“The main reason Ephraim, Simeon, and I were going to Jericho was that I wanted to ask John about the Messiah. If John really is the forerunner, as he says he is, then perhaps he would know if the Messiah has come.”
Aaron leaned forward, his mouth working. “This John is not the forerunner that Isaiah foretold. I know that he claims to be, but—”
David turned slowly, his eyes cold now. “Aaron, I’ll say it one more time. Andrew and I are having a conversation. If you would like to listen, you are welcome to stay. But I already know how you feel, and I’m sure I’ll have additional opportunities to hear about that, so please, let Andrew speak.”
Aaron sniffed disdainfully and got to his feet. “If you are not interested in truth, then perhaps I shall go speak with my sister.”
“Mother is still in Beth Neelah,” Simeon said, surprised but pleased at his father’s tartness. “She and Leah won’t be home until tomorrow or the day after.”
David’s voice was kinder now. “You’ve had a long journey, Aaron. There is food in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.” He stood and flounced away, obviously in a huff.
David blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry, Andrew. What I was trying to say was, if John is the forerunner, do you think he knows if the Messiah has come?”
“He has,” Andrew said quietly.
David’s head came up slowly. Simeon was also staring at the fisherman.
Leaning forward, Andrew went on eagerly. “That’s the other thing I have to tell you, David. While I was there last week, John kept speaking about the Messiah. Or at least we all assumed it was the Messiah he spoke of. He kept saying that there was one among us whom we did not know, whose shoe latchets John wasn’t worthy to unloose. Knowing the reverence in which we all hold John, that was a startling statement, of course. Everyone pressed him to know who it was, but that was all he would say.”
His face glowed with excitement. “Then the very next day, a man came to where John was baptizing. The moment John saw him, he stopped speaking. He stared at him in such wonder that we all turned to see who it was.”
David was holding his breath. “Yes? Yes?”
“John raised a hand and pointed at him. ‘Behold the Lamb of God,’ he said in tones of greatest reverence, ‘who takes away the sins of the world.’”
Simeon leaned forward. “Did he call him the Messiah?”
David gave his son a sharp look. “Let Andrew tell it, Simeon.”
The fisherman smiled at his friend’s earnestness. “No, he didn’t say anything about the Messiah, at least not then.” He turned back to David. “To our surprise, the man came forward—”
“Who was he?” Simeon cut in.
“Simeon!” his father said with a scowl.
Andrew chuckled. “His name is Jesus. He is from Nazareth, the son of a carpenter named Joseph. They say that Jesus too is a carpenter.”
Not waiting to see Simeon’s reaction to that, Andrew went on. “So this Jesus came forward and asked John if he would baptize him. John was shocked. You could see that, even from where we were. ‘But I have need to be baptized of thee, and you come to me?’ he said. But Jesus insisted, saying to John, ‘Suffer it to be so now, for thus it becomes us to fulfill all righteousness.’”
Simeon stirred but at another fierce look from his father held his tongue.
“So John took Jesus down into the river and baptized him. It was nothing unusual, very much like all the other baptisms John was doing.” Andrew stopped, his eyes focused on something beyond David. “That is, until he finished.”
“What?” Simeon said, forgetting the other question he had been about to ask. “What happened then?”
“John looked surprised, almost startled. He was looking up, over and above the head of Jesus, and then he got this most wonderful look on his face.”
“What was it?”
Andrew shook his head. “We weren’t sure. Not then, anyway. Later, John told a group of us that as Jesus came up out of the water that he, John, saw the Holy Spirit descending on Jesus as if it were a dove.”
Complete silence filled the room as Simeon and his father both stared at the fisherman. “He actually saw the Holy Spirit?” David finally asked in awe.
“No. He saw a dove, which was the sign of the Holy Spirit’s presence.” Now he leaned forward, very earnest. “But that’s not all. John said that he had been told that when he saw the Spirit descending upon a person, that person would be the one who had come to baptize not just with water, but with the Holy Ghost as well.”
