Chapter 17

‘They are burying him this afternoon, Master, in the cemetery at Bethsaida. The people are aroused. A great crowd will assemble there. John thinks it would be well for you to speak some words of comfort at the graveside.’

After a moment’s deliberation, Jesus slowly shook his head. That indignant throng in the Bethsaida burial-ground would be in no mood for comforting words. Anything he might say to these angry people would surely be misconstrued. If he deplored the Tetrarch’s crime—and how was the subject to be avoided?—it would amount to a sanction of public rebellion against their government, in direct contradiction to his earnest pleas for peaceful submission. Nor was it an occasion when the multitude would listen, with any patience at all, to calm advice about loving your enemies and praying for them who despitefully use you and persecute you. John had indeed paid a high price for his courage in fearlessly speaking the truth—but—

‘But—Master!’ broke in Peter impulsively. ‘You have told us that the truth will set men free!’

‘Yes,’ said Jesus softly, ‘and John is free…Come—let us cross the lake to some quiet place—apart from these resentful people. Tell the others to meet us at the shore. I have much to say to you.’

Though it was still early in the morning, a great throng, noisily rebellious, had assembled in the Synagogue plaza. At the sight of Jesus a shout arose and the crowd surged about him, demanding that he speak to them, but he proceeded to the lake-shore, where Peter and the others—who had been quietly summoned—awaited his coming.

Stunned to silence by this unexpected withdrawal of the Carpenter on whom they had depended for counsel in this critical hour, they watched the three borrowed dories moving out toward Peter’s long-idle fleet, where their passengers boarded The Sara. The sails were quickly set and the little ship slowly sidled away from her sister craft.

‘I wonder why they took The Sara,’ remarked one of the puzzled onlookers, shading his eyes against the sun.

‘They’re bound for some shallow cove,’ surmised a bystander wearing a sailor’s cap. ‘See! They’re heading north-east—toward the desert.’

‘Let us follow them!’ shouted someone. The suggestion met favour. The crowd moved forward along the shore, unorganized and without leadership, but bent on finding Jesus.

It was a hard-breathing, shuffling, straggling procession that laboured through the reeds and weeds and sand for eight long miles. Many of the more provident ones, knowing what a difficult journey faced them and aware that no food was to be had in that desolate region, scurried to their near-by homes and the town’s provision stores to stuff their pockets with smoked fish and wheaten loaves.

Weary, bedraggled, footsore, their sandals ripped and clothing torn by nettles and briers, five thousand exhausted people found Jesus and his company at mid-afternoon. There was no shouting now; they were too utterly spent for shouting, too tired to hate anybody.