to know what’s worth any price.”

“Peace be on you and your household,” Peter says.

“For that blessing,” says Joseph. “I owe you thanks.” He smiles at Peter and he goes back down the stairs. It’s not long before Peter can hear him and his servants leave the house.

That’s when the weight of Peter’s anxiety returns.

“We should go,” Peter says to the other two apostles. “There must be something we can do to help him.”

“It won’t help anything if you get caught,” the big Judas says. “Though it might make things worse.”

“Tell me what I can do then,” says Peter. “Tell me anything.”

“Try to get some sleep,” says the little James.

*

The governor comes out onto the balcony at the end of the hour. The square must be twice as full as before.

“Who do you want me to pardon?” he asks. “Jesus!” shouts half the crowd.

“Barabbas!” shouts the other half.

“Who?” says the governor.

“Jesus!” yells half the crowd.

“Barabbas!” screams the other half.

The two factions start to push and shove each other. The governor starts to worry his plan to avoid a riot might end up causing one.

“Since you can’t decide, we’ll cast lots,” he says. “Unless you’d prefer I crucify both?”

The people in the square stop pushing and fall silent. “Very well,” says the governor. “One of them will be spared.” He motions to a servant, who brings him a vessel of water. “You are my witnesses that we left it to the gods to decide their fate. My hands are clean of the crimes of these men and of the verdicts that fall on them.”

As the governor washes his hands, his soldiers drag the two prisoners out in front of the fortress. Their hands are tied behind their backs. So that everyone can tell which prisoner is Jesus and which is Barabbas, the soldiers have given Jesus a crown of thorns.

The high priest comes out next with two small stones: one smooth and the other rough. A line of condemned criminals follows to serve as witnesses of what the lots decide.

The soldiers move Jesus to the right and Barabbas to the left.

The high priest throws down the tiny stones.

One of the condemned men takes a close look at them. “The rough stone fell to the right,” he calls out. “The king of the Jews will be crucified.”

The soldiers cut Barabbas loose, and push him forward into the crowd. Simon’s old friends and their people cheer. The high priest’s supporters nod in grim satisfaction.

Jesus’ mother clings tightly to John’s arm.

*

Though Jesus seems barely able to carry his own weight, the soldiers put the beam of the cross on his back. He cries out in pain when the heavy wood falls across his fresh wounds, but he manages to stagger forward, half-dragging the cross beam behind him, through the narrow streets of the north end of Jerusalem.

Some soldiers are standing guard at the city’s north gate. They seem to be searching the crowd for something: they keep stopping men, questioning them, then turning back some and searching others—the ones with northern accents.

Andrew grabs Nathanael and pulls him down between two fish stands in the marketplace near the gate. “They must be looking for us,” he whispers. Then he gets a still tighter feeling in his chest: “And we’re carrying weapons.”

They don’t want to leave Jesus. But they’d rather leave now on their own than be caught on the way out of the city and have Jesus see them get arrested.

The guards are so busy with the men, though, they hardly look at the women. They pay so little attention to them that they don’t seem to notice an older woman is leaning for support on the arm of a young Galilean man.

*

When Jesus collapses and can’t seem to lift the beam of the cross again, the soldiers make a bystander carry it. He’s a merchant, one of the Jews who’s been successful enough abroad to make the journey to Jerusalem each year for Passover.

He will never forget this day. He will tell his sons about it and they will never be able to forget the story either.

*

John and the women don’t dare come too close to the hill where the soldiers finally lay down the cross. It’s an ugly, lonely, barren hill: short, half-dead grasses cling stubbornly to a thin layer of dried-out dirt over a skeletal outcropping of rock.

They nail his hands and feet to the wood. Neither Mary can stand to watch, but they won’t leave him.

The soldiers set up crosses all over the hill. So many men suffer on so many crosses.

Jesus cries out again in pain.

My God, my God, why have You forsaken me? 
Why are You so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?

The sky begins to darken. A cold wind blows and the older Mary tenses, then weeps. Her son is dying: why is she worrying about the cold on his bare skin?

Oh my God, I cry in the day time, but You don’t hear me. 
I cry through the night and never fall silent.

The soldiers are talking and laughing. How can they ignore all the agony around them?

But You are holy, and Yours are the praises of all Israel.
Our fathers trusted You: they trusted, and you delivered them. 

One of the high priest’s jurists is arguing with a soldier about the sign above Jesus’ cross. “Why did you write ‘King of the Jews’?” he says.

But surely I am a worm and no man: reproached by men, and despised by the people. Whoever sees me laughs in scorn; they throw open their mouths, they shake their heads and say: “He trusted the Lord to deliver him! If the Lord loves him, why doesn’t He deliver him?”

One of the high priest’s servants lifts up a cup of wine. “Almighty king!” he shouts. “If you’re thirsty, come down from the cross and take a drink of this.”

Mary holds on to John’s arm as tightly as she can. Someone told her once a sword would pierce her heart, and she can feel it there now, running straight though her chest.

But You’re the one who took me out of the womb: 
You made me hope when I was on my mother’s breasts. 
I was cast on You from the womb: 
You’re my God since before I left my mother’s belly.

They lift the wine cup up to him on a stick, but he won’t take any.

Be close to me! because trouble is near, and there’s no one to help. 
Bulls have surrounded me, the strong bulls of Bashan. 
They gape at me with wide mouths, like ravening, roaring lions.

He’s been up there for hours.

I am poured out like water. All my bones are stretched thin. 
My heart is like wax that has melted down into my bowels.

It gets darker and darker, though it’s the middle of the day.

I can count all my bones: they look and stare up at me. 
My heart is like wax that has melted down.

The soldiers get bored and gamble for his clothes.

My heart is like wax that has melted.

After six hours on the cross, Jesus cries out:

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

Everyone stares. It’s the first time Jesus has spoken. “He’s calling for Elijah!” says Judas, and he pushes his way past the high priest’s servants to fill a sponge with vinegar. He puts it on a long reed and gives Jesus a drink. One of the high priest’s men tries to pull him away, but Judas elbows him hard in the ribs. “Leave me alone!” he shouts. “Elijah is coming for him!”

But Elijah doesn’t come. Jesus cries out again, loudly. And he dies.

Judas looks up at him.

Judas needs to scream, but the scream won’t come out.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

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Judas sits out in the courtyard while the others sleep inside. 

Judas wants to pray, but he can’t focus. 

Judas tries to pray the same thing he’s prayed thousands of times: “When is the End going to come? Master of the Universe, when is it going to come?” But when he starts to say the words, there’s none of the warmth or excitement he used to feel in response. 

Why did Jesus let a woman anoint him? It can’t be valid: is he trying to avoid being the anointed one? 

Why did Jesus talk on the mountain yesterday like the End wasn’t going to come yet, wasn’t going to come at all for a long, long time?

Judas’s head spins until he has to use both hands to hold it in place, to hold the ache back. 

The jar his sister was carrying is broken. Her eyes are blank, and the neck of her tunic is torn. 

When is it going to end? thinks Judas. 

His sister walks slowly, her shoulders turned in slightly as if she’d like to fold in her arms and draw in her chest. 

“When is it going to end?” says Judas. 

Judas wants to scream, but the air is trapped in his chest. He should go out with his knife right now and find the one who did this. The one who made him feel this way. 

“When is it going to end?” says Judas, “When is this world going to end?” 

The angel is sitting across from him.

“You know it’s him,” the angel says.

Judas nods.

“So why do you keep asking if it’s time?” says the angel. 

“I need to know,” Judas says. 

“Not even I know,” says the angel. “No one knows but God.”

“Who do you think I’ve been praying to?” asks Judas, and the angel is gone. 

“Master of the Universe,” says Judas, but there’s nothing. It’s so hard to focus. 

He clenches his teeth. He drives his fingernails into his palms hard enough to hurt.

“Master of the Universe,” asks Judas, “when is it going to come?” 

But God’s silence is an echo of his sister’s. God’s silence is his sister’s until Judas’s heart suffocates in the thickness of it. 

Enough, thinks Judas. And he gives up on prayer. 

If God is planning to wait, thinks Judas, then I’ll have to force him. 

If Jesus wants to go away, Judas will force him to call down a legion of angels first, will force darkness and light into the violence of their final collision. 

Judas will force into motion the chain of events that will break this fallen world open, and then what will God do, what will God have to finally do? 

*

Judas walks without lamplight into Jerusalem and through the streets he hates, the broad, greed-lined streets of the upper city. He walks past villa after villa until he comes to the high priest’s door. 

He knocks, and no one answers. 

He knocks more loudly, and the servants tell him to go away and go to sleep.

He knocks until his knuckles bleed and the servants threaten to beat him if he doesn’t leave. But the high priest is awake by the time they open the door and drag Judas in, so Judas explains why he’s come before anyone has the chance to break his ribs.

The high priest sends his servants back to bed and has a talk with Judas. 

Judas walks away in peace a short time later. He walks away in the dead of that night, the moon shining like steel in his hands off thirty pieces of silver. 

*

James and John wake in the grey light of the early morning to the sound of several crisp knocks accompanied by their mother’s voice. Of course, they think. Every year she’s up before the sun to get ready for the first night of Passover.  

They pull on their robes against the chill and quietly welcome her into the house. After fussing over them a bit, she asks, “Do you know if he’s celebrating here? He’s been so busy, I haven’t wanted to bother him, but the festival starts tonight and we need to know the plan.” 

James and John don’t know the answers, so they help their mother fix breakfast for everyone while she worries. Will Jesus be celebrating just with his apostles and his mother, or will he have many guests? Does he have other relatives who have come to the city this year? 

The owners of the house are surprised to find breakfast ready so early, and the servants are delighted. Mary from Magdala and Jesus’ mother help serve the servants first. The apostles join the remaining servants as soon as space opens up, eating as they listen to Salome talk. 

Who will be taking the lamb to the Temple? Do we already have enough wine for four cups per guest? That’s a lot of wine, Salome says. We’ll have to really hurry to make enough of the “bread made in haste” in time, she tells the younger Mary. And is there a good place, she asks the bemused servants, to grate the bitter herbs without making everyone in the house cry? 

Fortunately, Jesus wakes before Salome’s temptation to wake him becomes too strong to resist. She holds her tongue and gives him time to eat before she asks for any decisions, keeping herself occupied by prioritizing the questions in her head. 

When Jesus sits back and praises her cooking, she feels it’s safe to begin. 

“Are we celebrating here or somewhere else?” she asks him. 

“We’ll keep the Passover inside Jerusalem,” he says. 

Peter laughs. “Master,” he says, “there must be hundreds of thousands of pilgrims in the city by now. Where are we going to find a free space so late?” 

Peter stops laughing when Jesus calls him and John over and gives them precise but improbable-sounding directions on exactly how to find and secure their room. Andrew and Thomas listen and smile as they see Peter’s and John’s eyes grow wide.  

With the issue of space taken care of, Salome asks about guests. Jesus says just sixteen.  Salome moves on to the next questions and Jesus makes assignments. Two people should go to get the wine, she says. Jesus sends Matthew and Simon. Who will take a lamb down to the Temple and bring back the meat? Jesus tells Judas to go when it’s time. Has anyone purchased a bitter root? Jesus asks James to get one quickly and bring it back. Is Jesus feeling all right? Yes, says Jesus, I feel fine. I just need a little more rest: it’s going to be a long night. 

“Are all the preparations in the house going to bother you?” asks Salome. 

“Don’t worry about me,” says Jesus, but everyone can see Salome still does. 

“Maybe I’ll go back to that garden on the mountainside to rest,” Jesus says. 

Because of Simon’s warning, the seven apostles without immediate chores insist on going with him, two of them armed with last night’s swords. 

*

Mary from Magdala prepares the fire to cook the thin cakes as she watches the older women make the dough. She admires Salome’s bony hands, the efficiency with which they mix and press together flour and water, the ease with which they form the dough into balls of remarkably consistent size. She sits spellbound by the casual, habitual grace of the older Mary’s hands as they flatten the dough into circles to bake.

The young Mary thanks God she gets to be close to these two women. She thanks God for the beauty of their grey hairs, the strength of their skilled arms. 

Her own hands are hard at work baking matzah by the time James returns with the horseradish root. The older Mary takes it from him, holds it gently and with great care.

And then, before Salome can offer to help her, she goes off to grate the bitter, pungent root alone. 

If anyone sees her, they’ll assume it’s because of the root she’s crying. 

*

In the late afternoon, everyone meets in the garden. Simon and Matthew, so often tense around each other, talk and laugh so freely that Andrew wonders if they’ve tried to lighten their heavy loads by sampling the wine. James and the women arrive next with tall stacks of the thin, crisp Passover bread and a little vessel of strong-smelling grated root. Judas comes haltingly: he’s having trouble getting the lamb he bought at the market to follow and tries to drag it until Jesus walks over and advises him on how to patiently guide sheep. 

Peter and John are the last to arrive, still wide-eyed with their wonder at having found a servant struggling with a heavy pitcher of water, just as Jesus predicted, who accepted their help with the load and led them to a nice house in the upper city, just as Jesus predicted, whose owner offered a large second-story room when they told him their Master needed one, just as Jesus predicted. 

No one else is nearly as surprised about all this as Peter and John: after all, it’s often easier to accept the miracle you only hear about than the one you actually see. As they walk from the garden through the city, most of the disciples absorb the holiday fervor of the crowds, but Peter and John are too busy asking themselves if they really saw the servant right here, if he really led them down this street and into that courtyard. And when their host greets them, they wonder again: did he somehow know they were coming this morning? Was he warned in a vision or a dream? 

*

When Judas comes back from the Temple with the meat, they get started. They bless the first cup of wine, wash their hands, and fall through time. 

It’s spring. After the barren winter, the earth clothes herself in a tunic of new water and a vibrant green robe. We should be happy: the breeze is like wine, breath itself intoxicating. But something is wrong. The renewal of spring comes, but we’re still crying, because we’re enslaved. 

Jesus and Judas dip their parsley into saltwater at the same time. 

We’re like the caged bird who is moved by the season to gather straw for a futile nest. And the children of Israel sighed because of their bondage, and they cried, and their cry came up to God because of their bondage. 

*

Jesus breaks a piece of the Passover bread in two, lifts a half high above his head. 

“This is the bread of affliction,” he says. “All who are hungry, let them come and eat. All who are in need, let them join in the meal with us.”

Then he departs from tradition, breaks the half in pieces. “This is my body,” he says. “When you eat, remember me.” 

*

We are slaves in Egypt. We have been thrown into a pit by our brothers and sold. 

We bought the blessings of our father for a bowl of soup and now there’s hell to pay. We sold ourselves for love but feel the love won’t be complete until we’re also free. 

We’re tired of serving idols on the Euphrates and we want God to show us the way to a free land of our own. We ate some fruit, and it tasted good, and the juice was red like our blood against these thorns. 

It’s spring, but we’re still slaves in Egypt. 

We were slaves to the Pharaoh in Egypt, and the Lord took us out of there with a mighty hand.  

*

This is how it happened, says Jesus. This is how it happened to our ancestors and us. 

There was a cup made from the beginning of the world for the price of evil, and drop by drop it fills up with unspeakable pain. 

The performers dance in the royal court while the drummer plays a breathless beat. It’s the same beat as the rhythm of whips on slaves’ backs in the fields; every time the dancers leap, an old man collapses. 

Outside the palace one day, the Pharaoh stretches out his arms to bask under the same sun that bakes the slaves’ bricks and bodies. The Pharaoh yawns at the same time a slave woman gives birth to a screaming baby he’s already ordered to have killed, like so many others. 

The slaves are growing too tired even to give their sons names.  

Drop by drop, forgotten blood fills the cup. 

The mother raises her baby by posing as his wet nurse. The Pharaoh rules his people by posing as their God. 

He commissions his wise men to carve his history into rocks, but he doesn’t know the overseers’ whips are the strongest styluses, that history is being written in scars. 

The baby grows up, and tells history to stop. The baby grows up, and kills one of the writers. It doesn’t matter. Another will take his place.

The people of Egypt eat and drink and laugh. It’s nice to have such cheap bricks. 

The man whose mother posed as his wet nurse goes out to the desert like John. He’s tired of Pharaoh. He wants God. 

God finds him. God burns like a fire that’s shut up in his bones. 

The man goes back to Pharaoh. He tells him about the pain in the bitter cup. He tells him to let the slaves go. But Pharaoh has a hard heart. Why does Pharaoh’s heart always have to be so hard? 

An evil generation looks for signs, so the man shows signs to Pharaoh. But it isn’t enough. Pharaoh believes that forgotten blood can stay forgotten: he doesn’t believe in the cup. 

Jesus lifts the cup high enough for everyone to see, and with each word he spills one tiny drop: Blood, frogs, lice, says Jesus. Flies, sickness, boils, he says. Hail, locusts, darkness. 

Slaying of the firstborn. 

“This is my blood,” says Jesus, still holding the cup. Ten drops on his plate stand for all the suffering of Egypt, but he looks at the whole cup. How many drops are left there? How many thousands of drops? 

“Whenever you drink, remember me,” he says. 

*

Soon Jerusalem’s houses and streets and inns and brothels and stables and slums are filled with the sounds of half a million people singing. We’ve been freed from bondage in Egypt. We’ve been led by a prophet to a land full of promise, marked by old promises. 

I love the Lord because he heard my voice and my prayers! the people sing. He lowered his ear to listen, so I’ll cry out to him as long as I have breath. 

The apostles’ heads are warm with wine. They pour out into the streets and join in the songs. I will pay my vows to the Lord now in the presence of all his people, they sing, Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. 

Jesus is going somewhere now, and the apostles try to follow him. In the press of half a million bodies, no one notices Judas is gone. 

*

By the time the singing is over and the pilgrims have gone back inside and fallen asleep, Jesus and eleven of the twelve have made their way across the city and back to the garden on the mountainside. They’re happy to be here again: the four cups of wine it takes to celebrate this night have made them so drowsy, and it seems like a nice place to rest. 

“This will be a hard night for you,” says Jesus, and the apostles try their best to listen. “But when it’s over, remember the prophets wrote about it: smite the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered. So don’t blame yourselves when you leave me.” 

“I’ll never leave you,” says Peter, and he starts to get choked up. “Not even if everyone else does, not even if I’m the only one left with you in the world.”

But Jesus shakes his head. “Before the rooster crows in the morning, you’ll deny me three times.”

“No!” says Peter. “I would die with you, but I won’t deny you! I’ll never leave you, no matter what you say.”

So Jesus doesn’t say anything, and eight wine-weary men fall asleep. 

“Follow me, then,” says Jesus to the last three, and he walks deeper into the garden with Peter, James, and John. 

*

When they pass the oil press, Jesus starts to shake. 

“Wait here,” he says. “Just once, I need to know you’re here for me.” 

The three fishermen don’t know what’s happening, don’t know what to say. But they’re determined to wait, watching, until their Master comes again. 

A stone’s throw away, Jesus falls down on his face.

“Father!” he cries. 

Peter, James, and John wait and watch, watch and wait, but wine-warm minds make heavy eyes. The night is cool, and the garden feels safe, and the spring is here whispering of a coming sweet summer and the goodness of life. 

Peter finds he can keep his eyes open, or his mind from drifting, but not both. 

In the olive press, there’s a millstone far larger than any man can lift. 

How much more than the olive beneath it does the millstone weigh? How might the great stone’s weight feel on the olive’s back?

“Father!” cries Jesus. “Father!”

Peter, James, and John dream of an olive press. Or could it be that they’re awake?

Gethsemane, they call this place. An oil press. An olive oil press.

Jesus shakes Peter, James, and John awake. “Couldn’t you wait an hour with me?” he asks. 

“We’re waiting,” they say. “We’re awake now, and we’re waiting.” 

Peter, James, and John look out into the heavy darkness of this night. 

A stone’s throw away, Jesus is flat against the earth again. Fallen before his Father’s face. 

“Don’t make me finish,” he begs. “If there’s any other way, don’t make me finish this. But help me finish if this is the only way!”

Peter, James, and John dream of an unbearable weight. In their dream, an angel has to come to protect them from it. To keep it from crushing them. 

Jesus wakes them again. He doesn’t ask anything, but they still don’t know what to say. 

Jesus staggers, stumbles, falls one last time. “Father,” he says. 

Then the weight comes again, all of it, until blood seeps out of every pore like great drops of oil. 

Peter, James, and John are deep in a dreamless sleep.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

Subscribe now

Don’t regret our breath’s use as air, our blood’s as oil—
some lamps at last are burning in the night. 

—Faiz

Mary from Magdala goes to the market with all the savings she has. For years, she’s managed money carefully, feeling that someday she would need it—she never would have imagined, though, she’d be spending her savings like this.

Mary gasps sharply when she hears the price of the myrrh, bites her lip at the expense of exotic cinnamon, tries not to think about what else she could be buying for the amount she’s asked to pay for cassia, and responds with numb resignation to the cost of calamus.

She doesn’t have enough left for the olive oil the vendors sell in the market, so she walks up the hill and spends the last of her money buying the oil straight from the press.

She pulls her robe in close over the goods and rushes to the village where Jesus will be receiving his guests tonight. She prays not to be robbed on the way, not to lose this gift that means more than any other in her life.

She’s too busy praying to notice that Jesus is resting in a nearby garden.

*

In the upper city, the high priest is feeling restless. He’s been working on the puzzle of Jesus all morning, sending out inquiries and gathering information. In the early afternoon, he summons his best informants and advisors, and by late afternoon, they’ve all arrived.

The servants seat the high priests’ guests along the sides of a large upstairs room. The high priest looks around at those he’s had summoned: sages, jurists, servants, witnesses, and a spy. He tries not to think about urgent Passover preparations he’s neglecting, so he can focus on the matter at hand. Experience has taught him never to let a routine crisis blind you to an unexpected one.

“What knowledge have we gathered since yesterday?” asks the high priest. “We know the man who created the disturbance in the Temple is named Jesus, that he’s from an obscure village in southern Galilee—”

“Nazareth,” says a young man with a heavy Galilean accent.

“—yes, Nebayoth,” says the high priest. “Apparently, in the northern countryside he’s quite well known, and many here have heard of him as well.”

A few of the high priest’s informants nod in agreement.

“But who does he think he is?” says the high priest, “And should his aspirations give us cause for concern?”

“He seemed to me like an honest and compassionate man,” says the second sage.

“I don’t trust him,” says the first.

The high priest turns to the spy.  “What do you think?”

The spy brushes some stray hair back from his face. “I can’t answer either of your questions,” says the spy. “I can tell you that several leading Zealots are excited to support him, but that’s all. I don’t know how he feels about them or whether he has any plans, and I don’t think they know, either.” 

“He’s both careful and clever,” says the first sage’s servant. “He knows how to be quiet enough to stay out of trouble but still hint enough to encourage his crowd. If he is planning anything, you can’t afford to ignore it.”

“I agree,” says one of the jurists. “People will lay down their lives for a mystery, and he knows how to speak in secrets. If he tells his people they have to take over the city for his secret to be unveiled, they’ll do it. And what comfort is it to us then if it turns out there’s nothing behind the veil at all?”

“We don’t have evidence that he’s planning anything,” says the second sage, “and we can’t act without witnesses.” 

The young man with the northern accent, who’s a stranger to most of the men in the room, speaks up: “Before he left, he told his followers at home he was touring Galilee for the last time. I heard it from the mouths of men who heard him say it. He must be planning to do something here; I just don’t know what.”

Everyone sits for a moment in silence.

The high priest clears his throat. “It seems we agree that we should be concerned. Perhaps now it’s time to answer my first question: who does he think he is?”

“I asked him in plain terms,” says the first sage, “but he wouldn’t tell me.”

“He’s certainly a rebel,” says the sage’s servant, “but probably the kind who believes we need to purify ourselves before God will bless a rebellion. That would explain the Temple incident.”

“Don’t imagine he’s a purist or saint: he’s a blasphemer,” says the young Galilean, “a self-obsessed blasphemer. I myself heard him claim the authority to forgive a man’s sins.” 

“And we can stand as witnesses that he disparaged the law,” say the jurists.

The high priest turns to the spy. “Who do the Zealots think he is?” he asks.

The spy shakes his head. “They’re hoping, of course, that he’s the son of David, but they’ll follow anyone who might take up the sword.”

“And what do you think?” says the high priest to the second sage.

“I believe he’s harmless,” the sage says. “But I also think he at least wonders whether he is the anointed one.”

“Then we have to remove him,” says the high priest.

“I don’t think he’s the kind of man who takes up arms,” says the second sage. “If he decides he is the Messiah, he seems more the kind to pray and wait for God to work a miracle.”

“And you’ll take the dead of this land on your conscience if you’re wrong?” asks the high priest.

The second sage doesn’t answer at first and speaks carefully when he does: “I don’t think he’ll act on his own, but if you try to take him by force, the crowd might act for him.”

“Then we need to find a way to take him when he’s alone,” says the high priest. “And we need to have witnesses ready to condemn him to death.”

The first sage, the jurists, and the young Galilean nod solemnly.

“To death?” asks the second sage. “Why?”

“Where were you,” says the high priest, “when Judah and Zadok’s revolt ended? You must remember as well as I do how quickly calm returned after Judah had been executed. People will do anything when they think they’ve found the Messiah, but it’s easy enough to bring them back to their senses, because they all know the promised one doesn’t die.”

*

Mary shows the apostles the myrrh first. Then the cinnamon.

“What is all this?” asks Judas. “It must be worth at least a hundred silver pieces!”

“There’s more,” says Mary, and she shows them the cassia and the calamus.

“Where did you get all this?” asks Thomas.

“I bought it,” says Mary.

“And why did you spend so much money on spices?” asks Thomas.

“We could’ve given it to the poor,” Judas says. 

Mary takes out the olive oil and Thomas freezes. He finally understands.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asks.

And Mary has never looked quite so beautiful to him as when she says, “It’s time. Can’t you feel it?” Thomas aches. He wants to believe her, but he has such doubts. This should be a holy anointing oil to Me through all your generations, thinks Thomas. And it must be holy to you: whoever makes any like it, or puts any of it on an unauthorized person, should be cut off from the people.

“Do you think we should anoint him as a prophet or as a king?” says Matthew.

“Both,” James says.

“Who should do the anointing?” asks Peter.

“We’ll have to ask Jesus,” James says.

They all stare at the ingredients for a moment, motionless. Then Andrew moves carefully and begins to mix, trying to match the ancient proportions on this smaller scale. The smells are strong, almost intoxicating, and for some reason, though nothing could be further from the desert’s scents, they fill him with memories of his first Master, John.

John should be here for this, thinks Andrew. It’s John the Prophet who should pour the sacred oil on the anointed one.

*

Thomas has arranged for Jesus to stay in the largest house in Bethany tonight, so that he can receive the guests who are eager to visit him: prominent villagers, old friends of Simon, pilgrims from around Magdala and the north end of the lake, relatives of the martyred John. But Jesus went out with only Philip and Nathanael in the afternoon, and the three of them are still gone when everyone else arrives.

The Galilean pilgrims chat contentedly in the center of the courtyard with the locals; Simon’s friends sit patiently around the edges, talking more quietly with each other and with Andrew, Judas, and Simon. They all fall quiet with respect when John the Prophet’s mother arrives until Jesus’ mother greets her so warmly it seems as if they’d known each other for years. The two matriarchs wander off to talk in a more private place inside and leave Peter to greet members of John’s father’s family. 

