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Jesus, My Brother

I would sit on a large stone near our home in Nazareth and watch my oldest brother minister to an injured bird or cat, while my other brothers, James and John, who were the second and third oldest sons, assisted him with little splints and poultices made of clay, spit and cooking dough. Occasionally, I would look on with mixed emotions as they forced fed little creatures or applied medicine to their wounds. I did not understand why Jesus didn’t play normal games with us, and why I was always left out. Once they even attempted to treat an injured dog, until my Father drove the poor beast away. My two older brothers, in utter disobedience, treated the dog anyway and searched Nazareth until they found it a home.

I remember that day, with mirth, when Papa scolded Jesus, James, and John for disobeying him and Jesus’ response when father threatened to beat all three of them if they ever did it again. “I must tend to my Father’s creation,” Jesus had replied cryptically. Even now, with all my years of reflection, I am amazed at his boldness.

With my mother’s interfering hand, all father could really do was sternly rebuke Jesus for setting such a bad example to his younger brothers and give the three of them extra chores around the shop.

“It is better to obey God than man,” Jesus had replied, after being handed a hoe by father and told to do God’s work.

I could tell that father wanted to strike Jesus at times, yet something always stayed his hand. If it had been James, John or I, he would cuff us soundly when mother wasn’t around. But there was something very different about Jesus back then. That this would prove to be a understatement in the years ahead, brings a smile to my face. Jesus different? Today, we would begin to see how different our big brother was.

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As I watched Jesus frantically trying to bring life back to a dead bird--his favorite subject, I shifted uneasily on my rock, partly because of the bee sting I had received on my rear the previous day but also because I knew this time Jesus was going too far. James and John thought so too.

It was hot in Nazareth that day. The sky was cloudless and the radiance from the white-washed buildings surrounding our house stung my eyes. As the shade from our olive tree, following the movement of the sun, reached my stone, I was lulled into drowsiness, so I shut my eyes against the sun and the troubling specter unfolding before me now. I will never forget that telltale moment.

“The sparrow is dead, Jesus,” John, the youngest of the medics, exclaimed, “let us bury it in our animal cemetery. What you do is unclean!”

“No, no, I have never failed,” wept Jesus. “I cannot fail now. I will blow the breath of my Father into him. I will make him live!”

“What do you mean I? We are a team, are we not?” frowned James, who had been acting as assistant to Jesus while John mostly watched.

“Yes, Jesus,” John rose up and glared down at him now, “you think you are so special! You said ‘my father’ before when we treated the dog. Joseph is our father, is he not?”

“I have two fathers!” Jesus finally confessed, a troubling expression falling over his face.

“What? What did Jesus say?” I bolted off my rock, rubbing my eyes.

I was not dreaming. I could scarcely believe my ears or my eyes. I might have only been eight years old, but I knew a blasphemy when I heard it. Fortunately for Jesus and his brothers, our father was in town repairing the rabbi’s roof. Mother, who rarely ever interfered with Jesus experiments, had not yet appeared. Unlike all the other times I sat as a bystander and merely watched, I decided it was time to take action against my oldest brother. I wanted, as I wanted the last time when father threatened him, to see Jesus beaten soundly for what he did. How could I, or my brothers who were jealous of Jesus, possibly have understood who he was. All we saw was an eccentric and entertaining misfit, who was always saying and doing strange things.

Today, I saw a rift develop between Jesus and James and John. I, for my part, was not jealous of Jesus, at least not in the way James, John or my sisters were at times. They resented the special treatment he received from our parents, but since I was the youngest son, my father treated me special too. I alone looked like my father and even had, according to my mother, some of his traits. Perhaps because I was so young and small, I seldom had many chores other than making up my pallet and feeding Elijah, my pet goat. It was my mother who forced my father to treat Jesus so special. Until this awful day we did not know why. I hated Jesus for his bossy and self-righteous airs, nothing more. Today, after jumping off my rock, I ran straight to the rabbi’s house, with a wicked feeling of self-righteousness puffing me up too. I was going to get even with my big brother now; he was going to pay. I was going to get him punished severely, maybe even beaten for his efforts to bring back the dead bird. I didn’t care what my mother thought, and I wasn’t doing it for my brothers or sisters. I was doing this for my self. Did not rabbi Joachim quote the Torah as saying “Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord!”

