18 The Father, the Son & the Slave
You know the Passion narrative. This is not that tale. This is the story of a father, his estranged son and the slave caught between them as they journey from Nazareth to Jerusalem. This is Chapter Eighteen.
E I G H T E E N
“What is it?” Maryam asked as she and Mother returned, the basket burdened with food.
Iesu looked up. “Johannen is dead.”
“The Baptist?” Maryam lowered the basket to the ground and rushed to him. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“I heard it from some Essaious taking the news to Qumran.”
Metlip asked, “Who was Johannen?”
“Johannen, known as the Baptist. It was his simple purifying ritual that taught me how to implement the Father Above’s new covenant. Johannen and I spent less than a day together, but he recognized me as the Messiah before he knew my name.”
“How did he die, my Heart?”
“Murdered by Herod Antipas as a gift for his wife’s daughter.”
“As a gift?” said Metlip.
“Indeed. Johannen rebuked Herod for taking his brother’s wife as his own, which goes against our law.”
Mother lowered the rear gate of the wagon and lay out her purchases. “Eat, family. Iesu, tell us of Johannen and release your grief. Metlip, the smaller cheese is yours. The smaller one, yes?”
The heat decided Iesu’s path. Though longer, following the River Jordan north until it met the Roman road to Jericho was far less arduous a trek than crossing the arid hills that lay between the Salt Sea and Jerusalem. He looked back at the walls of the Essaious community of Qumran and smiled, recalling the joy he found among the brotherhood. They were proof that humankind could live in harmony, but even they were far from perfect — he would never understand how their camaraderie and respect for one another failed so absolutely to accommodate those outside their sect.
Though he had no future among them, his experience at Qumran had solidified his belief that equality and love were the cornerstones for achieving Heaven on Earth. He left them firm in his resolve to recreate their fraternity among the nations of the world, but not how.
Settling the bulging satchel on his shoulder, he turned his back on what he imagined would be his life seven months ago. The sturdy leather bag was his parting gift from the community, though not from affection. They could see no point in wasting Iesu’s training as a healer and thought the loss of a bag of supplies to be worth the addition of another man capable of addressing the pains of the people.
Nestled within the satchel’s compartments were new cloth rags wrapped around slender clay flasks containing honey, vinegar and a distillation of willow bark. Folded papyrus packages filled with powdered herbs were labelled and organized by name in pockets lining the inside flap. Not only was Iesu well-stocked to treat a wide variety of ailments, he now knew how to determine one from another by considering both symptoms and circumstance.
He followed a trail downhill towards the river, splitting his attention between the valley below and the path, watching for scorpions and snakes, though he was sure they had more sense than to be out in this heat. The breeze was slight but came from the north, and he tried to persuade himself he could smell the vineyards Galilee was known for. He thought, briefly, of going home and recanting his claim to be Elijah’s successor. He could return to carpentry, but a wave of anxiety that chased that thought was reason enough for him to reject it.
That night, he discovered another use for the satchel. It made an adequate headrest as he studied those parts of the firmament he could see between the fig trees lining the riverbank. Perhaps the dreams would return, now he had left the Essaious. He missed the persuasive, reassuring presence that shaped them and convinced him of his fate. He was not sure whether their loss resulted from veering from the Father Above’s wishes, or because he had not noticed the emptiness for some time, due to the excitement of Qumran. Had that been behind his rejection of the Essaious prophecy of the Father Above cleansing the world? He struggled to persuade himself of that possibility, but failed. It was so obvious. What was the point of free will if not to empower humankind to raise themselves above the lure of evil?
The dreams did not return the first night, nor on those that followed. Iesu took his time, relishing his freedom from any responsibility other than keeping himself alive, a labour simplified by the Essaious. He had not tasted meat since joining the sect, and felt no urge to start again, so he foraged for figs and other fruits from the orchards he passed, picking only those which had dropped to the ground but showed no rot.
Jerusalem had been the obvious choice of destination — when he planned to become a judge. He was happier as a healer, but that choice raised the question of what Jerusalem offered his new vocation. He left the question unanswered, confident he would recognize whatever signs the Father Above revealed.
On the third day, or perhaps the fourth — Iesu considered the distinction irrelevant — he saw a large crowd gathered on the riverbank. As he narrowed the distance, he picked out a man standing in the water, and one at a time he was joined by others. His curiosity piqued, Iesu slid into the throng.
