The Big Fisherman (48 page)

Previous rumours of the Carpenter's miracles had not bothered him too much. It was conceivable that a clever magician could talk a crowd of simple-minded, credulous people into a foolish interest in his charlatanry. Had he not seen it happen again and again on the streets of Athens? Even the Nazarene's alleged works of healing were understandable. It was a matter of record that bed-ridden paralytics, finding their house on fire and no one to help them, had risen and run to safety. Long-time lunatics had been briefly shocked into sanity. Doubtless the Carpenter's feats of healing could all be accounted for if anyone would go to the trouble of examining them.

But this thing that had obviously happened to Hannah seemed different. The behaviour of the neighbours was puzzling. They were not all fools and the spontaneity of their amazement made it incredible that they had connived with the Nazarene to create the impression that a miracle had been performed.

For some time David remained standing outside the fence, watching the people in the door-yard as they moved about with strained faces in which there was something of bewildered gratification combined with forthright terror, most of them mumbling questions which nobody tried to answer, groups of them falling apart and re-forming again, some crowding into the congested doorway, some struggling to get out, shaking their heads when queried. The thing that had happened in there might have a reasonable explanation, but the people didn't think so.

David felt at a disadvantage standing there, waiting. It certainly did not comport with his dignity to exhibit so much curiosity. He surveyed the crowd for a familiar face, someone he might beckon to him, but nobody glanced his way. . . . Now came the Big Fisherman, around from the rear of the house, walking hurriedly toward the gate, looking neither to right nor left. David hoped to attract his attention but Simon's errand was urgent and he gave no heed. It was evident that he didn't want to talk to anyone.

Rabbi Elimelech now appeared, the crowd on the stoop making way for him, and cautiously tottered down the two steps, leaning heavily on his cane. He glanced about at the staring faces, his own wearing a laboured smile that he intended to be amiable and paternal, but an inner stress showed through. He laid a long, lean hand on his beard, perhaps to compose his chin, which was trembling. David walked round the corner and waited for him at the gate.

'All—David! I am glad to see you. I hope you are well.' The Rabbi was trying to be casual.

'Well?' David was brusque; he wasn't going to be put off with trivial amenities. 'Not at all well! I'm quite upset! What has been going on here, Rabbi?'

'Walk with me, David,' murmured the old man. 'I cannot stand long. My legs, you know. I must go home. Take my arm, my friend.'

David promptly complied and found that the lean arm was trembling. They moved slowly up the street together. For something to say, David remarked drolly, 'I'm afraid your congregation will think you have fallen into bad company, Master.'

'It won't matter,' replied Elimelech huskily. 'Nothing matters now. My people have objected to my interest in the Nazarene; but now—they don't know what to think—about anything!'

It wasn't as if they were strangers, the Rabbi and this Sadducee. David had no connections with the Synagogue, never attended its services, was presumed to hold it in contempt; but he was its chief financial support. Whenever he sent a contribution, he took pains to explain that the gift was not meant to imply the slightest interest in the Synagogue, but only his appreciation of Rabbi Elimelech's kindness to the poor of Bethsaida. The Regents of the Synagogue always scowled when they got it, and indignantly talked of refusing it, which they never did.

Once the good old man had climbed the hill and spent the afternoon with the Sadducee. And they had enjoyed each other. On leaving, however, Elimelech had remarked, with some embarrassment: 'I wish we might do this—often—but—'

'I understand fully, Master,' David had said. 'You have enough to bear without defending your friendship for a Sadducee.'

Impatient as he was to inspect the old man's mind in regard to the alleged miracle of Hannah's healing, he refrained from pestering him with questions while they were on the way. They walked slowly, arm in arm, with short, shuffling steps, David acquiring the Rabbi's limp. It seemed a long journey to the commodious old house hard by the Synagogue. David tenderly assisted Elimelech up the steps and through the door. Courtesy demanded that the Rabbi invite his friend to sit down and courtesy compelled the Sadducee to accept.

When Elimelech's breathing was easier, David asked: 'What think you, Master? Was Hannah's recovery miraculous?'

'That word is often used loosely, David,' replied the old man, apparently hoping that his candid evasiveness would preclude further questioning. Noting David's shrug, he elaborated on his irrelevant remark: 'Frequently a new experience is called miraculous.'

'Let us not trouble ourselves about the careless use of big words, Master,' said David reproachfully. 'This is a serious matter!'

Elimelech acknowledged his futile attempt to retreat from the main issue: he closed his eyes and slowly nodded his head.

