'My own opinion of the mysterious Nazarene is difficult to define. On first sight of him I was a bit disappointed. He is not an heroic figure. I found myself wondering how he would look on a horse—probably not very impressive; but I believe my Darik would stand still while he mounted—a courtesy he does not often accord to his owner. The man has a compelling voice. I can't describe it or the effect of it. It's a unifying voice that converts a great crowd of mutually distrustful strangers into a tight little group of blood relatives.
'I never have had any respect for people who pretend to work wonders, but the things that happened out there yesterday, if not miraculous, need quite a lot of explaining. . . . But it was what the Carpenter said, even more than what he did, that has disposed me to write you at such length of this strange business.
'After he had apparently given sight to a dozen or more blind ones, he went on to say that the entire population of the earth was groping in darkness; and that went for everybody, kings and peasants, philosophers and fools. He had been sent, he said, to give sight to these blind people. "I am the light of the world!" he declared; and, strangely enough, nobody laughed, nobody sneered.
'Of course an assertion of this character sounds like the boasting of a crack-brained fanatic; and if I were to read of it in a letter, instead of hearing it from the man's own lips, I should marvel how the writer could have taken so much nonsense seriously.
'I confess I gasped a little when the Carpenter committed this outrageous audacity, but I couldn't help remembering what you said, one day, about your belief in a "Torchbearer".
'I was still further stirred to remembrance of your remarks on that matter when the Carpenter added that the light he carried would reflect from those who received it: they too would illumine the path for those who were lost in the dark, even as a lighted city on a hill-top.
'Whoever had his lamp lighted at the Nazarene's torch was in duty bound to let it shine. The lamp was not to be hidden where it would benefit only the possessor in his little corner. The lamp was the property of the man who held it, but the light belonged to the public! . . . (I hope I am doing the Carpenter's speech justice. You should have been there, Mencius. It was the sort of thing you would have enjoyed—and understood.)
'It is unlikely that the political and religious pundits will permit this Jesus to continue his present course very long. He has the whole province by the ears. Many well-to-do employers of farm and vineyard labour are protesting that their men have been absent whole days from their duties. Presently they will arrest the Carpenter, as a disturber of the peace—which, of course, he is—and if he gets a long term in prison he will be lucky. . . . He may be—as he says—the light of the world, but it is doubtful whether the world wants light. . . . I wish I might hear what you think about this.
'I remain in Caesarea until spring. Then I shall return—without much hope, I admit—to Tiberias for further talk with Fara. If she still refuses to go back to Arabia, I may have no inclination to return alone. I cherish the memory of your kindness. . . .'
'VOLDI.'
Now that the weather had become too inclement for outdoor assemblies, comfortable lodging was found for Jesus in the well-kept cottage that had belonged to the departed Jonas and Rachael.
It had been Andrew's suggestion. The snug little home in Capernaum, though jointly owned by the two brothers, had been the elder's special care, for Simon's chief concern was his fleet; and, besides, Andrew's memories of his childhood were more cherishable.
While privately agreeing with his prosperous brother that their good old father may have given too much of his time to the Synagogue, as between the overworked piety of Jonas and the noisy infidelity of Simon, Andrew had considered his saintly sire's attitude toward religion less objectionable.
For a couple of years after their parents' death, and while Simon's lovely but fragile Abigail still survived, Andrew had lived alone in the old house. When Abigail was gone, Simon had urged him to join Hannah and himself in Bethsaida, but he had continued his interest in the Capernaum home, visiting it every day or two, tending his mother's flowers and dusting the shabby but beloved furniture.
Various offers had been made to buy or lease the property. Simon had felt that this was a sensible thing to do and had generously assured his less affluent brother that he might regard as his own whatever income was derived, but Andrew had been reluctant to let the place fall into the hands of strangers.