It starts to get dark. Matthew and Thomas light lamps to illuminate the courtyard, but many of the villagers start to worry they won’t have enough oil in their own lamps to make it home if they wait until the dead of night. A few at a time, they begin to excuse themselves. Many of the pilgrims didn’t bring much oil either and follow their hosts back to their lodgings for the night.

It gets darker. Almost all of John’s relatives go, leaving well-wishes for the most famous of the men their kinsman baptized. There’s a slight delay as they try to persuade John’s mother to go with them, but she insists she’ll be all right spending the night.

It’s almost midnight when Jesus arrives with the last two apostles, but Andrew is happy to see that he looks well-rested and more relaxed than he has for quite some time. Jesus greets his remaining visitors while Mary goes into the house to tell Jesus’ mother her son is back. The women come out into the courtyard just as one of Simon’s friends produces a sword.

He steps forward and kneels down in front of Jesus. “Master,” he says, “we’ve heard you’re filled with power like the prophets of old, and we present you this gift in memory of the sword of Samuel.” He lays the sword on the ground, hilt toward Jesus.

Another of Simon’s friends rises, produces a sword, and kneels in front of Jesus. “My lord,” he says, “we welcome you back to the kings’ city, and we present you this gift in memory of the sword of your ancestor, David.” And he lays the sword on the ground, hilt toward Jesus.

Another of Simon’s friends rises and speaks from the scriptures: “See my servant, who I uphold; my chosen one, who delights my soul!” he says, “I have put my spirit on him: he’ll bring judgment to the foreign nations.”

All of Simon’s friends rise. The one who has just spoken kneels before Jesus. “We’ve brought you these two swords in acknowledgment of your authority and power. We also offer our own swords and lives to your service—”

 “Two swords are enough,” Jesus says.

The man’s mouth stays half-open, as if his uncompleted offer were trapped there. Should he push the rest of the words forward, or swallow back the words he said?

Jesus stands up and offers him a hand. The man bites his lip and then rises. He stands dazed for a moment, and then wishes Jesus a polite good night. Jesus wishes him a safe trip home and asks if he and his men will have enough light.

The apostles and the stunned men mumble goodbyes to each other and exchange awkward embraces. Andrew stays in the courtyard, but Simon and Judas accompany the men out and into the street.

Though he’d like to wait for the two of them to get back, Andrew decides to speak before he loses courage: “We made some oil for you, some very expensive oil. Was that right of us or wrong?”

*

“Why did he reject us?” hisses one of the men at Simon once they’re all outside the house. “We would’ve died for him!”

“I don’t know,” says Simon, “but he knows what he’s doing.”

“Does he?” says the man. “What sort of commander shows more concern for your lamps than your swords?”

“You saw him in the Temple,” says Simon. “You know he’s filled with the power of God.”

“The Romans aren’t defenseless Temple merchants,” Simon’s old friend says. “I can’t believe we wasted our days and our hope with him.”

“What did you expect?” says Simon. “Another sweet-tongued highway robber like Barabbas?”

Simon’s old friend spits. “At least Barabbas fought,” he says.

Simon wants to push him, then, wants to shake away all his condescension and pride. But he clenches his fists instead. And he watches old friends walk past him into the night.

But the last man in line lingers. “You’re sure you want to stay with him, Simon?” he asks. “It’s not too late: you could come with us.”

“I’ll never leave him,” says Simon. “Never.”

The man brushes some stray hair back from his face. “Good for you,” he says. “But I should warn you: the high priest and his friends are looking for a way to take your Master quietly and kill him.”

*

“It’s all right,” says Jesus in the courtyard. “Don’t worry. You’ve done a good thing.”

The apostles exhale in relief and Mary from Magdala goes to get the sacred oil.

“There’s one more thing,” Andrew says while she’s gone, “since John is dead, we’re not sure who should anoint you.”

Mary comes back into the courtyard, holding the most important gift she’s ever given carefully in her hands.

“I want Mary to,” says Jesus. “I want her to anoint me this time and the next.”

Mary stares, uncomprehending. The apostles begin to protest, but Jesus shakes his head.

 “She should anoint my head for the work I have to do,” he says, “because she’s the one who will come to anoint my body when that work has been done.”

“Which work?” asks James.

“You’ll understand,” says Jesus, “soon enough.” 

Mary starts shaking as she walks toward Jesus. This is an honor for a prophet. Not for a woman.

She’s about to begin when she remembers to wait for Simon and Judas.

They come back in. Judas sees her with the vessel of oil held up above Jesus’ head. “What are you doing?” he says.

“He told me to,” says Mary, and for reasons she doesn’t understand, she starts crying as she pours the oil down on Jesus.

*

When the vessel is empty, Jesus turns to Simon.

“Your friends have lost interest in me?” he says.

“Yes,” says Simon, “they have.” 

Jesus looks around at the twelve. “Do any of you want to leave me too?”

“No!” says Peter. Where else would they go?

“Maybe we should all leave here together though,” says Simon.

“Why is that?” Jesus asks.

“Because I just heard the high priest wants to have you killed,” says Simon.

“I’ll die when it’s the will of God,” says Jesus. “Don’t worry about what the high priest has planned.”

In spite of himself, Nathanael yawns.

Jesus smiles. “It’s late,” he says, “and it’s been a very long day. Go to sleep now, get some rest.”

And except for Judas, soon they all do.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

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When they approach the eastern wall of Jerusalem—God’s chosen city—the people who have come with Jesus start to pave the road with their clothes, lining the way for him. And as he draws closer to the city, they start to sing from a psalm:  

Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!
We bless you from the House of the Lord!
God is the Lord, let his light shine forth: bind the sacrifice with cords to the altar!

Simon’s friends have prepared well. Soon their people join the procession waving palm branches, symbols of the land of Israel. They complement the sounds of the old psalm with their own, adapted overlapping verse:  

Blessed is the kingdom of David that comes in the name of the Lord!
Lead us up to the House of the Lord!
Hosanna to God, let his light shine forth: make a sacrifice at the altar!

Some of the men from Jericho and the pilgrims from Galilee take up the new chant. Arriving Judeans and even some Jews from abroad start to gather to see what’s inspiring the song. A few join in, though they’ve never heard of Jesus. They start to throw their coats and sashes down; Simon’s friends hand out palm leaves and branches to anyone who will take them. 

The cacophony of traffic—camels grunting, donkeys braying, pedestrians colliding, wheels beating on uneven cobblestone—can be overwhelming when the festivals bring half a million people to Jerusalem. But now the force of the song competes even with those sounds: 

Blessed is the kingdom of David!
Lead us to the House of the Lord!
Hosanna to God! Hosanna to God! Make a sacrifice at the altar!

Jesus dismounts from his donkey. He has reached the Temple gates. 

*

No one watching outside the gate knows what to expect. Will Jesus walk into the heart of the Temple and make a sacrifice at the altar personally, announcing himself as high priest and king? Or will he head straight to the Roman fortress on the Temple’s north side and knock it down like Sampson in the temple of the Philistines? Will he call the sick and the lame to the Temple and heal them there? Or will he simply preach to the multitudes of the faithful who have come to Jerusalem? 

No one in the outer court of the Temple has any idea what Jesus will do either, because no one there even heard the song: the Temple’s outer court is the noisiest place in all of Jerusalem this time of year. Cattles’ lowing echoes off the high walls, sheep bleat incessantly, coins clank as people exchange profane Roman currency for purer coins. Local guides sing out their slogans in desperate attempts to be heard over hopeful entrepreneurs’ loud exclamations of the beauty of their souvenirs. Poor widows lose control of their tempers and voices as they complain about exorbitant prices on sparrows and doves this season, and merchants yell abuse at them as loud as it is vulgar before pushing them away with carefully washed hands.

Jesus starts to shove. 

He goes for the money tables first, flips one over so hard that coins from Rome, Tyre, and Tiberias make a cloud in the air like locusts and fall like hail. The local guides and hawkers stop shouting their slogans and dive for the loose coins, but overturned tables crash down in their way as Jesus keeps moving, black hair and beard flaring out like an angry lion’s. Using his coat as a whip, Jesus scatters the cattle—the owners shake their fists at him but chase their heavy goods out onto the porch and then into the lower quarter’s tight, hungry streets. Jesus shouts a warning to the dove-sellers and then throws open cage after cage. First dozens, then hundreds of birds fly out into the sudden freedom and circle above the Temple for the whole city to see. 

God watches one of them as it falls back to the ground. 

The high priest’s guards rush in but by the time they arrive, a herds’ worth of livestock are scattered and the floor is littered with coins of gold, silver, and brass. Some of the outer court’s best-known merchants are nowhere in sight, others are shouting at Jesus, while still others sit on, fatalistically bemused at the sight of their upended tables and broken plans. Dozens of strong men have poured into the court behind Jesus, armed, as it were, with palm branches.

“Stop!” say the guards. “What are you doing?” 

Jesus turns toward them. “Have you let this house, which is called by the Lord’s name, become a den of robbers before your eyes?” 

The merchants look down at their hands indignantly. They don’t see a speck of blood. 

“What are you talking about?” asks the chief guard. 

“I’ve seen it,” says Jesus, and he looks around at scattered wares, straying animals, and angry sellers. “It wasn’t supposed to look like this. It was supposed to be a house of prayer for all nations.” 

There’s a big crowd behind Jesus now. Too big and too lively for the guards’ comfort. Bigger than the current crowd of Jesus’ victims and possibly even more passionate.

Someone is going to have to answer for the chaos of this day, thinks the chief guard, but now is not the time to announce who or how. 

“Why don’t you come here tomorrow and explain to the high priest and sages what exactly this is all about?” says the chief guard, hoping to avoid a full-scale riot. 

“I promise I’ll come,” says Jesus, and the guards make a graceful but rapid exit from the court, shrugging to disappointed and disgruntled merchants as they go, as the crowd behind Jesus begins to sing: 

Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!
We bless you from the House of the Lord!
God is the Lord, let his light shine forth: bind the sacrifice with cords to the altar!

*

But Jesus doesn’t enter the inner courts of the Temple today. In the late afternoon, he heads back out of the holy city and up the Mount of Olives. At first the crowd follows him, but he firmly wishes them a good night, and then satisfies them by saying he’s looking forward to seeing them in the morning. They wander off in clusters toward their homes or the places they’re staying. Even close friends from Galilee let him send them to the villages to get some rest, and at last he’s left alone with his apostles. 

Jesus sighs and slumps down under a fig tree and looks out at the glare of the sun off the Temple’s golden dome. Though it’s well before the fig harvest, this tree’s leaves are already spread like they do once the fruit starts to come, so Peter looks through the branches to find some fruit for his Master. Then he notices a tear running down his Jesus’ face.

“It’s no use, Peter,” Jesus says. 

Peter stops. “What do you mean?”  

“Haven’t you read the scripture?” says Jesus, “I will take away the harvest, says the Lord: there will be no grapes on the vine or figs on the fig tree: its leaves will wither, and the good things that I have given them will pass away.”

“I can get you something else to eat,” says Peter. “Should I run up to the market in the village?”

But Jesus doesn’t answer. 

Andrew sits down next to Jesus and looks out at the Temple and the holy city beyond. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he says. “The way the gold looks like fire, the marble pillars white like a cloud. Like God’s still right in front of us, day and night, still leading us out of the land of bondage. Things will be all right.” 

Jesus looks at Andrew. “A day of desolation is coming,” he says and turns back to the Temple, “when not one stone will be left standing on another.” 

“When is that day?” asks Judas. “Is it a sign of the End?”

But Jesus shakes his head. “It’s only the beginning,” he says. “Like the leaves of the fig tree before summer comes.” 

*

There will be wars and rumors of wars, says Jesus. Men who speak in the name of prophets and messiahs will leave the land bathed at least three times in blood. 

The apostles’ minds reel. 

People will starve and plagues will rage and houses will collapse as if under the force of earthquakes, says Jesus. Brothers will hand over their brothers to be killed and children will turn on their own parents. People will forget the meaning of love. 

The apostles’ hearts sink. 

When fights break out over idolatry, get out! says Jesus.

When the armies come up against Jerusalem, get out at once! he says.

If you see fighters from your housetop, don’t go into the house to put your affairs in order. If you’re in a field when the news of war comes, don’t go back home to fetch a coat. Just run, immediately, to the safe place over the Jordan. 

Pray that your daughters aren’t pregnant or breastfeeding then, says Jesus. Pray you don’t have to flee in the winter. 

Pray that God will make it go quickly so the whole earth isn’t eaten up.  

When will this happen? says Thomas. How do we know when it’s begun?

Only my Father knows, says Jesus. But once it starts it will happen again and again and again. Until the moon is a burned-out candle, and the stars fall one by one. 

But don’t let it shake you. Go to the farthest ends of the earth and finish the work you’ve been given. 

That’s when I’ll come again, says Jesus. In a cloud by day and with fire at night. 

That’s when I’ll come. 

The apostles’ heads spin. They go back to the village and don’t say much for the rest of the night.  

*

But in Jerusalem, the high priest and his sages talk late into the night, extending their discussion of final holiday preparations to consider the Temple disturbance—and to weigh their options for handling the man responsible for it. 

“Who is he?” says one of the sages. 

“Trouble,” says the high priest. 

“For the merchants, certainly, but maybe not for us,” says another sage. “Let’s talk to him and see what he wants before we act.” 

“Talk to him?” says the first sage. “And then sit here and deliberate while he starts a riot right at the time when our city is host to guests from every corner of the earth? We should tell the guards at the Temple to arrest him tomorrow if he comes back.”

“If you want to see a riot, go ahead and arrest him,” says the second sage. “I promise to say the mourning prayers with your widow if his crowd of supporters forcefully objects.” 

The first sage glares at his colleague, but the high priest raises a hand for calm. “There are more than enough widows in Israel already,” he says. “And there’s no glory in reckless acts. Either we find a way to disgrace him in the eyes of the crowd, or we find reliable charges and arrest him quietly in the night. Try to find out who he is and what these people expect from him. Listen for him to speak recklessly, or else force him to speak too cautiously for a crowd’s taste. Then we can stop him—”

“If he needs to be stopped,” says the second sage.

The high priest sighs. “We need to be prepared,” he says, “to keep the peace here.” 

*

Jesus rises early in the morning and climbs up on the young donkey. He asks James to walk by his left side and John by his right, and heads toward the Temple as he promised. And though James hasn’t forgotten he’s supposed to be humble as a little child, he can’t help but feel a little proud and more than a little vindicated that he and his brother are on Jesus’ right and left sides on such an important occasion, while the other apostles walk behind. 

But James’s feeling of pride suffers when Jesus asks him and John to wait at the gate with the donkey until he returns. James had imagined he’d follow his Master into the house of worship, not end up stuck outside with some borrowed, braying beast. 

Though Jesus and his apostles have arrived at the Temple quite early, many are already waiting for him there: Simon's friends hoist up their palm branches in greeting; the pilgrims from Galilee and men from Jericho cheer; big groups of Jerusalem natives and visitors from overseas point excitedly and whisper; his mother and Mary from Magdala smile at him from across the sea of faces. 

Several fully armed Roman soldiers supplement the Temple guards today. Sullen merchants and moneychangers conduct their transactions quietly; new cages of birds have been brought in, and are being sold at standard off-season prices. 

A servant of one of the sages walks up to Thomas. “Which one of you is Jesus?” he asks. 

“Why do you want to know?” Thomas says. 

The servant’s eyes shine. “Because there aren’t many teachers in these days who really honor God more than men,” he says. 

Thomas is impressed and takes the man to Jesus. 

“Master,” says the sage’s servant quietly, though still just loudly enough for the people nearby to hear, “what does the law really say: is it right to pay taxes to Caesar?”

But Jesus answers loudly enough for almost everyone to hear. “This man has a good question,” he says as he turns to face the crowd. “He wants to know if a holy person can pay Caesar taxes in good conscience. Does anyone have a Roman coin?” 

A man in line at the table of a money-changer produces one, and Jesus examines it. 

“I grew up in a village where we didn’t see coins like this much,” Jesus says. He waves the scholar’s servant over. “Can you tell me whose face that is?” 

“It’s a graven image of Caesar,” says the man. 

“That settles it, then,” says Jesus, and Simon sees his friends lean forward in anticipation. But their excitement gives way to disappointment when Jesus speaks again: “If it’s Caesar’s,” says Jesus, “you’d better give it back to Caesar.” 

Simon watches several palm branches drop. 

“If it’s Caesar’s, it doesn’t belong here,” says Jesus, and then, more loudly and clearly: “Give what’s Caesar’s back to Caesar, and give everything else to God!”

Mary from Magdala is the first to burst into joyful laughter, and a hundred or so Jews from the north, south, and abroad quickly join in. The palm branches go up again and Simon’s friends cheer. Jesus hands back the coin and walks with his mother into the easternmost of the inner courts before the foreign soldiers can decide how they feel about what just happened. 

*

The twenty-three jurists who sit in the lower court chamber near the treasury can tell by the rising rain-like pitter-patter of coins on the depositories that a large group of people has just arrived in the adjacent court. Two of them excuse themselves: they have special instructions from the high priest to meet someone. 

Several men in the crowd fit the rough description they’ve been given of the one who disrupted the outer court yesterday, so the jurists simply listen to the man everyone else is listening to. They find a place close enough to hear him answer questions and listen to him talk about resurrection in his cumbersome rural Galilean accent. The combination of his folksy dialect and folktale doctrine is almost too much for them to keep straight faces about: they’re a little surprised the high priest was worried about such a simple, backward preacher.

“This shouldn’t be difficult,” says one jurist to the other, and they walk up to Jesus. 

“Master,” says the first, trying to make the word go out of his mouth smoothly, without any trace of sarcasm, “forgive us for interrupting, but we happened to hear something about the dead coming back to life.” 

“Surely you’ve read the scriptures,” says the second, “and you know the law: if a married man dies without children, his brother, as the goel, marries the widow and makes descendants to preserve the dead brother’s name.”

But the preacher from Galilee just looks at them and doesn’t say a thing.

“Once there were seven brothers,” says the first jurist, “and the first took a wife, but died on their wedding night.”

“So the second brother married her, but he too died on their wedding night,” says the second jurist, “as did the third.” 

“A more superstitious man might have begun to suspect the interference of some demon,” says the first jurist, “and a lesser man might have declined to play the goel’s part and marry her, but the last four brothers each kept the law—”

“And each,” says the second jurist, “died on the wedding night, leaving the woman herself childless until the day she also died.” 

“Tell us this:” says the first jurist, “if there really is a resurrection—which Moses simply forgot to write about—who will she belong to there? Each of the seven took her as his own.” 

The jurists smile at the strength of their argument, but the Galilean looks at them with apparent contempt. 

“How can you understand the scriptures if you don’t know the power of God?” says Jesus. “Moses gave that law for earth: there’s a greater law in heaven. You should know at least this: before anyone rises from the dead, the laws of the goel will be fulfilled.” 

All the humor disappears from the jurists’ faces. “Come with us,” they say, and they lead him up the steps and through the gate into the court of Israel. 

*

The two sages who advise the high priest are waiting there, looking out over the court of priests to check the preparations around the altar.

“This is the man who made such a disturbance yesterday in the Temple,” says the first jurist.

“And we just heard him disparage the law,” the second jurist says. 

The first sage turns to Jesus. “Who do you think you are?” he says, “Who gave you the authority to do all this?” 

“Answer one question for me,” says Jesus, “and I’ll answer that question for you.” 

A large group of strong men begins to file into the shallow court behind Jesus. They watch the first sage until he grows nervous his wife may become a widow if he doesn’t choose his words carefully. 

“Ask your question,” the first sage says. 

“Was John’s baptism from heaven, or men?” says Jesus.

The first sage sees the trap now: if he says “heaven,” Jesus will make him look like a hypocrite for not going out to the desert. If he says “men,” in the presence of so many witnesses, he’ll offend anyone who counted John as a prophet.

“I can’t tell you,” the first sage says. 

Jesus nods. “I understand: I can’t tell you about my authority either.” 

“Would you mind answering a different question for me?” asks the second sage. Jesus looks at him carefully, then shrugs. 

“Of all the commandments that have been written,” says the second sage, “which comes first?” 

Jesus smiles. “Hear, O Israel! The Lord our God is one!” he says, “And so you should love Him with an undivided heart, with your whole soul and mind and strength.”

But before the second sage can congratulate him on his answer, Jesus goes on, “The second commandment is almost the same: love your neighbor as yourself. And there are no commandments more important than these.”

The second sage looks over the great altar in the court of priests ahead. “Well spoken, Master,” he says. “There is only One, and there is none other than Him. To love Him with our whole hearts, with understanding minds and all the strength of our souls, and to love our neighbors as ourselves, is worth far more than all these burnt offerings and sacrifices.” 

“You’re not far from the kingdom of God,” Jesus says. 

The second sage looks closely at Jesus and speaks softly: “Is that why you’re here, then? To bring God’s kingdom back into the hands of a son of David?”

Jesus is staring out past the altar toward the entrance of the Temple’s holy place. “Why do they say the Messiah is David’s son?” asks Jesus. “David himself, filled with the spirit, said: the Lord told my lord: sit on my right hand, until I make your enemies your footstool. It would be enough for David’s son to bring back his father’s kingdom. But what is David’s lord supposed to do?” 

“I don’t understand,” says the second sage, but Jesus doesn’t seem to hear him. Jesus’ eyes are fixed intently on the Temple proper, and though of course it’s impossible, the second sage will later swear that he saw in those eyes a reflection of the Temple’s eternal flame. 

*

The sages don’t question Jesus further or issue any penalties for the disturbance on the previous day. When Jesus turns away and asks if he’s free to go, they say yes, and he leaves the men’s court and goes down the fifteen steps to where Mary from Magdala is waiting with his mother. But before they can ask what happened, Jesus points to something happening on the treasury side of the court: wealthy visitors from far corners of the Empire throw impressive sums of money into the depositories, showing their loyalty to the sacred house and city they’ve wandered far from. Beside them, a widow throws in two thin bronze coins. 

“Did you see that?” says Jesus. “Maybe the others gave the most, but she held back the least.” 

His mother nods. “That must have been her whole income. She gave everything she had.” 

“Then so will I,” says Jesus. “For the widows’ sake.” 

And he walks out of the Temple. 

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

Subscribe now

“If his offering be a burnt sacrifice of the herd, 
let him offer a male without blemish: he shall offer it 
of his own voluntary will at the door of the tabernacle 
of the congregation before the Lord. . .”

Someday they’ll see: the driving wind mingles
the dust of my body with the ashes of the moth  —Sauda

Ages ago, longer ago than anyone can remember, they say the Israelites spent a last night as slaves in Egypt. They packed up their bags, borrowed their neighbors’ jewelry, spread lambs’ blood on the doorposts, and waited for God’s judgment to fall on their oppressors. When it was done—and before any mob came looking from blood-marked door to blood-marked door for revenge—the Israelites got up, and they walked away and away and away for the next forty years. 

Every Jew in Galilee knows this story by heart, because each year, just as the cool months give way to spring, thousands and thousands of people pack their bags, borrow a little money from their neighbors with promises to bring back something from the south, and take to the roads toward the Temple in Jerusalem, where the lambs today are slain. And whether they have been on the trip themselves yet or not, every Jewish child in Galilee has heard of the endless crowds there, about how it looks from a distance like all Israel has moved out to tents in the hills and the desert once again. 

In the southern parts of Galilee, children will shirk chores and perch on roofs or in trees to watch the travelers pass by. And is it only pilgrims’ clothes they hear rustling below or also their ancestors’? Does the smell of sweat come from a long day of walking in the heat or from years spent as slaves in Egypt? When the children sit above the road, they feel time collapsing beneath them. 

On the road this year, Salome feels like space is also collapsing: she asks a question to one of Jesus’ followers from the marshes upriver and gets an answer from another whose home is near Magdala, west of the lake. She hears about her sons from a woman on her left who comes from the foothills of Mount Hermon and a girl on her right who met James and John near Mount Tabor. On this road, she meets the wives of some of the seventy men Jesus called and blessed and the mothers of other people he healed. On this road, it seems, a sweet sampling of the fruits of her sons’ and their Master’s ministry has been gathered. 

“If only my sons could be here!” she thinks. And she wonders where they are now and how long it might be until she sees them again. She worries about them as she walks, and she worries about them more when she sees the soldiers by the roadside scanning the crowds at the southern edge of Galilee. 

Not long after the soldiers are out of sight, a group of men with faces wrapped tight against the dust walk up beside her. Salome quickens her step to move away from them and keeps her eyes focused ahead, but the men match her pace and stay close. When one of them takes hold of her arm she pulls it away and shouts out a threat—but then he unwraps his face.

“Please don’t hurt me,” says James. “I forgot how you feel about surprises.” 

She doesn’t know whether to scold him or hug him, so she just laughs. John and Peter and Jesus and the others unwrap their faces and laugh with her. 

She shouldn’t be surprised that they’re here. After all, time and space fall apart so easily on the journey south for Passover.  

*

Though Jesus’ followers from Galilee are excited to see him, there’s no sign anyone else is waiting until the second evening of the journey at a village where the Jabbok flows into the Jordan. Men who were once John’s disciples scan the passing travelers, shout greetings to Judas and Andrew, then rush down and hoist Jesus up on their shoulders like a groom, singing and clapping as they carry him off to a feast. 

They’ve prepared for him well. After dinner, the half of the village that isn’t busy providing accommodations for travelers gathers to listen to the man who might be heir to John the Prophet’s legacy and to savor his strange stories. 

He tells them about a woman who loses the precious silver coin that was her whole dowry. Then he asks them: won’t she light a lamp after dark so she can sweep every last corner of the house, not sleeping until she finds it? And when she finds it, won’t she celebrate with her friends?  

He tells them another story: a man’s younger son asks for his portion of the inheritance, sells it for silver, then moves away to a Gentile city and wastes the money breaking every commandment he knows. His sins alone are enough to keep rain from falling over the whole region for a year, and a terrible famine strikes the land. 

The young man begs his friends for help and mercy, but their goodwill has gone the way of his wealth. Only one of them offers anything: a position feeding pigs that pays so poorly, soon the young man envies his charges their slop. 

Hunger and guilt gnaw at him until one day he comes to himself. “In my father’s house, even the servants have enough bread,” he thinks. “Why should I die here of hunger?” So he leaves the pigs and starts toward his old home. 

On the road home, he thinks: my father taught me the right way to go in life, but I left him for the vanity of the world. He thinks: if I were my father’s son, I’d have lived the way he taught me—I’m no one’s son now, maybe I never was. If I could serve my father for seven lifetimes, he thinks, I’d still be in his debt. But he stays on the road to his father’s house, and he practices what he’ll say so that his tongue will know how to go on after his heart breaks at the first sight of his father’s stricken face. He practices so that he’ll be able to plead for work with his father, whose face was a mirror that showed only the truth long before the truth was such a sharp knife.  

But all his practice is for nothing. Before he ever gets home his father runs out, holds him tight like a child, and kisses his neck. The young man says, “Father, I’ve sinned against you and heaven!” But the father says, “You’re home, now. You’re finally home.” 

The young man says, “I had my chance. I don’t deserve another.” But the father says, “Bring the ring his mother left him. Bring him shoes and a many-colored robe.” The father tells his servants to kill a fatted calf and throw a feast to celebrate. Then he smiles like he hasn’t in years and even laughs.  