“But did he say if this Jesus was the one?” Simeon blurted. “Did John say this man was the promised Messiah?”
“No,” Andrew said slowly. “He didn’t say that specifically.” Then he shook his head. “That doesn’t matter, Simeon. He didn’t have to say the exact words. That’s what he meant.”
That’s what you think he meant. Or hope he meant.
Andrew’s words broke into his thoughts. “The next day we were with John again. We were listening to him teach. Then this Jesus of Nazareth came by again. To my complete amazement, the moment John saw him, he said again, ‘Behold the Lamb of God.’”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Simeon asked, quite perplexed. “The Lamb of God?” To his surprise, his father wasn’t trying to stop him now. It was like Simeon was asking the very questions that David also had.
“I am not sure,” Andrew said slowly, “but at that moment, I knew John was telling us that here was the man we should follow. That he was the one who had been promised would come.”
He looked at Simeon squarely, challenging him to disagree. Simeon looked away, strangely disappointed. He had felt his hopes surge there for a few moments. Then another thought struck him. He started to put it into words, when again they were interrupted.
“He isn’t the Messiah. He couldn’t be.”
They all turned. Aaron was standing at the entrance to the hallway that led to the back of the house. How long he had been there, none of them knew.
“Aaron,” David said in warning.
But Andrew waved him off. “Why do you say that?” he asked.
“You say this Jesus is from Nazareth?”
“Yes.”
“Then how can he be the Messiah?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Do not the prophets say that the Messiah will come out of Judea, out of Bethlehem?”
Now Andrew saw where he was coming from. “Yes,” he said slowly.
“Not from the Galilee?”
“No, from Judea.”
Simeon was watching his father, remembering his powerful experience of some thirty years before in Bethlehem. Again, David seemed content to let Aaron now ask those questions that were troubling him as well.
Aaron went on quickly. “And he is a carpenter? the son of a carpenter, you say?”
“Yes.”
Aaron uttered a soft laugh of contempt. “Can a carpenter from Nazareth be the Great Deliverer of our people? Does he have an army? Does he meet with the leaders of the people and unite them beneath his banner?”
Andrew watched him steadily for several seconds, then finally spoke. “I don’t understand all things, Aaron, but I do know this. This man is unlike anyone I have ever known.”
Simeon could no longer contain himself. “But Aaron’s point is well taken,” he said. “If he is the Messiah, the Anointed One, he has to be more than some obscure craftsman from a village that isn’t even mentioned in the writings of the prophets.”
“Exactly,” Aaron said.
Andrew ignored Simeon’s uncle and turned back to Simeon and his father. “I will only say this. After I had spent a whole day with Jesus, I returned to the place where we were staying and found my brother Simon. ‘We have found the Messiah, the Christ,’ I told him.”
“What did Simon say to that?” David wondered.
“He wanted to see for himself. So I took him to meet Jesus.”
“And was he co
nvinced?” Simeon asked, curious now too. Simon, Andrew’s brother and partner, was about as practical and pragmatic a person as Simeon knew.
Again a peculiar light came into Andrew’s eyes. “When Jesus saw Simon, Jesus looked at him for a long time and then said, ‘Thou art Simon, son of Jonah. Hereafter, you shall be called Cephas, or Petros.”
“A stone?” Simeon replied. “He said that Simon would be called a stone?”
But David had caught a point that had passed right by Simeon. “Did Jesus know that you and Simon are the sons of Jonah?”
Andrew shook his head. “No.”
Aaron strode across the room now, clearly agitated. “That is common knowledge here in Capernaum,” he snapped. “Anyone could know that.”
Andrew shrugged. “Perhaps.” Then he turned to Simeon and answered his original question. “How did Simon react to all of this?” His eyes bored into Simeon’s. “Simon immediately decided that he would become a disciple of this man as well.” There was a soft laugh. “We’ve already started calling him Simon Peter, Simon the Rock.”
