Today, he said, he would talk with them about the eternal life. Citizens of his Kingdom did not have to wait until death to experience its happiness and its peace. If ever we were to be immortal, we were immortal now. 'We are God's children,' he went on, 'and while it is not yet apparent what we may become, we can be sure that when we see Him, and know Him as He is, we shall find ourselves to be like Him. . . . But—if we are indeed the children of God we are His children today. To know this is to be of the Kingdom; for the Kingdom is now, it is here, it is yours! . . . Ask—and it shall be given you! Seek it—and you shall find it! What parent among you, if your child asks bread, will you give him a stone? And if you—heedless and selfish as you are—give good gifts to your children, how many more blessings shall our Father in Heaven bestow upon all who ask Him! . . .' This, then, was the life eternal; beginning now, beginning here; for you, for all!
He stepped down from the mound. Peter beckoned to the nearest cot-bearers. The day's miracles had begun.
Joseph gradually worked his way toward the front. For the most part, the people moved aside to let him through, perhaps because of his expensive clothing, his jewels, and his princely bearing. Now he was within a few feet of the strange business that the Nazarene was conducting. No—this was not trickery! It was conceivable that the emaciated fellow who had just risen from his cot, with tears of gratitude and incoherent little whimpers of amazement, had connived with the Carpenter to stage this dramatic scene; but it was absurd to suppose that the baby, in the arms of this dishevelled young woman, had joined in a conspiracy to deceive the public.
Joseph's heart pounded hard and his mouth was dry. The hot bodies of his neighbours pressed close against him as they swayed for better vision, but he was heedless of these contacts, which he would have found intolerable in any other circumstances. Indeed, far from resenting this intimacy with the common people, the Prince felt something almost like comradeship with them. The Carpenter had said that they were all children of God, and for the moment Joseph believed it.
The sweat was beading the Carpenter's pale forehead. It was evident that he was utterly spent. The gigantic Galilean who stood beside him had halted the approaching procession of suppliants with the announcement that the Master must rest. With this, the Master and his small coterie filed out toward the highway. Joseph followed close behind them.
Reaching the road, the Carpenter turned about and—to Joseph's surprise—waited for him to approach. His fatigue was such that his hands were trembling, but he greeted the Prince with a cordial smile.
'Master,' said Joseph, in an unsteady voice, 'what shall
I
do—to have this eternal life?'
Peter frowned. He had instantly recognized the Prince of Arimathaea. Ah, so? The Prince would be wanting eternal life on special terms; terms provided for Princes.
'You have been brought up to know the laws, my friend,' said Jesus kindly.
'True, Master,' said Joseph, 'and I have kept the laws since childhood, loving God with all my heart, mind, and strength.'
'Proceed, friend,' urged Jesus; not smiling now. 'There is another law; to love your neighbours as you love yourself. . . . You have glimpsed the Kingdom today, and you would share it. That will be more difficult for you than for these poor. It is not easy for the rich to inherit the Kingdom. Their lives are too crowded with Things!'
Joseph bowed his head, reluctantly nodded agreement, and remained silent.
'If you would be of my Kingdom, friend, unburden yourself of your great possessions. Dispose of them! Distribute them among the poor! . . . And then come—and follow me!'
They all stood for a long moment waiting for the Prince to speak, but he had nothing to say. With his head still bowed, he walked slowly up the road. Jesus took a couple of steps, as if he might follow him; but halted and watched the departing Prince with wistful, regretful eyes. No one in the little group needed to be told that their Master was disappointed.
After a while, Jesus turned with a sigh and signed that they would proceed now to Cana. Peter walked beside him. He was not disappointed, but he was hurt.
'Master,' he said pensively, 'we have given up all to follow you.'
'Yes, Peter,' replied Jesus wearily. 'I know. And you will be rewarded.'
Old Bartholomew, trudging along behind with Andrew, muttered, 'Andy—that's the first thing the Prince ever wanted that he couldn't afford; a place in the Master's Kingdom!'