The older son, working in the fields, hears people in the distance start to sing and dance. He comes close to the house and smells the tender meat. “What is this?” he says to a servant, and the servant tells him how his brother has come home, and how his father has welcomed him. 

“How is that possible?” says the older son, but the servant can’t answer so the brother stays outside until his father comes to see what’s wrong. “I’ve given up everything else I could have followed, everything else I could have had, for you,” says the older son. “I’ve gone wherever you asked me to go and worked long hours every time we’ve sown seeds and every time we’ve harvested. And yet we’ve never eaten even a goat’s kid in my honor—why have you given the son who abandoned you a calf?” 

“You’ve had all this time with me,” says the father, “and everything I have is yours. So why shouldn’t we celebrate with the one who wasted so many years? My son was dead, and is alive again. He was lost, and now he’s found.” 

*

After he finishes the stories, three scholars approach Jesus. 

“You tell very interesting stories,” says the first. 

“And your reputation as a holy person proceeds you,” says the second.

“Although reputations can be hard to live up to,” says the third. 

“What can I do for you?” asks Jesus. 

“Our young patron couldn’t be here tonight, but he’s expressed an interest in helping support you,” says the first. “Financially.”

“It’s our responsibility to advise him,” says the second. “We have no doubt that you’re a righteous man and that the honor you’re given as a healer is deserved, but we don’t know for sure—if you’ll forgive me for saying so—whether your wisdom goes deeper than homilies and simple tales.” 

“What deeper wisdom are you looking for?” asks Jesus. 

“We’d like to hear your opinions on some legal issues,” says the first. “For instance, there’s a woman from near here who recently returned home after spending several years abroad. She claims that her husband died, but can’t provide any proof or documentation. She expects his brothers to give her the share of the inheritance allotted to her by the marriage contract, but since there’s no proof her husband is dead, should that property be considered hers or held back for now?” 

“I don’t get involved in property disputes,” says Jesus. “But remind them what the scriptures say: Wait for the Lord, and keep his way, and he’ll honor you with an inheritance in the land: when the wicked are cut off, you’ll witness it. If she’s broken the commandment and given false witness, she’ll find herself without an inheritance on the Day of Judgment. If the brothers break the commandment and covet, they’ll find themselves cut off. Tell them, and see if they can resolve the matter on their own.”

“What’s the use of law,” says the second scholar, “if every man does what is right in his own eyes? How can you expect them to resolve the issue without a judgment? After all, the property is only one of the concerns. The woman is childless, so if her husband really is dead, she has a right to one of his brothers. The nearest brother says he’d be happy to act as goel and marry her, but what if she’s lying and her husband—his brother—reappears? A correct ruling could protect the family from serious harm: what do you advise them to do?”

But Jesus just shakes his head. “I advise them to keep the matter away from the courts,” he says. “In the courts, a woman isn’t accepted as a witness. But when Ruth went to straight to her kinsman Boaz, he believed everything she said.” 

The third scholar bursts out laughing. “You must be innocent indeed if you believe every woman is as virtuous and trustworthy as Ruth! If that’s what the brother expects, too, you’d better tell me your answer to a different legal question in advance: how much disappointment does a husband have to endure before he has sufficient grounds for divorce? How many burned meals does he have to eat?”

That’s when Jesus grows angry. “Moses gave laws of divorce to a stubborn and idol-loving people, but what was the only teaching on marriage Adam needed?” he says. “In the beginning, God created them male and female and said: Because of this, each man should leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and they should be one flesh.” 

Jesus stares at the scholars a moment, then turns away.

“What God put together, men shouldn’t be teaching how to take apart,” he says to the villagers before he walks off.

*

In the morning, the scholars return the money their patron sent with them and tell him about their disappointing encounter with Jesus. 

“He’s charismatic, but impractical,” says the first. 

“He’s a careless thinker with a short temper,” says the second. 

“It’s a dangerous combination,” says the third. “And when it gets him into trouble, you don’t want people to come asking you where he got his money from. That’s why we brought it back.” 

But their young patron doesn’t let the matter rest at that, so the scholars have to retell the whole exchange, beginning from their first approach and ending with Jesus’ abrupt dismissal of the whole field of divorce law.

“I’d like to meet him myself,” says the rich young man. “Do you know where he stayed last night?” 

*

Jesus leaves his hosts well before the young man reaches them, but all the pilgrims take the same route from here to Jericho, so the young man hurries to find them.

Since the crowds on the stone road move slowly, he runs through the dirt on the side. Dust covers his cloak, adds color to his thin young beard, sticks to the insides of his mouth and nose, but he keeps running. Pilgrims stop to laugh at the sight: since when does someone so well-dressed and wealthy travel alone with such disregard for dignity? But the young man keeps running. Though he’s not even sure how he’ll recognize him, he knows he must talk to Jesus. 

The young man moves even further from the road to make his way around a big group of talkative Galileans, then notices there are also a number of Judeans in the mix. He slows down, scans the group, and recognizes a man from his village who was once a disciple of John. 

The man next to that man, the one he’s listening to so carefully, must be Jesus. 

The rich young man presses into the group until he can fall down at Jesus’ feet. And when Jesus stops, the whole world seems to stop with him. 

“Master,” says the young man, “I know you don’t give rulings for any earthly court, but I want to know about the court of heaven.” 

“Then why are you kneeling there?” says Jesus, “Stand up and walk with me.” 

The young man does as he’s told. “Master,” he says again, “how can I inherit eternal life?”

Jesus laughs. “You’ve sponsored many scholars—I’m sure you know the laws about that inheritance. Have you killed anyone?”

“No,” says the young man, a little shocked at Jesus’ casual tone. 

“Have you committed adultery?” asks Jesus.

“I’m not even married!” says the young man.

“Have you stolen?” asks Jesus. 

“Of course not!” the young man says. 

“Have you given false witness or cheated anyone in business?” Jesus asks. 

“Never,” says the young man. 

“Have you kept the commandment to honor your father and mother?” asks Jesus. 

“As long as they lived, and I treasure their memory,” says the young man. 

The stones feel strange beneath the rich man’s sandals: he’s far more used to riding on these country roads. 

“If you want eternal life,” says Jesus, “you’re on the right path.” 

The young man walks beside Jesus a while. Can it really be as simple as that? 

“Is that all you need to do to get into the kingdom of God?” the young man asks. 

Jesus glances at him sideways. “You didn’t mention the kingdom of God before,” says Jesus. “For that, there’s only one thing: give up everything you have and follow me.” 

The rich young man almost trips on a loose stone. He was his parents’ only child. From his mother’s side, he has farmland he rents out in four different villages. From his father’s side, he has a successful business with agents in ten different towns. “What do you mean, give up everything?” he says. 

“Sell it all,” says Jesus. “And give the money to the poor. Exchange every treasure on earth for one in heaven, where it can’t get lost or keep you up all night with worry. Follow me: sacrifice everything.” 

Only once before has the rich young man felt this way. When his parents died, grief almost swallowed him, until he saw himself giving to scholars in a dream and woke up with new purpose in life. Why shouldn’t he move the rest of his wealth to heaven? When Jesus’ road lies before him, what use are the treasures of this world?

But there’s another thing the young man has to consider. Though he isn’t married now, some day he will be. Though the children he may have are only dreams now, some day they’ll be living bodies with physical needs. His mother’s fields aren’t his own: they belong also to her future grandchildren. His father’s business isn’t his own: it’s also a trust, an inheritance for hoped-for grandsons.

A weight like graves seems to rest on the young man’s chest. He knows Jesus is a holy man, and he wants to make the sacrifice Jesus asks for. He imagines himself letting go of everything but God’s favor, imagines himself giving away even the sandals he’s wearing so that the rocks cut his soft soles; though his feet bleed, surely something will bloom as he waters the desert with each step. 

But he also imagines another life. He imagines a young woman, fair as the moon and clear as the sun, whose face is like the morning when he comes home to her at night. He imagines the pure daughters she’ll bear him, and the righteous sons: his parents’ grandchildren will grow to watch over their fields, manage their business, and he’ll teach them to give generously to both scholars and charities. He imagines himself respected as his hair grays, securing good marriages for his daughters and sons, giving counsel in time to their children. Telling his offspring’s offspring the stories of their ancestors. 

There are tears on the rich young man’s face as he murmurs an apology to Jesus and leaves him. “Thank you for offering me one good life, but I choose the other,” he says. 

And it will happen almost as he imagined it. He’ll find a moon-fair woman and marry her. After some time, she’ll bear him two daughters and a son. His fields and businesses will prosper; his children will grow and marry. His life will be sweet, if not always as good as he’d like—until, when his hair begins to gray, the people revolt against Rome but also turn on each other. The rebels will seize his fields and murder his daughters. The Romans will plunder his goods and raze his house and slaughter his wife and grandchildren and son. 

For the rest of his life, he’ll stay up half the night, wandering through the darkness looking for them. Trying to find anyone whose death he might only have imagined. Who might have somehow hidden and escaped. 

*

The apostles are astonished when the rich young man leaves Jesus. Not because they don’t understand why a good person would walk away from their Master, but because as Jesus and the rich young man talked, each of them felt a shadow of what he felt when Jesus first called him. Matthew remembers the way nothing else entered his mind in that moment, the way his body seemed to respond to the words before his thoughts did. Andrew remembers his feeling of discouragement being lifted away, as if by an invisible wind that lifted him from the lakeside to a hilltop. Peter remembers dropping the net, the thick ropes slipping so easily through his calloused hands, never to be taken up again. Even Simon remembers it: when there were so many reasons for him to leave as others did, he remembers thoughts of Jesus pulling him back like the current when you try to walk upstream.  

“Why isn’t he coming?” asks Andrew, “Didn’t he feel that?”

“He must have,” says Jesus, “but it’s hard for a man with so many riches to join the kingdom of God.” 

“It’s not that hard,” says Matthew, who regrets nothing. 

Jesus glances at him. “You knew that money didn’t really belong to you, so you didn’t belong to it, either. But it’s hard for a man who trusts his wealth to come into the kingdom of God, harder than it is for a camel to pass through an opening the size of a needle’s eye.”

The apostles stare. Thomas looks for a puzzle in Jesus’ words, imagines the rich young man spending the rest of his life plucking out a camel’s hairs and passing them through a needle one at a time. The futility of the image exhausts him.  “Is there any way, then, for a man like him to be saved?” Thomas asks. 

Jesus looks around at all the twelve. “How many things have you seen God do that men can’t? With God, all things are possible. There will be joy yet in heaven over him.”

*

Peter knows he shouldn’t be bothered by this, but he is. He thinks of his wife and his mother-in-law, thinks of their faith and sacrifice. Why should a rich man with no family be excused for refusing to do something a poor fisherman has done? Peter knows he shouldn’t be bothered, but he can’t stop thinking about a story the prophet Nathan once told King David. A story about a rich man who spared sheep that were only things to him and killed a poor man’s only lamb instead, a lamb that was all the love and duty in the world to that man. 

“We’ve left everything to follow you—” says Peter, but he stops before he can give voice to his complaint. A peaceful heart heals the body, he reminds himself, but envy rots the bones. 

A breeze comes down off the hills toward the river, giving momentary relief from the lowland heat. Far ahead, Peter can almost see what must be Jericho’s city wall.  

Jesus turns to Andrew. “How many homes have you stayed in since I called you to follow me?”

Andrew thinks. “A few dozen, at least.”

“And how many women cooked for you and cleaned up after you like you were their own sons?” asks Jesus. 

Andrew smiles wide. 

“How many people have you met who were like brothers and sisters to you?” asks Jesus, “How many houses would you be as glad to see again as your own home? How many fields do you love now as much as if you’d spent your whole life caring for them?”

Peter thinks not just of the villages, but of hills where he’s spent the night and risen with the sun in the morning. He thinks of drinking from the dew on the wild grass, of digging up plants with satiating bulbs. All of Galilee is his now. Galilee is his in a way no rich man will ever know.  

“Whoever leaves a house or land or loved ones for me and my gospel is given hundreds of homes and lands and loved ones in this life. Your reward is coming already in this time,” says Jesus. “So there’s no need to be jealous of the lost who are brought back to life in the world to come.” 

*

They reach Jericho at mid-day. In the winter, the warm, heavy air makes it a favorite retreat for royalty: Alexander the conqueror had an estate built here with plunder from his siege of Tyre; Mark Antony gave the whole city as a gift to Cleopatra at the height of their romance. After she committed suicide, the city reverted to the first Herod’s control. It was a pool in Jericho where that Herod ensured that the last heir of Judah Maccabee would spend the last moments of his life, lost beneath the water in an assassin’s arms. 

The dates grown outside Jericho are sweet, and the spice trade from the east is good, but it’s still no wonder that many men left those comforts for the desert in the days when John preached there. Jericho is a city stained with too many old sins, too much old blood. 

When John was in prison, most of his disciples hoped he would return alive, but from the day of his arrest the disciples in Jericho somehow knew their Master had been taken from them forever. When they finally heard the news of his death, they tore their clothes and fasted like everyone else—but theirs was pure mourning, without any surprise. 

But they’re no longer mourning. They’re eager now to see the man who’s said to have a double portion of John’s spirit, and they have a feast ready when he comes. 

When Jesus approaches the city, John’s disciples rush out and bow down before him. They bring him in to the meal, tell him he can eat as slowly as he likes and has no need to be afraid here, because there are already fifty strong men in this city who have committed to do whatever Jesus says. 

“Should we send them to Jerusalem with you?” they ask as Jesus finishes his bread and starts tasting dates. 

“There’s no need for that,” says Jesus. 

“It’s no trouble. They want to help you,” they tell him. 

“Do they know what I’m doing there?” asks Jesus. 

“You don’t understand: they’ll do whatever you tell them to. If you say ‘go up to a mountain,’ they’ll go up. If you say, ‘come back to the valley,’ they’ll come back without ever having to know why,” say John’s disciples. 

“What about when no one gives them orders?” asks Jesus. “When I’ve gone, will they look for me three days?” 

John’s disciples keep pressing him until, washing his hands after the meal, he agrees to let the fifty come, but Jesus’ apostles hardly hear the rest of the conversation. Why is their Master talking about being gone? 

*

Even the broad streets of Jericho swell almost to breaking with the mass of people who follow Jesus out of the city: his close followers, the extra Galilean pilgrims they’ve befriended, the fifty strong men from Jericho, and the hopeful disciples of a dead master. 

From the city gate, blind old Bartimaeus hears them, unravels the threads of sound in his mind and recognizes the famous name of Jesus. Jesus, the healer. Jesus, the prophet. Jesus, who might be the promised anointed one. 

He wishes he could be right in the middle of that cloud of sound, wishes he could make his way safely through the bruising elbows and crushing feet of the crowd to touch the man he’s heard so much about. Not that he needs Jesus to heal him as Jesus has healed so many others. No, Bartimaeus wants to touch Jesus so he will always remember in the most literal sense what it felt like when Jesus was there. He wants to touch Jesus so he can hold on to some connection to goodness on the days when the people are unkind and when the alms are few and when the loneliest place in the world is Jericho’s west gate. 

But because there’s no way for a blind man to safely approach Jesus today, Bartimaeus decides to connect himself with the saint through a song instead. Yes, when the cloud of sound is pressing close, Bartimaeus sings from the bottom of his chest: 

David, King of Israel!

David, King of Israel!

David, King of Israel lives forever!

And when the other beggars shout to him to be quiet, to make some room for their cries for charity to be heard, Bartimaeus only sings louder and deeper. Pours every memory from his lost sight into sound to celebrate the hero who, at any moment, may walk past. 

Jesus stops. “Bring him to me,” Jesus says. “Bring the singer.” 

So the crowd parts, and Bartimaeus drops his cloak in his eagerness to stumble forward and touch even the hem of Jesus’ robe. 

“What can I do for you?” says Jesus.

“I just wanted to be near you,” says Bartimaeus. “It’s already enough.”

So Jesus takes the blind man’s hand and lifts it to his own face. Bartimaeus feels the warmth of tears there and begins to shake. 

Jesus places Bartimaeus’s salty fingers gently on his blind eyes. The water returns at once to those dried-up eyes, and for the first time in years, Bartimaeus can see. 

“It’s a steep road up to Jerusalem,” says Jesus. “I don’t want you to trip as you follow me there.”

*

On the road from Jericho up to Jerusalem, there’s no sign of blood in the Passover season. The robbers’ hands are clean, their nails transparent, the sleeves of each assassin spotless. Since the road is too crowded at this time of year for an ambush, they’ve washed their hands and wiped off their knives, and they’ve changed into merchants’ robes to sell the wares of the last year’s victims to the pilgrims who pass by. 

In the coming days, wine cups across Jerusalem will serve as monuments for the spilled blood of Pharaoh’s Egypt. In the Temple, they’ll slaughter a flawless lamb in the name of God, filling hundreds of thousands of worshippers with reverent awe. But in this season of memory, the blood of the road’s victims lies forgotten, dried black and mixed with the dust beneath the feet of that man who buys a new coat, that woman whose eyes shine with delight at the bargain she’s being offered. 

Since Bartimaeus’s eyes have been opened, he sees blood everywhere. 

He turns to Jesus. “What does it mean?” he asks. 

“The time is coming when everything that’s been covered will be revealed, and no secret will be hidden,” whispers Jesus.

A few steps back, Judas is walking carefully. He can’t see the blood like Bartimaeus, but he still knows it’s there. The closer he comes to home, the more he’s aware of hidden blood, of unspoken secrets. 

Judas looks from the carefully washed hands of one robber to the clean fingernails of the next. Though he’s sure he’s awake, though he’d swear by heaven and by earth that one foot keeps moving in front of the other, Judas starts having his nightmare. His sister is carrying the water. Someone sees her: maybe it’s a robber, or a soldier. Maybe it’s someone she knows, someone she trusts. 

After he’s raped her, the man walks away. He must wash his hands before too long. 

The world forgets her invisible blood. The world never noticed.  

*

They reach a village outside Jerusalem in the evening. It’s nice here, nothing like the Jerusalem Judas knows. Pilgrims sit under the shade of trees on the hillside to plan the last part of their journeys while Simon goes out to make arrangements for the next day with some of his friends. Goats bleat contentedly as they graze in the distance, and Jesus gives Andrew and Thomas instructions on where to go in the morning to get him a young donkey that’s never been ridden. 

Before nightfall, the twelve settle into the house where they’ll be staying. Though everyone’s excited to be so close to the holy city at last, the long climb has left their legs sore and their lungs exhausted. Soon everyone but Judas is asleep. 

Judas is too tired to sleep tonight, too tired to pray. But he’s almost drifted off at last when the angel appears beside him again. 

“How long?” he says to the angel. “How long until this ends and all the nightmares go away?” 

“I don’t know,” says the angel. “There are legions of us waiting for the sign, but. . .”

“But what?” asks Judas. 

“Only God knows when the time is,” says the angel. “But many say it’s not close like we thought.” 

“It has to be close,” says Judas. “The one we’ve waited for is here, on earth, already.” 

The angel shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t have to finish it,” he says. “Maybe things don’t look ready yet, and he’ll leave for now, and let them go on.” 

“No!” says Judas. “He can’t.”

“I don’t know,” says the angel. “All I know is that there are legions of us, just waiting for the signal, but it hasn’t come.” The angel rises. “And maybe it isn’t coming.” 

When Judas looks over again, the angel is gone. The angel is gone, and it’s a dark, dark night. 

*

In the morning, everything happens for Andrew and Thomas exactly the way Jesus told them it would. They go into the next village and find the place where the road splits—sure enough, the animal is tied by the door there, nibbling on a vine. The next part feels so much like stealing it’s hard for them to do, but they follow Jesus’ instructions and untie the young donkey. As they start to lead it away, a man rushes out of the house after them yelling, asking what they think they’re doing. 

“The Master needs your donkey,” say Thomas and Andrew, though coming out of their mouths instead of Jesus’, it sounds like a poor excuse. 

But the man seems to recognize the words somehow. “Of course,” he says. “Go ahead.” 

The donkey is surprisingly cooperative, considering it’s a donkey, and it doesn’t take them long to get back to Jesus and the growing crowd at the house. The pilgrims are back and the men from Jericho are back, so it’s difficult to get the donkey all the way to their Master in the courtyard, but they forget the inconvenience when they reach him. 

Jesus’ eyes shine today, as if he can see something they can’t. As if there’s something of untold worth and beauty right ahead, and he’s irresistibly drawn to it. 

They want to take him there, to help him get wherever he’s going. 

Without quite realizing what he’s doing, Thomas takes the robe off his back and lays it across the donkey as a cushion for Jesus, and most of the twelve quickly do the same. 

And after months of watching him walk, the apostles finally see Jesus ride. 

Fill yourselves with joy, daughters of Zion! thinks Andrew, Shout your joy, Jerusalem’s daughters! See how your king comes to you: in righteousness, bearing victory. See how he comes: humble, and riding on a donkey’s foal. 

But as they start toward Jerusalem, Judas remembers the angel and worries: why is Jesus riding a donkey like a king who comes in peace, instead of a horse like a king who goes to war?

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

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Apostles return from the north, south, and east to their meeting place in the hills, but Matthew’s group is late. As he watches for them, Nathanael grows more and more nervous. Didn’t the other nine leave the province for a reason? Aren’t they keeping out of sight for a reason now? What might have happened to the one group that stayed in Galilee?

When he catches the first sight of them in the distance, Nathanael forgets caution and stealth and shouts out a greeting at the top of his lungs. He runs out to embrace them, and Andrew and Judas follow. They’re already sharing stories and laughing when they get back to Jesus, who interrupts to ask, “Where’s my mother?” 

“We didn’t know if you would all be here yet,” says Matthew, “so we left her and Mary to wait at Martha’s.”

“Good,” says Jesus. “Martha’s is on our way.” And without another word, he heads out. His long, steady stride sets a pace now so familiar to these disciples that walking again beside him feels like coming home.

*

They talk as they walk. Several apostles report briefly on their journeys, but Jesus doesn’t say much until Matthew’s turn—and then he’s full of questions. Jesus asks all about his brothers and sisters, about how the house he grew up in is looking now, about how his mother did on the journey and what she seems to think of Martha and Mary. He asks whether she’s eating well, and whether she seems to be sleeping enough, and Matthew laughs.

“If you cared about your own health as much as you do about hers, I’d have had better answers when she asked those questions!” Matthew says.

After Jesus has been assured that his mother is fine, he asks Andrew, Judas, and Simon about the people they talked to in the south. He nods in approval as they tell him how many of the men they once knew as John’s disciples are eager to meet him or see him again. He slows down and asks a few questions as Simon talks about the growing excitement among his old friends.

Thomas and Nathanael share greetings with Jesus from various followers on the far side of the lake, and Philip introduces him to a beardless young trader from Pella, the only merchant who would follow them back. Jesus thanks the three for fulfilling their mission so well and walks ahead with the lanky young man. Jesus and the trader talk rapidly in low tones, and the apostles walk just out of earshot behind.

Most of them are happy to talk with each other while Jesus walks ahead. Peter tells Andrew about a man on the marsh who had a laugh just like their father did when they were young. Nathanael asks Matthew if he was nervous spending so long in Galilee after Jesus’ dream, but all Matthew seems to want to talk about is the news from the east side of the lake. Philip and James share a salted piece of fish and tell old stories from their villages’ harbors.           

But John doesn’t feel like talking. He keeps thinking about the fire he felt on the mountain and about the truths he has to keep hidden for now, locked deep down in his bones. Until Jesus returns—from what? John tries and he tries, but he can’t seem to remember what Elijah and Moses said. 

Simon doesn’t talk with anyone either. He wants to tell someone how unsettled he feels, but he can’t quite explain it to himself. Why should he be bothered by how quick his old friends were to call Jesus the Star of Jacob, or by how much they say they’re willing to do to help him bring judgment to the foreign nations? Is he afraid to have Matthew know his friends are Zealots? Or is he afraid of what his old friends might want his Master to become?

Thomas keeps his eyes on the road in front of him. But he isn’t thinking of that road, he’s remembering the roads that lead east out past the ten cities. He can’t seem to get those roads out of his mind, can’t forget how they seemed to call to him to walk out past the borders of the Empire, on past the Tigris and Euphrates and the mountains where king Cyrus was born—but if he doesn’t even know where those roads end, how can he explain the depth of his wish to get there?

*

Halfway to Martha’s, while Jesus is still talking with the trader from Pella, Philip asks the other apostles a question. “When the kingdom comes, Jesus says we’ll sit as judges over the twelve tribes—but how will that work?”

“What do you mean?” says James. “Are you asking which tribe each of us will get?”

Philip shakes his head. “I mean, most of the tribes are gone. How are they coming back?”

“Maybe they’re hidden in distant lands. Maybe he’ll send some of us out to find them,” says Thomas. 

“Or we’ll fight to free them,” says Simon. “Like the judges of old.”

“No,” says Andrew, “it’s written that in the days of the Messiah, foreign nations will bring them back to us: I will give my signal to the nations and lift up a banner to the peoples, and they will bring your sons back in their arms, and carry back your lost daughters on their shoulders. Kings will be their foster fathers, and queens their nursemaids.”

“So kings will gather around us?” says Philip. “Who gets to accept children from Caesar?”

“It’ll be Matthew,” says John. “He has the ledger.”

Several of the apostles laugh.            

“It wouldn’t be me,” says Matthew. He knows John doesn’t mean any insult by associating him with Caesar, but he suspects others are still troubled by his old life. “It would probably be Peter,” he says. “Caesar’s the most powerful king, so he would have to report to the most important one of us.”

“Is Peter the most important?” says Nathanael.

“I don’t know,” says Matthew. “He and James and John are the ones Jesus took with him, and they’re the first three he called, so it would be one of them. It just seemed to me like it would be Peter.”

“Andrew was called before any of them,” says Judas quietly.

“Not really before,” says Andrew. “At the same time as Peter.”

“No,” says Judas, “he was calling you because he recognized you from the Jordan. You were the first.”

Andrew wants to point out it doesn’t really matter, but before he can Thomas says, “Why should the first be most important? Judas is the one who makes sure we eat!”

Andrew laughs, but James doesn’t.

“We know the most about the kingdom,” says James, “since we’ve been with him from the beginning.”

“If you know more, why haven’t you taught us?” says Thomas.

James doesn’t answer.

“Do you have secrets? Does Andrew know something about the missing tribes that Simon and I don’t?” Thomas says.

“It’s my opinion, that’s all,” says Andrew.

“But James went north with Jesus,” says the other James. “Maybe he knows something you don’t.”

“I don’t know how the tribes will return,” says James. “Jesus knows, and that’s enough. But if we fight, my brother and I are fighting on his right and left sides. If kings and queens come to return the lost and offer him tribute, we’ll be on his right and his left when he receives them.”

Simon laughs. “I won’t dispute your place in the royal court, but if we’re fighting, I don’t see the wisdom in putting a man who’s good with a net on Jesus’ right side. I think he’d prefer someone who’s faced men with a sword.”

“That’s true,” says the broad-chested Judas. “Things are different if we fight than if angels fight for us.”

“And if the angels fight alongside us,” says James, “then faith matters more than experience. Who trusts God enough to be protected from the enemy’s arrows? Whose arms will be made strong by the hands of Jacob’s God?”

“You think your faith will be the same,” says Simon, “after you’ve seen some of your friends kill and watched others die?” He waits a moment but doesn’t get an answer. “Every man has great courage until it’s put to the test. We’ll see who’s brave when the day of trouble comes.”