'You know as much about it as I, David. Hannah was at the point of death. Gershon said so. Everybody said so. . . . Jesus spent a few minutes at her side, and she sat up, recognized those who stood by, and accepted food. . . . If that is a miracle'—the weary old voice faltered and finished lamely—'it was indeed a miracle.'

'Then the man is divine!' persisted David. 'Is that your opinion, sir?'

'How should I know?' Little beads of perspiration were dotting the Rabbi's pale forehead, but the Sadducee continued his inquisition.

'If he is divine, might he be the promised Messiah?'

'Many Messiahs have come and gone, my friend. None of them met the requirements of prophecy.'

'Very true!' assented David. 'And each of them had his loyal following, and most of them were honest and fearless men of good intent, like this Jesus. But they all failed of the one great task. According to the prophets, the Messiah would restore the Kingdom to Israel. No one of them could do that.'

Elimelech made no comment, and David went on:

'Rabbi, how recently have you visited Caesarea?'

'Never was there in my life. Why do you ask?'

'Well, if this man has any thought of restoring the Kingdom to Israel he had better set about it with all speed. The Romans arc preparing Caesarea as a port of invasion. It will not be long now. . . . Tell me, Rabbi. You have heard this Nazarene speak: has he talked about the Kingdom?'

'He talks of little else, David,' said Elimelech quietly.

'And what does he say?' David leaned forward attentively. 'Does this penniless Carpenter expect to withstand a Roman invasion?'

'The Romans will not invade his Kingdom, David.'

'I'm afraid I don't understand, Master.'

'No,' sighed the old man, 'you wouldn't understand. This man's Kingdom is his soul. He teaches that our Kingdom is our soul. The Romans cannot take it; nor can they destroy its peace. . . . You should hear him talk, David. Then you might understand.'

With that, David rose to go: he had no mind for further discussion of this sort. Besides, he had tormented the good old man long enough. He moved toward the door.

'And come and tell me what you think of him, my friend,' said Elimelech, over his shoulder. 'The Carpenter may have a surprise in store for you.'

* * * * * *

David of the Sadducean House of Zadok had been so stirred to curiosity about the Nazarene that he resolved to pocket his cynicism and pay the man a visit forthwith.

It was rumoured that the Carpenter had opened a shop in Capernaum and during the season of rough weather would be available for employment. Would the Messiah be likely to do that? None of the other candidates for Messiahship had worked with his hands. However, reflected David, it wasn't important that Jesus should pattern his career in imitation of men who had failed. Perhaps he was showing wisdom in making common cause with toilers: perhaps calluses on a prophet's hands were more to his credit than concealed callosities less comfortably achieved. . . . David chuckled a little at the possibilities of a detestable epigram dealing with this matter.

The crowd in Hannah's door-yard had thinned somewhat when he passed the house on his way home. He did not pause to ask questions. He walked more rapidly than usual, for he intended to visit the Carpenter this afternoon. In anticipation of the call it would be more seemly, he thought, to provide himself with a legitimate business errand. To do this he would first have to go home.

On his latest visit to Athens, six years ago, David had bought an exquisitely crafted curio-cabinet which, to his great disappointment, had been badly damaged in transportation. On various occasions he had invited experienced woodworkers to attempt repairs, but none of them wanted to undertake it. They hadn't the tools for it, they said. Now he would take it to the Nazarene.

The servants dusted it with care, loaded it on a cart, and followed their master to Capernaum—slowly, for the elderly lawyer was prudent about overtaxing his tired heart. It was mid-afternoon when they arrived at the old home of Jonas, who, according to a local legend, had often prayed publicly for the Sadducees in a tone that poorly concealed his private lack of interest in their welfare.

The Big Fisherman opened the door and showed surprise—and some embarrassment too, from which he quickly recovered. Ranged around the walls, sitting on stools and benches, several men silently surveyed the visitor. They came to their feet as Simon presented them to the eminent David, each of them bowing respectfully as his name was spoken—one Nathaniel Bartholomew, a man of apparent intelligence in his sixties; a light-complexioned, slender man of forty, whose name was Philip—

'A Greek?' inquired David.

'Quite a long time back, sir,' Philip had replied. 'My people fled from Macedonia a century ago.'

Then Simon pointed out the young brothers, James and John.

'Are you carpenters?' asked David, addressing John in particular.

'Fishermen,' said John, adding, 'but not today.'

A chuckle went round the circle.

