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Authors: Brock Thoene, Bodie
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child and did not reply for a long time. “I will say kaddish . It is good that the suffering of the innocent ends quickly.”
Joseph continued eating, though my appetite was gone. He moved on to other matters. “The prophet in the wilderness, John the Baptizer. Jesus of Nazareth. The Anointed of God is now among us. There could not be a better moment in all of history for the Deliverer to show himself. Like Moses of old, coming to free our fathers and mothers from Egypt … we are little more than slaves in our own land.”
“It is well with you, though, my friend?” I asked Joseph.
“It is well. Business flourishes. The Romans need my skill to feed their armies and their citizens.” He hesitated a long moment. “Your sister, Mary of Magdala, has political connections in Galilee that may keep you safe from suspicion.”
I tried not to let disapproval of my sister register on my face. “Mary goes her own way. It is not my way or the way of my family or of the God of our fathers.”
“She is great friends with Johanna, wife of Kuza, the steward of Herod Antipas.”
“Johanna and Kuza. Those two!”
“I have spoken with Mary at great length about her vineyards and her wine. Mary sells the wines of her late husband’s estates at a fine price to the garrison in Tiberius. No need to export.”
Bitterness consumed me. “Mary has sold her soul, Joseph.”
“Her estates are in the Galil. The Messiah is there. Perhaps your sister’s soul may yet be redeemed by the Redeemer.”
“My younger sister was only trouble from the start. Not good and solid like Martha. A flighty thing. Pretty and spoiled.”
“I remember her as a sweet and lonely child. Affected deeply by your mother’s death. You married her to an old man for the sake of a business arrangement.”
“A great opportunity,” I shot back, “since Mary would not have had other offers in marriage. Mary should have been obedient and accepted with righteousness her purpose.”
Joseph chewed a bit of roasted chicken as he pondered my judgment. “That may be. But even so, with Mary’s husband dead now, she might welcome her brother’s visit.”
I shook my head slowly. “That would be too much for me to swallow. I have nothing to do with my sister. She is a shame to me and to my father’s name.”
I saw pity in the eyes of Joseph, who had seen much more of life and was thus more merciful. At last he said, “Your father was my dearest friend. After your mother died, he wed Mary’s mother. It was plain to all that he did not love her. Nor did he look with favor on your half sister when she was born. When Mary’s mother … drowned … there was speculation that perhaps she had taken her own life. Speculation that because your father did not love her, she waded into the water of the Sea of Galilee and put an end to her loneliness.”
“That speculation and her sin branded us as a family,” I insisted. “It left us few options.”
“And it left your sister Mary … beautiful little child … alone,” Joseph said swiftly. “Now I see, David, that you have your father’s indifference. Perhaps you live in judgment of a woman who has spent her life looking for love.” He stood. “I believe you will be attending your cousin’s wedding in Cana? I pray that Mary will be there also … and that you will show the mercy your father never showed.”
The old man was honest with me. He had brought things to light that my own father had never spoken about before his death. And he was right in his conclusions.
My stepmother’s suicide had affected us all. We had never spoken openly about the circumstances surrounding the death of Mary’s mother. Little Mary had never recovered from watching her mother drown.
Joseph was also correct about my lack of compassion. I had never showed my sister any kindness. When the thirty days of mourning for my stepmother had ended, I had dismissed Mary’s tears and demanded that the child “get on with life.”
Joseph continued eating, though my appetite was gone. He moved on to other matters. “The prophet in the wilderness, John the Baptizer. Jesus of Nazareth. The Anointed of God is now among us. There could not be a better moment in all of history for the Deliverer to show himself. Like Moses of old, coming to free our fathers and mothers from Egypt … we are little more than slaves in our own land.”
“It is well with you, though, my friend?” I asked Joseph.
“It is well. Business flourishes. The Romans need my skill to feed their armies and their citizens.” He hesitated a long moment. “Your sister, Mary of Magdala, has political connections in Galilee that may keep you safe from suspicion.”
I tried not to let disapproval of my sister register on my face. “Mary goes her own way. It is not my way or the way of my family or of the God of our fathers.”
“She is great friends with Johanna, wife of Kuza, the steward of Herod Antipas.”
“Johanna and Kuza. Those two!”
“I have spoken with Mary at great length about her vineyards and her wine. Mary sells the wines of her late husband’s estates at a fine price to the garrison in Tiberius. No need to export.”
Bitterness consumed me. “Mary has sold her soul, Joseph.”
“Her estates are in the Galil. The Messiah is there. Perhaps your sister’s soul may yet be redeemed by the Redeemer.”
“My younger sister was only trouble from the start. Not good and solid like Martha. A flighty thing. Pretty and spoiled.”
“I remember her as a sweet and lonely child. Affected deeply by your mother’s death. You married her to an old man for the sake of a business arrangement.”
“A great opportunity,” I shot back, “since Mary would not have had other offers in marriage. Mary should have been obedient and accepted with righteousness her purpose.”
Joseph chewed a bit of roasted chicken as he pondered my judgment. “That may be. But even so, with Mary’s husband dead now, she might welcome her brother’s visit.”
I shook my head slowly. “That would be too much for me to swallow. I have nothing to do with my sister. She is a shame to me and to my father’s name.”
I saw pity in the eyes of Joseph, who had seen much more of life and was thus more merciful. At last he said, “Your father was my dearest friend. After your mother died, he wed Mary’s mother. It was plain to all that he did not love her. Nor did he look with favor on your half sister when she was born. When Mary’s mother … drowned … there was speculation that perhaps she had taken her own life. Speculation that because your father did not love her, she waded into the water of the Sea of Galilee and put an end to her loneliness.”
“That speculation and her sin branded us as a family,” I insisted. “It left us few options.”
“And it left your sister Mary … beautiful little child … alone,” Joseph said swiftly. “Now I see, David, that you have your father’s indifference. Perhaps you live in judgment of a woman who has spent her life looking for love.” He stood. “I believe you will be attending your cousin’s wedding in Cana? I pray that Mary will be there also … and that you will show the mercy your father never showed.”
The old man was honest with me. He had brought things to light that my own father had never spoken about before his death. And he was right in his conclusions.
My stepmother’s suicide had affected us all. We had never spoken openly about the circumstances surrounding the death of Mary’s mother. Little Mary had never recovered from watching her mother drown.
Joseph was also correct about my lack of compassion. I had never showed my sister any kindness. When the thirty days of mourning for my stepmother had ended, I had dismissed Mary’s tears and demanded that the child “get on with life.”
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