James opens his mouth to respond, but Peter stops him. “I think we’ve argued enough,” he says.

And so they walk on in silence.

*

They’re hot and they’re tired, but John and Judas still break into a run and race each other to the house when they see Martha’s children playing outside. John gets there first, and the boys jump on his back. The little girls crowd around Judas instead—they still remember how he shared some dried fruit with them and their brothers the last time he came.

When Jesus arrives in the courtyard, his mother takes one look at him, turns around and marches off toward the kitchen.

“Don’t you want to greet your son?” Martha asks.

“Of course,” says Mary, loud enough for everyone to hear, “but look at how thin he is. He needs to eat first so there’s something for me to hug.”

Jesus laughs. “Man doesn’t live by bread alone,” he calls after her, “but by heeding the words of God.”

“By the sweat of your face you should eat your bread,” she shouts back. “God says you have to eat.”

Jesus laughs again, turns to his disciples, and throws his hands up. “My mother has defeated me!” he says, and he crouches down beside the courtyard wall to wait. Martha’s youngest daughter sits on the ground beside him and plays with the fringes on his robe.

Jesus turns to James. “Since we have some time,” he says, “maybe you can tell me what all of you were arguing about on the road.”  

It’s not nearly as embarrassing to say something foolish as it is to be asked, after a period of more thoughtful reflection, to repeat it. James doesn’t think he can hide anything from Jesus, but he doesn’t want to speak up either.

Jesus looks to the other apostles. “You still want to know who’s the most important in the Kingdom of God?” he says.

And though they all shake their heads and mumble apologies, Jesus rises and scoops up Martha’s youngest daughter. She giggles as he puts her up on his shoulder.

 “If you can be as small as this child,” says Jesus, “then I’ll lift you up, too, and you can be the greatest!”

The girl laughs again as Jesus spins her around and the apostles feel shame loosen its grip on their hearts. From the kitchen, the women hear the laughter, and the sisters drag Jesus’ mother away from her cooking for a moment to go with them to see what’s going on.

They come into the courtyard as Jesus lowers Martha’s daughter down off his shoulder and holds her tight for a moment in his arms. “Whoever receives even one child in my name receives the whole kingdom of God,” Jesus says.

“Then women are truly blessed,” says Jesus’ mother, and she laughs. “I’ve received the whole kingdom straight from heaven now seven times!”

“No wonder they feel so heavy inside,” says Martha, and her laugh is as full of joy as the older Mary’s.

But Mary from Magdala, who hasn’t been able to marry or give birth, just smiles: happy for her sister and all the world’s mothers, but also more than a little sad. Then Rejoice, O barren! she tells herself, break forth into singing! Your day, too, will come, she thinks. The prophets say your day will come.

*

That night, Jesus and the twelve talk about the route they’ll take south: between the Jordan and the endless Judean hills. Though they’ve lived off the generosity of local people alone on past missions, Jesus suggests they take along some money and a few provisions this time.

Then Jesus lets his twelve tired friends sleep and sits to talk a little with his mother before he lets himself rest.

“They seem to be good men,” she says. “All of them have honest faces. And Martha and Mary are wonderful—they have humble hearts.”

“They’re all like the salt of the earth,” he says. “I’d love them anyway, but I love them for that.”

Mary looks at her oldest son. “I wanted your brothers to come with me,” she says. “But they didn’t want to. I don’t know if they’re offended or afraid.”

“I’ll go see them again as soon as I can,” says Jesus. “You know I have other things to do now, but I still miss them. I’ve been wanting to see my James.”

Mary smiles. They sit a while quietly, not needing to talk. They’ve been happy just to sit together since he was very young. She’s been happy to sit quietly with him in times of joy or pain or both from the first moment she held him in her arms.

“Do you have to go south now?” Mary asks. “With so many good people around you, couldn’t you stay here in Galilee a little longer?”

“Meat can be seasoned with salt alone,” says Jesus. He stands up. “But a sacrifice has to be salted with fire.”

Then he kisses his mother on the forehead, and he goes to bed.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

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Jesus has led them up hills before, but Galilee’s hills are nothing like this mountain. At first, they think he’s just looking for a solitary place on its steep, forbidding slopes. But after an hour or so of strenuous climbing, they realize he’s leading them toward the top of the mountain—though the summit is still far beyond their sight. 

When Peter can spare enough breath to think, he wonders if Jesus is still angry. He looks at his Master from time to time but can never tell if what he’s seeing is anger or a raw and majestic determination. In the scriptures it says: I have set my face like a flint. Yes, thinks Peter, that’s what Jesus has done.

And so he tries to set his own face like a flint. Tries to climb with the same relentless and consuming drive. The Lord God has helped me, so I won’t be disgraced. I have set my face like a flint, and I won’t be put to shame. Up ahead, Jesus keeps climbing. To his right hand and his left, James and John keep pace.

*

They’ve been climbing for hours, and John is hungry. But he refuses to be the first to stop. The first to ask if they can rest and eat.

*

They’ve been climbing all day and the wind is stronger and colder the closer they get to the summit. James can feel it slip through his clothing and wonders how long he’s made do with the same robe.

*

For the first time in his life, Peter sees snow—not simply as whiteness on a distant hilltop, but as a physical substance lying ahead on the ground. It looks a little like sand. When he reaches it, he takes some in his hand. It feels strange. Cold, yes, but also hot. As if his body doesn’t know how it should feel to touch pure color for the first time.

*

They climb over snow-covered rock after snow-covered rock. They fill their lungs with cold instead of air. They can see the whole promised land when they look over their shoulders, but they hardly ever bother to look over their shoulders. They keep moving, keep climbing.

They have almost reached the top.

*

The three apostles’ bodies tremble with the cold and their eyes are heavy with longing for sleep when Jesus stops at the top of the mountain. The sun is setting, but his face shines.

His clothes are white, unnaturally white, whiter even than the glistening snow.

*

The apostles are struggling to stay awake for even one hour. Their eyes fall closed, and they will them back open. Jesus is talking with Moses and Elijah. They are telling him to take off his white robes and wash them in wine. They are telling him to take off his glistening garments to soak them in the blood of grapes.

*          

Peter is struggling to stay awake, so he tries to listen to them talk. Something about Jerusalem. Riding into Jerusalem. And then something about another mountain near Jerusalem.

“Are you ready?” says Moses.

“Yes,” says Jesus.

“Can we help you?” says Elijah.

“You’re helping me now,” Jesus says.          

*

James struggles to stay focused. James wants so badly to pay attention. Moses and Elijah are talking to Jesus. Jesus’ face shines and his clothes are whiter than snow, his eyes as dark as wine.

*

John doesn’t feel cold anymore because there’s so much light and warmth coming off Jesus and the two prophets. Elijah burns like his chariot, Moses like his bush. John basks in their presence. John basks in the warmth of Jesus, who is like all the light in the whole world. Jesus is like the sun and the moon and the stars, and the hearth on a rainy night.

*

Jesus wakes Peter, James, and John when Moses and Elijah are about to go.

“It’s good that we’re here,” says Peter through growing shivers. “We should stay here for a while. We’ll build a booth for you and one for Moses and for Elijah and it will be just like Sukkot.”

But they don’t need booths to remind them of the Feast of the Ingathering, because God sends a cloud to shelter them instead.

And in the cloud, they hear the voice of God. Not just feel it, but hear it with their own ears. Unmistakable. Though they’ve never heard the voice before, they know it at once:

“This is my Son, my Chosen,” He says. “Listen.”

And they fall on their faces before Jesus in worship and awe and fear. 

“Don’t be afraid,” says Jesus gently. “You can get up.”

And they listen, because God himself told them to.   

*

The cloud is gone, and they’re alone with Jesus now. The sun hasn’t set, and the sun doesn’t seem to set as they walk down the mountain for hours and hours.

“Don’t tell anyone what you saw until everything the prophets said has been done, and I’ve returned,” says Jesus.

None of the three remembers exactly what Jesus talked about with Moses and Elijah, but each of them imagines he’ll ask the other two later, and they’ll know what has to be done.

All at once, something occurs to James. I will send you Elijah the prophet before the great and dreadful day of the Lord.

“What does it mean when Elijah comes?” he says.

“Let me tell you a story,” says Jesus. “Elijah came, and they abused him. Herod threw him in a prison and had him killed.”

“The John who baptized you is Elijah?” says the young John.

“That’s not a story,” says James, “that’s a fact.”

“It’s a story for those with ears to hear,” Jesus says.

They get down the mountain and into the village just before the sun finally finishes setting.

“Come inside with me,” says a familiar-looking man. “I’d be honored if you’d join my family as we welcome in the Sabbath.”

Jesus immediately goes with him, but it takes Peter, James, and John a moment to follow. How long have they been on the mountain? Has Time itself abandoned its usual caravan of days and nights? 

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

Subscribe now

That night, four of the apostles have nightmares.

In his dream, Matthew is running down an alley toward the setting sun, his heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his temples. He knows he has to get to his office before they come. He needs to protect the names written in his ledger. The slanting light half-blinds him and he trips on one rock, falling hard and cutting himself badly on another, but he gets up and he finds the book and he’s relieved to see how many names are still written there.

He can hear shouts in the distance as he uncovers the hiding place he prepared for a time like this. He hears the mob getting closer as he lowers the ledger down and covers it. His pursuers are almost at the tax office when he steps outside and gives himself up: they drag him to the brow of a hill he’s never seen before, and he looks down. He’s imagining the way his body will break against an outcropping of rock below when he wakes.

Thomas also dreams of danger, but he can’t tell what it is he’s afraid of in the overwhelming dark—it’s a new moon’s night and almost nothing is visible, though he can feel someone or something near. Thomas reaches out for the presence, and it pulls on him, and suddenly they’re wrestling. As he shifts his weight and grapples with his opponent, Thomas’s fear gives way to a strange familiarity. He used to wrestle like this with his twin sister in the few years when she was bigger than him, spending all his strength just to keep the fight going. Back then, he didn’t need to win, only to hold on until her anger broke. Now he’s losing his grip and his leg hurts, but Thomas is sure he’ll be blessed if he can only keep wrestling through this darkness until the coming of the sunlight.

But when the sun rises in his dream, he still can’t see who he’s wrestling. And the struggle doesn’t stop.

Peter dreams a longing so intense he leaves his boat on the shore and walks up into the hills until they grow into mountains beneath his feet. He walks beside a clear stream: when a voice says “Drink,” he cups his hands to lift the cold water to his mouth and laps it up.

That’s when he catches sight of the golden calf. Seeing it shining there fills him with a sudden shame. Hear, O Israel! The Lord our God is one! he thinks, and turns away. But he knows nothing can still his longing to worship more than is allowed.

Then the snorting and galloping of warhorses fills Peter’s ears, and he starts to shake because he knows that soldiers are coming to destroy everything and everyone in their path. It’s his fault. He’s brought this punishment down on them. He wants to run down the mountain and confess everything to warn the others while there’s still time—only the ground is so covered in snakes and scorpions there’s nowhere safe to run. For a moment he freezes, but then he remembers: I give you power over them. Wherever you walk, nothing will harm you.

He takes the first step.

Judas can’t tell if he’s awake or asleep when his sister walks in with a scrape across the left side of her face and a cut on her lip.  There’s a tear at the neck of her tunic. Judas realizes he can’t possibly be awake as she walks slowly across the room, her shoulders turned in slightly as if she’d like to fold in her arms and draw in her chest, her gait awkward under hidden pain. A pain no one should ever have to suffer.

Her eyes are blank; the jar she’s carrying is broken.

Judas can’t tell if he’s asleep or awake when he notices the angel.

“Were you with her?” Judas says. “Why didn’t you protect her?”

“I wasn’t there,” says the angel. “I’m with you. Now. It’s too late to change what happened.”

“Why weren’t you there, then?” says Judas, “Why didn’t you protect her?”

“The world is too bad,” says the angel. “We can’t protect everyone.”

“But you could have saved her!” says Judas.

“You think so?” says the angel. “Then whose sister should this have happened to?”

“No one’s,” says Judas, and his eyes feel so heavy he must be awake, though he’s fairly sure he isn’t.

“Who should suffer for this world’s sins?” says the angel.

“No one,” says Judas, more tired than he’s ever felt before. “This world needs to end.”

“We’re waiting,” says the angel. “Legions of us: we’re just waiting for the sign to come and we’ll end it.”

Judas’s sister puts down the broken jar gently by the door. She goes and she lies down and she doesn’t say anything. Judas wants to scream, but the air is trapped in his chest. If Judas doesn’t drown in his own trapped scream, he’ll suffocate in her silence.

Judas turns to the angel. “How much longer?” he says.

*

Night isn’t over when Jesus gently shakes everyone awake and says he’s had a dream, and they need to leave now. He tells the seven to go warn the other disciples to be careful for a few weeks, then asks them to care for everyone while he and the apostles leave Galilee. He doesn’t say where they’re going or why and no one asks as they make their way out of town by lamplight.

When the first streaks of dawn cross the sky like feathers, soldiers come to Jesus’ hosts only to find the man they’re looking for has taken flight.

*

After they’re walked deep into the hills, Jesus finds a place to sit and talk with the twelve and Mary.     

He closes his eyes. “The time hasn’t come yet, but is close,” he says. “Next time, I’ll let them arrest me. This time, we need to escape before they come.”

Matthew thinks of his dream. He’s been worried about mobs for so long he’s forgotten that as one of Jesus’ disciples, he might also need to be afraid of prisons and soldiers.

Peter remembers his dream: has Jesus just avoided the same danger Peter sensed? 

Neither of them asks a question, though, they just watch their Master and wait. Jesus takes a little dirt—so dry it’s practically like sand—between his fingers. He rubs it back and forth so that it falls a few dozen grains at a time, blowing this way and that, spreading in every direction.

“I want to see my mother again before the time comes,” Jesus says, and he asks Mary, the little James, the big Judas, and Matthew to go west to Nazareth, traveling quietly and telling no one who they are, to find her and invite her to return with them.

He addresses Thomas, Philip, and Nathanael next. “After I’m gone, an age will come when our people need a refuge,” he says. “Best to find a man to care for it now.” And he tells them to go east to the ten cities to bring back a certain young merchant from among his followers there.

Then he turns to Judas and Andrew, “Like your old Master, I need you to prepare the way before me.” He turns to Simon, “Go with them, and talk about me with your friends in the south.” He tells them which route to take to Jerusalem and where to make sure there are people ready to greet him when he comes that way again.

Jesus looks to Peter, James, and John. “I don’t want to be alone yet,” he says. “Stay with me.” He says they’ll travel north into Herod’s estranged brother’s kingdom, that there’s something they need to see there.  

When he’s given each group its assignment, he speaks again to the twelve all at once. “The day will come when you sit on thrones in the kingdom, judging the twelve tribes of Israel. So be faithful, and learn to serve them now.

“Think of me, and I’ll be with you,” he says. “I’ll protect you in the places you go, until your work is done and it’s time to meet again in this land.”

And—though their bodies are exhausted from the short and unsettling night, though they’ve been half-asleep for most of the morning’s long walk—the twelve are all wide awake now because they can feel God in this ordinary-looking place. Yes, God is unmistakably here, and it surprises them.

But even God’s presence doesn’t keep them from feeling a little afraid, from having an odd sense of dread at the strange things Jesus told them.

*

On the road north, Peter, James, and John learn this: you can flee from trouble, but not from the things that trouble you.

If anything, their worries grow worse in the isolation of their journey out of Galilee. Though it’s harder going, Jesus travels mostly through the open hills instead of the lakeside roads to avoid being recognized. So Peter, James, and John are each trapped in their own recurring thoughts.

As he struggles up slope after slope, Peter can’t help thinking about the golden calf and the shame he felt in his dream. Each time they come within sight of the lake, James wonders how much more he really knows than he did before he left home. And whenever they see a soldier in the distance, John wonders what Jesus meant when he said, “Next time, I’ll let them arrest me.”

But things get easier on the other side of the river, when they’re safely out of Galilee. Jesus no longer avoids the roads, and they teach and heal people in the tiny villages they pass through as they make their way north. Work is a soothing balm for Peter, James, and John: being able to serve drives the doubts from their minds. When they pass through the marsh country, James thinks again of Moses and wonders if Jesus is the prophet he predicted, but there are so many fevers and sick children here, he can’t focus on the question for long. When, still further north, they leave the road to avoid Philip’s pagan capitol, John wonders what will happen to the people there when the kingdom of God comes, but he doesn’t dwell on that question for long, either.

And then they reach the northernmost tip of old Israel, where Peter looks up at the same mountains he saw in his dream, walks beside the same stream he drank from in his sleep. And his questions come back, bringing with them a mixture of shame and awe.

*

Peter, James, and John almost run into Jesus when he stops walking all at once. He stares up at the mountain in front of them.

Then he turns around to face his three followers. “Who do people say that I am?” he asks.

“At first, most thought you were a great sage or a saint,” says James. “After John died, some saw him again in you. Others said you were Elijah returned to fulfill Malachi’s words, or some other prophet.”

“But who do you think I am?” says Jesus.

“The Messiah,” all three say at once. And they wait for his response.

But Jesus doesn’t say anything.

“And more,” says Peter, his voice trembling a little. He needs to say it out loud. He needs to confess. “You’re more than our promised King.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes: this will be easier if he doesn’t have to see Jesus react. Then he gives the full strength of his breath to the thought he’s kept hidden in his heart: “You’re more than any man—you’re the Son of the Living God!”

That’s it. That’s what he’s come to believe. He knows Jesus won’t have him stoned, but if he’s wrong Jesus will look at him in a way that will make him wish he could pull down the mountains onto himself.

“Blessed are you, son of Jonah,” says Jesus softly. Peter falls to his knees. “No one on earth would tell you that: only my Father would have.”

James stares and John nods, but Jesus just goes on. “You had ears to hear my Father this time. If you can accept all the truths he will place in your ears and in your mouth, the forces of darkness will never overcome you. I named you Peter so you’ll remember a stone cut without hands will smash into pieces all the kingdoms of the earth.”

Peter thinks of the horsemen in his dream, the horsemen who ride down from the north.

“When will that happen?” asks Peter, “What’s the stone?”

“You’ll understand,” says Jesus, “three days after my death.”

What’s harder: for a good Jew to believe that a living man is somehow also a God, or for the man who makes that leap in belief to hear his God is going to die?

*

The next day is the Sabbath, and Jesus is invited to preach in the congregation of a village that stands at the base of the mountain, built on the ruins of what was once an important city. He takes the scroll gently in his hands, opens it slowly, and reads:

I will sing to my Beloved a song of his vineyard. My Love had a vineyard on a fertile hill.
He plowed the land and cleared it, and planted good vines;
he built a tower and a winepress for the harvest that would come. 
But when he gathered the grapes, they weren’t sweet but sour. 
Though he’d tended the vines well, they bore wild fruit.
Judge, men of Israel, between my Love and his vineyard! 
What more could the Keeper of the Vineyard have done? 

“I knew a man once,” says Jesus after he rolls up the scroll and sits down, “who tended a fig tree for his father. For three years, the father waited to taste the tree’s fruit, but for three years it produced nothing. ‘Why are we still waiting?’ said the father of the man I knew, ‘The soil is good: if this tree gives us nothing, why don’t we cut it down?’ But the man asked his father for one more year. ‘Let me care for it a little longer,’ he said. ‘If it bears fruit, we’ll rejoice together. If not, we’ll cut it down.’”

Jesus stops there and closes his eyes. It’s silent in the assembly for a moment.

“What happened to the tree?” says someone from the back. 

Jesus opens his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says. “Before the year was up, some of the father’s servants killed his son.”

*

The next morning, while James and John are teaching a group of villagers, Peter pulls Jesus aside. He’s been looking for a chance to talk to him alone. 

“I don’t understand you,” Peter says.

“But you understand so much,” says Jesus. “More than almost anyone else.”

“I mean I don’t understand why you keep talking about dying,” says Peter.

“The wind blows where it wants to. You have to know the wind to know where it’s going next,” says Jesus.

But Peter is not in the mood for puzzles. “If you have power over life and death, why would you let someone kill you?”

“Because there are things more important than staying alive,” says Jesus, and he starts to walk away.

So Peter reaches out and grabs his arm, pulls him back because he can’t let go now, he can’t go on without an answer. People in the distance are starting to stare, so Peter leans in close and his whisper comes out harsher than he intends: “Then what’s the meaning of this scripture? I call heaven and earth to testify this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing: so choose life! that you and your children after you can live.”

“Don’t tempt me,” says Jesus. “You’re not the first one who’s tried to trap me with a question, but it’s harder when it comes from you.”

“Then stop talking that way,” says Peter, and he tightens his grip on Jesus. “If you have the power to choose, choose life! Nothing is simpler than that.”

But Jesus tears his arm away. “Get away from me, Satan!” he says. “Whose side are you on?”

Jesus walks over to James and John, who are talking with some of the villagers about faith. “If anyone wants to follow me,” says Jesus, “he has to forget his own needs and be prepared to die.” Jesus pauses. A villager shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks at the ground.

“Can’t you see?” Jesus says. “If all you think about is how to keep living, you’ll find one day that you’ve lost your whole life. But if you lose your life for me and my teachings, you’ll find a life that no one can take from you, not even the grave.

“Sometimes,” says Jesus, “your life is the price of your soul.” 

Jesus leaves town then and heads toward the mountain. Only James, John, and Peter follow.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

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Before Jesus sends out the seventy, he gives them a warning: they’ll be like sheep among wolves. They all nod gravely and brace themselves against dangers they vaguely imagine, but almost none of them really understand, because almost none of them have spent enough time alone out in the hills, as Jesus has, to see how wolves hunt.

So they imagine sharp teeth, but don’t think about wolves’ intelligence and patience. They imagine bristled hair and aggressive growls, but don’t realize that wolves hunt mostly by testing their prey for signs of fear and weakness, that wolves are most likely to bite animals only when they panic and run.

The seventy go out to preach. Where they’re successful, the twelve follow to heal. Since they’re met with few obvious signs of hostility, they forget all about wolves. But their enemies have not forgotten anything. Jesus’ critics have simply chosen to save the next confrontation for the right place and time.

*

Jesus and the apostles are exhausted when they arrive in one town late at night, but a crowd still gathers early the next morning, gaining size as quickly as the light grows with the rising sun. Matthew and Thomas are the first to wake, followed by Judas and Andrew, and the four of them herd the crowd out of the narrow street and into an open space where it’s easier to work. In the early morning cool, they bless the fevered. When James and John arrive, they move on to the lame. Next, they work to open ears clogged with infection, then, as more and more spectators begin to arrive, they command cataracts to fall away from the eyes of the blind.

Nothing about the morning has seemed unusual in the least by the time they get to the ragged father and his sleepy young son.

“Is one of you Jesus?” the ragged man asks Matthew.

“No,” says Matthew, “but he’s our Master. What can we do for you?”

“My son needs help,” says the man, and then he looks down like he’s nervous or embarrassed.

“Don’t worry,” says Matthew. “We’ll take care of him.”

So Matthew calls to Thomas and they look over the boy to find out what’s wrong. They find old scars, probably from being careless around a cooking fire, as boys often are. They find some dry, irritated patches on his skin, but no infection or fresh wounds. Other than being a bit sleepy, the boy seems alert. His vision and hearing seem fine, and his forehead feels normal.

“What exactly is the problem?” says Thomas. A few people watching seem disappointed and surprised, as if they’d believed that anyone working with Jesus should know everything without having to be told.

The father looks uncomfortable at the attention he’s getting from the crowd. “He’s not well,” he says curtly, and he looks hard at Matthew. “I thought you said you’d take care.”

Thomas is about to say something a little curt back, but Matthew speaks first: “We will. We may not be able to tell what’s wrong with him, but God can. And he’ll care for those who give him their trust.”

The man nods, and Matthew and Thomas move to bless the boy. But for the first time this morning, something feels wrong. When they put oil on his head, he starts to shy away. And when they try to touch him, he pulls away from them and stumbles back to his father.

“What’s wrong with him?” calls out someone from the crowd. “Are you healing the boy or hurting him?”

“He looked fine before they touched him,” says someone else and the boy claps his hands over his ears.

Matthew reaches toward the boy, but the father stops him. “It’s starting again,” he says, “it’s always like this when it starts.”

“What’s starting?” says Thomas. “Why won’t you tell us what’s wrong?”

Someone from the crowd snorts. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says, then he turns to the rest of the crowd and speaks as loudly as he can. “These frauds have put an evil spirit into him!”

Something about the speed with which the crowd focuses its attention on this new speaker reminds Matthew of nightmares he used to have, of his old terrifyingly plausible dreams of falling victim to mob violence. “We were only trying to help,” he says. “We are only trying to help.”

“Of course,” says the man in the crowd, half to the crowd and only half to Matthew. “I’m sure you’ve always been a very charitable person. Tell us: before you were with Jesus, what kind of work did you do?” 

Matthew’s face flushes. He doesn’t say anything.

“Funny that you should mention that,” says another man. “I heard a rumor he used to be a tax collector.” People in the crowd glance at each other; apparently, that particular rumor hadn’t reached this town yet. “A generous one, though,” the man adds with mock sincerity, “they say all kinds of people were welcome in his house—especially after dark.”

Thomas steps forward. “Forget his past,” he says. “Let us help the boy.”

The first man raises his voice. “A bad tree can’t give good fruit,” he says to the crowd. “You all rushed here to get something sweet, but did you ask yourself first what sort of tree these men come from? Did you ask who they are or what they teach?”

A hush falls over the crowd. They look at the apostles with new eyes, and then down at themselves with an echo of Adam and Eve’s embarrassment.

Something about their sudden shame silences even Thomas, so it’s James who speaks up. “You’ve all seen us heal this morning. By this man’s own admission, if the fruit is good, doesn’t that mean the same for the tree? ”

The second man laughs. “You remind me of Pharaoh’s magicians!” he says. “So willing to use false miracles to fight against the authority of Moses and Aaron.”

“We honor the law and the priesthood as much as you do,” says James.

“Really?” says the first man. “Then perhaps you could explain a few of your Master’s teachings.”

And now James notices the trap, but it’s too late, because the scholars-in-disguise are already trying to tear them apart with a quick series of sharply pointed questions.

*                      

Matthew is still afraid his past will be an embarrassment and keeps quiet to avoid drawing attention to himself. Thomas still stings at how naive they made him sound and stays quiet. Andrew tries to remember what Jesus has said so he can respond as his Master would, but his tongue feels like it’s tied in knots too thick to let him get the answers out in words.

James and John have more of their mother’s warm temper than their father’s cool wisdom, so they forget that they’re fishermen who never quite managed to keep all the different prophets straight and fight for all they’re worth. But the two clever scholars draw them quickly into several self-contradictions, a few awkward admissions, and a misstatement about the law for which they could punished by a religious court.

As the scholars continue to tear apart the brothers’ credibility before a still-growing crowd, Judas slips off to wake Jesus and beg him to come help. That’s how he misses the talk about the end of the world.

“Do you think we’ll live to see a descendant of David back on the throne?” the first scholar says to James.

James wants to shout out that the answer is yes, wants to shake their shoulders as he tells them that this is exactly what they’re unwittingly opposing, but he isn’t a fool. He knows better than to waste his breath trying to piece together the puzzle of the kingdom of God with men like these anyway, and when there’s the possibility that they’ll turn him in to the king or the Romans and that his wasted breaths would also be some of his last, a direct answer is out of the question.