'Johnny is not much of a fisherman, sir,' put in Simon, 'even in the best of weather. We take him along for ballast.'

This was amusing, for Johnny was of slight build and didn't weigh very much. When the others laughed he smiled obligingly and rubbed a beardless chin.

Simon, they all felt, was doing very well: Simon had a way with him. Even the presence of the learned Sadducee had not disconcerted him.

'I think you have met my brother,' said Simon, as Andrew came in from an adjoining room carrying a comfortable chair obviously intended for the honoured guest. David politely nodded toward Andrew and they all sat down. After a little silence, David turned to Simon and said, 'I came to see the Carpenter, Jesus. I have some work for him.'

'The Master is resting, sir,' said Simon.

David stiffened slightly and arched his eyebrows, as to wonder how a carpenter could afford to be resting during working hours, but Simon offered no explanation. Philip, who sat by a front window observing the cart, inquired, 'Is there anything we can do, sir?'

'Not unless you're a skilled carpenter,' replied David coolly; but he went to the door and told his servants to bring in the cabinet.

They all gathered in a circle around it, admiring its craftsmanship and deploring its injuries. Unobserved, Jesus joined the preoccupied group, standing beside and a little to the rear of David. Their sleeves lightly touched. Of ponderous dignity and deliberate movement, David was not one to act impulsively; but at this accidental contact, he suddenly retreated, turned about, and found himself staring into the steady eyes of a young man who didn't seem to belong in this company at all.

Simon, observing, said, 'Master, our guest is David, of the House of Zadok.'

The Sadducee bowed deferentially, silently, and Jesus said, 'You are welcome, friend. What may I do for you?'

David pointed toward the cabinet, but Jesus' eyes did not follow the gesture, as had been expected. His calm look of inquiry seemed friendly enough, but it was apparent that he had no concern for the cabinet.

'I shall make no attempt to deceive you, sir,' said David. 'The cabinet does need mending; but, in truth, that was not the object of my call. I have heard many things of your words and deeds, and I desired to see you.'

'You have spoken truthfully, David,' said Jesus. 'If that is your custom you should be able to understand my sayings. Men who love the truth are my friends. . . . Will you sit down?'

They all found their places and sat, with Jesus in the midst of them. Stooping over, he picked up a portion of the worn-out lathe, shook his head, and let it fall with a clatter to the floor.

'Let us talk of redemption,' he said, 'and of salvation.' He pointed to the broken lathe and then to the cabinet. In a low voice, almost as if he were talking to himself, he began to speak about the things that could and could not be reclaimed by mending. Some things were beyond repair. The life was gone out of them and nothing but newness of life could redeem them.

'It is useless,' he went on, 'to sew a new patch on an old garment. The worn-out fabric has no strength to support good cloth. It is of no profit to pour active new wine into an old, dried, inflexible wineskin.' Turning toward David, he asked, 'What say you, friend?'

'I fully agree with you, Master,' said David. 'And does it not apply as well to old systems of thought, old laws, old beliefs?'

A slow, sidelong glance of apprehensive inquiry slipped from man to man around the wall. Was this shrewd lawyer baiting the Master to some imprudent criticism of the Government or the Sanhedrin?

But apparently Jesus had no suspicions of the Sadducee's sincerity. He seemed eager to discuss David's pertinent query. . . . The tendency of any ancient establishment of laws or doctrines was the gradual accumulation of signs, symbols, tokens, amulets, sanctified vessels and enchanted words, until the life of the institution was smothered and its purposes forgotten. . . . Endless debates dealt with such trivialities of the law as how many cubits a man might walk on the Sabbath Day, whether a man might carry a stool across the room, whether a sailor was breaking the law of the Sabbath if he had a needle in his coat; but they never defined how much rent a landlord could exact of a poor tenant or how much interest a money-lender could demand from a hard-pressed debtor. . . . Solemn conclaves dignifiedly wrangled over the proper compounding of herbs for incense—precisely how much mint, how much anise, how much rue—and days were spent in arguing about the breadth of a phylactery or the depth of a hem on a priest's robe, while the needy lay starving to death on rich men's doorsteps, and nobody cared! . . . The Master's voice rose indignantly as he pictured groups of hapless, hopeless men huddled together at the very lodge-gates of well-fed pundits who spent their days splitting the hairs of ritual and ceremonial. And nobody noticed the plight of these wretched ones but the homeless dogs who paused to lick their sores. Nor was there any talk of mercy and brotherly kindness! . . . Any government so far gone toward utter futility could never be repaired. It would have to be reborn.