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The dusty main road in Nazareth was filled with Roman soldiers today, so I slowed down to a walk, since the Romans distrusted running Jews. What these several dozen soldiers were doing in our small town I had no clue. Even the presence of the Romans could not deter me today. When I reached the rabbi’s humble house, I saw father on his ladder, pulling a rotten log from the roof.

The rabbi, a portly fellow with a long gray flecked red beard, was this minute explaining to father why the Romans were in town. I listened for only a few moments until I interrupted their conversation with my report.

“Longinus is looking for brigands who ambushed a caravan. They seem peaceable enough. Now if those fellows had ambushed Romans, they’d be here with blood in their eyes.”

“Are you sure they’re peaceable,” Joseph looked down quizzically from his ladder, “the last time we had Romans here, there were crosses clear across Galilee. That Judas, the Gaulinite, made a lot of trouble for us.”

“Judas was a sicaris and revolutinonary,” sighed Rabbi Joachim. “These fellows were merely cut-throats and thieves and killed only Jews.”

I had enough of this chitchat. I barely understood their chatter. I, for one, admired the Roman soldiers more than the country bumpkins in my town.

“Jesus is blowing into a dead bird’s mouth!” I cried out in desperation.

“What?” Papa looked down from his ladder.

“Oh, hello little Jude,” the rabbi said, patting my black mat of hair. “Now, what is this nonsense about big brother Jesus?”

My father did not think it was nonsense. “Oh my Lord,” he mumbled frantically, “he’s at it again!”

“I don’t understand Joseph,” Joachim gave Papa a suspicious look. “Little Jude is serious about this? Jesus is blowing into a dead bird’s mouth? That is unwholesome, Joseph. Jesus must be addled in his head!”

Papa ignored the rabbi’s concern. More nimbly than I had seen him ever act before, he climbed down the ladder and, with my hand clutched in his, practically dragged me back to our house.

“Joseph,” Joachim called after us, “slow down. You’re frightening the boy!”

“I’ll be back soon to finish the repairs,” promised my father, forging ahead.

Wincing in pain but afraid to speak, I looked up at my perspiring father and realized that I had set him into a rage. Guilt for my betrayal of Jesus but also glee filled me when I considered what he might do.

“Are you going to beat Jesus,” I dared ask.

“You don’t understand, Jude,” he looked down after releasing my hand. “. . . You’re too young,” he struggled to explain, “. . . Jesus is not like you! He is special!”

“So am I Papa,” I said, my lower lipping quivering, “you said I was your favorite son!”

“I should not have said that,” he said with recrimination. “That’s between you, me, and God.”

“Why does Mama treat Jesus so special,” I asked him as he re-clasped my hand more gently and led me up slowly to our house. “. . . Jesus said something funny Papa. He said his Holy Father gave him power. Aren’t you our Papa?”

“I-I think it’s time that we try to explain,” my father announced just as my mother peeked out of the entrance of our house.

“What’s wrong Joseph?” her lilting voice carried only minor concern.

“Jesus is starting to know,” he said with a shrug.

“ . . . He mentioned his Father. He’s trying to revive a dead bird.”

“Oh dear me!” mother gasped.

It seemed to Joseph that my mother had not allowed herself to be upset about anything since they fled to Egypt. He was now reassured that his saintly wife was human too. I knew nothing of the episode in Egypt except the fact that it had happened right after Jesus was born. Now, in spite of their promise to the almighty, the truth was seeping out. Papa and I did not know how serious the matter today was, however, until we entered the backyard garden area and spotted Jesus crouching over the dead bird. James and John were standing several feet away wringing their hands and shaking their heads as their older brother continued to blow the breath of God into the dead bird.

“Jesus, stop this at once!” my father shouted.

“Oh dear me,” mother kept saying as she wrung her hands.

Out of nowhere, my twin sisters, Abigail and Martha, ran to mother squealing with delight at this funny scene.

By now, after all the agitation in Jesus hands, the bird should have been a featherless, twisted mass, but something beyond our comprehension happened that would forever change our lives.

With the bird cupped in his large hands, Jesus giggled with delight, himself, looked back up to the heavens and thanked his Father, God. We, his brothers and sisters, believed he was quite mad. In his peculiarly deep, though child-like voice he said: “Fly sparrow. Fly to my Holy Father’s kingdom and tell Him I know the secret now!”