“I believe in the coming of the Messiah as much as anyone here,” James says.

“Of course you do, but when do you think he’ll come?” says the second scholar.

“I’m a fisherman,” says James. “If I want to know when it will rain, I don’t go around asking. I look at the sky. Is something wrong with your eyes that keeps you from doing your own looking?”

A few people in the crowd laugh at this, and James thinks maybe the tide will turn in his favor after all, but the scholars press on unfazed.

“What do you believe about the Prophet Moses foretold? The one whose words will be binding on the people. Will we live to see that Prophet?”

James sees an opportunity. He can’t tell them Jesus is the Messiah without exposing his Master to trouble with the Romans or the king, but he can tell those with ears to hear that the Messiah is close by talking about the Prophet. Since he’s not sure how much to say, though, he starts with a simple “yes.”

“Do you believe the Prophet has come already?” says the first scholar.

“Was John that Prophet?” says the second.

James hesitates. That makes sense—John must have been the Prophet. But is this another trap? If he says yes, will they report him to Herod?

Andrew speaks up before James can sort out the risks. “No, I was with John on the Jordan. He himself said he wasn’t.”

Now James is confused. His mother always told him the Prophet will come near the end of this world. And she taught him the Messiah will usher in a new one. So if Jesus is the Messiah, and John wasn’t the Prophet—

“Do you know who the Prophet is? Or how we’ll recognize him?” says the first scholar.

Now it’s John who speaks before James can make sense of what’s happening. “He’ll speak with authority,” he says, “not like you scholars do.”

The crowd laughs again, but James is less confident this time. He feels like he’s a little boy again and trying to prove his strength by swimming too far into the lake and nearly failing to make it back.

“That’s what drew me to Jesus,” says Thomas, as if he’s realizing something for the first time. “It was the way he spoke that made me want to follow him all night.”

The first scholar raises an eyebrow. “So you think your Master is the Prophet?” he says, “That’s strange, because I heard that he himself thinks he’s the Messiah.”

The whole crowd looks to the apostles and James gets a tight feeling in his chest. They’re cornered now, absolutely stuck. They can’t back down from what Thomas said. They can’t deny the scholar’s accusation about their Master’s claims, because they’ve heard how Jesus reads Isaiah and seen how he speaks of David. Saying nothing isn’t much of any option at this point because it will make the crowd assume, somewhat accurately, that Jesus’ closest followers are spectacularly confused. On the other hand, it’s hard to come up with a good answer when you know one wrong word could land you in prison and that another could wake the violence that can so easily erupt out of a crowd this size.

James startles when he hears Jesus’ voice behind him. “What is all this questioning about?” Jesus says.

For a moment, both scholars and apostles hesitate, each searching for words that will give their side the advantage. But before anyone comes up with anything, the ragged father speaks.

“I brought my son to you for healing,” he says. “But your men couldn’t help. I just want someone to save my boy.”     

“We were asking when you think the signs of the End will come,” says the second scholar. But Jesus just mutters, “how long will I have to live with this shallow and faithless generation?” as he pushes past the scholars toward the boy.

The ragged man’s son is picking at his clothes and hardly seems to notice Jesus approaching. Then he looks up at Jesus and moans loudly as he collapses, unconscious, to the ground and begins flailing wildly, spit dribbling out of the corner of his mouth.

Jesus rolls the boy onto his side. “How long has this been happening?” he says to the father.

“Since he was very young,” says the man. “Sometimes the spirit tries to throw him in the fire or drown him.”

Matthew understands the man’s earlier silence now—he was ashamed to admit the nature of his son’s affliction.

“Please,” the man says to Jesus, “if there’s anything you can do, have compassion and help us!”

Jesus looks at him: “I can help if you can believe,” he says.

The father looks ashamed again but forces himself not to look away. “Lord,” he says, “I believe.” He looks down at his convulsing son. “Help my unbelief!”

The boy’s limbs are thrashing around and a few people in the crowd, still alarmed by the scholars’ suggestion that they’ve given their trust to a wicked man or a fraud, are about to pull Jesus away from the boy when Jesus commands the evil spirit to go out.

Peter has just arrived on the edge of the crowd when he hears the spirit’s angry cry: “You Son of God!” Some in the crowd wince at hearing the spirit blaspheme; others ask what the spirit just said, though of course no one will take the name of God in vain to repeat it to them. 

But the murmured questions stop abruptly, and a cold hush falls over the crowd as people catch sight of the boy’s still body, robbed even of the motion of breath and his face as pale as death.

*

It’s one of the scholars who breaks the silence. “He’s dead!” the man shouts, and he glares at Jesus in unmasked accusation.

And if they’d known and loved the boy, if he’d been a prominent villager’s heir, Jesus might have been killed then, might have been stoned as a lowly murderer at the hands of the same people who’d come to him that very morning for help. But few are willing to seek sudden and violent justice on behalf of a poor stranger, and so the man’s son is left unavenged.

“Do you believe?” says Jesus to the father.

“Anything,” says the father back to him.

So Jesus takes the boy by the hand and lifts him up. Color returns to the boy’s face and his eyes are clear as he looks at his father and embraces him.

The people in the crowd don’t know whether they should be filled with terror or with joy. Their minds are stuck, unable to reconcile the moment when they thought Jesus had killed a boy with the moment when he seemed to raise him from the dead.

No one says anything. All of them—the sick and the seekers, the scholars and the apostles, the son and the father and Jesus himself—just turn away and walk home.

*

Back in the house, Thomas has a question for Jesus: “Why couldn’t we heal him?” 

“You can only cast that kind out through prayer,” says Jesus.

No one dares to ask the next question: if prayer is required to cast out that kind of spirit, why did Jesus simply act? Why didn’t he have to pray?

*

In the unusual quiet of that afternoon, Peter, James, and John sit together behind the house.

“Who do you think he is?” says James.

“I don’t know,” says Peter. He thinks about what the evil spirit said, what they’ve been saying every time. He knows it’s blasphemous to believe what he is beginning to believe—for who in heaven can be compared with the Lord, who among the sons of the mighty can be likened to Him?—but he can’t see any other explanation.

“Do you remember the storm on the lake?” says John, and they don’t have to tell him they do. Then John sings, “O Lord God of hosts, who has strength like Yours? You are strong and Your faithfulness surrounds You. You rule over winds and the rage of the sea: when its waves rise like mountains, You can calm them.”

Peter shudders. There’s no going back now. There’s no going back.

*

That night, seven of the seventy come and tell Jesus about how they’ve cast out evil spirits in his name. The twelve don’t mention how their day has been.

Jesus reminds the seven about how the Lord led their ancestors through a vast and dangerous desert, filled with fiery snakes and scorpions. “Sons of Eve,” he says, “I give you power over them. Wherever you walk, nothing will harm you.”

That night, Jesus breaks bread with his hosts and his guests while Mary goes out to buy new wine. The seven tell about the villages and towns where they’ve been. The twelve finally gather the courage to share the story of their failure, and finally tell Jesus about the debate he interrupted. James asks what they should say to people who ask specific questions about the Messiah, the Prophet, and the coming Day of Judgment, but Jesus’ only response is that he’s grateful to his Father that the wisdom of the wise has perished, and the understanding of the prudent has been hidden.

That night, in another house, the scholars also sit down to dinner. Their host is a prominent supporter and advisor of Herod—someone they wouldn’t ordinarily count as a friend—but tonight they share his bread and the corners of their mouths become red with his old wine. They drink and they talk: about conditions in the country these days, about the king’s health. They talk and they drink, toasting the king’s current trip abroad, circling closer and closer now to the thing that has brought them together, until at last they arrive at the fundamental point.

“We can handle his followers,” they say, “but if this movement is going to be brought under control before there’s serious trouble, we need your people to stop Jesus.”

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

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Magdala’s fishermen are still out on the lake when Jesus’ boat comes in, so it’s quiet on the harbor. For a moment, Peter wishes he could push out to fish instead of heading into the city: he knows how to harvest the lake’s bounty far better than he knows, even now, how to handle the crowds. But because he made a promise, he doesn’t hesitate long. He helps secure the boat and braces himself for the walk to Susannah’s house. 

The walk isn’t far, but it is slow. Women fetching water from the creek leave their work to welcome Jesus back to the city and to tell him about the continuing health of people he healed. While Jesus listens to them, word of his return spreads. Soon a baker comes to Jesus to ask for a blessing and offer him two loaves of bread. Several beggars follow to ask for bread and offer Jesus their blessings.

While the apostles break bread for the beggars, four farmers arrive to thank Jesus, who prayed with them for good late rains on his last visit, for the prosperity of their crops. As they show off a stalk of their barley, a young man limps up, leaning on his brother, and interrupts to show Jesus the puffy redness that’s developed around a bite on his leg.

Peter starts to worry they’ll spend the rest of the day on the road.

They move again after Jesus heals the young man, but not far. Two students come with a question about Haman and Queen Esther. An old man has a complaint about a sharp pain in his gut. Several women come up from the creek again, having remembered more news. A father comes running to get advice about his stubborn son.

Peter’s ears ache.

The fishing boats start coming in and people from all over the city come down toward the harbor to buy fish. They see Jesus and shout out to friends to come down by the lake to see him. The newly arrived fishermen see Jesus and shout thanks to him for drawing out the whole city to buy.

“It’s enough,” says Jesus to Peter. “Let’s go.”

So Peter takes the lead, and they push their way through thick clusters of people up toward Susannah’s. When her servant sees them at the gate, he lets them in.

Peter is ready for the quiet he expects to find in her courtyard.

But the courtyard isn’t quiet. In the courtyard, Matthew and Thomas are meeting with a group of seventy men. 

*          

When Jesus comes in, Matthew and Thomas stop teaching and start explaining.

“We hope you don’t mind,” says Thomas, “but there were too many people for us to care for on our own. So we remembered how you divided the crowd before you fed them, and we called messengers to help us visit and teach the people.”

“You’ve done well,” says Jesus. “We can use the help.”

“They tell us how your followers are doing in their quarter of the city or their village,” says Matthew, “and we send them back with advice and instructions.”

“I’d like to hear from them and counsel with them,” Jesus says. “But others will be coming here soon, wanting to get in. Where can we go to talk in peace?”

Mary is the first to make a suggestion. “My sister’s village is always quiet.”

Jesus nods. “Come two by two,” he says to the seventy disciples, “without telling others where you’re going. Mary will tell us where her sister lives and we’ll meet there in two days.”

“She’ll be happy to host you,” says Mary.

*          

Mary leaves that night and wakes well before sunrise the next day to help her sister Martha’s family sweep the house and borrow neighbors’ dishes and gather enough food to offer eighty-five men a simple meal. Though the day’s labors exhaust them, and though Jesus and the apostles arrive in the middle of the night, Martha and Mary wake well before dawn the next day to cook.

As they bake bread and boil lentils, their other seventy guests begin to arrive. The first to come sit in the courtyard and the last find space on the roof to listen, but everyone fits in the house somewhere.

Through the morning, Matthew and Thomas introduce the new messengers to Jesus, and Jesus asks questions about the people they care for and listens carefully to their answers. When he’s met and listened to them all, he compliments Matthew and Thomas on their selections and the men on their commitment and strength.

Then he holds up a hand for attention and says something that surprises everybody, Mary and the twelve included: “I need your help, because this is the last time I’m going to tour Galilee.”

“What does he mean?” Philip asks Nathanael, but Nathanael doesn’t ask Jesus, because Jesus has already started his first story.

The story is about a farmer, who rises to care for his crops on an early spring day just like this. But when he reaches his field, it’s even bigger than he remembered and the grain is already white like in summer, suddenly ready for the harvest.

The man runs straight to the center of town, calling out to ask everyone to help him bring in the unexpected bounty. He tells them to bring their sickles and their donkeys and promises he’ll send them home with all the grain the animals can carry. The workers come, but every time the man looks out the fields seem still bigger, still whiter. Full bundles of wheat are tied to every donkey on both sides until the animals almost disappear between their loads, but the ripe grain left in the field goes on and on. The man calls for more help, offering a full day’s wage to anyone who will leave what they are doing and help him. But even with a second group of helpers, he can’t keep up with the harvest. So the man falls on his knees, prays to the God who has blessed him so richly to send more workers to his field, whether they come from the next village or are strangers from afar.

At the end of the harvest story, Martha starts bringing plates with bread and lentils to the gathered men. She looks to Mary for help, but her sister is too busy listening to Jesus’ next story to notice.

This one is about a talented merchant who’s already made more money than an ordinary man can earn in five lifetimes. One day, with very little warning, the merchant is called away to a far country and doesn’t know when he’ll be able to come back. He calls three of his most devoted servants together and entrusts them with most of his wealth: the first servant is given twice his own weight in silver, the second his weight in silver, and the third half his weight in silver. He gives them use of his name and house in his absence, and he tells them to remember him and to prepare for his return.

The first and second servants immediately go to work, investing carefully, trading on their master’s behalf. As time passes, they throw themselves into their labors with a growing abandon—after all, each new contract is another chance to hear people speak their absent master’s name. Some of their ventures fail, and it devastates them. Most succeed, and the value and scale of their operations grow.

Though the third servant has been no less devoted to the master, he’s more cautious than the other two. He worries that if he invests in a certain kind of good, its price may fall before he can sell it. He worries that if he buys a farm, there won’t be enough rain, and that if he buys a fishing boat, it might sink in a storm. He doesn’t want to disappoint his master, or for men to speak ill of his master on his account, so he stops speaking of, or acting for, his master at all. Before long, he begins to worry that thieves might come for the money—so one night, when he’s sure no one is watching, he buries it deep in the ground.

Having buried the treasure, he returns to his life’s routine struggles. He cleans the master’s house, though it’s used so little these days there’s not much to worry about. He cooks meals, though often only for himself since the master, and usually also his fellow-servants, are gone. Still, the rhythms comfort him. Gradually, they surpass his memory of devotion, and he stops thinking of his master’s eventual return. It proves more enticing just to survive than to wait, and his memory begins to blur until it seems, as if at any moment, he may forget the man he once waited for.

Trees the first servant planted mature; grapes the second servant trampled develop into old wine. Then one spring, while the breeze pours color into waiting blossoms, their master returns.

Only the truly faithful, says Jesus, will ever be able to understand how the first two servants felt when they again saw their master’s face. Only the truly faithful will understand how their hearts beat as they ran to greet him, how right the tears of long-delayed reunion felt on their cheeks.

And only the truly faithful will be ready for the question their master asked: what have you done in my name?

The first two show him their ledgers, explain how they’ve each doubled what they were given, and now it’s their master who cries tears of joy. “Well done, my servants!” he says, and then he tells them of his own incredible success, beyond anything they could have imagined. The three of them laugh together, and the master says, “I left you with a few things; I’ve returned with many things. Then you were my servants; be rulers now in the house of your lord!”

In the next room, the third servant waits. The voice he once knew so well now sounds rough and weathered to him. When the master comes looking for him, his face seems like a stranger’s.

What about you? says the master. What have you done in my name?

I knew you were strict, says the third servant. I knew you reap rewards of work that wasn’t your own, and I was afraid you’d expect more from me than I can give. So I buried the silver in the ground. I’ll go dig it up for you now and return it: to tell the truth, it will be a great relief to have it out of my hands.

“Well said,” says the master, “your hands are worthless! If you felt I was too strict, why did you accept the silver when I left? If you knew I reap the rewards of work that wasn’t my own, why didn’t you take the money to lenders at a bank for interest?”

The servant doesn’t answer. He’s forgotten the devotion that once made him afraid to disappoint his master.

And in his silence, the master can tell his servant’s devotion is gone. “I don’t want to reap the rewards of others’ work,” says the master, “but I thought you were my own. If you no longer are, leave the silver and take your freedom. You no longer belong to my house.”

So the servant leaves a free man, released from the ties that once brought him great joy. That very night, he walks out of the master’s house into the darkness, and he never comes back.

*

Martha’s children helped when she borrowed nearly every stone cup in the village for her guests. But Martha trusts the children better with empty cups coming from the neighbors’ than with full cups in a crowded courtyard, and Mary hasn’t noticed her hints to come help, so she’s left carrying the cups on her own. Bringing so many cups alone isn’t easy: she doesn’t want Jesus’ men to grow thirsty waiting, so she carries as many at a time as she can, but even she has to walk carefully, watching her step and her balance, to avoid giving anyone a lapful of water or turning a patch of the floor to mud.

As if passing out so many heavy cups weren’t trouble enough, she starts noticing that many of the plates are empty. She doesn’t want the men to be hungry either, so she gathers plates as she hands out cups, trying to remember which groups to bring full plates back to and which men still need to drink. In the kitchen, she tries to guess how many lentils are left so she can tell the children how much more to serve onto each plate. As they fill the plates, she wonders whether she salted the lentils too heavily or cooked them too dry. Her daughter gives her plates to return and more cups to take out and asks her mother whether they’ll have to wash all the dishes by themselves. Martha searches for words as she struggles for balance, and finds herself wishing she had four hands to hold all these dishes and three hearts to hold all her thoughts. “If we need to, we will,” Martha tells her daughter. And then she goes back out to serve.

As she moves around among the men, one of the plates stacked under her arm starts to slide out. When she shifts to catch it, a cup nearly spills. She notices more empty plates and wonders again if she made enough food. She passes out more cups and wonders whether she borrowed enough. She sees her sister talking with an apostle and again fails to catch her eye, but nearly trips while trying and imagines what a disaster it would be in the crowded, hungry space if she dropped the food and dishes in a heap in the middle of the courtyard. How would she have time to clean up and care for everyone?

And so when Jesus himself stops talking to take a cup from her a moment after her near fall, her whisper to him is a bit fiercer than she’d intended: “Could you please tell Mary to come and help?”

But Jesus looks at her, not her sister. Looks at her hard, in a way that might be disconcerting if it didn’t command her whole attention. “Which Martha should I ask her to help,” he says, his own whisper far gentler than hers, “the one who’s so careful on the outside, or the one who’s so troubled within?”

And the question itself is a strange relief, because it cuts through all the worries she’s juggling. By demanding all her attention, Jesus focuses Martha’s mind and offers it a calm she very seldom feels.

“There are so many things a person can worry about,” he says to her. “But only one thing we all need to. Mary has chosen that, and it won’t be taken away from her.”

Martha nods and mumbles an apology: “Of course. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No,” says Jesus, “to ask was right. Not even an ox is made to work alone: why should a human be? Let me help you.”

“You don’t need to do that,” says Martha, suddenly self-conscious. “No, everyone’s come to hear you teach. I don’t want to interrupt.”

“It’s no interruption,” says Jesus. “My voice needs a rest: it’s better if they watch me teach a while.”

And before Martha can object any further, he’s taken several cups and half the plates from her. Before she can object, he’s following her back to the kitchen and helping the children spoon out the right amount of lentils and fill the rest of each plate with the right amount of bread before he takes them back to the right people. The seventy look on, bemused, to see their Master waiting on them. Mary suddenly remembers she should be helping her sister, but sits spellbound, trying to figure out what sort of story Jesus is acting out instead.

Not until the last cups have been brought out, until all empty plates have been refilled and returned to the groups who needed more, does Jesus speak to the seventy again.

“When I send you out to do my work, I want you to go two by two. If you yoke yourselves together, even hard work can feel easy. And if you find yourself alone someday, take me with you. You’ll know I’m there beside you because the burden will feel too light.”

The seventy nod sagely, but it’s Martha who will remember this for the rest of her life.

*

Mary joins Martha in the kitchen when the meal is over, and they wash the dishes slowly so they can still listen closely through the thin wall as the men ask questions and Jesus answers—or at least responds. It’s not always easy to tell how Jesus’ responses answer the questions.

One man asks how to handle financial disputes between Jesus’ followers, and Jesus responds with a story about a man who’s been mismanaging his master’s wealth for some time. When the master finds out, this corrupt servant panics. He knows he’s about to lose his position, but he’s also been dishonest too long to begin earning an honest living working with his hands, and he’s been proud far too long to start begging. So he puts his guile to work one last time, calling in rich debtors and altering their accounts in his master’s ledgers. If one owes a hundred measures of oil, he reduces it to fifty. If another owes a thousand bushels of wheat, he marks it down as eight hundred. If he can’t keep his job, after all, shouldn’t he make a few good friends to fall back on?

“If even corrupt men know the worth of friendship,” says Jesus, “why do good men let their disagreements over money rob them of their friends? Tell them to learn wisdom from the children of darkness—maybe then they’ll see the light!”

Another one of the seventy points out that significant prejudice against Jesus developed in his village when some of Jesus’ followers acted hypocritically. He asks how to identify and remove those whose actions are bringing Jesus’ name into disrepute, and Jesus answers with a story about weeds.

In the story, a farmer and his servants spend all day planting wheat seeds in a field. The labor exhausts them, so they sleep soundly and don’t hear the footsteps of a jealous rival in the field that night. Even though there are laws against sabotaging another man’s wheat by sneaking in ryegrass seeds, the rival fears neither the laws of men nor of God, so he does just that. At first, no one notices, since young wheat and young ryegrass look so much the same. With time, though, subtle differences begin to appear, and when one of the servants sees them, he bursts into tears. “I thought I checked the seeds carefully,” says the servant, “so how did this happen?”

The farmer takes a close look and nods grimly. “It’s not your fault,” he tells the servant, “I think I know who did this.” And he tells the servants about his enemy, who cares for his own profit more than another man’s hunger.

The servants have worked hard planting and caring for this field, so it’s no surprise they get upset. “We’ll work from the first to the last light,” they say. “We’ll rip out every weed by tomorrow night!”

But the farmer tells them not to, tells them if they rush things now, they’ll tear half the young wheat plants up with the ryegrass.

“What can we do then?” say the servants.

“Wait,” says the farmer. “It will be easy to tell one plant from another when they’re full-grown: do your best now to nourish the wheat and save the final judgments for the time of the harvest.”                      

*

“I have a question,” says one of the seventy a little nervously. “What’s the truth about the resurrection? The last time I traveled to the Temple, a priest there told me it’s just superstition. He says Moses never taught it, and that it’s written nowhere in the sacred books.”

Jesus laughs. “Did he read about the God of Abraham, and of Isaac, and of Jacob? Ours is a God of the living, not of the dead.”

“So if eternal life is real,” says the man, “how do we get it?”

“You already know,” says Jesus. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your strength! and Don’t seek revenge or hold onto a grudge against one of your own people, but love your neighbor as yourself.”

Some of the seventy laugh—even a child should know these two passages. The man who asked, though, presses on. “Who counts in these wicked days as our own people?” he says.

“Yes, tell us!” says another, with a twinkle in his eye. “Is it enough to love our fellow Galileans, or do we have to find room in our hearts for all those people crowded into Judea, too?”

Not all of Judea is crowded, Jesus says. Jerusalem certainly is, but the road from there to Jericho winds down through rock and dust, and sometimes on that road you don’t see another living soul for miles.

Jesus looks right at the man who joked about Galilee and Judea. You don’t want to take that journey, Jesus says to him, unless you absolutely have to: the men who hide in those hills will do anything to stay alive. Then Jesus tells about a man who’s been ambushed on that winding road. The thieves have missed nothing, even ripped the clothes off his back. When he resisted, they beat him and stabbed him and left him face-down in the dust, naked and half-dead.

A chilly wind has picked up by the time a priest from Jerusalem walks by. The priest is frightened, and he doesn’t want to stop for anything, so he tells himself the man is dead, and reminds himself it’s his duty to God not to touch a corpse. He steps to the far side of the road and rushes on, hoping the corpse is cold already and the killers far away.

A Levite from the north happens by next. He slows down as he gets closer to the body, notices there’s fresh red blood alongside the dried black. He wonders if he should do something, but he knows the thieves in these hills are ruthless, and he wonders if it might be a trick. In his mind’s eye, he sees himself walking up to the wounded man: the wounded man turns and grabs him, maybe just to rob him, maybe to slit his throat. The Levite shudders and passes on the far side of the road.

Then comes a Samaritan, a mongrel and a heretic, whose people have sometimes claimed to be heirs of Israel and sometimes persecuted Israel’s sons. The Samaritan sees the body on the side of the road and he stops. The light is already going: surely, the Samaritan thinks, this man will freeze to death in the night—if there’s any blood left in his body by then. It would be terrible, he thinks, to die alone on a roadside like that: does the man have a wife and children somewhere who will wonder for years if he abandoned them by choice or was kept from home by accident? Who will wonder for years whether or not there’s still a chance that he’ll come back?

Though the Samaritan knows that thieves may be watching him, he kneels down beside the man to help. He pours oil and wine on the man’s wounds to clean them, bandages them to stop the slow escape of blood. He puts the man across his donkey’s back and starts forward again, not letting himself think about danger or knives until he’s safely at an inn, until he’s looked to the man’s wounds again and is confident he’ll be all right.

In the morning, the Samaritan has to go, but he leaves two days’ wages with the innkeeper. Take care of him, he says, and makes the innkeeper promise he won’t hesitate to spend more if necessary. Then he promises the innkeeper he’ll come back soon, and that he’ll pay whatever else it costs to make sure the man recovers and gets back the strength to return to his children and wife.

Jesus looks again at the man who joked about Galilee and Judea. “Which of the three, do you think, kept the commandment?”

The man takes a moment to search for words. He can’t bring himself to praise a Samaritan in front of everyone, but he can’t deny the force of this story either. “The one who showed mercy,” he says.

“Then forget what Sira’s son wrote about who to hate,” says Jesus to everyone, “if you want to know who to count as your own people.” 

And then he turns away and starts to pray for them. “Father,” he says, “let your kingdom come. Let your will be done through these men.”

And as Jesus prays, they feel God so close it’s almost as if they can see Him. And when he finishes praying, they open their mouths and begin to prophesy without quite knowing what they’re doing. They prophesy and start to feel the shape of heaven in their mouths.

In the kitchen, Mary and Martha are also prophesying, and no one is telling them not to. 

Mary prophesies about a day when a stone will be rolled aside without the touch of human hands and go on to fill the earth—but Martha prophesies about a bad wind that will have to bring more than anyone’s fill of trouble first.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

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It’s a three days’ walk straight from Magdala to Zarephath: two if you’re in a hurry. Jesus doesn’t go straight or hurry, so it takes him a week and a half.

They spend the first day in Magdala. Jesus has a long talk with Matthew and Thomas, who he’s leaving behind to care for his followers here. Mary and Judas pack provisions while the others prepare the boat.

On the second day, they cross the lake and stop in Capernaum because Jesus wants to eat again with Peter’s mother-in-law. But a single meal’s visit extends to three days when Jesus learns about all the problems for and between his followers in the nearby towns. 

In Capernaum, former disciples of Jesus continue to trouble those who still respect him. They bring cases against them to the court and oppose them in commerce. They debate them in the marketplace and harass them on the long walk up the town’s harbor. Though Jairus and Zebedee have tried time after time to reach out to them, they refuse to be pacified.

Jesus can’t change the opposition in Capernaum, but he visits and comforts those who have suffered because of it, and he counsels with the most influential of his followers over what can be done to protect the vulnerable.

In Bethsaida, there’s not nearly as much trouble with outside critics. But the farmers who listened to Jesus the first time he visited town interpret his story of the unpraised servant one way, while the fisherman, who came to love Jesus on his second visit, interpret it another. They’ve argued over it since he left, and a few men have nearly come to blows over the difference.