David’s thoughts were only half with the other two in the room. “If we went south, do you think we could find this Jesus of Nazareth and see him for ourselves, even though John is in prison?”
Andrew shook his head immediately. “Jesus is not down in Judea any longer. He’s come back up here.”
David’s head lifted sharply. “Really? Where?”
He shrugged. “He was in Bethsaida the other day. I would guess he’s gone back to Nazareth by now. That’s his home.”
David felt a great surge of disappointment. They had passed within a short distance of Nazareth on their way down from Beth Neelah just a few hours ago. They could have gone there so easily.
Simeon’s voice cut into his thoughts. It wasn’t very often that he and his uncle saw eye to eye on things, but Aaron had made a telling point. “Father, think about it. Can it be possible that the Messiah would come out of Nazareth?”
Andrew smiled slowly, a tolerant, patient smile. “Simon Peter and I have a good friend from Bethsaida. His name is Philip. Jesus asked Philip to be a disciple also. He agreed to do so immediately, just as Simon and I have done.”
Simeon nodded politely, not sure what that had to do with his question.
“Then Philip told an associate of his about Jesus.” He looked at Simeon more closely now, and there was a faint smile. “The associate, whose name is Nathanael, reacted exactly as you have Simeon. ‘Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?’ he asked.”
“A very good question,” Aaron said quickly.
Andrew ignored him, as did Simeon. “And what did your friend Philip say to that?” Simeon wondered.
“What Philip said to Nathanael, I now say to you and your father, Simeon.” He turned to Aaron. “And to you as well, Aaron the Pharisee.”
“What is that?” David asked.
“If you want to know about this Jesus, come and see.”
Chapter Notes
While scholars do not agree as to the exact time of the Savior’s birth, it is generally accepted that it did not take place on December 25, as we now celebrate it. This date was fixed much later, and the birth was attached to a Roman festival, probably to give it wider acceptance. Generally, shepherds would not have been out with their flocks by night in the winter. The most likely time for them to stay with their flocks would have been in the spring, during lambing season. If the birth of Christ occurred in connection with the Passover season, when huge numbers of pilgrims came to Jerusalem, that would explain why Luke wrote that “there was no room for them at the inn” (Luke 2:7). He might also have written, there was no room for them anywhere.
Though the word inn conveys to Western readers the image of a quaint English cottage or tavern by the roadside, we are indebted to Frederic Farrar for a description of an Eastern khan or caravanserai (meaning, a place where caravans stop for the night): “A khan is a low structure, built of rough stones, and generally only a single story in height. It consists for the most part of a square enclosure, in which the cattle can be tied up in safety for the night, and an arched recess for the accommodation of travellers. . . . A large khan . . . might contain a series of such recesses, which are, in fact, low small rooms with no front wall to them. They are, of course, perfectly public; everything that takes place in them is visible to every person in the khan” (Farrar, p. 33).
Thus, while the innkeeper of Bethlehem is often depicted in Christmas stories and pageants as a heartless man who sends a woman in need away, it is possible that he or someone else took pity on Mary and found a place where she could give birth out of the public eye.
M. R. Vincent makes this comment about Migdal Eder: “There was near Bethlehem, on the road to Jerusalem, a tower known as Migdal Eder, or the watch-tower of the flock. Here was the station where shepherds watched the flocks destined for sacrifice in the temple. . . . It was a settled conviction among the Jews that the Messiah was to be born in Bethlehem, and equally that he was to be revealed from Migdal Eder. The beautiful significance of the revelation of the infant Christ to shepherds watching the flocks destined for sacrifice needs no comment” (Vincent, 1:142; emphasis in original).
The tradition that the stable was actually in a grotto or a cave, and not in the more traditional wooden structure we see pictured in so many Christmas scenes, is very old. Justin Martyr, who lived in Palestine within a hundred years of Christ, identified a cave as the place where the nativity took place (see Farrar, p. 34). The current Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem is built over just such a grotto.