“Secret, what secret? Did you tell him Mary?” asked my father, flashing mother an accusing look.

“I told the boy nothing,” she shrugged, comforting the twins, whose mood had turned to fear. “Jesus is playing a children’s game.”

Opening his hands now, Jesus held his palms upward, in a cruciform position. The tiny sparrow as quickly flew away, its chirp signaling its thanks to its savior, Jesus, and as faint as distant starlight to the world, signaling his future mission on earth. Everyone except me stood there in the garden area in shock. I just felt very tired of all this. I wanted a pomegranate and some fresh dates.

“That bird was dead!” cried James.

“Nyaaa, it must have just been unconscious,” John shook his head.

I tended to agree with John. I was not impressed in the least, and looked up hopefully at my father wondering if Jesus would get punished now. James and John looked back at father in shock and dismay. The twins, who hugged my mother’s thighs, hid their faces in terror. Mother and father exchanged worried, though knowing, looks as Jesus watched the sparrow fly out of sight.

“Ho-ho, John must be correct,” my father told us unconvincingly, “only God can bring back the dead.”

At that point Jesus looked down with a frown. It seemed as if something was about to escape his lips.

“Don’t say it!” mother ran to him and cupped his mouth. “Dear God, he’s only a child!”

Mother said something else to Jesus we could not hear. When father was at his wits ends with Jesus, she had a way of breaking into our brother’s mental cloud and bringing him down to earth. Suddenly, as my oldest brother’s face contorted and he began to weep, we were all reminded that, in spite of his high-minded ways, our big brother Jesus was only twelve years old. He had not even been bar mitzvahed yet. He was a child too. But he was also something else that would dawn on us slowly with each year of our lives. All my parents dared tell us today was what we already suspected all along.

“Should I tell them?” Mary looked questioningly at her husband now.

“No, let’s keep it short,” Joseph dismissed her with a wave. “You and the twins run along and begin our evening meal. After I tell them our secret, Jesus and I are going to have a man-to-man talk.”

Jesus wiped the tears from his face and gave us all a winning smile. His moods changed like cloud formations, my father would often say. We three younger brothers were both enthralled and fearful for this secret we were about to hear. I was disappointed that Jesus would not get into trouble again, though at least he would be scolded for what he did today.

Father now sat Jesus on my rock. Suddenly he looked very small to us—a mere boy cringing under his father’s glare. Until I dared speak again, my father remained silent, gathering his thoughts.

“Tell us Papa,” I said pertly, “why does Jesus claim to have another father?”

My father sighed with relief it seemed, whistled under his breath and reached down and patted Jesus on his tow head.

“You don’t mind me telling them, do you?” he asked Jesus gently.

“No sir, I don’t,” Jesus brightened, a strange exaltation in his blue eyes.

“Of course you don’t,” Papa murmured through the corner of his mouth. “All right, it’s like this,” he began, looking around at us all. “Jesus did have another father-”

“Who? Who?” both James and John cried.

“Uh, that’s a secret,” Joseph said dubiously.

“A secret Papa?” I looked at my father in disbelief.

“Yes, Jude, I adopted Jesus when he was just a babe.”

“What does ad-op-ted mean,” John made a face.

As the fisherman around Lake Gennesarat would say, my father was in deep water. I sensed his predicament now. As young as I was, I knew my father was lying at this point. A secret about a secret; that’s what it amounted to. It was absurd! I had always sensed that my oldest brother was different, which is another name for what my mother called “special.” The fact that my father felt compelled to admit it filled me with suspicion. He was obviously hiding a greater secret. . . What could it be?

“Children, there are many reasons why parents adopt children,” my father tried to explain.

“Name one,” I searched Jesus’ face.

“Well, adultery is one of them,” Jesus offered innocently, gathering together his medical paraphernalia.

Papa’s mouth dropped and eyes popped wide. We could scarcely believe our ears.

“I heard the rabbi say that in the synagogue,” Jesus said calmly. “A man may marry a woman to protect her reputation, especially if she was raped.”

“Jesus, shut up,” Papa whispered to him now, but I, with my cat’s ears, heard my father and drew close.

“I don’t understand,” I looked back and forth between them accusingly, “why did Papa ad-op you. What does adultery mean? What is raped?”

“I think it’s time for Jesus and my walk,” he announced taking Jesus hand.