The crowd was larger than it appeared, not deep but wide as people lined the bank for a better view. The crowd was also diverse, wealth and poverty forgotten, their faces sharing looks of eager reverence. Easing forward, Iesu stepped around a young man and found himself on the riverbank. Like the others, his attention was caught up at the sight of the man in the river.
The young man beside him turned, took in Iesu’s plain tunic and mantle. “You must come from Qumran,” he said. “I am Essaious like you. I am John, and that is Johannen, of whom you must know, purifying our people in readiness for the Day of Judgement.”
Johannen looked like Iesu imagined a prophet should look like, his holiness clear from his denial of the material world. A shapeless garment of pressed camel hair and belted with a braided rope spoke to his humility. His asceticism was plain to see in the raucous tangles of his hair, his devotion revealed in his disregard for everything and everyone except the person before him, proof of his righteousness clear in each precise repetition of the ritual. Time after time, the Baptist’s powerful arms turned the devout to face the river’s current so the living water could carry their sins away. Before he demanded they speak their sins for God to hear, Johannen positioned himself between them and the crowd so only he and God learned their transgressions.
Those people who spoke for several minutes he then submerged in the water. When he raised them, he told them they were forgiven and now pure in the eyes of God. Those who thought to limit the extent of their sins, Johannen held under for longer, repeating his demand for them to reveal all their sins when he raised them, gasping for air. Iesu noticed that the wealthy were less honest of the number of their sins than the poor, but owned far more.
He could not define it, but something about the process intrigued him. Curious, he discarded his sandals and joined others seated on the bank with their feet in the water. He watched as one after another, men and women alike emerged from Johannen’s ritual with renewed energy and a look Iesu could only describe as blessed. As the day waned, the crowd thinned and John again approached him.
“Come, Brother,” he beckoned. “Let Johannen cleanse your sins.” Of a sudden, a cool rain fell, and those few ahead of Iesu ran for shelter.
Iesu laughed and answered John’s raised eyebrow. “A moment ago they lined up to be soaked in the river, but now they run from the rain.”
John smiled and gestured Iesu forward. Iesu knew of Johannen the Baptist, renowned among the Essaious for his intellect and knowledge as much as for his intolerance of those who were not members of the sect. Yet here he was, ensuring as many of his people as possible were spiritually purified and presentable to God. Iesu dropped his sandals on the bank, propping his satchel on top. The river was warmer than the rain, the mud slick under his feet.
Johannen’s gaze gripped his the moment he stepped into the river, sharp and searching, as if it could penetrate the body and weigh the soul within. All afternoon, Johannen had delivered his forgiveness with the sober patience of a parent accepting a child’s apology for disobedience while implying that next time, the consequences would be greater. As Iesu waded towards him, the Baptist’s judgemental set of his jaw relaxed and his eyes widened, reducing the steep slopes of his wild brows to gentle mounds. When Iesu stood in front of the ragged Essaious, the man stared.
“You have no sins to confess,” Johannen told him. “Can it be?” He lowered Iesu into the water and then raised him. In that moment, the rain ceased. “You are worthy of God,” Johannen intoned.
And in a flash of revelation, Iesu understood the Father Above’s intent in all He laid before him. “There is but one way to honour God,” he told Johannen, “and you have shown it to me. It is not enough to confess and earn forgiveness. You must accept a personal covenant with Him to earn His Grace.” As if in confirmation, a bright beam of sunlight pierced the clouds and enveloped the two men.
“It is you,” Johannen whispered. “I knew you would come. Praise to God.”
Iesu took Johannen’s hands in his. “Thank you, Johannen. Today, you have gifted me the means to meet my destiny.”
“How?”
“Your ritual. Though you intend it to cleanse and purify the spirit by admission of sin and then washing away guilt, there is far more to it than you think. Accepting God’s forgiveness demands your acknowledgement of Him, and in that recognition is a personal covenant with Him.”
“Baptize me, my prophet, if it pleases you,” Johannen pleaded, naming the ritual. And Iesu did. Pushing his unruly hair back from his face, Johannen wanted answers to a list of questions.
“From where did you come?” he asked Iesu. “Where will you go?”
“My origins are unimportant,” Iesu replied, “but my goal — my destiny — is to restore the Father Above in the hearts of all men, without the meddling corruption of the priests or obedience to obscure and arcane laws.”