Jesus refuses to say which party in the dispute was right and reminds them instead that the wisdom of the wise will perish.  Then he tells them another story: about a vineyard where the workers are hired at different times of day but paid the same in the end. Before he leaves, he asks Philip, who’s related to half of Bethsaida’s fishermen, and Nathanael, whose father is a respected local farmer, to stay for a while as models of harmony and cooperation.

The worst problems are in Chorazin. Two brothers were among Jesus’ first followers here, and it was their extraordinary energy that helped change many from simple spectators into true disciples. But the brothers’ wealthy father has since died, and there’s a bitter dispute between them over the inheritance. For a month, the brothers’ boundless energy has been poured into winning the townspeople over to one side or the other of their dispute, and now the city is bathed in the bad blood between them.  

The younger brother finds Jesus and explains that he’s been wronged. “My brother has a stiff neck and a stubborn heart,” he says. “But you can persuade him to give me my full share of the inheritance.”

“Who made me a judge to divide it for you?” says Jesus. “But I’ll tell you this: if all of your father’s wealth is left to him, and only our Father’s wealth is left for you, then you will be the richer of the brothers.”

Once he’s comforted people in Capernaum, reconciled them in Bethsaida, and instructed them in Chorazin, Jesus and his companions leave the three towns. They almost make it to the border between Galilee and Phoenicia in a single day, and then are delayed another four days in a storm.

*

It’s cold and it’s wet and the rain is quickly turning the steep hillside roads into rivers of mud when Jesus and his remaining companions find a sparsely-furnished cave that calls itself an inn. The place is already crowded with several merchants from Sidon and Tyre and their servants, but the innkeeper is more than willing to overcrowd his establishment if that means he can profit from the storm.

The only foreigners in Capernaum are the captain and his soldiers, who keep to themselves, so Andrew is both frightened and fascinated seeing so many strange customs at once. He wishes Matthew were here because Matthew knows how to talk to men from other nations. But even Matthew wouldn’t know how to share dishes and sleeping space with them. After all, even in the big cities like Antioch where the taxman has been, the rulers know enough to build strong walls between the quarters for the Greeks, the Syrians, and the Jews.

And what would happen if they didn’t? In the south, Jews have to fight from time to time against Greek settlers who openly desecrate the sacred. And in the ten cities, didn’t the Greeks blame all Jews when one child grew sick?

When one of the Phoenician merchants keeps watching Mary, it makes Andrew nervous. He doesn’t know what the Phoenician is thinking. Judas must be nervous, too, because he tells the merchant to stop staring at his sister. The merchant stops, and Andrew is relieved—until Judas gets sick that night and Andrew has to wonder whether it’s just the food or if the Phoenician is trying to poison him. All through the night, Andrew cares for Judas, who keeps waking up sick from his sleep. And as he tends his friend in the darkness, so close to these strangers, Andrew wishes for a wall.

But in spite of Andrew’s misgivings, Jesus and the merchants quickly grow comfortable with each other. And because Jesus is comfortable, Andrew decides to be comfortable, too. Though he never grows accustomed to the way the Phoenicians eat, and he never learns to follow discussions about their trade routes, he begins to enjoy sharing space and swapping stories. He and the others don’t mind when the merchants mumble calculations at odd hours, and the merchants aren’t bothered by how often these Jewish travelers pray.

One merchant, in particular, grows fascinated with Jesus. They all know Jesus is a preacher, but only this one wants to understand what exactly Jesus has to preach. And since the rain goes on and on, Jesus has time to explain in great detail, even has time to tell the merchant about old Hebrew prophets he’s never heard of. 

On their third day in the inn, Jesus tells the merchant a story about a beggar who lies in anguish at a rich man’s door. The beggar only wants the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table, but out of spite the rich man throws the crumbs to the wild street dogs, who come and lick the beggar’s open sores when they’re done. As God is good, the beggar is lifted in the next life from suffering to peace. And as God is just, the rich man is cast down after his death from comfort into torment.

In his anguish, the rich man calls out to Abraham, begging permission to go back to the land of the living to warn his self-satisfied brothers of the sorrow to come. But Abraham says they have the prophets to warn them.

“But my brothers would listen to me,” says the rich man.

“No,” says the patriarch Abraham. “If they won’t listen to the prophets, they won’t listen even to a messenger who rises from the dead.”

The merchant takes a long look at Jesus when the story is done. “There are beggars all over Tyre,” he says. “But no prophets to warn us when we step over them on our way to the docks, or have our servants shove them aside when we unload our cargo.” He grows quiet for a moment, then speaks again. “You should come to us,” he says. “I think my people would listen if they heard you teach.”

“I can’t go where I’m invited,” says Jesus. “Only where I’m sent.”

But the merchant still offers to send a servant back with them, offers to let them stay in his house. And Jesus still declines the offer, asks what interest an island city of traders who spend half their lives in boats, sailing to the ends of the earth, would have in an Israelite preacher who’s never been farther than you could walk in a week. So the merchant lets the matter rest.

That night, Mary wakes with a serious fever. The merchant is lying awake and sees how sick she looks, then sees Jesus cast the illness out. He asks how she recovered so quickly and Jesus speaks of faith. He asks if this has happened before and Peter tells about his mother-in-law. The merchant grows excited. “If you go to my city,” he says, “just heal the sick like that and soon everyone will believe.”

But Jesus quotes him a proverb from the prophet Amos: Can an ox plough the sea? So much separates our people, he says: if I was made for Israel, how can I work anywhere else?

“Then why are you on this road?” says the merchant, but Jesus just smiles and shrugs.

That evening, the merchant starts to fear that the rain will let up and their time together will end too soon, so he asks Jesus questions with an intensity that startles the other merchants. He wants to know what Jesus believes about the future, wants to know whether there’s a time when Jesus will be able to send men to his house. That’s when Jesus begins to tell him especially strange old Jewish stories, about walls that collapse without a weapon being lifted, about lambs who lie down beside wolves and a lion who eats straw like an ox while men beat swords into ploughs.

The merchant asks if in those days, the lion will plough the same sea the ox couldn’t.

Jesus embraces him. All at once, the rain stops.

*

On the fourth day, everyone sits outside the cave and waits for the sun to dry the mud enough to make travel safe. The merchants repeat invitations to each other’s homes, promise to meet again, then wish Jesus and his companions warm goodbyes. They go their separate ways: some back toward their homes on the coast, others farther into Herod’s Galilee, or northeast toward his brother Philip’s capitol.

The curious merchant from Tyre lingers when the others have gone. He thanks Jesus again and again for the time together and the things he’s learned. Then he turns to Mary and the eight apostles and gives them careful directions to his home. He’s confident, he says, that someday one of them will visit him.

He walks off to the southeast. Jesus watches him go. “That man is not far from the kingdom of God,” he says.

*

From the last hills before the coast, the ocean seems to go on forever. From the last hills before the coast, the white tongues of the breaking waves strike Mary as looking thirsty, and she thinks: this is why they say that no matter how many rivers flow into it, the sea is never full.

Maybe, Mary thinks, it’s not the wave-tips that are thirsty, but the salty air itself. No one ever told her the world could look or feel so different on the coast of the sea, and Mary sometimes finds herself getting lost in the sensation and falling behind, then having to run a little to keep up.

And while the people here look almost as unfamiliar as the land does, they’re neither distant nor unkind. Day laborers are quick to offer travelers a little of their water; passing shepherds are quick to offer advice in their thick, lilting accents on where to stop for a rest to get the best shade.

A few of them have even heard of Jesus through the servants of a merchant who came back this way. But most haven’t, and Jesus seems to appreciate the chance to be anonymous. He has time to ask the apostles about their preaching tours, time to ask Mary for details about the kinds of people who gathered around him in her hometown. Who are they reaching, he asks them all, and who else can they reach?

Their conversations slow when the hill path out of Galilee merges into a busy coastal road. Mary is torn between watching the sea and watching the people and animals they pass. At first, it’s nice to have so many sights to choose from. When the road turns into narrow steps up a chalky cliff, though, everything begins to seem too close: a passing donkey forces Mary to the edge of the road and she doesn’t like looking down the long, sheer drop to the surface of the sea. She can’t seem to help imagining her body falling and floating out, out farther than the eye can see—to Rome, maybe, or to Spain, or else past the pillars they say stand at the end of the world. Yes, Mary imagines her body floating out to a place where there’s only endless sea and she shivers as she thinks about how the prospect of violent death can drain all the beauty out of anything.

So although the sight of the ships coming and going from Tyre is still striking, it doesn’t fill her with wonder quite the way her first sight of the sea did. And although the sunset over the waters as they approach Zarephath is breathtaking, Mary finds her chest tightening with the fear that they might stumble to their deaths in the dark.

There is very little light left when they reach town, but Mary strains her eyes against the grey to keep a close eye on the path and they all survive. The local people give them directions to a handful of Jewish houses at the edge of town, and there’s a family who think they’ve heard of Jesus and is more than happy to host them for a few nights. Jesus thanks them and asks them not to mention their guests to anybody. He seems to be getting fond of being able to treat his time as his own.

*

That luxury doesn’t last long. Jesus and his apostles are sitting outside the house eating breakfast with their hosts when an emaciated Phoenician woman comes up and throws herself on the ground in front of them. “Son of David!” she shouts. “Son of David, remember your father’s friendship with our King Hiram!”

“Do you know her?” whispers James to the father of the family they’re staying with.

The man shakes his head. “No, but she’s dressed the way their custom requires for widows. No doubt she’ll tell her sad story—and then she’ll ask for money.”

Judas cringes. Even the poor have ears to hear: if their host can’t be more kind, Judas wishes he’d at least be more quiet.   

But the woman doesn’t even glance at him: she stays focused on Jesus and presses on. “It’s my daughter,” she says. “An evil spirit has been troubling her. For almost a year, she doesn’t get worse but she never gets better. Almost a year, I’ve tended to her, done everything I can and she still can’t do more than groan. I miss my girl,” she says. “I miss her.”

Jesus looks at her, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I heard you’re a healer,” she says. “When I saw you, I knew it was true. Lord,” she says, and she weeps. “Give me my daughter back.”

“I was sent to Israel,” Jesus says, and he looks at his hosts. “There are so many of my own people suffering, am I supposed to be responsible for the rest of the world, too?”

But “Please, Lord” is all the woman says. “Please please please please,” and she kneels as if to pray, or maybe just to beg. 

“Your people call mine donkeys,” says Jesus. He glances at Andrew. “And my people call yours dogs.” He looks back at the widow kneeling before him. “Tell me: how can we ever help each other when our nations share so little trust?”

The woman looks up at him. “I don’t know why men speak badly of donkeys,” she says, “when they bear the burdens which are too heavy for us. And not all dogs run wild in the streets: people take some into their homes; they love and take care of them.”              

“Well spoken,” says Jesus, and the hint of a smile passes across his face as quickly as a flying bird’s shadow. Then he looks hard at the woman again: “But tell me what you think of this proverb from my country: ‘when the children are hungry, you don’t give their bread even to the pet dog.’”

“That’s a wise saying,” she says. “The children should have what they are able to eat. But when the dog comes to lie under the table, doesn’t it have a right to the children’s crumbs?”

Then Jesus laughs and claps his hands. “This proverb is even better than the first! Take my thanks with you and go home now: your daughter is well.”

It’s a sign of the woman’s faith that her eyes already dance with delight. She doesn’t need to see the girl to feel deep relief.

As he watches her go, Jesus turns again to Andrew. “Be sure to tie knots strong enough you don’t forget what she said.” While Andrew ties the knots, Jesus chants some lines from the Psalms: How can I leave the way of the judgments you have taught me? How sweet are your words to my taste! Yes, sweeter to my mouth than honey.   

Jesus finishes his breakfast and rises. He thanks their hosts and tells them he’ll be heading back to Galilee now.

“Won’t you stay longer?” they say.

“No, thank you,” says Jesus. “To tell the truth, we came all this way looking for a meal, and I feel that now we’ve been well fed.”

It doesn’t make a lot of sense to travel more than a week for a single breakfast, but what else do you expect from a man like Jesus?

*

When they get back to Philip and Nathanael in Bethsaida, the news is not good. The farmers and the fishermen are fighting again. After a few days of trying to reconcile, the brothers in Chorazin went back to their feud and pulled the people with them, so that no one seems to remember Jesus’ promise that the meek will inherit the earth. And in Capernaum, they find the persecution has only gotten worse. Jesus’ former disciples have worked hard to trouble all the people their former Master comforted on his last visit.

So Jesus goes out near the lakeside and broods. As he stares out across the water, he seem to fall into a prophetic trance. Woe to Chorazin, Woe to Bethsaida, he says. He looks around at the apostles. “If I’d done the same things in Tyre and Sidon I’ve done here, they’d have repented like Nineveh did at the words of Jonah long ago: the whole city would have fasted, they’d have covered even their animals in sackcloth and ashes. What will those people say to the people here when the Day of Judgment comes?”

 No one has an easy answer.

“I wanted to lift Capernaum up to heaven,” says Jesus, “but it doesn’t want to come. I offered them the kingdom of God, but they’d rather gnash their teeth at us as if they were already in the underworld.”

The apostles think of men they used to walk with, men who sat beside them to hear Jesus’ words. Men whose hearts seem to have room only for anger now.

“The wind is blowing,” says Jesus.

And so they climb into a boat and get it ready to sail, though they feel heavier with disappointment than all the anchors on all the ships in this long harbor.

Of all the nations on earth into which Jesus could have been born, maybe it’s true that no other would have given him so much resistance. But if that’s the case, it’s probably also true that though other peoples would have repented in sackcloth and ashes while he was alive, this is the only nation on earth stubborn enough to remember Jesus after he’s dead.

By the time they push off, a little crowd has gathered on the wharf to wish them well. There’s practical old Zebedee and his fiery wife Salome; there’s Jairus and his healthy-looking daughter, waving goodbye with all the energy of her youth. There’s Peter’s mother-in-law, folding the same hands that kneaded the dough for their bread in a half-conscious attitude of prayer; beside her is Peter’s wife, whose lantern they know is always full and ready for their next return.

As Judas watches them disappear in the growing distance, he finds himself growing angry. If it weren’t for the efforts of a few men who betrayed Jesus, he thinks, Capernaum would be close to heaven now. Surely, people like those on the dock could have walked with God like Enoch did. Surely such people could have ridden a flaming chariot straight to heaven like Elijah.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

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Evening winds stir the lake’s waters, so it’s a rough ride back to Magdala for the apostles who grew up inland. Thomas has the worst time. While the others take turns helping row, he hangs on to the side of the boat against the swaying feeling inside him and breathes through his mouth to keep his stomach from turning at the accumulated smell of old fish.

By the time they reach the city again, well after dark, Thomas wonders if he has enough sense of balance left to walk with Jesus. After stumbling up the streets to Susannah’s house, he feels a little more stable, but still drained of strength and will by the trip.

Mary and one of Susannah’s servants are rolling out mats for them when they return. “I didn’t know if you’d come back tonight,” says Mary. “But I’m glad we prepared; you look exhausted.”

“Thank you,” says Thomas, though he isn’t sure whether he feels blessed or threatened by her competence tonight.

“If you need more time to rest, you can sleep late tomorrow,” says Mary. “No one will crowd you here—our city’s priests and Levites are leaving in the evening for their month of service at the Temple, and everyone gathers in the morning to be taught by them first. If you’d like, you can come. But no one will miss a stranger if you stay.”

“I’ll come,” says Jesus, “to honor the Temple and those who serve there. But if any of you need to sleep, rest while you can.”

Thomas smiles. Whether he stays or goes, it’ll be nice to have a quiet day when the attention is on someone other than his Master. And on a day when the people crowd around the priests, what could go wrong for the twelve?

*

The trouble starts with Judas’s nightmare. It’s the same nightmare he used to have all the time, though it hasn’t come since the day John washed him clean in the Jordan’s muddy waters. Until tonight. Maybe it’s the guilt he felt yesterday over ruining their quiet meeting place that brings it back. Maybe it’s all the talk in the evening about the Temple that stirs up bitter memories of Jerusalem. Or maybe the memories are always somewhere in the back of his mind, and it’s because he’s at once so tired and so determined to rise early that those dormant memories become nightmares.

In the dream, he’s waiting for his sister to get back with water. She’s been gone a long time, far longer than fetching a jarful of water should take. Judas can feel his chest tighten with anxiety, can feel it pressing on his bones. This part of the dream is nightmare enough on its own; a sudden panic used to wake Judas some nights before the dream could go on, his body tense and drenched in sweat.

But tonight, the dream doesn’t stop. His sister comes in, looking exactly the way she does in his memory. There’s a scrape across the left side of her face and a cut on her lip, some tearing at the neck of her tunic. She walks slowly, her shoulders turned in slightly as if she’d like to fold in her arms and draw in her chest, her gait awkward under hidden pain, a kind of pain no one should suffer.

Her eyes are blank; the jar she’s carrying is broken.

Judas wants to scream, but the air is trapped in his chest. He shouldn’t have sent her out. He should have gone with her. He should have gone with her and taken his knife. He should go out with his knife right now and find the one who did this. Was it a soldier? Some robber? Or else a neighbor—maybe a boy he knows, someone he trusts?  Whoever it is, Judas wants to kill him. Judas wants to scream, but the air is trapped in his chest. He’s going to drown; he can feel it. He’s going to drown in the scream that won’t come out.

His sister puts down the broken jar gently by the door. Then she walks to her mat and she lies down and she doesn’t say anything. If Judas doesn’t drown in his own trapped scream, he’ll suffocate in her silence. He walks over toward her, but in the nightmare he already knows. She’ll never tell him what happened. Never give him the chance to get the guilt out from under his own skin by plunging his knife under someone else’s.

He wakes up shaking. Then he goes to sleep and has the same nightmare again. And again. And a fourth time before morning.

*          

By the time Judas drags himself out of bed, the priests and the Levites are already doing the recitation of their genealogies. Judas is tired, and he’s starving, but he wants to get out, wants to focus on the day and drive the past from his mind. When Judas gets close to the square and realizes the old priest is reading off the names of each family’s ancestors at the time they returned from captivity in Babylon, though, Judas decides he can sprint down to the market and buy some breakfast before joining the crowd.

The run is good. Running forces air in and out of his lungs, proves to him that they’re still working. Judas sprints straight back from the market and finds a spot next to Andrew on the side of the road just as the long recitation is ending. When it’s finished, the Levites and Magdalenes mill around and talk to give the old priest time to recover before he teaches. Judas offers Andrew half the bread he’s bought with money Susannah left for them, and they lean against a wall and start to eat.

“Did you wash your hands first?” says a nearby Levite who’s apparently been watching them.

“Sorry,” says Judas. “We forgot.”

The Levite wrinkles his nose as he hears Judas’s accent. “Where are you from?” he asks.

“Jerusalem,” says Judas. “City of our kings.” 

“Is that so?” says the Levite, “I know people up here sometimes forget what’s appropriate and what isn’t, but I thought men from Jerusalem knew better. Where exactly in the city is home for you?”

Judas takes a deep breath. He has a feeling it will be better to avoid this question than to have his neighborhood mocked today. “My father’s family is originally from Kerioth, just south of Hebron.”

“Do they have water there?” asks the Levite, and he laughs loudly. Then he calls several other Levites over: “I just saw these two men eating with unwashed hands.” He turns to the nearby onlookers. “If you go down to the Temple, try to remember that you’re descendants of Israel, not mannerless foreigners. We see too many of those already—there’s no need for our own people to play the part.”

Judas tries to slip away quietly, but he doesn’t want to leave Andrew alone: Andrew doesn’t seem to understand when to slip away quietly and just stands there, as if waiting to be scolded more.

Then a woman says, “Aren’t those two close disciples of Jesus? You shouldn’t treat them like that.”

Judas wonders if it can get any worse. He’s brought embarrassment not only on himself now, but also on his Master. He should never have come here. He should never have been born. 

“These two are with Jesus?” says the Levite. “Does Jesus know what kind of men are following him?”

“Yes,” says Jesus, stepping out of the crowd. He looks at Andrew and Judas. “Yes, and I admire them.”

“I admire them, too,” says the Levite, “I admire this one’s fishy smell and that one’s Jerusalem-slum accent.” Scattered laughter passes through the crowd. “But if you’ve been teaching these men so long, why don’t they know yet how to keep themselves clean?”

“Better unclean hands than unclean lips,” says Jesus. The crowd gets quiet.

“I’m sorry if you think I’m being rude,” says the Levite, “but I’m trying to teach the people here how to honor our God. At the Temple we watch the gates to make sure no one who behaves like your men is allowed in.”

Jesus nods. “Then Isaiah told the truth about you.”

“You mean the prophet?” says the Levite. “When?”

“These people come close to me with their mouths, and honor me with their lips, but keep their hearts far from me,” says Jesus. “Their worship is not for me, but for the proscriptions of men.”

The Levite takes a step toward Jesus. “Is that supposed to excuse them?” he says. “Or condemn me as a hypocrite for washing my hands before I eat?”

Jesus sighs. “What goes into a man matters less than what comes out of him. Your hands can’t pollute you like your thoughts do.”

“All I’m asking you to do,” says the Levite, “is to teach your men to stop eating like dogs.”

But Jesus turns to the crowd. “Whoever has ears to hear, listen to this. He asks you to drink, but only purifies the outside of the cup. He cleans his body but sets an ambush in his heart.”

Everyone waits to see how the Levite will react, but an old priest steps in before he can respond. “Forgive me,” the priest says to Jesus. “My nephew shouldn’t be treating Magdala’s guests this way. But as this is an important day for us, I hope you’ll withdraw from our city to prevent any further conflicts.” Jesus meets the old priest’s steady gaze and nods. He motions to Andrew and Judas to follow him, and they walk back toward Susannah’s house without exchanging a word.

For the second day in a row, Judas feels responsible for spoiling good plans.

*

“What happened?” says Mary.

“It’s my fault,” says Judas. “I forgot to wash my hands.”

“That’s not why we’re leaving,” Jesus says.

Mary looks to Andrew. “I’m just trying to understand why the priest was upset.”

“We got into an argument with his nephew,” says Andrew.

“And everyone was watching,” Judas says.

“He just wants his life to go on as usual,” says Jesus. “But I always seem to upset people who don’t want their lives to change.”

Andrew looks down at his shirt and Judas tugs absently at his beard. No one can argue the truth of this, so it’s quiet for a moment.

“Why delay?” says Jesus. “Let’s leave now.”

“Are you sure?” says Andrew.

“I’m going with you,” says Mary.

Judas rises. “Where to?” he says.      

“Zarephath,” says Jesus. “If we’ve worn out our welcome among our own people, maybe we can find a widow to feed us there.”   

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

Subscribe now

Matthew and Thomas are the last of the twelve to get word that Jesus is now in Magdala and wants to meet them there. In the evening, they say their goodbyes to the people of the town where they’ve been preaching. As soon as the sun sets, the air cools off, and the villagers go to sleep, Matthew and Thomas plan to go.

Only not everyone does go to sleep. When night falls, a few townspeople linger near the apostles. There’s a young man who could barely walk before they blessed him—he’s been following them around town for a week and now seems ready to follow them straight out of it. There’s an older man whose family died in a plague that left him half-blind: since they blessed him, they haven’t been able to get out of his sight, either. There are several students still asking questions. There’s a beggar who likes to bask in the generosity that follows Jesus’ messengers.

More alarming is the presence of two women. There’s the girl who had trouble with an evil spirit and still worries no one will accept her in town. There’s the sharp-minded woman who’s been widowed twice, both times without children, who always seems to anticipate the next thing Matthew and Thomas are going to say, who sometimes even finishes their sentences if they take too long searching for words. If the others won’t let Matthew and Thomas go alone, if they insist on following them all the way to Jesus in Magdala, it’s no problem. But for two unescorted women to travel through the night with them is against both propriety and tradition. So, Matthew and Thomas stay, and talk, and wait until almost midnight, and then simply get up to go.

Most of the men follow them. And the women follow them, too. Down the lane, along the main street, and finally out past the village boundary stones. Thomas tries to walk too fast for their female followers to keep pace, but the girl’s feet are light, and the widow’s legs are long. Matthew stops to ask them to turn back, but the widow speaks up first. “I’ll take care of the girl. And we don’t have any relatives left to be angry with you. No one is worried about our honor.”

Matthew turns to Thomas. “Didn’t Jesus say we’re all brothers and sisters?” he says. “Since we’re their nearest relatives, why shouldn’t they travel with us?”

And so it is that seven men and two women arrive, just before dawn, at the crowded town on the seaside.

*

“You must be the last two,” says a woman Matthew and Thomas don’t recognize. She tells them her name is Mary, and that she’ll lead the two apostles to Jesus and help the others find a place to stay. Though he won’t admit it, Thomas is a little bothered by this: has she taken over his old responsibility? As they make their way across the city, pausing from time to time for Mary to check on visitors and their local hosts, Thomas realizes she’s fulfilling his role quite well: there seem to be hundreds of people here to see Jesus, maybe over a thousand, but there’s nothing to suggest they’ve been sleeping on the streets. She does have the advantage of being local. But still, is it possible she’s found a place for everyone? 

Mary-from-Magdala brings them at last to one of the town’s largest houses, explaining that a well-to-do local woman named Susannah—whose cousin’s husband, by the way, is a top official under the king—has opened her home for Jesus’ healing and teaching. Though it’s clear even from a distance the house’s courtyard must be quite large, the street in front is still crowded with people waiting to get in. Many of them seem to recognize Mary, though, and help make way for her to bring in Matthew and Thomas.

Jesus’ face lights up when he sees them at the courtyard entrance, but the courtyard is packed with the sick, and Matthew and Thomas aren’t eager to push their way through so many fragile people to reach him. So Jesus nods at them and continues healing while they look for the others. They see Judas and Simon, helping keep people from tripping on a paralyzed woman’s cot. On the other side of the courtyard, Philip and Nathanael gently guide out a man who’s just had his eyesight restored to make more room around Jesus. Closest to Jesus are the big Judas, who keeps people from pushing their way to the healer out of turn, and the little James, who helps them one by one to Jesus when it’s time. But where are Peter and Andrew, James and John?

Matthew and Thomas carefully step over and around waiting people to reach Judas and Simon.

“Where are the fishermen?” asks Matthew.

Judas leans over and tries to answer so quietly that in the noise of the courtyard, no one but Matthew will hear. “They’re getting a boat. You’re to sleep as well as you can tonight: first thing in the morning, he wants us to go with him to a desert place north of here where we can talk in peace.”

It will be almost a full day before Judas realizes he was overheard and feels his stomach sink to the bottom of the Sea of Galilee.

*

 This is what Judas sees the next day: in the back of the boat, Jesus is laughing as Andrew finishes a story about how asking locals “who was worthy” in their town to be two preachers’ host once got them directions to a brothel. Peter and James are fidgeting with the sail while John leans over the edge of the boat and grabs a fish straight out of the water. Judas stares in unmasked awe at the young man’s dexterity, watches the fish try to wrestle its way out of John’s hand, splashing droplets of water in every direction. When the fish stops struggling, Judas catches sight of the coast. Something is wrong. He can see the distant, tiny figures of people—a lot of people—making their way like a procession of ants along the beach. His eyes follow the line forward until—right where Jesus had planned to come ashore—he sees them in an absolute swarm.