James and John did not know what to think now, and like myself, stood there shaking their heads as our father and Jesus walked away. When they were out of earshot, James whispered something to John and the two crept after the pair.

“We’re going to find out what’s going on,” James explained simply, motioning for me to come along. “Keep your mouth shut Jude. If Papa sees us eavesdropping, he’ll whip us good!”

“He never whips Jesus,” I snarled.

“Yes,” whispered John, “and we’re gonna find out why!”

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Our father had taken Jesus into an olive grove. On a nearby hillock covered with bushes, we planted ourselves. We were able in our vantage point to see the two speakers as well as clearly hear everything they said.

“Now tell me Jesus,” Papa said firmly, looking squarely into the youngster’s blue eyes, “what exactly do you remember of your past?”

“Why have you lied to us?” he looked at Papa accusingly. “You say I am adopted and I am not your son?”

“Yes,” Joseph studied Jesus carefully. “. . . You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” Jesus pressed. “What is the secret you don’t want us to know.”

“Wait a minute,” our father waved off his question. “If you didn’t know about your adoption, what was all that nonsense about your Holy Father?”

After studying the blank look on Jesus face a moment, Joseph sighed with relief it seemed, bent forward and kissed Jesus forehead.

“Forgot it my son. . . .You’re too young. . . You wouldn’t understand. Believe me Jesus,” he spread his palms, “God does not want you to know--not yet. You must live as a child. It is not time.”

“Time? What time?” Jesus looked at him in disbelief. “. . . I have these dreams. I do not understand them.”

“I have had dreams too,” Papa reached out and embraced his eldest son. “. . . The Lord shall be obeyed!”

“What dreams Papa?” Jesus looked up through Joseph’s beard.

As I watched him look down at Jesus, I, like my two other brothers, held my breath. To my shame now, I felt mostly jealousy at this point, and I sensed that James and John were jealous too.

“. . . I cannot say,” father said finally, looking down into Jesus face. “. . . Please trust us, Jesus. Your mother is a simple woman. For a long time, I thought Mary had forgotten what happened to her and only I was burdened with memories of those events. But much of those details are a blur to me now too. It’s as if the Lord has done as the baker in town, who places his best loaves in the back room to cool, then forgets them as he continues to bake more bread.” (The Hidden Years.)

“Bread,” John whispered, “now he’s talking about bread.”

“I get it,” James murmured. “....The bread is our thoughts!”

“But what does all this mean?” I muttered in bewilderment. “Why is he talking about bread?”

Jesus grew exasperated, as did we. “What Papa?” he asked in a constricted voice “What is in the back room?”

I began to wiggle from boredom. At that point John whispered in my ear “There is bread in the room!”

“What donkey droppings!” James said to himself.

For a moment, as we whispered among ourselves, we thought we had been overheard. Joseph seemed to look quizzically up at the hillock and bushes in which we hid, but then his attention was drawn back to Jesus face. Suddenly, to our amazement, Jesus eyes seemed to blaze in the sunlight and his face glowed as if from inner heat. Papa drew away, made the sign of the evil eye and drew his cloak over his face. I would understand this clearly in later years, especially with my older brothers’ help. Whereas James and John understood some of Jesus eccentricities, however, I was completely mystified now. Where it not for James grimy hand on my mouth, I would have broken into laughter at such a sight. It seemed to me that Papa had grown frightened of Jesus spooky look. This struck me as humorous, but I saw no amusement in James and John’s eyes. When the effect faded and the shadow of a capricious cloud rolled overhead, Papa scanned the sky in disbelief. At that point, I made the sign of the evil eye too.

In the words of James, the Disciple, many years after Jesus resurrection, “As if the forces of good were being replaced by the forces of evil, they both stood in the shadows a moment.”

“It is the Evil One,” we could barely hear Jesus say.

“There were no clouds in the sky today,” my father declared in a constricted voice. “Jesus, do not lie to me. Why did you call upon your Holy Father today?”

“Holy father?” I whispered into James ear. “What does that mean?”

James frowned angrily, his hand clamping back onto my mouth. Jesus took several moments to formulate his reply. I had to go to relieve my bladder, and John was so afraid he would get caught he was whimpering to himself. Just when the three of us had decided that we had heard enough, Jesus answered our father and was asked one more questions that would haunt us all for years to come.

“I remember flashes, like lightning--on and off,” he explained, pressing his temples as if in pain. “These thoughts frightened me. I do not know why I called upon my Holy Father. It just flashed into my head.”