The general excitement stirred by the Nazarene Carpenter had not affected Andrew very much, one way or the other. He was not one to take up readily with new ideas. The old ones doubtless had their imperfections but it was to be noticed that the new ones never lasted very long. Occasionally dissenters created local confusions which put old friends at loggerheads, but the hotter the fire the sooner it burned out, leaving everything much as it was before. True, the expanding tales of the Carpenter's sayings and doings were amazing, but Andrew's conservative intuition told him that it wouldn't be long before the whole thing blew over. The Carpenter would be silenced and the people who had been following him about would return, disillusioned, to their neglected duties.
Even when it had become common talk that Simon—of all people!—had been taking a serious interest in the Carpenter, Andrew had silently maintained his belief that there was something crazy about all this hubbub and resolved that he wouldn't have any part of it. He was privately amused, but not surprised, by his tempestuous brother's avoidance of the subject in his presence. Indeed, it seemed that Simon was deliberately seeing to it that they were not left alone together; but that was easy enough to understand. Simon had been so blatant in his excoriations of the Nazarene and so contemptuous of all the half-wits who had been taken in by this hullabaloo, that it wasn't much wonder if he preferred not to discuss the matter. That, thought Andrew, was the trouble about uttering strongly spiced words of condemnation: they didn't taste very good if one had to eat them. Meditating on this, Andrew grinned, asked no questions, made no comments, and waited for the inevitable collapse of the new movement.
But when, one evening, Simon had brought this Jesus home with him for supper and lodging for the night, Andrew became aware that they were in the presence of a new kind of man. Although Andrew had never travelled further than a day's journey from home and had no notion how others than Galileans talked, as he sat there directly across the table from the Carpenter he felt sure that there could be no one else in the world like him.
Upon Jesus' unexpected arrival at supper-time, Hannah had been pretty badly flustered and was profuse with apologies for their poor little house, which, she untruthfully declared, was untidy, and for the skimpy meal, which, in fact, was more ample than usual because she had known that Simon—frequently absent from home in these days—intended to be here.
Apparently Jesus had heard such talk before, it being customary for an excellent housekeeper to belittle her hospitality, but her remarks had given him an occasion to speak about the things that really mattered. He defined poverty by telling a brief story of a rich farmer who had prospered until his accumulations had become a serious problem. His fields had produced so abundantly that his barns were too small to house the corn: so he had torn down the barns and built bigger ones. And his harvests increased, requiring more barns, until all he thought about was larger barns. And when, one night, an Angel came for his soul and inquired what he was worth, he had nothing to offer but huge barns bulging with corn. This was unfortunate; for there was no market for corn where the farmer was going, and there was nothing the Angel could do with a barn—no matter how big it was.
The story was told soberly enough, but Andrew couldn't help smiling a little. It was so simple that a child could have understood it. The priests, who never talked that way, might have considered it trivial. But, when Jesus told it, in his quiet voice, it was more than a mere story: it seemed real! You could see the puzzled old rich man—whom everybody had envied for his wealth—sitting up in bed at midnight with his grey hair tousled and his silken nightcap askew, blinking into the disappointed eyes of the Angel who was shaking his head, and saying, 'Corn? No; you can't bring the corn along—or the barns. You may bring only whatever you have given away.'
When the story was ended, Simon, who had been eating industriously, made a little chuckle deep in his throat and glanced up to say: 'I'm afraid I wouldn't make a very good farmer, master. If the Angel were to come for me, I wouldn't even be able to offer him corn-barns.'
Andrew had wished, in the embarrassing silence following this speech, that his brother hadn't said it; for the attempted drollery sounded as if Simon was showing his family that he and Jesus were chummy enough to share a little jest. But, if that had been intended, the Master had quietly set Simon right by remarking: 'Ships—perhaps?'
Simon had not ventured to comment on that, and it was some time before anything else was said.
By nature shy and reticent, Andrew was accustomed, when guests (never of his own invitation) were present, to consider himself a mere boarder who had purchased his place at the table and whose sole interest in the party was his rightful share of the food. He always ate in silence, attentive to his plate, seeming not even to hear the conversation, much less to show any interest in it; and by his long practice of such detachment, guests who did not know him very well but hoped to draw him into the talk for courtesy's sake, invariably raised their voices when looking his way, presuming him to be deaf.
