Walking

The young man sat in the shade of a small tree.  It was the heat of the day, on a day that felt as thirsty as the dogs that lay panting in the nooks and slivers of shadow.  A sparrow lit upon a ledge, its tiny beak open, too tired to sing. Few people were busy about the small town.  Three men sat under the awning of a shop’s front door, not speaking, keeping an indolent eye on the street.

A man walked wearily toward him, a lone figure in the empty avenue.  He was a foreigner,  a soldier.  The three watchmen blankly followed him with their eyes, somehow giving the impression of both contempt and apathy.  The young man could see the soldier’s face shining with perspiration.  His shield was strapped to his back, and over his shoulder he carried a large tent pole.  With it was a simple wooden cross frame, his bedroll tied across the top and from which dangled a large pack and sundries.  A metal canteen and a small cooking pot clanked noisily with each step, echoing down the silent street.  

The foreigner was not an officer, just a simple soldier with a lot to carry.  “Marius’ Mules,” they were often called.  It was a fitting epithet for a legionary who carried his whole life wherever he went.

The young man hid a smile as the soldier, drawing closer, cursed in his native tongue and stopped under the shade of the young man’s tree.  He set down his shield and tent pole, then laid down his cross and pack with a grunt and a sigh.

The young man greeted the soldier with a quick grin and his best latin, though he was self-conscious of his accent.  The soldier jerked his head in a nod as he rested his hands on his knees.  He took his canteen and drank deeply.

“Gods, it’s hot.  I don’t know how you people do it,” he said.

“Neither do I,” the young man answered.

The soldier was taken aback by the local’s latin.  “Hello” and “Yes, sir” were all that most people in these parts knew.

“You speak latin, Jew?”

“Not very well.”

“Well enough,” said the soldier, and finished the last of his water.  “Get me more.”

He handed the young man his empty canteen.

The young man stood and took it obediently.  The soldier watched as he ambled over to a nearby water jar, drew water, and filled it.  He returned and handed back the container.

The two stood in silence for a long moment.  He looked up the street.  He glanced quickly from the corner of his eye at the young man, and turned to look down at the other end of the street.  He sighed.  A bird found the energy to chirp.  He spoke.

“Take up my cross.  Follow me.  I’m going to Simonias. You will go with me half way.”

The young man smiled.  “That’s more than one mile, you know.”

The soldier scowled.  “What I have said, I have said.  You will follow me half way.  Do you understand?”

The young man nodded pleasantly.  “Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“I would use less of that latin, if I were you.  Take up my cross.”

The young man lifted the heavy shield onto his shoulders.  He took up the tent pole, and awkwardly flung the cross frame over his shoulder.  The legionary was already on his way.  The young man quickly adjusted his load and, in a flurry of clinks and clanks, caught up.  He followed a few feet behind.

The two walked past the last shop on the street and out into the open road.  Neither spoke, and the silence between them stretched on for half a mile.

The young man watched the soldier’s feet in front of him as each step kicked up a small flurry of dust.  He studied the soldier’s shoes.  After a solid two minutes of study, he spoke.

“Do you make your own shoes, or do you have a shoe maker?”

The soldier looked over his shoulder, and turned back to face the road.  He seemed to consider ignoring the question, but relented.

“We have a man.”

The young man studied the shoes a little longer.

“They look well made.  Do you need to fix them often?”

The soldier glanced at him again.

“No,” he said.  “It’s one piece of leather.”

“No stitching, then?”

“Only on the heel.”

“Hm.”

The two walked on, the sun showing little mercy as it made it’s way through the barren sky.  The straps dug disagreeably into the young mans shoulders, and the tent pole was tricky to balance.  There was silence, except for the scrunch of the soldier’s leather sandals on the ground, and the rattle and sway of the young man’s burden.  Sweat poured from his forehead, and the salt stung his eyes.  He felt the perspiration gather at the back of his neck, and travel down his spine in a refreshing trickle.

“May I have some of you water?” he asked.

“Your water.  No.”