“All right Jesus,” Papa signaled him to stop, “I’ll have to be satisfied with that answer, but I need to know something, my son. . . . Did you really bring back that dead bird?”

“Yes, father,” he looked unwaveringly into Papa’s eyes, “through the Holy Father, I brought him back.”

“So it’s true,” Papa said, raising his eyes to the cloud. “. . . It has begun. Thus sayeth the Lord!”

The dark cloud passed on and, in fact, soon evaporated in the sun. We backed away slowly from the crest of the hill and ran swiftly to our house.

From that day forward, my two older brothers, James and John, held Jesus in awe. Their awe, I realize now, was based upon fear and fascination rather than brotherly love. They would no longer assist him in his care of animals nor follow him around. I was half convinced that Jesus had tricked us. I refused to believe that he was special and had, as James and John believed, magical powers. I had decided that I would stay away from him as much as I could. There were several youngsters in Nazareth my age, so we formed a sort of fraternity.

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James and John’s relationship with Jesus changed immediately that hour. They admired his magic but were disturbed by what they had seen and heard. My resentment toward Jesus likewise worsened when I considered what his revelation would mean. Jesus would be insufferable now. He was no longer our full brother but only our half brother, for he had, he claimed, a Holy Father, which would if carried further, make him the Son of God. Not for one moment did I believe this claim. Adopted or not, he was but flesh and blood. I had seen him eat and sleep and do all the things that mortals do. After he cut himself on one of Papa’s tools, I had even seen him bleed. Our parents had never mentioned his adoption before, but now that we knew, why were they being so secretive? What was there to hide?

Perhaps, it would have been better to know nothing at all, rather than suffer this half truth. Unless Jesus was an orphan, father’s inexplicable adoption of him, made him seem illegitimate, at least to me. And what did that make our mother? I resented Jesus even more for putting this question in my mind.

I was filled with doubts that my eight year old mind could not resolve. As I listened to my other brothers mutter to themselves, I knew they were upset too, though I could not fathom the turmoil in their minds. James and John had, until this hour, slavishly followed Jesus around. Now Jesus was not merely clever but he seemed to have special powers. He had, it appeared brought a dead bird back to life. They had seen, as I had seen, a dark cloud pass over him and a strange light on his face. Judging by their wide eyes and gaping mouths, I was certain they held Jesus in awe. I was also certain, however, it was a begrudging admiration. They could have little love for this strange person now.

I, for my part, would show him no special treatment. I hated him more than ever today. I did not care about that stupid bird. I cared even less about the way his face appeared to glow. It was his high and mighty ways that vexed me, and the fact that he held a special place in my parents hearts. My mother, to produce Jesus, may have committed adultery with another man. Worst of all, our father shared a secret with our mother that even Jesus did not know. It made the rest of us, especially me, feel insignificant. Looking back over the years, I realize how difficult this must have been for Jesus too. He had been a mere infant when our parents fled to Egypt; except for the flashes of understanding he tried to explain to us, he knew no more than us. I understand, as an adult, that his cognition, as Luke called it, came slowly, maturing only when he was ready to accept his role as the Christ.

As a child, however, I could not forgive him for the special treatment he received. It was, of course, unfair to my eldest brother, who remained blameless throughout his life, but from that day forward, there was a gulf between my brothers and sisters and Jesus that grew wider each month. The gulf grew especially wide for me.

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This day of discovery, which made us even more confused, brought we, the three younger brothers, closer together. James and John had taken me into their confidence and seemed to respect me more for making a stand. As we ran back to our home from the orchard, we felt a bond that we had not shared before--I especially since I had always been excluded in the past. James and John had decided, against my arguments, as we scurried into the yard and took up positions of workers instead of eavesdroppers, that our brother was a magician or sorcerer, who did not know his own powers. This ignorance on his part made him even more strange and dangerous in our minds. We now feared him and wondered what our father, for his part in this mystery, was keeping from us now. We were children, not Pharisees, rabbis or priests. Jesus’ ambiguous relationship to his Holy Father, was too complex for a eleven, ten, and eight year old to comprehend—too complex, in fact, for even Jesus precocious twelve year old mind, and yet we sensed that there was something far more serious about this than the legitimacy of Jesus’ birth.