* * * * * *
Contrary to Peter's expectation, Esther had not joined their company when they passed through Bethsaida on the way to Hammath.
He had doubted the wisdom of her accompanying them at all; but, now that she had been invited to do so, he was anxious to see her; and, as they approached the corner nearest Hannah's house—followed by the crowd that had assembled again in the plaza at Capernaum—his eyes searched the street. He did not know that she had received instructions not to proceed to Cana until the following day.
The next morning, after tenderly embracing Hannah, who had cried a little at their parting, she started on her journey; but not alone, for the procession that had filed through sleepy little Bethsaida all day yesterday continued to trudge along toward the south.
Arriving in the spacious field, half a mile east of Cana, she made no effort to attach herself to the Master's company, but was content to be a mere member of the multitude that increased hourly, and immediately gave her attention to the weary and hungry women who had brought their sick, blind, and crippled children for healing.
It was not an easy assignment. Esther had often seen poverty in distress, but never before at such close range; nor had she ever felt in any way responsible for its alleviation. It had been her supposition that the poor and needy were sympathetic toward one another; it seemed reasonable that this should be true. Her present experience quickly disillusioned her. Whatever might be the traditional indifference of the rich to the plight of the poor, it was becoming apparent that the poor had but little respect for their unfortunate neighbours. The women she tried to befriend were not disposed to co-operate. They wanted food and shelter and they wanted it now—and they wanted it ahead of the others. It angered them to be asked to await their turn. Each footsore, dirty and dishevelled mother thought her case deserved immediate attention.
At first the girl was indignant. When she asked half a dozen of them to accompany her into the town, where she told her story to not very sympathetic housewives and begged a few loaves of bread here and a coney-skin of goat's milk there and a little basket of sun-cured figs somewhere else, the women were reluctant to go. And the women who were asked to look after the absentees' babies thought they were being imposed on. And when she returned with provisions for them, most of them quarrelled over the distribution of food. It was quite discouraging.
With her patience exhausted, she silenced one bickering group by saying, 'I'm not being paid for helping you, you know! I'm not doing this because I think it's fun. . . . Stop quarrelling now—and listen to what the Master is saying!' They scowled, but turned their faces toward the Carpenter—and made pretence of listening.
Sometimes the sensitive girl marvelled at the complacency of Jesus as he pleaded for kindness and good will among men and the mutual bearing of burdens and sharing of benefits, while the impatient audience that had come to see the working of miracles trampled on toes and jabbed elbows into ribs and jostled for better vantage.
It was late afternoon on the fourth day of their mission in Cana when the Big Fisherman unexpectedly came to her rescue, and none too soon, for Esther was thoroughly disheartened and ready to admit that she had failed in her task. Only the promise she had made to the Master kept her from running away.
Peter had resolutely kept his distance from her, quite against his inclinations, for she was constantly on his mind. Indecisively he had lingered, today, as the great throng dispersed and the Master with the others of his company proceeded up the slope toward their sequestered encampment under a clump of acacias. For a while he sauntered aimlessly among the cots bearing the sick who had arrived late and would presently be carried away to shelters for the night. He paused beside them to speak words of encouragement. Doubtless the Master would take care of them tomorrow, he said. They must try to be patient.
His heart speeded a little as he neared the cluster of tents that had been provided for mothers and their sick babies. Apparently they had had their supper, for none of them was in sight, and Esther, having attended to their wants, was seated on a camp stool apart from them, in a posture of fatigue and dejection.
She raised her head as he approached and rose to welcome him with a pensive smile that unsteadied his voice when he inquired, kindly, how things were going with her.
'Are these people wearing you out?' he asked.
She shook her head, as though to say that there were no words to describe her dilemma; and asked, 'Have you time for a little talk with me, Simon?'
Never before had she addressed him by name, and the implied overture of friendship stirred him deeply. It pleased him, too, that she called him Simon. His new name had aged him somewhat, making him more sedate and discreet, setting him apart from his fellows. At the moment he felt more comfortable as Simon, temporarily freed from the rigorous responsibilities incumbent upon a Rock.