“ ‘Your water.’ Thank-you.”

They walked on.

“What is you name?”

“Your name.”

“Right.  Your name. What is your name?”

Another moment teetered on the edge of ignorance, till finally,

“Placidus.”

“Placidus.  Good to meet you.  I am Jesus.”

“Jesus.  Be quiet.”

He was quiet.

Simonias drew closer with each step.  In theory.  The aching in his shoulders and the sweat that now seemed to swathe him said otherwise.  The shield, wrapped in goatskin as it was, began to make an oven of his back in the afternoon sun.  They plodded on wordlessly, until the soldier stopped and turned.

“You are finished.  Go home.”

The young man looked at him, and looked at the road ahead.

“Do I have to?” he replied.

The soldier shook his head slightly.  “What?”

“Do I have to go home?”

The soldier carefully sounded his words.  The jew, apparently, had not understood him.  “You are f-i-n-i-s-h-e-d.  Complete.  Go home.”

“I know.  But you are not yet at your destiny.  I can see it from here.  I don’t mind walking on.”

“My de....”  A momentary chuckle escaped him.  “‘Destination’.  You mean ‘destination’.  You don’t have to come.  It’s at least another hour away.”

“But may I?”

“I...  You...  You want to carry my cross?”

“Yes.”

“For another hour or more?”

“If you will let me,” said the young man, shifting the weight of the shield and pack.

The soldier stood there, a bit confounded, and more than a bit bemused.  He laughed.

“Alright.  Come along.”

The young man smiled like a boy who was just given another whirl in his father’s arms.  “Thank-you,” he said.

And the soldier laughed again.  “What did you say your name was?”

“Jesus, from Nazareth.”

“Jesus.  Good to meet you.”

Family Room

He was seated at the front, looking out at the room full of people. The service this warm, September morning was, as usual, having a different effect on each one there. He turned his gaze to the lector. The reading from Deuteronomy was being read earnestly, if flatly. For some it inspired devotion, and their eyes closed serenely as the scriptures were proclaimed. Other eyes closed in serenity, but not so much from a feeling of religious devotion. Many simply stared into someplace distant and to the right of the altar.

His whole family was there, as they were every week. He looked around at their familiar faces, and felt the gentlest tug upwards at the corners of his mouth. It was good to be home.

There was Adam, three rows back, with whom he'd been so close growing up. He had once accidentally clobbered little Adam with a stick, during a game he and his friends called “Swing The Stick”. He smiled at the memory now, but he'd felt pretty awful about it at the time.

Sitting in the second row was cousin Jim. He was once in a gang with Jim. They were known as The Tigers. Membership involved being trained in the correct usage of a sword, which looked very much like a bread knife pilfered from his mother's kitchen. It was a very exclusive gang, having only two members. Jim had carefully instructed him in the art of the deadly weapon, and together they kept the streets of their small town safe from their rival gang, The Jaguars. They played Swing The Stick with The Jaguars from time to time, and it was during one such match that he'd met and subsequently clobbered Adam. (They both cried.)

There was also Ruthie, two years older than him. Once, during a party, they'd fallen in love and secretly been married. For him, “falling in love” meant that Ruthie had declared to him that she was now his best friend, and that they should kiss. They were married immediately, and kissed behind a tree stump. The marriage didn't last long. Ruthie found him to be “too bossy.” She explained to her mother, “He won't do anything I tell him to do!” They divorced quietly later that night.

There was also Aunt Elizabeth. She had always been grandmotherly to him, as she had had a child late in life. She would kneel down, hold his little face in her big, soft hands, and plant a zerbert on his forehead. She always made him laugh, and even now managed a wink from the back pew in which she sat.

There were also the ones to whom he wasn't related, but who were family nonetheless. Ms. Judy had often brought his mother to the edge of her patience, and always seemed to have a terribly important story to tell. It usually involved overcoming great adversity at the store that day, the end result of which had been a substantial discount. Judy had on more than one occasion (and to her supreme satisfaction) actually procured an item at no charge whatsoever. But she was always kind to him, and offered him sweets.