“When Papa returns with our older brother,” counseled James, “he will see us sweating.” “Let us be working like so,” he made motions with the rake. “Mother’s garden can be one our chores!”

“I will find the hoe,” offered John.

“I will use the spade,” I said, looking down and searching for weeds.

As Papa and Jesus entered the garden, Jesus frowned at the three of us but said nothing. We understood immediately that he knew. But our father, who smiled with pleasure at our endeavors, gave me pat on my head and returned to the rabbis house to finish repairing his roof.

I was his special son again, and yet I distrusted Jesus even more after today. When Papa was out of earshot, Jesus walked over to where I sat pulling weeds and handed me the spade. My father had made this tool for us. It was fashioned especially for our small palms. I did not believe Jesus’ act was another miracle, even though he appeared to bring the spade out of thin air.

“Tell us,” James paused in his raking to ask, “are you a sorcerer?”

“No,” Jesus laughed softly, “I’m not a sorcerer.”

“A magician then,” John leaned thoughtfully on his hoe.

“No, not a magician,” Jesus delighted in their awe.

As they continued to quiz our eldest brother, my rage at this puffed up braggart reached its peek

“You’re a liar!” I shot up to my feet. “You’re no different than us. You just want everyone to think you’re special, but your not. You’re not! You’re not! That bird wasn’t dead, and you were hiding the spade behind your back! I hate you! I hate you! I wish you would go away!”

“Someday I will,” Jesus eyes blazed and face seemed to radiate with that same inner heat.

“He did it again!” cried John.

“Our brother Jesus is possessed!” James concluded, making the sign to ward off the evil eye.

Three signs in one day; that was all I could take. I ran from the garden and our house and continued to run past the Roman soldiers up toward the hills near Nazareth’s main road. The soldiers did not bother me as Papa had warned, and yet I grew fearful of my own flight and slowed down when I reached the stone bridge. Where did I think I was going? I was only eight years old. I looked down from the bridge into the dried creek, distracted by this Roman marvel. Right now I needed such a distraction to slow the pace of my mind.

My father had once said to me that Rome’s roads and bridges were her strength; once established in one of their provinces such as Judea and Galilee, they restrained and enslaved the inhabitants, since Roman legions could now march freely throughout their lands. As an eight year old boy, I could not yet grasp the subtleties of nationalism nor the passion of our faith, but I had my own secret desire to be a soldier like the legionnaires I had seen marching through our land. I did not know much about Rome then, except for the armored legionnaires who rode passed us on the road. I would never have admitted it to my parents or brothers but I admired them very much. I also wished I could travel to far off lands.

It was at this moment of reflection that one of the great coincidences of my life occurred on the bridge. The shadow of a horseman fell over me as I stood there looking down into my thoughts. When I reeled around, prepared again to run, I saw the silhouette of a mounted Roman warrior against the sun. I could not make out his features because he was in the shadows. The sun was at his back, and it was in my eyes, but I soon realized that I had nothing to fear. As the horseman stirred and his body blocked out the sun, my eyes focused into the shadow upon a familiar visitor to our town. It was none other than Longinus, a young centurion from the Galilean Garrison. My father told me that he was an honest and likable Roman. He had learned Aramaic, our language, understood our customs and, unlike many soldiers, treated us with respect. I often thought about him when the subject of being a soldier entered my mind, and yet I had never met him until today.

Here he was in the flesh!

“Ave, little Jude,” he called down in my tongue.

“Hello sir, I-I’m sorry I ran,” I blurted, feeling tears well up in my eyes.

“Why do you flee?” he asked simply, dismounting quickly from his horse.

I did not know how to answer this question. Was it simply because I was angry with Jesus and my parents? . . . I wasn’t sure. As we faced each other north to south, instead of east to west, the shadow disappeared and I beheld the tallest and strongest Roman man I had ever seen. His well muscled arms were bare, displaying battle scars here and there, and he had a long jagged scar on his cheek. He wore mailed armor on his chest and a red cape around his neck. His breaches also had armor plating as did an iron band on both his wrists. His helmet, which impressed me most of all, had a plume running sideways instead of straight across the cap, which indicated his rank. He was, I knew, a Centurion, who gave orders to up to a hundred men. With his short sword slung around his neck and a dagger in his belt, he seemed ready for combat, and yet a warm, friendly smile broke his chiseled face. He told me that I should go home and not worry my good father anymore. He handed me an denarius, enough to buy a week’s worth of pastries from the baker’s shop. But I would never spend this coin. I would treasure it always, hiding it with the other curios and artifacts picked up along life’s way. I could not know the role Longinus would someday play in Jesus’ life or what the coin would mean to me someday. Though I did not have a word for it then, the strength and countenance of this Roman, even reckoned at my tender age, made him seem noble, even god-like, to me. While Jesus would be admired, though feared, by his brothers and sisters, I would grow to admire Longinus, Centurion of the Nazareth Cohort.

