I.N.R.I.: A prisoner's Story of the Cross

by Peter Rosegger

CHAPTER XXII

When the people who had gathered round Jesus heard that Saul, the terrible weaver, was scouring the desert with a troop of police, they began to melt away. They feared unpleasant consequences. They fully recognised the right, but most of them were disinclined to suffer persecution for that right. They must return to their domestic duties, to their families, industries, and commerce, and, so far as was possible, live according to the Master's teaching. They left Him because it seemed to them that His cause was falling. In the end there were just a few faithful ones who stayed with Him, and even some of them were in hopes that He would reveal the power of the Messiah. But they all urged Him to repair to some other neighbourhood. Jesus was not afraid of having to render an account of Himself to His adversaries in Jerusalem, but the time had not yet come, the work was not yet finished. He knew that He could never retrace His steps, for the more incontestable His justification was, the more dangerous it would seem to them. With His now dwindled troop of followers He left the desert to revisit once again His native Galilee.

But here His opponents were no better than before; houses were closed as He approached, the people got out of His way when He began to speak. Only Mary, with all a mother's simple faith, said; "Ah, you have come at last, my son! Now stay, with me!"

There was, however, no place for Him in the house. A strange apprentice from Jericho was established in the workshop. He worked at the wood with the hatchet and saw that Jesus had once handled; sat by the hearth and at the table where Jesus had once sat; slept in the bed on which Jesus had once reposed. But it did not seem that he enjoyed the same pleasant dreams for he groaned and tossed about, and when he awakened was ill-pleased at having to continue the same work which he had ill-humouredly laid aside the evening before. How often did Mary look at him in silence, and think of the difference between him and her Jesus. And she saw how the man carelessly ate his meals, and went to his bed each day, while her son was perhaps perishing in a strange land, and had no stone whereon to lay His head.

And now Jesus was once again with her. "Mother," He said to Mary, "don't speak impatiently to Aaron. He is poor, discontented, and sullen; he has found little kindness in men and without exactly knowing it, thirsts for kindness. When you would bring Me water in the morning to wash with, take it to him. When you would prepare dinner for Me, prepare it for him. When you would bless Me in the evening, bless him. Love may perhaps do what words cannot. Everything that you think to do for Me in My absence, do for him."

"And you—you will have nothing more from me?"

"Mother, I want everything from you. I am always with you. You can be good to Me in showing kindness to every poor creature. I must lead men by stern measures, be you gentle. I must burn the ulcers from out the dead flesh, you shall heal the wounds. I must be the salt, be you the oil."

How happy she was when He spoke to her like that. For that was her life—to be kind, to help, wherever she could. And here was her son consecrating such deeds of kindness till they became a covenant between her and Him, a bond of memory for mother and child when parted from each other. Now that He had appealed to her love, she did not feel so lonely; she felt once more at one with Him, and had a sort of presentiment that in future times her bleeding mother's heart would be satisfied beyond measure.

Once again Jesus went through His native land to see if the seed of His teaching had sprung up anywhere. But the earth was barren. He was not so much troubled by the passionate enmity with which many regarded Him, or the angry murmurings against Him and His word, as by indolence of mind, by obstinate, stupid adherence to commonplace inanities, by entire lack of perception, by indifference towards spiritual life. At first the novelty and strangeness of His appearance had compelled attention, but that was over. Whether the Prophet was old or new, it was all one to them. One was just like another, they declared, and they remained indifferent. "The hot and the cold," Jesus exclaimed one day, "I can accept, but those who are lukewarm I cast from Me. Had I preached in heathen lands, or in the ruined seaports of Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented in sackcloth and ashes. Had I taught in Sodom and Gomorrah, those towns would still be standing. But these places here in Galilee are sunk in a quagmire of shame; they scorn their Prophet. When the day of reckoning comes, it will go worse with this land than with those towns. My poor Bethsaida, and thou, fair Magdala! And thou, Capernaum the beautiful! How I loved you, My people, how highly did I honour you; I desired to lift you to Heaven. And now you sink in the abyss. Pray to him, your Mammon, in the days of your need; there will be no other consolation for you. Carouse, laugh, and be cruel to-day; to-morrow you will be hungry and you will groan: Ah, we have delayed too long! Believe me a day will come when you fain would justify your lives to Me, crying: 'Lord, we would willingly have given you food, drink, and lodging, but you did not come to us.' But I did come to you. I came in the starving, the thirsty, the homeless, only you would not recognise Me. I will not accuse you to the Heavenly Father, but Moses, whose commandments you have broken, will accuse you. And when you appeal to the Father, He will say: 'I know you not.'"

The disciples trembled and were terrified in mind and soul when He spoke those angry words. But they were not surprised, for the people had sunken very low.