Uncle Dave, who was not his uncle, was the greatest belcher he had ever known. Ever. The sheer volume and fullness of his belches had mystified him as a child, not to mention their frequency. God, he loved that man.

Susan, Dave's wife, was ten minutes late for everything, including the punchline. “Whuddid he say?” and “I don't get it” were her two most oft-repeated phrases. But she put up with Dave, and Dave put up with her, and they had been married for nearly fifty years.

There were, of course, other family members (again, not to be confused with relatives) also in attendance who were not always so endearing. The ones who, if they really knew the real him, would not understand. But he couldn't be too concerned about them, could he.

The lector had finished his tranquilizing reading of Deuteronomy. He took a breath, stood and took his place at the lectionary. With a little rustling, he found the reading for the day. Someone coughed. A fidgety toddler was hushed. He cleared his throat, and began to proclaim the Word.

He read through it with great clarity, with feeling even, until he came to this verse:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,”

And his voice cracked a little.

“because he has anointed me to bring glad tidings to the poor,”

And his lip quivered.

“He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives..."

He gained some volume.

"...and recovery of sight to the blind,”

He gained momentum.

“to let the oppressed go free! And to proclaim a year acceptable to the Lord.”

And he was silent.

He turned, gave the book to the attendant, and sat down. Everyone watched him, waiting for him to say something. Adam. Jim. Ruthie. Even Uncle Dave. Rarely did a reading get quite so... expressive.

Finally, he spoke. “Today,” he said, “This scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.”

Everything was still.

A voice was heard from the back of the room.

“Whuddid he say? I don't get it.”

Z

ZACCHAEUS

Zacchaeus was a little man. Petty. Nit-picking. Trifling. Wealthy. Alone.

It was hard to tell if collecting taxes from his peers had made him this way, or if he was naturally small-minded, which made him such a perfect tax collector. Either way, a person can hold on to their wealth easily if he has no friends to share it with.

Once, he had been a friend of the synagogue, faithfully attending each week, exchanging pleasantries with the rabbis, even sharing in the potluck dinners. But it seemed to him the more time he spent at synagogue, the more he disliked the hypocrisy of his fellow worshipers. When he started collecting taxes, he was politely asked not to come to synagogue any more.

Since then, he was Jewish, but not a Jew; a son of Israel, but not of Abraham. The faith of his fathers meant little to him once he entered the real world. What good was a faith that equated his profession to that of a murderer? Every day, it seemed he would hear the condemnations from the fat, religious prigs, small-minded and ridiculous. There were few people he could stand to be around, and even fewer he could consider friends. But this only increased his income. It was easy to increase the tax upon people he disliked, and he disliked plenty.

Recently he had heard about a popular preacher, traveling from town to town. What he had heard of the man intrigued him. Zacchaeus was no fan of religious celebrities, but this one seemed to get in a lot of trouble with some of his least favourite rabbis. He liked that. He liked that a lot. He laughed every time he heard about the latest insult handed to them by the simple teacher.

When he heard that this man was coming to Jericho, he knew he'd enjoy meeting him. He could see it in his head: with a firm handshake, Zacchaeus would smile wryly and give him a nod. You're alright, he'd say, and the teacher would be impressed by his dispassionate coolness.

When the teacher arrived in town, Zacchaeus had never seen such a crowd of people clamoring for a glimpse of one person. Futilely, he tried to find a place from which to see the man. Though he'd long considered himself above such simple people, he'd always stood almost a foot below them. Zacchaeus was a wee, little man.

He cursed himself and his height. The more he was obstructed from seeing the teacher, the more determined he became to catch a glimpse. He was only passing through town, and would soon be gone. Zacchaeus peered down the road in the direction the teacher was going, and had an idea.

He saw some steps up ahead, just where the teacher would be passing. He struggled out of the crowd and tried to make his way there. He wasn't the only one with this idea, however, and by the time he reached the steps, they were full of onlookers. Frustrated, he cursed himself again. He looked farther ahead, and gave a second glance to one of the trees standing alongside the road. Ridiculous, he thought to himself. You'd look ridiculous.