Though my father had talked about the Legionnaires to us at times, I had never met such a warrior before. I walked back to our home, still upset about my brother Jesus, but with something new and inexplicable boiling inside my head. I did not want to be a rabbi as my father wanted Jesus to be or a scribe as James and John wanted to be. I was going to be soldier just like Longinus. I would someday to go to far off places that they would never know. . . . perhaps even Rome!

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When I had reached our home, it was quiet. Father was back working across town on the rabbi’s roof, and I was sure my mother and sisters were baking and cooking for the evening meal. As I passed through our stable and house to the garden in back, I could hear my brothers arguing, so I paused to listen, my heart hammering, frozen in my tracks.

“So, you do not deny that you are possessed?” John said accusingly.

“. . . I-I am possessed by the holy spirit,” Jesus searched for words.

“Holy spirit. What spirit is that? God? Are you saying you’re his son? You’re daffed, Jesus!” James said with scorn. “Admit that you are a magician. We can accept that. Don’t try to make yourself out as holy. You’re our brother, born from our mother. I don’t care who your other father was!”

I could not help laughing at their words. Both James and John could accept Jesus being a magician, even a sorcerer but they would never accept him as having a holy father as he claimed, especially if that made him the Son of God. I, for one, accepted none of these possibilities, for I believed that our eldest brother was a fake and charlatan, who was also quite mad. I did not believe he had brought a dead bird back to life. I had seen how he put little splints on small animals legs and fed them various gruels. Many of them had lived, but many of them had died. The dog he had saved had merely been starving, until he found it a good home.

One day, in a fit of malicious humor, after James and John brought him an injured snake, Jesus was left in a dilemma, since he had to feed it a small animal, which ran contrary to his nature as a savior of God’s creatures and at the same time would be helping a creature considered accursed by God. Jesus had tried to feed the snake scraps of lamb from our Paschal feast, which seemed blasphemous, in itself, on the Passover, but also funny, especially since a snake must have live food. I merely stood by and watched the show. It was James who managed to coax the snake into eating a locust. John and I clapped our hands with glee. Jesus looked on in horror as the snake engorged the bug. We saw him take the surfeited snake gingerly in his trembling hands afterwards and kiss it tenderly, then walk to the furthest corner of the garden and set it free. It could be said that the symbol of Adam’s fall had been nurtured by the Prince of Peace.

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“Explain to us Jesus,” James taunted, “how is it that you, our holy brother, can kiss that accursed beast. Father said you already know the Torah. Do you not remember how the serpent tempted Eve”

“Yes,” said John, “this proves he’s possessed!”

“I am possessed of the Holy Spirit,” came Jesus refrain.

“He’s not holy, and he’s not possessed,” I made a circular motion to my head. “Anyone who kisses a snake is mad!”

James and John did not mind implying that our brother was possessed by demons, and yet they had stopped short of calling him insane. They had been left up to me. They stood their staring at me with guarded amusement, averting Jesus eyes. Having smiled at the prospect of being possessed, Jesus frowned fiercely at the charge of being mad. This state of mind, I realized even as a child, would have invalidated his miracle and divinity. On the other hand, he seemed to greet the accusation that he was possessed as a compliment. Instead of the glow of holiness my brothers and father appeared to see, Jesus face darkened and his blue eyes flared from anger--a purely human emotion that seemed to prove his quackery to me.

“What are you going to do,” I taunted, “turn me into a pillar of salt?”

As I expected, James once again made the sign to ward off the evil eye, and John ran off momentarily to hide behind a bush. I wasn’t sure whether or not they were mocking Jesus this time, for they were giggling--perhaps hysterically--to themselves.

“Why is it,” I cried out in a wounded voice, “do you fear Jesus, when I, the youngest, do not?”

“Because they know God and you do not,” Jesus spat angrily at me.