The account of Andrew’s becoming a disciple of Jesus and of giving Simon the name of Peter is found in the first chapter of the Gospel of John.
Chapter 7
One sword keeps another in the sheath.
—Jacula Prudentum
I
26 March, a.d. 30
Miriam, daughter of Mordechai, member of the Great Council at Jerusalem, felt her spirits lift. Their light carriage was passing southward along the Via Maris. The great highway ran in a straight line across the flatness of the coastal plains. Less than a mile to the west of where they now rode, Miriam could see the blue water tipped with white where the waves were cresting just offshore. This was the massive body of water which the Romans, with their usual practicality, called “The Sea in the Middle of the Land,” the Medi-terranean, but which most others called simply the Great Sea.
It was a beautiful spring morning, and the breeze off the sea was gentle and pleasant. Meadows and byways were a riot of brilliant color following the latter rains, the spring rains. Yellow groundsel and crown daisies carpeted great stretches of the land. The purple blooms of the milk thistle, cushioned in their spined bases, lined the roadway. Not as profuse but equally beautiful, the brilliant reds and oranges of the Persian crowfoot, a member of the buttercup family, added their splash to the overall scene. Birds were singing in bush and tree, and Miriam thought that if it weren’t for the rattle of the carriage, they could have heard the soft humming of bees.
These were the Plains of Sharon, beloved of her people for untold generations and one of Miriam’s favorite places in all the land. She had been a little awed by the spectacular vistas of the upper Galilee, but here everything came together in a soothing, harmonious wholeness that was exactly what she needed after the horror, frustration, and aggravation of the last few days.
About a furlong away, between them and the beach, Miriam could see the construction project currently undertaken by the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate. She had heard about the great aqueduct that would eventually bring water to Caesarea, some twenty-five miles from the heights of Mount Carmel. The project had generated so much opposition and controversy that Miriam expected the aqueduct to be a blight on the land and an affront to the eye. But instead, she was pleasantly surprised. Pilate was using native stone, the same used in buildings all over the land of Israel, and the overall effect was actually pleasing to the eye. Here the aque
duct was probably twice the height of a man, running mile after mile in a perfectly straight line. Its graceful stone arches dipped and rose with the land, but the top—which hid the plastered water channel—remained straight as an arrow’s shaft. She knew it had to have a constant downhill grade to carry the water to the city, but to her eye it looked perfectly level.
“Who but the Romans?”
She turned to her father in surprise. She had thought he was asleep, but he was watching her as he also looked out the carriage at Pilate’s project. Off in the distance, about half a mile ahead of them, they could see the end of the aqueduct, where the crowds of men were erecting scaffolding to continue the project’s southward run.
“They are quite the builders, aren’t they,” Miriam agreed.
Mordechai nodded. “They say there is a place in Aquitania where they have built an aqueduct that runs for more than thirty miles, crossing steep gorges and narrow ravines. Yet in all that distance, it has a total drop in height of no more than forty-five or fifty Roman feet, or about thirty of our cubits.”
Miriam shook her head. That was incredible. “I heard they have so many aqueducts coming into Rome that they bring as much water to the city as the Tiber River itself.”
“I believe it,” Miriam’s father said. He was gazing out at the passing aqueduct with some soberness. “Only fools would think they could defeat a people who make their own rivers and bring springs of water to their very doorstep.”
Miriam looked at him sharply. Was that what had kept him so quiet and moody since they had left Ptolemais early this morning? He had been in a dark mood ever since learning that the meeting in Sepphoris had been canceled. His failure to reestablish that contact through the letter sent by the hand of Deborah, Simeon’s mother, angered him all the more. He had said little all the way from Beth Neelah to Ptolemais, the Roman port north of Mount Carmel. And he had done little more than grunt at her and Livia and the hired driver since leaving this morning.