a story (part one)

"Then one said unto him, Behold, thy mother and thy brethren stand without, desiring to speak with thee. But he answered and said unto him that told him, Who is my mother? and who are my brethren? And he stretched forth his hand toward his disciples, and said, Behold my mother and my brethren! For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother." (St. Matthew 12:47-50)

". . . neither did his brethren believe in him." (St. John 7:5)

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Mary waited for him, sitting on the bench and getting angrier and angrier as the hours passed. She was determined to wait as long as it took. Finally, she heard him at the doorway. As soon as he had blessed himself at the door, she said "And what was THAT all about?"

He bowed his head to her, saying nothing. He busied himself with laying aside his robe, taking off his sandals.

"'Honor thy father and thy mother.' Or does it still say that?"
"I honor you, Mother. I always have."

"You have a funny way of showing it. Ignoring me and your brothers, telling that crowd that they are more important than we are."
"That's not what I said."
"It sure sounded like it."

"I said that those who obey my words are my mother and sisters and brothers. I never said they were more important than you. But they are equal with you. There is no higher honor I can bestow on them."

"Those people, their loyalty is as thin as a layer of dust."
"I know."
"And you say such things about them?"
"Some will hear. Some will follow, even if it costs them their lives. And they are my brothers and sisters, just as surely as James and Joses, Judah and Simon, and the girls."

Mary was livid. She saw that Jesus was reading her like a book; he knew that that she was counting to twenty, trying to master her temper. That made her even angrier. She kept going; it had better be one hundred.

Finally she spoke. She tried to be calm, but her voice was shaky. "Jesus. My son. Don't you understand? You are the One. The Messiah. You need to inspire us, give us the courage to take our country back. Instead, you fritter away your days, telling all these wacky stories about the 'kingdom.' God will never give us another chance, another Messiah. And here you are, throwing yourself away."

"It doesn't work that way," he said.
"Well, how does it work?"
"You've heard me; I will be handed over to the Romans and they will crucify me."
"The Romans will have won again, and ten years from now, no one will remember you."

"And I will be raised to life again on the third day."

Mary tried to marshal her thoughts. As usual when she tried to talk with Jesus about these things, his words had a way of soaring off in impossible directions. All she could manage was a question, barely whispered:

"How can you know that?"
Jesus smiled, sat on the bench beside her. He took her hand. "How could you believe an angel?"
"Being pregnant is pretty hard to miss."
"But you believed first."

She stood up, her back creaky from sitting too long. She went to the door. Looking back at him in tears, she said, "If you come back to Nazareth, they will kill you. And I'm not sure but what I would throw the first stone." With that, she left.

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With a sigh, Mary laid her mending on the table. She went to the window, the one looking south. "He's really going through with it," she thought. "Everyone says he is going up to Jerusalem." She made up her mind, and headed for the woodlot, looking for James.

"No." James leaned on his axe, looking at his mother. "No. Never again."
"James. . . ."
"No. That fool is going to get himself killed. And no, you are not going there and getting tangled up in it."

That was too much for Mary. "Now listen here, James." She was shaking with anger. "I was tangled up in this before you were born." She shook her head, and took a deep breath. "There's no escaping it. I have to go."

In the end, Mary convinced her sister Salome to go with her. The two of them went to Cana and found Cleopas and his wife Mary. They had been disciples ever since that night three years ago, when the wine gave out at their wedding. And when Jesus had made more, out of water. "What does it take?" she asked herself. "What does he have to do before they will believe?" The four of them set out.

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They scrambled up the slope. Almost at the top, Mary slipped on a loose stone. She caught herself, Mary Cleopas helping her, but she wrenched her back. Straightening up, she grimaced with the familiar sharp pain in her lower back. "I hate this road," she said.

Joseph tugged the rope. The donkey didn't want to climb the slope, even without its load. Mary stood by the donkey, stroked his mane, and said "Come on," in as encouraging a voice as she could find. She didn't want to climb it any more than the donkey did. With a complaining honk, the donkey took a step, then another, Joseph still pulling. The donkey trudged up the hill. Mary trudged up behind him.

She must have drifted off again, walking down the south side of the hill. Everything seemed to run together nowadays, and Mary hardly knew what was real, what was memory or dream. "I miss him," she said to herself. "How did I ever deserve someone like him?"

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The plane slipped, gashing the wood. James grunted. "It's no use," he said. He began gathering his things. Ever since his mother had left, James could think of nothing but that fool brother of his. Where had Jesus gone wrong? They had grown up together, studied Torah together, and the Prophets. And Jesus always understood it better. Better than James, better than their parents, better than the rabbi, better even than the doctors of the law up in Jerusalem. In his heart, James had come to believe that Jesus was the Messiah, just like everyone kept whispering. If it came to it, James was ready to stand with him. They would be like the Maccabees and take on the world.

But ever since Jesus had taken John's baptism and gone off in the desert, it was all wrong. When was he going to call an army together and get things rolling? The people were ready; all it would take was one word and they would throw off the Romans like so much chaff in the wind.

Instead, he had taken some crazy notion about the Suffering Servant passages in Isaiah, that it applied to him and that he was going to die. He couldn't die! He just couldn't. Not if there was a God in heaven.

Joses could take care of the shop while he was gone.