“What is all this, Jesus?” he said severely. “Is this you, the bearer of love? Is this the kind of love you bring? Aren’t you ashamed?”

He turned to the crowd. “My children, return to your homes. This is my nephew. He’s sick, unfortunate man; he’s been sick for years. Do not bear any malice against him for what he has said, but forgive him. It is not he who speaks, but someone else who uses his mouth.”

“God!” Jesus exclaimed.

“You keep quiet,” the rabbi snapped, and he touched him reprovingly with his crosier.

He turned once more to the crowd. “Leave him alone, my children. Bear no grudge against him, for he knows not what he says. All-rich and poor-we are all seeds of Abraham. Do not quarrel among yourselves. It’s noontime; return to your homes. I shall cure this unfortunate man.”

He turned to Mary. “Mary, go home. We’ll come presently.”

The mother threw a final glance at her son, a glance of great longing, as though she were saying goodbye to him forever. She sighed, bit her kerchief, and disappeared into the narrow lanes.

While the people were murdering each other clouds had covered the heavens; rain was preparing to fall and refresh the earth. A wind arose. The stems of the last leaves of the plane and fig trees separated from their branches and the leaves scattered over the ground. The square had emptied.

Jesus turned to Philip and held out his hand. “Philip, my brother, welcome.”

“I’m glad to see you, Rabbi,” the other replied, squeezing Jesus’ hand and surrendering his crook to him.

“Take this to lean on,” he said.

“Come, fellow partisans,” said Jesus, “let us go. Shake the dust from your feet. Farewell, Nazareth!”

“I’ll keep you company until the edge of the village so that no one will bother you,” the old rabbi said.

He took Jesus’ hand, and they went in the lead together. The rabbi felt Jesus’ palm burning in his grasp.

“My son,” he said, “do not take the cares of others upon yourself. They will devour you.”

“I have no cares of my own, Father. Let those of others devour me!”

They reached the end of Nazareth. The orchards came into view and, beyond, the fields. The disciples in back had stopped for a moment to wash their wounds in a spring. With them were a good number of the paupers and cripples, plus two blind men-all chattering and waiting for the new prophet to perform his miracles. They were excited and merry, as though returning from a great battle.

But the four disciples marched along in silence. Uneasy, they were hurrying to approach the rabbi so that he could comfort them. Nazareth, the master’s home, had hooted and banished them: the great campaign had started off badly! And if we’re chased out of Cana too, they were thinking, and out of Capernaum and everywhere else around the lake of Gennesaret, what will become of us? Where will we go? To whom will we proclaim the word of God? Since the people of Israel refuse us and hoot us, to whom shall we turn? To the infidels?

They looked at Jesus, but no one opened his mouth to speak. Jesus saw the fear in their eyes, however, and took Peter’s hand.

“Peter, man of little faith,” he said, “a black beast with bristling hair sits shriveled up and trembling inside the pupils of your eyes. It is fear, Peter, fear. Are you afraid?”

“When I’m far from you, Rabbi, yes, I am afraid. That’s why I’ve come close; that’s why all of us have come close. Speak to us and steady our hearts.”

Jesus smiled. “When I bend far down into my soul,” he said, “I don’t know how and why the truth always issues from within me in the form of a parable. So, friends, once more I shall speak to you in parables:

“A great nobleman once commanded a rich dinner to be made ready in his palace for his son’s marriage. As soon as the bulls were slain and the tables set, he sent his servants to announce to those who were invited: ‘Everything is ready. If it so pleases you, come to the wedding.’ But each of the invited found a pretext for not coming: ‘I bought a field which I must go to see,’ said one. ‘I’m newly married myself and can’t come,’ said the next. ‘I purchased five pairs of oxen and I’m off to try them out,’ the next gave as his excuse. The servants returned and said to their master, ‘None of the invited is able to come. They all say they’re busy.’ The nobleman became angry. ‘Run quickly to the squares and crossroads, gather together the poor, lame, blind and deformed and bring them here. I invited my friends but they refused. I shall therefore fill my house with the uninvited so that they may eat, drink and rejoice at the wedding of my son.’ ”

Jesus stopped. He had begun calmly, but the more he spoke the more he thought of the Nazarenes and Jews, and wrath flamed up between his eyes. The disciples looked at him with surprise.

“Who are the invited, who the uninvited, what marriage is it? Forgive us, Rabbi, but we don’t understand,” said Peter, scratching his thick head in despair.

“You will understand,” said Jesus, “when I summon the invited to enter the ark and they refuse because they say they have fields, vineyards and wives and because their eyes, ears, lips, nostrils and hands are five pairs of oxen which are tilling-tilling what? The bottomless pit!”

He sighed. Looking at the companions, he felt completely forsaken. “I speak,” he murmured, “but to whom? To the air. I am the only one who listens. When shall the desert grow ears in order to hear me?”

“Forgive us, Rabbi,” Peter repeated, “but our minds are clods of mud. Have patience: they will blossom.”

Jesus turned and looked at the rabbi, but the old man was staring at the ground. He had a foreboding of the terrible hidden meaning and his aged, lashless eyes were brimming with tears.

At the end of Nazareth, in front of a wooden shed, stood the customs officer who collected the duties. Matthew was his name. All the merchants who entered or left the village had to pay tax to the Romans. He was short, stout, jaundiced; his hands yellow and soft, his fingers inky, nails black; he had long hairy ears and a high voice like a eunuch’s. The whole village found him disgusting and hated him. No one would shake hands with him, and everyone who passed by the shed looked the other way. Did not the Scriptures say: “It is our duty to pay tax only to God, not to men”? This man was a publican, a tax-collector in the tyrant’s service. He trampled the Law, made a living from illegality. The air around him was polluted for seven miles.

“Move quickly, lads,” Peter said. “Hold your breath. Turn away your faces!”

But Jesus stopped. Matthew, standing outside the shed, was holding his quill pen between his teeth. He breathed rapidly, not knowing what to do. He was afraid to stay where he was, yet he did not want to go inside the shed. For ages now he had longed for a close view of the new prophet who proclaimed that all men were brothers. Wasn’t it he who one day said, “God loves the sinner who repents more than he who never sinned”? And another day, hadn’t he said, “I came to the world not for the righteous but for sinners: it is with them I like to speak and eat”? And another day when he was asked, “Rabbi, what is the name of the true God?” he answered, “Love.”

For many a day and night now Matthew had turned these words over and over in his heart, saying with a sigh, “When shall I see him, when shall I fall at his feet!” And now, there he was in front of him, yet Matthew was ashamed to lift his eyes to look at him. He stood motionless, head bowed, and waited. What was he waiting for? The prophet would go away now, and he would lose him forever.

Jesus took a step toward him and said “Matthew” so quietly and sweetly that the publican felt his heart melt, and raised his eyes. Jesus was standing in front of him, looking at him. His regard was tender and all-powerful: it descended to the officer’s very bowels, brought peace to his heart and enlightenment to his mind. His vital organs had been shivering, but now the sun fell over them and warmed them. What joy this was, what certainty, what friendship! Was the world then so simple and salvation so easy?