It was a sycamore-fig tree, the kind whose fruit fed pigs. He sighed. Screw it. Climb the damn tree.

Again, he forced his way through and out of the crowd. He grabbed the lowest branch he could find, and awkwardly climbed up a branch that extended out towards the road. He perched himself as well as he could, spilling what dignity was left with each quivering of the tree branch.

He could see the teacher now, coming down the street towards the tree. He could place him only because of the men around him, twelve or thirteen, trying to keep people from pressing in him. The teacher seemed genuinely pleased to be meeting people, if not more than a little beleaguered. He was getting closer, and in the excitement of the moment, Zacchaeus couldn't help but feeling a little star-struck. When the celebrity rabbi was close enough to spit on, his heart pounded. When the celebrity rabbi looked straight up the tree and into his eyes, he almost lost his breath. When the celebrity rabbi spoke to him, he almost lost his lunch.

"Hello, there!"

The nonchalant meeting the tax collector had imagined quickly disappeared, as he suddenly found his mouth quite dry. "Hi!" he said back, slightly more enthusiastically than he intended.

"I'm Jesus," said the teacher. "What's your name?"

"Zac..." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Zacchaeus. I'm... I like what you says. Said. I like what you have to say." This had sounded much better in his head.

Jesus chuckled. "Thanks. Not everybody does. So where are you from, Zacchaeus?"

"Mime from here! From Jericho. I'm from Jericho."

"So, Zacchaeus, what is it you do that affords you this fine tree?"

Zacchaeus laughed in spite of himself, perhaps a little harder than he meant to. But he quickly remembered the customary reaction to his profession. He tried not to stammer. "I'm... I collect... tariffs." It came out quieter than he intended. He waited for the teacher's face to change, to take on the inevitable coldness that always came with his answer.

The teacher's reaction was different than he expected. He laughed again. "You know, I'm getting a terrible crick in my neck like this. How about if you come on down, and let me stay at your place tonight?"

Zacchaeus stammered again as his heart picked up its pace. "Uhp...Uh.. Sure! Yeah, that would be... fgood. Fine. Good."

Jesus smiled as the little man inelegantly made his way back down the tree.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"Just... uh... Just up... Not far from here. Are you sure you want to come?"

"It would be my honour. What's for supper?"

Zacchaues laughed as he led his new friend to his house. He didn't notice, or didn't care, about the scowling and confused looks he and the teacher were getting. For once, he felt unabashed and at ease, if not more than a little exhilerated, with this new friend.

His servants prepared a particularly delicious meal that night, and Zacchaeus and the teacher talked for hours. Zacchaeus complained freely about religion, and the teacher seemed unfazed. He nodded his head and listened. Zacchaeus listened intently as the teacher told stories of the people he'd met, particularly the poor. As he spoke, the teacher seemed to re-write the meaning of the scriptures Zacchaeus had heard recited a million times before. This man, this man's friends, the poor, seemed to give these scriptures a life he had never before seen.

Watching Jesus, he began to realize something. Life could be more than cynicism. Life could be... alive.

There was a moment of silence. His heart was pounding again as he looked intently at the teacher. You can trust this man, he thought. Do it. Do what you know you need to do. He felt something coming up from his heart. He stood, and spoke. "Alright. Look. Right here. Right now.... I give half of my things to the poor," He was trembling, but it felt good. Something more came crawling up from his newly forming heart. "And if I've cheated anybody out of anything, I'll pay it back four times over."

His eyes were red now, his cheeks wet, and he found himself sniffling. The trembling subsided as the teacher smiled at him.

"Zacchaeus, more than any rabbi I've met, more than any scribe or Pharisee I've ever known, you have shown yourself to be a true son of Abraham. People like you are the reason I came here. I came to find people like you, the ones lost in the crowd." The teacher's lip twitched a little. "To find them and free them."

Zacchaeus sniffed, smirked, and had another piece of dessert.