Chapter 13

But when, one evening, Simon had brought this Jesus home with him for supper and lodging for the night, Andrew became aware that they were in the presence of a new kind of man. Although Andrew had never travelled further than a day’s journey from home and had no notion how others than Galileans talked, as he sat there directly across the table from the Carpenter he felt sure that there could be no one else in the world like him.

Upon Jesus’ unexpected arrival at supper-time, Hannah had been pretty badly flustered and was profuse with apologies for their poor little house, which, she untruthfully declared, was untidy, and for the skimpy meal, which, in fact, was more ample than usual because she had known that Simon—frequently absent from home in these days—intended to be here.

Apparently Jesus had heard such talk before, it being customary for an excellent housekeeper to belittle her hospitality, but her remarks had given him an occasion to speak about the things that really mattered. He defined poverty by telling a brief story of a rich farmer who had prospered until his accumulations had become a serious problem. His fields had produced so abundantly that his barns were too small to house the corn: so he had torn down the barns and built bigger ones. And his harvests increased, requiring more barns, until all he thought about was larger barns. And when, one night, an Angel came for his soul and inquired what he was worth, he had nothing to offer but huge barns bulging with corn. This was unfortunate; for there was no market for corn where the farmer was going, and there was nothing the Angel could do with a barn—no matter how big it was.

The story was told soberly enough, but Andrew couldn’t help smiling a little. It was so simple that a child could have understood it. The priests, who never talked that way, might have considered it trivial. But, when Jesus told it, in his quiet voice, it was more than a mere story: it seemed real! You could see the puzzled old rich man—whom everybody had envied for his wealth—sitting up in bed at midnight with his grey hair tousled and his silken nightcap askew, blinking into the disappointed eyes of the Angel who was shaking his head, and saying, ‘Corn? No; you can’t bring the corn along—or the barns. You may bring only whatever you have given away.’

When the story was ended, Simon, who had been eating industriously, made a little chuckle deep in his throat and glanced up to say: ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a very good farmer, master. If the Angel were to come for me, I wouldn’t even be able to offer him corn-barns.’

Andrew had wished, in the embarrassing silence following this speech, that his brother hadn’t said it; for the attempted drollery sounded as if Simon was showing his family that he and Jesus were chummy enough to share a little jest. But, if that had been intended, the Master had quietly set Simon right by remarking: ‘Ships—perhaps?’

Simon had not ventured to comment on that, and it was some time before anything else was said.