That’s when he remembers. He told Matthew the plan right in the middle of yesterday’s crowd. And though no one was there when the apostles set sail before dawn, it seems as though everyone has made it up the shore in the time they’ve spent out on the lake.

“I’m sorry,” says Judas, and he points to the coast.

Eleven men groan and begin to suggest other places to go. But Jesus tells Peter and James to bring them in closer.  Judas watches the people on shore catch sight of the boat and sees the ripple of excitement it sends through the crowd.

“Sheep without a shepherd,” says Jesus. “We’ll land.”

*

Jesus steps out of the boat, picks up some sand and lets it run between his fingers back to the ground. Then he tells a story about two men who built houses: one on sand like this, the other on a rock. Which one, he asks, do you think fared better when they were hit by a great and terrible storm?

And he doesn’t stop teaching for the next eight hours, barely even pauses as he tells story after story after story. Every story is like a pearl or a beautiful bead, thinks James: so what is the hidden thread that strings them all into one necklace?

When his listeners seem to be getting tired, Jesus tells funny stories: everybody laughs at the way he staggers around as if he had a giant plank sticking out of his eye while he pretends to try to pluck out a grain of sand that’s gotten in Nathanael’s. When the audience seems to be getting too boisterous, Jesus tells unsettling stories: about men who stumble on their way to heaven and then cut off their feet so they can learn to walk.

An hour or so before sunset, Jesus’ voice is giving out and he has to take a short rest.

“Should we get back into the boat?” Judas asks. “There’s nothing to eat here, and these people need time to get into town before the markets close.”

Jesus looks out at the crowd and shakes his head no. “They need to eat together.”

Nathanael laughs. “There must be three thousand people here,” he says.

“Three thousand strangers now,” says Jesus. “But if they break bread together, they can be a family.”

“Is this a place where we can do that?” says Philip.

“If we send them out of the desert as strangers,” says Jesus, “this whole day will have been wasted. Give them something to eat.”

“But where could we buy a year’s wages in bread?” says Matthew.

“And what net could we use to bring in a season’s worth of fish?” says Andrew.

“Can we at least send some of them home first?” says James. “There’s no way we can feed them all.”

“How much do you have?” says Jesus.

Judas checks the boat. Five loaves of bread and a fish. Wait—no, it’s two fish if he can find the one John miraculously caught.

“It’s enough,” says Jesus.

“Then we’ll do it,” says Peter. “How?”

*

Jesus’ first instruction is to organize the people. Get them sitting down in groups of fifty to a hundred. Have a few boys in each group volunteer to help pass the food around.

Jesus’ second direction is that each of them should find someone to lend them a basket. It will be easier to feed everyone if they can hold the food in something before they pass it around.

After that, says Jesus, they’ll just have to pray. He’ll begin with the blessing on the bread, and then they’re to keep praying silently as they work until everyone is fed.

After they’ve divided the crowd, each of the twelve has six groups, meaning there must be four or five thousand people overall. Which makes it easy to find twelve baskets. Jesus says the blessing and gives half a loaf and a quarter of a fish to each of them. They pass the baskets to the young men. And then all twelve apostles silently pray as they watch the young men pass through the crowd.

The twelve keep prayers in the hearts and their eyes on the people getting food from the baskets. The twelve don’t look into the baskets to worry about how much is left: they stay focused on making sure no one is passed by and left unfed. And soon they can hear people talking and laughing, can listen to a few singing joyful psalms. If the young men lose track of where they’ve carried the baskets, the twelve show them where to go until it becomes more and more difficult to find hungry faces.

“You need to try this,” says an old man in the crowd to Andrew, and then puts a piece of the bread straight into the apostle’s mouth. It’s more moist than a baker’s, as rich as the bread at any wedding. As he savors it, Andrew wants to cry.

“It’s fit for a king!” shouts the old man, and everyone in the group looks toward Jesus and cheers. Soon the cheer spreads through the whole assembly, and the twelve make their way back out of the crowd and fall down at Jesus’ knees—but he tells them to get up at once.

“Go gather the baskets,” he says. “No sense wasting what’s left.”

So they go back, and they wander through their groups, listening to happy people share stories, until they find their baskets. Which are fuller with pieces of bread and fish than when they started.

“You still think we’ve reached too many people?” says Jesus when they come back. “Still think we need to send some away?”

None of the twelve can find words to answer him, but their awed silence says enough.

“Looks like you each have enough left to feed a whole tribe of Israel,” Jesus says, and they smile sheepishly. But Jesus’ face seems to turn a little sad when he adds, “You promise me that someday you’ll go find enough people to eat the rest?”

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

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Jesus gets up early in the morning and leads the twelve to a quiet spot on the stream next to Bethsaida. On the west side of the stream is Galilee proper, ruled by the Herod who killed John, but here on the east side they’re safely in his brother Philip’s land.

So when Jesus looks west, Andrew has a feeling they’re about to head back in the direction of trouble.

“It’s time,” Jesus says. He takes the twelve and divides them into pairs, as if he had a heavy weight for them to carry and wanted to balance the hands on the right with the hands on the left. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. For what?” says James.

“It’s time for you to go on without me,” says Jesus. “Then we’ll gather again, and you can tell me what you’ve done.”

Now it’s not just Andrew who’s nervous. Jesus has told them about this before, about how one day he’d send them out to search through Galilee for people who listen, the way children are sent to gather berries as soon as they can distinguish the edible from the poisonous and the ripe from the unripe. But knowing something is going to happen is not the same as being ready for it, and so the twelve find themselves suddenly full of questions.

“How do we know for certain who we’re looking for?” asks Thomas.

“How does a fisherman know which fish to let into his net?” says Jesus, and the brothers from Capernaum laugh: you don’t pick what goes into your net, you sort it out afterward. “Just look for the people who are already looking for you,” Jesus says. “Remember the lost sheep? It knew the voice of its shepherd.”

“What do we say when we preach? What if we open our mouths and nothing comes out?” asks Philip.

“Don’t worry about what to keep in your mouth,” says Jesus. “Keep a treasure in your heart, and the Spirit of the Lord will bring out jewels when you speak.”

“But what if people ask questions we can’t answer? We’re not scholars—what if people who study the law challenge us and make us look like fools?”

“They’ll try to draw you into arguments that last longer than it takes bread to rise—but tell them you don’t have time,” says Jesus. “Remember the flatbread our ancestors made on their last night in Egypt. Ask the people: when God’s Day of Judgment is at hand, where’s the need for earthly lawyers?”

“What if soldiers give us trouble?” says the southern Simon.

“The laws of their kingdom say an armed soldier can make an unarmed man carry his pack for a mile,” says Jesus, “But if one does, go two miles to show him that in God’s kingdom, it’s the strong who will help carry the burdens of the weak.

“The laws of their kingdom say a soldier can slap us with the back of his hand, like he would strike a slave,” says Jesus. “But if one does, turn your face so he has to slap you with an open hand, the way he would challenge an equal!”

“How do you know it’s time?” asks Judas.

Jesus pauses, takes a close look at him. “When you see a cloud in the west, you know it’s going to rain. When you feel a wind from the south, you know it’s about to get hot. You know how to read the face of the sky: learn also to see the signs of the times. When you start to see old prophecies write themselves on the pages of life, the Day can’t be far.”

“So hurry!” Jesus says to them all. “Put your sickle to the grain before the storms come. Cast out the evil spirits, shout hope to the poor. When you find the sick, anoint them with oil like a prophet or a king—because the sick are sacred to God!

“And keep count of who is ready to leave everything to follow us, and where they are,” says Jesus, “because one king won’t move against another without first counting the strength of his troops.”

A thrill passes through the southern Simon’s body at this, and he looks around at the others: companions, friends, and fellow-laborers already, he imagines the day when they’ll also be military comrades. As he looks, though, he’s a little disappointed: no one else seems as stirred by these words as he feels. Matthew, who’s probably terrified at the prospect of fighting, just looks anxious. Philip and Nathanael don’t seem to have noticed. Even Peter’s looking at Jesus a little self-consciously, and the question that seems to be forming in his mouth doesn’t give any evidence of excitement.

“Will you pray for us before we go?” asks Peter.

And Jesus does. He starts the same way as always, the way Peter loves, calling God “my Father” instead of “Master of the Universe” or “Our King.” And he speaks like a son who’s close to his father, asking humbly that he and his companions will do the Father’s will, that when they don’t they’ll be forgiven and learn to forgive. He begs his Father that their faith won’t fail, and when he says “Amen,” it’s both affirmation and surrender: a witness that he believes the will of his Father will be done, and a promise that he’ll accept it.

When he’s done praying, Jesus leads the twelve up to the water. And then—believe it or don’t believe it, as you will—but I tell you the river parted for him that day the way it parted for his namesake all those years ago.

*

Only two pairs of apostles go straight to new towns: at Thomas’s suggestion, the other four pairs start in towns where Jesus has already been. Their plan is this: go find people who embraced Jesus’ teachings, ask them if they have relatives in other towns, and preach over kinship lines so they can spend more time teaching and less time looking for people to teach.

But things don’t always go according to plan.

Matthew and Thomas make a stop at a roadside village not far from Capernaum, where Jesus was received well on his last visit, but they find themselves greeted with suspicion.  Old friends of Thomas’s have been here in the meantime: friends who followed Jesus, then left him. Memory is a strange thing, thinks Thomas: the people in this village have talked with Jesus, but the words they claim to have heard from his mouth sound more like the words his detractors would have left. How could they have forgotten the teachings that so recently moved them? Though their eyes remember, it’s as if their ears never really heard Jesus at all.

Judas and Simon travel farther before the rocky hillsides cut at their feet through sandals that have worn thin as they’ve walked with their Master. Luckily, they too are near a village that had gladly listened to Jesus just a few months ago. They can still remember the dance the villagers held the night before they left, still remember the toasts to new teachings, the promises people made to change.

But no one is celebrating in the village on the day Judas and Simon return. The mood is somber, and the people walk around half-slumped down as they labor in the heat. Judas and Simon try to start conversations, but no one seems interested. Finally, a tired-looking woman asks them, “What use are your teachings? John is dead, and your Master has abandoned us.” And that’s when Judas and Simon begin to understand what happened, begin to see how hopelessness has hardened into resentment here. They try to plead with people, try to revive their crushed young faith again—but it’s hard, thankless work, and they decide before long to move on.

Peter and Andrew come to the village Jesus’ brothers tried to take him home from, and everyone’s happy to see them again. They’re immediately invited back to the wine house, but there’s space today to serve real wine and they’re offered cup after cup after cup as aging men tell them how their farms are doing, and young men tell them about the thorny paths they’re taking in love. Peter and Andrew listen politely, then try to teach—but whenever they stop talking, the village men bring up the same things: farms and girls, girls and farms. And it’s clear that though they’ve nodded and made polite sounds, they haven’t been listening to the brothers at all. And though it seems each of the men invites Peter and Andrew to stay in his home that night, the brothers announce they have to move on. So late? say the men. “You remember how our Master worked,” says Peter. And then they leave and Andrew shudders at the way men can fail to realize what they have forgotten. 

Thomas and Matthew, Judas and Simon, Peter and Andrew—each pair will go on to find people who are looking for truth. They’ll find places where they can do miracles and have their teachings understood, which is perhaps the greatest miracle of all. But they’ll also remember these first villages and know that no progress is immune to time. That if people stop searching for truth, they often lose even the truth they once had.

*

But Philip and Nathanael will have to learn those lessons from the others, because Thomas’s system works better for them than they could have imagined. At the farming village where they stop, even people who missed Jesus when he came can still recite the story of his teachings and give the names of the villagers he healed. The old women who cook for Philip and Nathanael have more questions to ask, and the old men listen with them to the apostles’ answers. When the apostles ask who’d be ready to follow Jesus if he needed them, it seems the whole town is prepared to give up crops and take only livestock, pitching tents like the children of Israel as they followed Moses and Joshua. And before Philip and Nathanael can ask about relatives in other towns, the villagers ask them to go and see their family members here and there, say they’ve sent word in advance that disciples of Jesus will be coming, and offer to send a young kinsman or two with them to witness that what they have to say is true.

How many people will hear about Jesus through each person in this village, Philip wonders. Thirty? Sixty? A hundred?

*          

James and John aren’t teaching by the hundred: they often go whole days without finding anyone who wants to listen to them at all. But it doesn’t matter, because soon someone who’s been looking for Jesus finds them.

Her name is Joanna. She’s never met Jesus, she says, but she’s been collecting stories about him for some time now. And because she wants those little stories to fit together into a big story, she asks James and John question after question. Some they can answer: Where was he born? What’s the meaning of his story about the mustard seed? But other questions are more difficult: Why are there so many stories about evil spirits recognizing him? Why do they always seem to shout out God’s name?

“We don’t know everything,” say James. “We just know what it feels like to follow him, and that’s enough.” 

“Can I talk to him myself?” asks Joanna.

The brothers hesitate. It’s not really safe for Jesus to come to Galilee now, they explain, given what he said about John the prophet just after the execution.

But Joanna smiles. Their Master doesn’t have to worry. Her husband, she tells them, is Herod’s palace steward. She and her husband know more than anyone would want to about Herod, and they know for a fact that he won’t touch Jesus, because he thinks that Jesus is John, returned from the dead to punish his killer.

“Is that true?” says James.

“I swear it,” says Joanna.

“How can we trust you? How do we know this isn’t a trap?” says John.

“Because my husband and I have sworn to serve the king,” she says.

“Yes,” says James. “That’s what we’re worried about.”

“We work for Herod,” says Joanna, “but it’s the true king of Israel we swore to serve.”

James and John don’t say anything.

“My husband’s a very wealthy man,” says Joanna. “Tell us what we can do for your Master.”

“We’ll go ask him,” says James, and he promises to meet her again the next week and tell her what Jesus says.

“Meet me in Magdala,” she says. “I have a cousin there.”

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

Subscribe now

Some say killers and their weapons like to gamble with each other over the next victim’s name. And that once the wager has been placed, they grow impatient to see whose blood will be made to redden next as it is brought naked to face the air.

In this empire, the suspense never lasts long. Executioners in palaces keep their weapons unsheathed by their bedsides, because in the passion of night, lives can be spent so casually. And in the morning, the names of the dead are passed between rulers like coins that gradually wear away until no one can remember if they first represented a slaughtered man or city.

In this empire the crucifixions litter the roadsides, advertising the constancy of rulers who bind the world together through daily death and pain.

So why does the king tremble when he gives the order for John’s execution? And when his wife, in her unabated anger, lifts the head from a platter to the end of a pike, which she keeps guarded in the square as a warning to those who mock royal blood, why do John’s dead eyes give the king such bad dreams?

No one risks his life trying to take the head down, but at night some disciples recover John’s body. They wrap it in a camel’s skin and they bury him in an unmarked grave in the desert, where they can still feel God speak. Then two of them turn back and find Jesus on a road not far from Tiberius. 

*

Though public funerals for the murdered prisoner have been banned by royal decree, in a village not far from Herod’s capital, Jesus speaks of the dead.

“What did you go to the desert to see?” he asks. “A man like a reed who would bend back and forth in fear of every storm?”

“Let me ask you again,” says Jesus. “What did you go out to see? Was it a man who hides from hard truths in soft robes?”

“No—you went to the desert, not the palace,” he says, and though they’re in mourning, the people can’t help but laugh. “You’ve lost faith in the king and were ready for a prophet. And is a prophet what you found on the banks of the Jordan?” Some people shout in agreement, while others start to look nervously around. 

“Let me tell you something: you saw more. Isn’t it written, I’ll send my messenger before your face, and he’ll prepare the way?”

The crowd gets quiet.

“If you’re afraid, then pretend you’ve heard nothing today. But if you have ears to hear, I’ll tell you this: God’s kingdom is coming down the path already, and as is written, it will break to pieces all the kingdoms of the earth. And I’ll tell you this: the shameful things this king has done to John won’t be done even to the lowest criminal in the kingdom of God.”

And the people shake with fear and longing at the things they’ve heard today.

*          

Indecisive as Herod can be, it’s hard to imagine that if he finds out, he’ll let this speech pass without violence.

“We’re ready to die for you,” say Salome’s sons. “And to kill, if you need us to.”

“Is it time to rise up?” says the southern Simon. “I have old friends who will help.”

“Is it the time all our ancestors waited for?” asks Judas.

“Let’s go back to the boat,” says Jesus. “Let’s sail out of Herod’s kingdom before his men come looking for us.”

*

In the boat, the southern Simon frowns.  Wherever you flee, he thinks, there’s no real escape. He’s left the rule of the south’s new governor, a man who honors dead and living emperors as his gods, who uses their soldiers as his laws. He’s sailing now from the north’s so-called king, a Jew who killed a prophet and pitches his tents toward Rome, who never seems embarrassed to rely on the same imperial soldiers as his foreign southern counterpart. On the east side of the lake, they’ll reach the ten cities, where Greek settlers outnumber both Syrians and Jews, where Roman soldiers rule each town without any king or governor at all.

Yes, the real rulers of this world are shields, swords, javelins—and the constant threat of death.

Simon looks across the water toward the shore. A large herd of pigs attests that they’re safely in ten cities territory, but a sprawling graveyard below reminds him they’re never really safe.

And it’s just past the graveyard Jesus tells them he wants the boat to land.

*            

As they leave the boat, they hear someone crying. Somewhere in the graveyard, there’s a living man who’s mad with grief, as if he’s just buried his wife and his only child. But there are no signs of a funeral party anywhere, nothing other than this one man’s cries to tear at the lakeside calm. And as Jesus and his apostles get closer, they can see: there are no fresh graves near where the man lies naked, wailing; his tears fall on hardened earth.

Jesus walks to the edge of the cemetery and calls out to him. The man rises, and John looks away in shame. Though they’ve come to a land dominated by Greeks and Syrians, the naked man is a Jew.

His hair is long and uncut, as if he’d taken vows like Samson’s—vows he can’t possibly have kept. The dirt and filth that cover him cast shadows that serve to highlight the strength and size of his body, but his arms and thighs are covered with scars and fresh cuts. In his hand, he still holds a sharp stone. 

He shouts out at Jesus like a war-cry, then blasphemes loudly and rushes forward. Jesus starts to command the evil spirits to go out of him, but stops when the man falls to his knees and begs like a frightened child. “Don’t hurt me,” he says in a voice that sounds strange coming from a man so large. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“What’s your name?” Jesus asks him.

All at once, the child in him is gone. He looks up at Jesus with wild, threatening eyes and spits out the words: “Our name is Legion.”

But Jesus sets his jaw, and the man turns childish again. “Don’t make us leave,” he says, or else the spirits say through him. “It’s so hard without a body. Let us go into the pigs, at least. It hurts too much to be alone.”

“Go then,” says Jesus.

And the man’s body falls from kneeling so that he lies completely prostrate at Jesus’ feet. He inhales like a drowning man who by some miracle manages to break the surface of the water. “They’re gone,” he says, “they’re finally gone.”

And then he weeps again.

“You couldn’t have fought them,” Jesus says.

“But I should have,” says the man.

“There’s been fighting enough here,” says Jesus.

“But no vengeance and no justice,” says the man.

“Have you forgotten so soon?” says Jesus, and he recites: “He who makes peace in the heavens, may He make peace upon us and upon all Israel.”

The man sits up slowly and stares at Jesus. “I was too angry,” he says. “I never said the mourners’ prayer.”

“If a son came to his father’s house at midnight,” says Jesus, “Would he stand outside in silence—or call out, and be welcomed in?”

“May His great name be magnified and made sacred,” whispers the man, “in the world He created according to his will.” And as the apostles lean in to listen, he prays for the dead Jews of his city.

“What happened?” Matthew asks after the man finishes praying.

“A Greek child grew sick and died,” he tells the twelve. “A rumor spread that our people had been jealous of the family’s wealth and that our envy caused their misfortune.” The twelve nod. They’ve heard stories like this one before. “They bribed some soldiers to let them into our quarter one night, but they didn’t need a second bribe to get other soldiers to come with them. They robbed and killed and did shameful things to both women and men.

“When I asked for justice, they chained me. When I broke the chains, they chained me again and again. And how could I fight? They were always so many.”

In the field above, the pigs are acting strangely. The boys paid to tend them get nervous and back away.

“When they sent me away, I came to the tombs. I swore to avenge the dead: because I couldn’t cut the killers, I cut myself.”

In the field above, the pigs begin to turn against each other. Two thousand animal bodies churn as if a storm has swept off the lake onto the land.

“When I slept in the dirt of the tombs, I felt I was where I belonged. A graveyard only makes you unclean if you’re still supposed to be alive.”

The pigs above begin to run off a cliff. The boys who tend them run back toward the town.

Jesus interrupts the man’s story. “Have you said the mourners’ prayer for the Greek child?”

*

When prayers have been said for the dead child and for his living parents, they go into the lake to wash the healed man. They bury his scarred and bloody body beneath the surface of the water and bring him up feeling whole again. From the boat, they fetch him the largest of the spare clothes Matthew brought. On the shore, they share some fish and a little bread.

While Jesus and his companions eat, a delegation from the city arrives. The men from the city first survey the pigs’ field and see for themselves that it’s empty. Then they turn to the group on the shore and see the possessed man calmed, clothed, and healed.

And how should these men weigh signs of terror against signs of hope?

“We respectfully request you to leave our shores,” their leader says.

Jesus tells them he and his followers will do so within the hour, and the men go back to their city satisfied.

“Remember this,” says Jesus to the twelve, “we are not like the princes of this world: the kingdom of God doesn’t come as an occupying force.”

*

“Take me with you,” the healed man says. “Let me follow you until the day I die.”          

“No,” says Jesus. “Go back to the survivors in your city and tell them what the Lord has done. When the night falls, whisper to those who know how to listen that the kingdom of God is here, and that sooner than they know, it will come to them.”

*

The healed man doesn’t waste any time or spare any effort. He goes from town to town, from host to host, carrying Jesus’ name on his lips. He shows people his scars. Tells them about his demons. Says in what way he was freed and cleansed. If people’s eyes grow wide, then mist up, he whispers Jesus’ words. Soon whispers start to echo through the Jewish homes scattered across the region east of the lake. What great exorcist, what powerful magician, has come to them?

One day a traveler from the north end of the lake chances to hear their whispers about Jesus. But he, too, has a whisper: Jesus has cast out evil spirits in his town as well, he says, and the spirits obey because Jesus has made a pact with the prince of demons. So the people whisper about this whisper, too: what dark exorcist, what sinister magician, has come?

In Bethsaida, just north of the ten cities and east of Herod’s kingdom, Jesus and the twelve are bewildered. They haven’t heard this new rumor, so they don’t know why it’s become so easy for them to sleep in peace, don’t know why the people who wait for healing in the day tend to leave so quickly as soon as the night begins to cast its spell over the world. They don’t know why even the students hesitate with their questions lately, why no one asks to walk with them until morning anymore. When one young man says he doesn’t want to know their secrets, they assume he’s talking about the kingdom of God. It’s only when scholars traveling from Jerusalem share their accommodations for a night that they learn what people have been talking about.

At first, the scholars simply seem abnormally curt, giving short answers and avoiding the long, lively scriptural discussions and debates that set apart Jews from the rest of the world. As it grows darker, though, the scholars keep their eyes on the door and behave as if Jesus and his disciples all carried long knives beneath their robes.

“What’s the matter with you?” asks Nathanael, forthright as always. But the scholars don’t speak up for a while because it takes time for curiosity to bore its way through protective layers of fear. When they look at Jesus, they can see he keeps secrets, and their fear gains strength. Then they look at Nathanael, whose face is not that of a secret-keeper, and they wonder until they can’t stop themselves.

“We’ve heard . . .” they begin, and then struggle for words. How do you politely ask thirteen men if they’re in league with the devil? “What we mean is: everyone talks about your power . . .” and they tell him. They admit they’ve been afraid to stay the night because they’re at once frightened of and tempted by what Jesus and his associates might do after dark. They admit that if Jesus has made a pact with Satan, they’re impressed by how well it works. Speaking in strictly theoretical terms, say the Jerusalem scholars, does Jesus possess, or have reason to believe one can possess, a special incantation that would use the cryptic names of superior demons to cast out inferior ones? And, again purely theoretically, if one did possess and use such an incantation, what would be the cost?

Jesus laughs—though they can’t be sure in the lamplight and the long shadows if the laugh should be frightening, exciting, or relieving. “What sort of prince do you think Satan is?” he says, “What king appoints a son as his heir and then welcomes his rebellion? Don’t you remember what happened when the first Herod died? A kingdom divided against itself never lasts long.

“Let me tell you a story,” Jesus says, and leans forward. And when Jesus leans forward, everyone leans forward to listen.

“The strongest man in any town does whatever he wants,” says Jesus, “because no one can stop him.” Then he tells about one city’s tyrant, how he makes himself rich off plunder and bribes and sets such a fear in the people’s hearts that not even the thieves dare disturb him—they don’t want to be discovered and killed. After some time, though, the strong man has terrorized the city so much that every widow prays for deliverance, and God, hearing their prayers, sends a stronger man to the city to rescue them.

“What do you think the stronger man will do—sit down at a table with the tyrant and strike a bargain? No, he binds the strong man in stiff cords and takes back the people’s goods over the strong man’s objections!”

It’s quiet for a moment as the twelve and the travelers alike puzzle the story out. Are they correct in understanding that Jesus has no secret incantation? the scholars from Jerusalem ask. And his position, even from a theoretical standpoint, is that it wouldn’t work to somehow play the evil spirits against each other?

Yes, says Jesus, against evil spirits the only recourse is the Spirit of the Lord.

But they press him further. Isn’t there some way around that? they say. If, for instance, the afflicted is too unclean for the Spirit of the Lord to reach, shouldn’t there be another way?

Don’t go down that road, says Jesus. “Speak ill of me,” he says forcefully, “if you still believe that rumor to be true. But if you close your eyes, all that’s left is darkness. And if you shut out the Spirit of the Lord and look to demons for deliverance, the unclean can never be restored.”

It was just a question, say the scholars. A purely theoretical question.

And since the need for nervous glances toward the door is gone, they put out the lamp and drift off to sleep.

In the moonlight, Judas waits and hopes and yearns.

“Master of the Universe!” prays Judas, “Has he done it yet, has the strong man been bound?”

And though God doesn’t answer, Judas still wonders what it will look like when Jesus utterly spoils the strong man’s house.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

To receive each new chapter of The Five Books of Jesus by email, first make sure to subscribe, then click here and select "The Five Books of Jesus." 

Subscribe now

As they approach the camp again, James and John hear their mother. Why she’s made the journey out to see them and what has her so animated at the moment they can only guess, but long before they can see her face, there’s no doubt it’s her. Of all the women in Capernaum, Salome has the most distinctive voice—and the one most likely to be raised when something is wrong. They pick up their pace to reach her.

She embraces her sons, then falls at Jesus’ feet. “Come back to Capernaum,” she tells him.

This is her news: Jesus’ former disciples, having failed to bring him before a religious court, have shifted their attention. They’ve brought charges against his supporters over every minor infraction of the law. They go from house to house trying to convince people Jesus and his followers are dangerous, tell them not to help Peter’s wife and her mother or buy Zebedee’s fish. And now, they’re urging the ruling elders to expel those who honor Jesus’ teachings from the congregation.