'Why not?' he had replied quickly. 'Or—I can take you to the Master if you are troubled.'
'The Master has enough to bear,' she sighed. 'Let me tell you about it, Simon. Perhaps you can help me.'
'Come then,' he said, softly. 'Let us go to some place where we may talk privately.'
They took the winding path up the slope toward Jesus' encampment, Esther leading the way, for the old, deep-worn foot-path was narrow. Simon, following with long, slow strides, was fascinated by the effortless ease and grace of the girl's supple figure. No conversation was attempted until they reached the flat, level limestone boulder that jutted from the hillside, overlooking the teeming valley where every road and lane was filled with plodding pilgrims returning to their bivouacs in the hills.
Now that he was seated beside this beautiful girl, who had unwittingly preoccupied his thoughts and disturbed his sleep, the Big Fisherman was not sure how—or whether—to break the silence. Esther promptly relieved him of this responsibility.
Turning toward him, she declared impetuously, 'The trouble is, Simon, it all seems so hopeless, so pitiably hopeless! They are so rude, so mean to one another.'
'They are indeed,' agreed Simon, 'but I suppose some allowance must be made for them. A woman who has borne the grief of a blind or crippled child—and now has a chance to see him made well—is desperate. She will lie, steal, and fight to be the first in line—for his food—and his healing. Their conduct is deplorable, but it is understandable.'
'You have great patience, Simon,' murmured Esther.
'No, my dear,' he confessed. 'If I seem to have patience, it is because of the Master's compassion on them. I'm learning—from him—to hold my tongue and keep my temper. It isn't easy.'
'Perhaps I too might learn to be more sympathetic if there was anything—anything good, anything at all—to come of it!'
'He heals their sick, Esther. Surely that is something!'
'I know,' she conceded wearily. 'He opens their babies' poor little blind eyes so that they can see; and what do they see but unfriendliness and greed!' The pent-up flood of her indignation was loosed now, and her passionate words came tumbling recklessly over one another, while Simon, amazed at the outburst, watched the big tears gather and slowly trickle down her flushed cheeks. He tried to interject a gentle protest, but she went on, her husky voice breaking with emotion.
'There he stands,' she cried, 'day after day, entreating them to be kind and to love one another, and live at peace with one another—'
'I think some of them try to do that,' said Simon.
'A few, perhaps; but not enough,' persisted Esther. 'My heart bleeds for him, Simon! He is going to be so dreadfully disappointed! If he were just an ordinary man, deluded into thinking that he could save the whole world by teaching people to be merciful and generous, no attention need be paid to his dreaming; but—Jesus has the power of a God in his hands. He has proved it—over and over! I truly believe that he could save the world—or end it, if he chose; but not this way!'
'How then?' asked Simon, soberly.
'I heard John the Baptizer tell of a Great One who would come and wreck the world—and begin all over again—with better people in control. He would march across lands and seas, upsetting old temples and thrones, humbling the rich, freeing the poor, levelling the road for all the people. Perhaps there's some hope for a plan like that! Jesus has the power to do it—if he wished. . . . But—how does he expect to save the world by pleading with these barefooted, half-starved country-people of Galilee! . . . Tell me, Simon! You have great faith. They are calling you "Petros" now. Do you honestly believe that there is any hope for Jesus' Kingdom of Love?' Her long, wet lashes opened wide as she faced him with an expression of childlike confidence. 'I will try to believe—if you say you do!'
It had turned out to be one of the critical moments in the Big Fisherman's experience. He felt himself gaining stature and dignity as he gazed into the girl's questing eyes. Whatever had been his foolish thoughts of her, his infatuation, his desire, Esther had become as a trusting daughter now.
He laid his big hand over her small one, and said tenderly, 'I believe, dear child, that Jesus is the Saviour of the world!'
After a little pause he went on, measuring his words.
'As for these poor—not many mighty will be called into the Master's service. He is not appealing to the mighty, for it is they who have made the world what it is. He does not expect to change the world into a garden today, but he is sowing the seed. We must be patient—and have faith in him.'