The two men spoke easily, like old friends and not the strangers they were. Until John, his assistant, entered the water to ask why they ignored those remaining on the riverbank. Iesu turned to leave and allow Johannen to continue his work, but the Baptist would not hear it and held Iesu by the arm.
“This is he,” Johannen told John. “He whom I promised would follow me.” Still firmly in Johannen’s grasp, Iesu was pulled a few steps towards the riverbank.
“Hear me,” he called to those on the bank. “I, Johannen, known as the Baptist, am but the herald for this man. Behold, the new Messiah!”
No, Iesu thought. The words filled him with alarm, and he glanced to the far shore and felt sadness for the cost of his satchel’s precious contents in his escape. But the crowd was silent, curious rather than angry.
“I do not call myself Messiah,” he assured them. “I am but a healer who teaches the power of love to heal all things.”
But Johannen would not see the danger in his words. “Come! Come!” he cried. “Judgement approaches! Let yourselves be cleansed of sin and all that defiles you in the sight of God. The Messiah will forgive you!”
They moved then, almost as one, in their rush to rid themselves of their guilt. John and Johannen both placed themselves in front of Iesu, yet no one threatened him with anything beyond respect.
Iesu did not bother to count, but it was full dark when John helped the last woman climb the riverbank. Or, he thought she was the last — but a girl, near to but not yet a woman, stood nearby, alone and seemingly unaware of the hour. She did not approach. Following Johannen, John passed close by her and said, “Come back tomorrow.” Still she did not move.
John caught up to Johannen and whispered urgent questions Iesu did not hear, but Johannen’s answers calmed the younger man.
“Why are you alone?” Iesu asked the girl, his voice calm so as not to frighten her. “I would help you find your way home.” He gathered his satchel, replaced his sandals.
“Are you he?” she answered. “The healer. The Messiah.” Iesu looked about to see if anyone heard. Only John stood near enough.
“I have some healing skill. What ails you?”
“Not me. My father. What is the cost?”
“How is he afflicted? What happened to him?”
“Nothing. Nothing I know. He was sorting pomegranates for market and then he fell. Now he lies in his pallet. He does not eat, though if I place water in his mouth, he takes it.”
“And your mother?”
“She does his work and leaves his care and that of my brothers and sister to me. Will you come to him? We have no coin, but you can share our meal.”
“I have some apricots,” he told her, and pulled three from his satchel. He handed her one and tossed another to John, who followed close behind them. “What should I call you? I am Iesu.”
“Matta.”
“You are the eldest?” She nodded. “How many brothers and sisters have you?”
“One sister and two brothers. Another sister died.”
It was not a long walk to the small farmhouse set just above the Jordan’s flood line, a low stone building comprising two chambers. The walls of the first fell short of the palm-thatch roof, though it was empty of livestock. The chamber behind it was dark and smoky, lit only by the sputtering flames in the hearth.
John went to find more firewood while Iesu questioned Matta’s mother, Anara, on her husband’s condition, but the woman knew less than her daughter. When the fire wrapped itself through new wood, Iesu saw defiance in the farmer’s eyes despite that the left side of his body seemed lifeless.
Behind him, John said, “I have seen this palsy before. There is naught to do.”
Iesu had to agree. Nothing the brothers of Qumran had taught him suggested how he should proceed. Pushing himself to his feet, neither he nor John noticed the farmer’s good hand clutch at Iesu’s ankle.
A moment later, Iesu’s world vanished. John witnessed Iesu convulse and collapse while the farmer sat up in his pallet and asked for food. It was brought, but he had no chance to eat as his wife and children swarmed him. Once John determined Iesu lived, they placed him on the pallet and left him to recuperate. Matta sat with him through that night and the next, dribbling water between his lips.
It was deep into the second day when Iesu’s eyes opened. His waking movements roused Matta, curled on the floor rushes beside his pallet. She sat up, confirmed to herself that the Messiah had found his senses, and sprinted from the chamber.
She soon returned with her parents, John and her siblings in tow. Her father, Nathan, told Iesu he and everyone in his family would thereafter speak a daily prayer for him, so grateful were they that Iesu had restored him.
“I did nothing,” Iesu insisted, “I could do nothing,” but they would not hear it, not even John, who fell to his knees and begged to follow him, citing Nathan’s restoration a miracle and proof Iesu was the Messiah.
“Now is not the time,” Iesu told John. “When you hear of me again, then seek me, and I will welcome you.”
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