“Come back,” says Salome. “What are all their words against your might and strength, your dignity and power? If you speak to the ruling elders for us, we’ll be given the first place instead of being cast out.”

But Jesus just looks at Alphaeus’s James, and doesn’t answer.

“Come back,” says Salome. “I know you say to love our enemies, but do we have to wait for the Day of Judgment before you’re also willing to stop them?”

Jesus looks back at her. “Those who wait upon the Lord will inherit the earth,” he says. 

“Then we’re ready to wait if God’s will is that we wait,” says Salome. “But come back and confront them if the King of the Universe would have you do so!”

That’s when Jesus smiles, then speaks: “Lead the way, you sons of thunder,” he says to James and John. “Your mother predicts a storm.”

*

When angry men first came to the council of five who govern the congregation in Capernaum to suggest charges against Jesus for healing on the Sabbath, two immediately spoke against him and two for him:

“What else can we do?” said one. “We saw it ourselves: he broke tradition knowingly and openly.”

“How many years had the man’s hand been afflicted?” said another. “After all that time, the treatment couldn’t wait a single day?”

That was not the issue, said the first of Jesus’ defenders. “If it had been a sheep stuck in the mud, no one would have objected. Isn’t a man worth more than a sheep?”

“Besides, there’s no proof he did anything,” said the other, who was always a little more careful about his words. “He didn’t touch him—and if the man was healed by God alone, who are we supposed to charge?”

But the fifth didn’t take sides, preferring a peaceful escape from the controversy. “Why do you come to us?” Jairus said to those who had brought the charges. “This man is not from Capernaum: right or wrong, it’s not our place to pursue such a difficult case against a guest.”

And, oh, how Jairus wished it had been settled at that! Instead, they’d let that case rest but brought complaint after complaint: about one woman’s possible heresy, another man’s failure to keep this minor law by that minority interpretation. Before Jesus, Jairus recalled, the council’s chief concern had been raising funds to replace the old wooden meetinghouse with a new one made of stone. Before Jesus, no one had argued much about who belonged there.

Still, Jairus is fair-minded enough to admit there are legitimate reasons for concern. Jesus seems like a good man, but if he were to turn his energy toward outright rebellion, he wouldn’t be the only one killed. Maybe his former disciples are right to bring case after case against those who follow him. Maybe they’re right to want his influence stopped before it brings bitter judgment, divine or otherwise, down on the town.

The proposal Jesus’ opponents finally bring to the council is this: why not simply ask people to choose between their loyalty to Jesus and their loyalty to the congregation? If they choose the congregation, all is well. And if they choose any man over the congregation, isn’t that proof enough the man’s influence goes too far?

But by that time, Jairus isn’t thinking about how to compromise. By that time, Jairus is thinking about his only daughter: a twelve-year-old girl who has grown so pale from sickness that sometimes when she sleeps, for a terrible moment, it looks as if she’s dead. Jairus isn’t thinking about compromise because day after day, night after night, sudden bursts of panic for her health hit him like rocks.

Jairus isn’t interested in casting judgment right now because he already feels like he’s being stoned.

So he throws both caution and neutrality to the wind, and is the first to come begging when Jesus returns.

*

A girl is dying, but there’s a crowd to be reckoned with. Into the streets Jesus’ opponents pour to shout abuse; into the streets Jesus’ supporters stream to shout encouragement. Young men join the throng hoping things turn ugly, the way Roman soldiers who miss the adrenaline of the Coliseum sometimes bet on fights between stray dogs. Old men pour into the street to ask themselves what happened, how the spell of quiet that once hung over their lakeside town has been broken. Young girls slip out of their homes to see if Jesus can rescue the council chief’s daughter; their mothers follow them into the fray, hoping to find them and bring them home again. Thieves join the crowd looking for loose money; drunkards join the crowd in the hopes a celebration erupts; the crowd grows tight around Jesus until his apostles start to worry about how his ribs will fare in the press.

There’s a woman in the crowd who’s been bleeding since the dying girl was born. She doesn’t want to be here—for twelve years she’s been unclean from her constant menstruation and so she’s not used to being around people other than doctors at all, let alone a whole town at once. She knows she’s polluting everyone she touches, but she can’t keep from touching them as she pushes and shoves her way forward. This is not what she imagined. She didn’t even want to touch him, didn’t need to look at him: if she could just reach the hem of his robe, she’d told herself, it would be enough. Because she believes he can heal her. Though she’s believed in doctors before and saints before until it seemed all the wealth, hope, and energy were drained out of her bleeding body forever, the first time she heard a story about him, she knew she had to come. And she knows now that although she’s exhausted, she needs to make it just a few more steps, just reach her arm out a few inches farther, and it will all be worthwhile. She’ll be healed, and no one will ever have to know what sort of woman they touched. Just a few more steps, just a little longer reach, and twelve years of pain will melt and this pounding in her temples will stop and she can go home and, maybe, finally feelat home in her own skin.

She falls, strangers’ knees battering her as she lands on her own, but she can see it right ahead, and just another half inch, so she throws herself forward with everything she has left. Maybe she’ll be trampled to death now, in the middle of a faraway town’s road, but she can feel the threads against her fingers and she knows that at least she’ll die clean: she can tell at once she isn’t bleeding from the inside anymore.

“Stop!” says Jesus, and his voice is so firm that the hecklers stop shouting abuse, the young men stop egging them on. Mothers stop calling out their daughters’ names, old men stop shaking their heads, even thieves let the coins they’ve just lifted fall to the ground in their surprise. The feet around the woman don’t come down on her back or shoulders, the shins around her don’t slam into her head.

“Who touched me?” Jesus says, as she pulls herself up, as she whispers a prayer thanking God for life and health. His disciples laugh.

“Look around you!” they say. “Who here hasn’t touched you?”

“No, someone touched me,” Jesus says. “I felt some of my virtue go out.”

That’s when the woman starts to shake. When her relief turns to fear. Has she polluted him after all? Has the long impurity of her body somehow wounded this saint?

“Who touched me?” Jesus says, and she starts to cry.

Now everyone is watching her and so she has to tell the whole story: who she is, why she shouldn’t have been here with them, why she wanted so badly to touch him, and how she risked their well-being to do it. No one seems to know how to look at her. “But I’m healed now,” she says through her tears, “I’m sorry I touched you all, but now I’m clean.”

“Don’t worry,” says Jesus. “Your faith healed you. It’s all right.”

But in Jairus’s house, it is not all right. In Jairus’s house, a girl whose face is pale as death when she sleeps has stopped taking in fresh breath.

*          

Into the crowd come servants from the mourning house. “It’s too late,” they tell Jairus, “she’s dead. You can leave him alone.” But before Jairus can let out the long wail that is forming inside him, before he can scream the wound in his heart out to fill the open sky, Jesus looks hard at him. “When we go in, don’t look at her face: it’ll make you afraid,” he says. “Just watch me and have faith.”

So Jairus walks in Jesus’ shadow like a thief who is sneaking up on fate, or like the prophet Jonah seeking shade from the unforgiving heat of this world. When they get to the house, Jesus asks nine of his apostles to keep the crowd out while Peter, James, and John follow him and the girl’s parents inside.

Everyone is crying for her: the cook whose patience she used to test with endless questions, the watchman she’d always ask for a story and a late-night cup of weak wine, the wet-nurse who helped feed her as an infant, and the wet-nurse’s son, a childhood playmate she’s recently been distanced from.

“Why are you here?” says the watchman. “Didn’t they tell you it’s too late?”

“She’s only sleeping,” says Jesus, but the watchman laughs a sour laugh because he saw her chest rise and fall until it stopped rising at all, then shook her frail body trying to bring back her breath. That’s when Jesus makes them go out, so that the house is quiet and he can talk to the parents alone.

“Will you take me to her?” he says, and Jairus doesn’t look away, he just nods, and walks to her room, and keeps his eyes on Jesus and off his daughter, just like he’s been told. But Peter sees her, and James and John, and they can tell why the watchman laughed—it’s a cruel, hard life and it can look so empty at the end.

Jesus leans over and takes her cold hand in his hand. “Wake up, little one,” he says, and that’s when her father can’t help but look at her, at the way her sleepy eyes look up at him. She gets out of bed and walks to her parents and has just embraced them, when John feels Jesus next to him start to collapse.

*

“No more crowds today,” says Jesus, as he leans on James and John who hold him on the left and the right. If they carry most of his weight, he seems just able to put one foot in front of the other, just able to keep himself from sinking down to his knees in the dirt.

“Where can we go?” says John, and he envies the birds for their nests and the foxes for their holes. “Where can we take him and be left alone?”

“To your father’s boats,” says Peter. “Let’s see who can follow him to the middle of the lake!”

Peter and Andrew run to bring the boat closer while eight apostles keep the crowd at bay so that James and John can help their Master take a short but halting walk to the shore. Twice Jesus nearly falls, and then a third time as they bring him into the water toward the waiting boat—the terrifying lightness of his body on this third almost-fall will linger in John’s mind for months. He doesn’t even try to lift himself into the boat, but lets them haul him up as though they were lifting a little child, and they lay him down like a child and let him sleep while they sail out toward the middle of the lake, sail out until they can’t make out the figures on the land. And Jesus’ enemies and friends, the rowdy young men and the wonderstruck girls, the distracted thieves and the disappointed drunks all give up watching from the shore, all return to their homes or the alleys where they sleep and brace themselves against a rising and ominous wind.

“Do you worry about him?” asks John.

“I worry about everything,” say both Thomas and Peter at once. 

*

The wind pours down thousands of feet from the heights on the northeast to the low-lying surface of the lake, which bursts into violent passion the way a whole block of tenements bursts into flame at the touch of a single lightning bolt.  Waves leap up like tongues of fire and lick at the cities on the western shore: Capernaum; Magdala; Herod’s new capital, Tiberius.

Off the lake comes hard rain that stings like burning embers and presses itself through small holes in a roof into the cell where John the prophet is kept. But John sees nothing in the rain. He can hear raised voices in the palace above him, knows that the center of the storm between the king and his wife is his own life or death, but shut away in the city so far from his desert, he can’t seem to hear the word of the Lord, can’t tell how this tumult will end.

On the lake, Jesus sleeps like the dead; the four fishermen do their best to keep the ship from capsizing while the others bail out the water that fills the boat and threatens to drag them down and drown them.

In the palace, the queen is shouting at her husband. “Don’t you care about my shame?” she says. “When I left your brother’s bed for yours, I thought you’d protect me. If the king stood with me, who would dare to mock? Who could speak ill of me and escape punishment?”

John the prophet moves his lips in silent prayer as the rain keeps pounding down. How long, oh Lord? he says. How long will you hide your face from me?

On the lake, Jesus sleeps still. The fishermen shout out their prayers as they work, the others bail as if they were trying to empty the sea.

“Do you want to be killed?” says the king to his wife. “Do you want people to riot in the streets until the earth shakes with them? They count him as a prophet, and the prophets have always meant trouble for Israel.” 

“You’re afraid of him,” she says. “I thought you were brave enough to face anyone in the empire, but you’re too scared to face a captive in your own cellar jail!”

The king gets angry then, shouts abuse at his wife and pushes her to the floor. Then he stomps down to the prison, shakes the bars until his arms ache—but John sees nothing in the king’s visit, and the king gives up and walks away.

On the lake, Jesus is deep in sleep until Nathanael, who’s too honest to be embarrassed at himself, shakes him awake and asks with wide eyes, “Don’t you care if we die?”

Jesus gets up without acknowledging Nathanael and speaks straight into the wind, the driving rain, the froth-tipped waves: “Enough for now,” he says. “Give us some peace.”

And from Capernaum to Tiberius, all at once the storm is gone. Homeless men see the night sky clear again from their alleys and wonder at the brightness of the stars. The twelve look at Jesus in a mixture of awe and fear, wonder for the first time not just who he is, but what kind of being can speak that way to the wind and the sea.

In his cell, John is filled with the depth of this sudden stillness. He wraps his face in a tattered remnant of his robe and rises to speak with his God.

*

What does John say to God, and what does God say back? I don’t know.

But after they’ve talked, maybe, after John is left to study the four walls of his prison until they seem to be falling in on him, doubt sinks in, pools on the floor with the leftover rain.

So when John’s disciples come to visit, bringing him fresh bread dipped in desert honey, John wants to be sure, so he sends them to Jesus to ask.

“Are you the One?” they say to Jesus. “Or will our Master have to wait for someone else?”

“Tell him what the people here have seen,” says Jesus. “The blind see, the lame walk, and the deaf hear. The lepers are cured, the dead raised up, and the poor have the gospel preached to them.”

John’s disciples get excited. They tell him about Herod and his wife, about the rumors coming out of the palace. Is the time soon coming, they ask him, when the words of Isaiah will be fulfilled, when a servant of God will bring out the captives from their cells, and deliver those who sit in darkness from their prisons?

But Jesus turns away before he answers.

“No matter how the Jordan twists and turns,” he says, “it always ends in the same sea.”

And is it only the young John’s imagination, or is Jesus’ thin face wet with salty tears?

*          

That night, Jesus sends the twelve back to the lake without him. The waters are a little rough, but after seeing what their Master can do, they don’t question his direction: out they row against short wind-blown waves, straining their arms to make distance. It’s slow going, so for a long time they can still see the tiny figure of Jesus, climbing up a mountain to pray for the man who baptized him.

Years from now, James will rise from a prison cell, look into the steel of another Herod’s sword, and wonder what Jesus said to his Father this night. “Does he really have to drink this cup?” maybe, or maybe just, “Let his spirit be safe in your hands.”Years from now, James will look at steel that shines in his executioner’s eyes like this night’s moon on the lake and remember the wind, and the sounds of small waves, and the way a boat at night can rock you to sleep.

On the lake tonight, James keeps the first watch, and John the second, and Peter the third. So in the hour just before dawn, it’s Andrew who first sees the ghost.

He walks toward them against the breeze, which is strong enough to blow the loose ends of his robe out behind him. He looks as majestic as John did on the Jordan, Andrew thinks, and his heart sinks: is John dead? Where is Judas? thinks Andrew. Judas will recognize their old master.             

Andrew tries not to disturb the others as he wakes his friend, but it’s hard to keep a secret when twelve men are sleeping on the same boat. Judas wakes quickly and looks out across the water: no, it’s not John, he tells Andrew, and Andrew exhales in relief. It looks more like Jesus, he says, and now they’re all alert, all staring out over the edge.

As the ghost gets closer, their panic begins to mount. “Who are you?” Nathanael shouts.

“Don’t be afraid,” Jesus says, “it’s me.”

“Are you dead?” says Peter.

“No,” says Jesus.

“Let me touch you,” says Peter, “Ask me to walk out on the water and touch you and I’ll know.”

“Come then,” says Jesus.

And the first step is so easy. It’s so easy to climb right over the boat’s edge and put your foot down onto the water’s shifting surface and yet move forward. Yes, the first step is easy and the second’s not too bad, but after that you’ve got to keep focused on Jesus. You can’t let yourself think about the way water pools and swirls and pours, the way it falls from the heavens on a cool day or disappears in the heat; can’t even think too hard about your solid feet, just keep moving them. But then the way the wind blows the edges of his robe. And the sharp white crests of the growing waves. And suddenly your legs feel as unstable as the water beneath them, and you know you are going to drown.

There’s a hand in your hand and it’s not letting go. Jesus pulls you out of the water because he’s alive.

Because he’s alive, and because he’s the anointed one.

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

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The rumors that get back to Jesus’ family in Nazareth are not encouraging. They don’t listen too closely to the former disciples who pass through with stories about how his fame has filled him with arrogance. They do their best to ignore the men who come just to look for Mary, to warn her of plots and snares they’ve heard about from people who want to see her oldest son imprisoned. Yes, they try not to worry about all that: they know about the controversy Jesus can cause, and they’ve accepted that. No, what worry them are the details they hear from the travelers most hopeful about Jesus.

Mary asks these people a litany of questions about her son: where does he sleep? how many hours is he sleeping? how does he keep warm at night? how does he stay healthy if he’s always surrounded by the sick? is he eating enough? Even his most ardent admirers have to throw their hands up against the river of her words and are forced to admit with more than a little shame that they’ve never paid enough attention to his condition to give her answers.

But Mary is not the kind of woman who gives up. Think carefully, she tells them: what was the last thing they saw him eat? Nothing? How long were they watching him, how many people would they say were in the crowd? If he never seems to eat while he works, when exactly does he eat? Are his cheeks sinking in? Close your eyes and see him again, she says: was he wearing a robe, too, or just a shirt? Were any patches of hair or skin showing through threadbare spots in his clothes? What about his face, she asks, and grabs one of her other sons to demonstrate: did the skin under his eyes sag here, were there dark spots right through here?—he gets very distinctive marks under his eyes when he isn’t sleeping well, she says, they couldn’t have missed them.  

And the travelers hesitate, insist they don’t remember, and then don’t want to say—but Mary won’t take no for an answer: she asks and she asks until they’ve dredged up memories they didn’t even know they had just to make her stop.

Soon it’s Mary who is letting concern for another keep her from eating; soon it’s Mary with distinctive dark spots under her eyes, and that’s when her sons say “enough” and pack their things to go. James, Judas, and Simon leave their brother Joseph to care for their dead father’s business and ask their youngest sister to tend the animals and keep up the house while they take Mary to see her oldest son. If his condition is better than she expects, they reason, she may be content with giving him a mother’s short scolding. If things are looking out of control, though, Joseph’s sons are stubborn when they need to be and strong as the trees whose wood their father lived by, so they’re prepared to bring their brother home.             

*

It’s a dusty journey for the family from this village to that, looking for a man who doesn’t stay long in one place anymore. Mary hears he’s in Nain, but by the time she and her boys get there he’s moved on and there are at least four different versions of where he went. In the next village, it’s the same and the same in the one after that, so that Galilee begins to feel like a labyrinth of memory mixed with rumor, a maze—or maybe just a mirage?—that has swallowed up her oldest son.

When Jesus was a boy, he wandered off at the end of a family trip to Jerusalem. At first, they assumed he’d just attached himself to Joseph’s nephews for the journey home—it wasn’t until evening that they searched the camp of relatives and friends and found that he wasn’t with anybody at all.

Searching for Jesus now, Mary remembers how she spent the next three days growing more and more desperate, how it hurt more every time they reached a new place where her son could have been but was not. Searching for Jesus now, Mary remembers how the boys cried then at night because they missed their brother, how she told them not to worry, that she knew they’d find him. Yes, she’d comforted them until they fell asleep and she was free to cry herself to sleep in Joseph’s arms.

James, Simon, and Judas aren’t crying this time, and their determination is a great relief. They quickly decide it’s no use trying to go everywhere people think Jesus must have gone, and decide to pay attention to how much people talk about him rather than what they say. Soon, they’re following a trail of talk that grows stronger as they move from where he was toward where he is—until they reach the last village and there’s no talk at all.

The strange quiet of this village tells them more about their brother’s work than all the rumors and stories they heard on the way. Here, everyone’s left their lives: in this garden patch, weeds find unexpected reprieve; by that workbench, wool must wait for the hands of its everyday destiny to spin it into thread. Yes, everyone’s gone to the wine house: where the tables have been packed against the walls, where bodies are pressed tighter together than they have been for years by the force of an overwhelming thirst. And though there is no wine being poured today and no space in the house to pour it, eyes drink in the spectacle of miracle, of the impossible rendered ordinary, and are intoxicated; ears savor the strange tastes of this Master’s surprising words.

From the outer edge of the crowd, where three dust-covered brothers and their mother stand, it looks like this: all the desperation in this place has risen to the surface like old forgotten wounds which, for no reason, begin again to sting. Decades of remembered pain swirl around their son and brother, who wears a tattered shirt and no robe at all, who is still as thin as if he’d just returned from forty days in the desert, who deposits the darkness he draws out of people’s lives in deep pools beneath his eyes.

Mary cries out a little, then stifles her half-sob and looks away. Simon puts an arm around his mother, while James and Judas put strong arms and sharp elbows to work, inching their way forward in the crowd.

“Who do you think you are?” says a man who tries to elbow himself back in front of them.

“His brothers,” says James, pointing toward the distant center of the vortex. “Our mother needs him.”

They keep pushing their way through the thick of the crowd, but word travels far more quickly than they can. Soon another James and another Judas, who have been busy making sure no one is trampled today, call out to their Master that his mother and brothers are standing outside, waiting for him. Mary and her son Simon are too far outside to see or hear, but another two Simons near Jesus try to hold the next sick person back and dismiss the crowd—until Jesus shakes his head in an unmistakable no.

“Who are my mother and my brothers?” he says clear and strong enough that even over the noise, James and Judas stop pushing and listen to the voice they’ve known since they were born.

Jesus looks at all the desperate, thirsty faces in this forsaken, out-of-the-way place. “Can’t you see?” he says. “You’re my brothers, and my sisters, and my mothers.” He finds James’s face then, gives him a look like he’d give before telling James to calm down when they were boys. “My family is made up of whoever can accept my Father’s will,” he says. And then he moves forward to bless the sick boy two Simons have been holding back.

Outside, so far she can barely see, Mary remembers all at once: after those three days of searching and crying they found him all the way back in the Temple, after three days she shook him and said, “Why did you do that to us? We’ve been worried sick, looking for you everywhere!” As her ragged-looking son reaches now for the next person to heal, and the next, Mary remembers him looking up at her then and saying, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, “Why were you worried? Didn’t you know I’d be doing my Father’s business?”

In the wine house, the crowd goes crazy with rejoicing and desire; seeing so many healed so quickly, the villagers start pushing forward again just as James and Judas start pushing their way back out of the crowd and toward the only mother they know.

“It’s all right,” she tries to tell them, but she can see they’re not ready to hear.

“Let’s go now,” they tell her, their own forgotten pains having risen, as if by contagion, to the surface.

Mary isn’t normally one to give up, but she doesn’t object. She lets them lead her home because she can see they’re hurt, and she knows there are things she’ll need time to explain to them; after all, she worries about more than just one of her sons.

*

That night, Jesus leads his followers out of town, off the road and onto a narrow path worn into the hillside by goats and sheep, until he finally settles on a campsite. He lies down, but John can tell that he isn’t sleeping, though he pretends to sleep for more than an hour until even Judas has finished praying and half-closed his eyes. When only Peter is still obviously awake, keeping the first watch, Jesus slips out.

John nudges his brother awake. By the moonlight, they can just see Jesus, just see that Peter has left the campsite and is already following him, and they hurry to catch up. Peter notices them and motions them forward, but Jesus doesn’t seem to notice anything, just heads further into the hills, up a slope then over a crest into a still steeper walk up the next incline.

“Where is he going?” James whispers to Peter, but Peter says he doesn’t know. They try to keep up, but Jesus seems to move faster and faster as they become more and more exhausted, until he’s practically leaping up a mountainside. He moves like a deer, thinks James, a deer that has sensed danger and is retreating to a high place. He looks at peace, thinks John, like a captive who has finally been set free. But Peter only wonders how Jesus can climb so quickly. Peter’s legs feel like trees being uprooted with each step, and he wonders how long he can go on.

That’s when Jesus turns back for the first time. Peter stops, grateful to finally rest his feet. James and John stop beside him when they see their Master looking back.

“Thank you,” says Jesus. “But you don’t need to come any further. There will be times for you to follow me up mountains. For now, just rest.”

So they do: they lie down and sleep at the base of the last foothill while Jesus climbs like a deer into the mountain for the night. Back at the camp, Andrew is a little worried when he wakes for his watch to find Peter gone, but when he sees that Jesus, James, and John are gone, too, he assumes they’ve gone with a purpose.

Early in the morning, Jesus comes down the slope to wake the three who followed him. Then he tells them nine more names, and asks them to come back to the foothill bringing those nine men with them.

*

Twelve men gather around Jesus, who tells them how to heal the faith-filled sick. Twelve men gather around Jesus, who tells them it won’t be long before he sends them all through scattered Israel as his messengers. Twelve men gather around Jesus, who blesses them the way a father might bless his sons when he feels he is about to die.

To the Simon he named Peter, who still worries about his wife and her mother, he says, “When you go out, take no money with you: don’t even make a fold in your shirt as a pocket for it. Didn’t the sea provide fish for you? In the same way, the men you catch like fish will provide you with all you need: with food, with shelter, with a shirt to wear if not always a robe.”

Jesus looks at Andrew’s shirt and smiles. “You’ve tied knots into a net fit for your new labor. I charged you nothing for the secrets of those knots; you charge nothing for sharing them. Then men will see that charity is our Father’s currency, and they’ll charge nothing when they help you.”

Next he turns to James, the older son of Zebedee and Salome. “Though God will feed and clothe you as he does the grass, remember that men also walk over the grass and trample it, that they cut it when the first harvest comes. But don’t be afraid: whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life in this work will find it.”

To James’s young brother John, he says, “No matter who dies, I’ll tell you this: some of you standing here will live to see this world end.” 

That’s when tears start to glisten in the morning light across the face of Andrew’s friend Judas, who grew up in a slum hidden under the Temple’s shadow. Jesus turns to this Judas: “I’ve told you privately, but soon you’ll proclaim it openly: God’s kingdom is here!”

To Philip he says, “Go show them the things Isaiah promised: the eyes of the blind will be opened, the ears of the deaf unstopped, the lame will leap like deer, and the tongues of the mute will sing: because waters have broken out of the wilderness, streams out of the desert places.”

And to Nathanael, who cared for his father’s crops and orchards, he says, “When you go out, you’ll feel like a farmer who plants a seed at night and then wakes in the morning to find it fully grown: when the earth herself does the work, all that’s left to you is the harvest!”

“When the time comes for you to go away from me,” he says to the twelve, “find places to stay the way Thomas has done: ask carefully in each town, see who’s prepared to receive the blessings of a host.” Then he turns to Thomas: “If a house or village accepts you, the peace I send with you will rest on them. But if they refuse you, it will return to you: wrap yourself in that peace and sleep soundly under the protection of the stars.”

“But don’t think,” he tells them, “that I’ve only come to bring peace to the earth. Because your words will also be like a sword, dividing mothers from daughters, fathers from sons, turning this brother against that one.” He turns to the southern Simon: “And when the mouth carries a sword,” he says, “what need do the hands have for one?”

And to the other Judas, the one whose big chest holds a bigger heart, he says, “Don’t be afraid of what men can do to your body; be afraid of what they will try to do to your soul.” 

Jesus speaks next to Matthew. “You’ve kept a ledger with the names of those you bought responsibility for, and you’ve been ready to forgive their debts when they come to you. But the ledger you’ll keep for me will be like the Book of Life: won’t those who know their debts in that Book want to see you?”

Finally, he turns to the other James he called. “When you look for people who have ears to hear,” he says, “remember the story I told in Matthew’s house. Son of Alphaeus, I tell you again: the last will be first and the first will be last.”

Peter and Andrew, James and John, Judas from Jerusalem and the southern Simon, Philip and Nathanael the farmer’s son, Matthew and Thomas, the broad-chested Judas and Alphaeus’s James: these are the twelve Jesus calls to the hill, the twelve he gives his power and makes his messengers, the twelve he will keep as close as if he were a boy again and they were his brothers—until he asks them to leave, and to gather his scattered people once more.

*

Two named James. Two named Judas. Two named Simon. Is it only a coincidence that half of the closest brothers in Jesus’ new family share names with his first brothers, brothers who left with their mother only yesterday?

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James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Original artwork by Sarah Hawkes.

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