“What?” I looked at him in disbelief. “Now you’re telling us you're God? You better not let Rabbi Joachim hear you say that. He’ll have you stoned!”

That should have been the final straw for Jesus. John, who had been shamed by my charge, returned from behind the bush. James seemed to look at me with new found respect.

As I stood there waiting for Jesus reaction to my insult, I knew that, like the last times, it would never come. Instead of rebuking to me, he did as he always did when he was upset; he stared at me angrily and mumbled something under his breath. James and John probably wondered if he was praying or attempting to cast a spell on me, yet they could not help gloating at Jesus inability to act. God had not struck me dead at Jesus bidding, and I was not turned into a pillar of salt. The strange fact I overlooked was that Jesus never tattled on me nor did he hit me or verbally abuse me as James and John often did. Using hindsight rather than foresight, it could be said that I was spiritually blind, but I also had a mental block, for I truly believed that he was a fake. Many years later Jesus, would tell me that God had placed blinders on my eyes to test Him, as he had done to the Pharaoh Ramases in order to make God’s point. I was, even if that was not true, completely unfair to Jesus. There were times when he was only trying to talk sense into me, and I would place my hands over my ears and hum loudly until he walked away. Often I would stay away from home entirely, playing with my new friends all day in order to lessen my contact with him. I’m sorry now that I wasted those precious years with Jesus. I had felt little comfort when Jesus told me that I had fulfilled God’s plan.

What plan is it that made me play all those mean tricks on my eldest brother? Could it have been God’s design that I did everything I could to make the children in town think he was addled in his head?

Due to the blinders on my eyes and the stoppers in my ears, I was jealous of his treatment in our household, and I refused to believe in his spiritual powers. Even though I was the youngest son, I felt as if I alone, among the family, had seen through Jesus’ charade.

As I look back over the years, I realize that James and John, who despised Jesus the mystic and miracle boy, also felt jealousy toward him but for his magic not his standing in our house. They had not minded being followers, the first such disciples in Jesus ministry on earth. But if they held him in awe, I sensed that it was a begrudging, unwanted respect. For now their clever and adventuresome older brother, who had a boundless love for God’s creatures, was something quite different than he had been before. . . He was, as Papa and mother admitted to us this week, special, not like we children at all. He had, James and John believed, brought a bird back from the dead. Jesus’ holy father and apparent adoption, which mattered to me so much, could did not compare to this event.

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“What is he saying this time?” I asked James who watched in fascination as I stood my ground.

James came over and in an exaggerated posture craned his ear toward him.

“He says, Oh Beelzebub, send lighting down on my youngest brother Jude!”

“I said no such thing!” Jesus said, placing his hands indignantly on his hips.

“It talks! It talks!” cried John mischievously. “It’s not mumbling and not looking up to the sky!”

I had emboldened my older brothers greatly. I could not help feeling a measure of pride. But suddenly, inexplicably, as Jesus continued to stare at me, I noticed that incredible change in his face. He went from dark to light. It reminded me of that moment in the orchard when the cloud came over Jesus and my father. As the cloud moved on, as did Jesus mood, sunlight radiated his face. His deep, blue eyes flashed. This time I felt ashamed. This feeling made me all the more angry, since I felt somehow that I had been wronged. Who was he to lord it over us with his high and mighty ways? Was he not our brother? Why didn’t he ever get truly angry like the rest of us? Why did he put on such airs?

Once again I made my exit, but this time at a slow pace and not before I called back mockingly to Jesus: “You don’t frighten me! If you’re the Son of God, strike me dead!”

If it had not been for James and John’s gloating expressions, I would have apologized immediately. Jesus’ last look had shaken me greatly. It was a look of pity, not anger or majesty, as if he felt sorry for my shameful acts.

“I’ll pray for you!” his smiled reached out to me. “Someday, you will know me for what I am. I have faith in you, though you have none in me.”

In spite of the respect I had earned from them, James and John just stood there alongside of Jesus. I was, as always, alone. They would not join me in my rebellion; I did not expect them to. They reminded me of jackals in the way they looked at Jesus that hour. There was no brotherly affection in their stairs, only envy and wonder and a desire to share in the his magic somehow. I knew I had made my final break with them today (or so I believed). But that look in Jesus’ eyes had upset me very much. The enigmatic smile he gave me today would remain His trademark and would haunt me all my life.

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