But that night, such was his uncontrollable fascination, he neglected his food and listened. Presently, finding himself staring hard into their guest's far-seeing eyes, he made an impulsive effort to avert his gaze—and discovered that he couldn't do it. And the peculiar thing about this captivity was that—after the first bewildering moment—he didn't want to get away; nor was he any longer self-conscious. Jesus had made him a member of the party, in good and regular standing. It was really the first time in his life that Andrew had felt like a member of any party; and when Jesus asked him if he enjoyed his occupation as a fisherman he had surprised himself and his relatives by replying, with a smile, that fishing was fun only for people who had some other means of support. They all laughed merrily; and Andrew, instead of being embarrassed, felt a previously unexperienced glow of pleasure.
Next morning, after Jesus and Simon, having finished their breakfast, had left the house, Andrew had made a clumsy effort to define his impressions.
Hannah had said, when the silence between them had become oppressive: 'Andrew, what is it—about this man—that makes him different from everyone else?'
'Well,' Andrew had replied, after considerable deliberation, 'everyone else is a body—with a soul. He is a soul—with a body.'
'But surely, Andrew—you don't think that Jesus is—is more than human!' exclaimed Hannah.
'I don't know,' mumbled Andrew, rising from the table; 'but I think he knows!'
* * * * * *
So it was arranged that Jesus was to have the use of the old home in Capernaum. Simon had been delighted with Andrew's offer of it. Indeed, the proposal had drawn the brothers closer together than they had been since early childhood. The truth was that while Simon had not wilfully patronized—and, by implications, belittled—his self-effacing older brother, their relationship, in the opinion of the fleet and everybody else who saw them together, was no more intimate than that of any generous employer and a trusted employee. No one had ever heard Simon speak a harsh word to Andrew, but no stranger would have suspected that they were of the same flesh and blood. Their acquaintance with Jesus had somehow made them kin, Simon showing a new affection and Andrew beaming in the warmth of it.
When Jesus had been shown through the house, he inquired whether there would be any objection to his doing some light carpentry. Both brothers were prompt to approve. Indeed, Simon was enthusiastic. There had been criticism of Jesus. Plenty of substantial people had asked whether the Nazarene intended to live off the country. And didn't he believe in work? And—it was easy enough for him to tell the people to live like the lilies that dressed better than kings, though they never spun or wove; or like the birds that God fed. That might be all very well for birds and flowers, but it was impractical for the father of a family to entertain any such delusions.
Even Jairus, who had shown a friendly attitude toward Jesus, had been heard to express this opinion. Jairus had said, further, that if the Nazarene wanted to live without working, it was his own business; but he shouldn't entice the people to leave their jobs and trail around the country after him. Jairus had been quite outspoken! Now Jesus was going to show them all that he did believe in work.
Surmising that old Ebenezer, a recently retired carpenter in the neighbourhood, would not be needing his equipment any more, Andrew inquired whether they might rent it for the Master's use. When he returned to the cottage, well soaked by the rain, he was wheeling a barrow piled high with all manner of wood-working implements, most of them out of order. Except for the adze, the drawknife, and three variously sized planes, which were in fairly good condition, the heavier and more complicated instruments would have to be repaired or discarded. The old lathe, clumsy at its best, had been long in disuse because of Ebenezer's rheumatic feet, and the chisels which served it were dull and rusty. But Jesus was not dismayed. Ebenezer's lathe, he said, could be rebuilt.
The living-room, which fronted the street, was cleared and its furniture stored in the basement. In a day's time it was a carpenter-shop, and Jesus had already begun the repair of the tools. Andrew had put the small guest-room to rights for the Master's occupancy, and he himself had been sleeping at the cottage for several nights. The weather was cold, raw, and wet.