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CHAPTER XIV Mantle
"Abruptly, Jesus stood up in the boat and stepped into the water.
It was shallow there so he sank only to his knees. He strode out of the water and onto the shore. Once again the crowd divided as he cleaved through them, his footsteps leaving wet traces on the ground. With determination, he spoke to no one, passing through without incident. No one followed, at least not immediately. Those of us who were disciples, those of us who had been with him since the beginning, looked at one another not knowing what to do. Jesus disappeared into the landscape. In a moment, Peter followed. After a moment's hesitation, the rest of us fell in behind him . . .
For over an hour Jesus walked, saying nothing. His stride softened into a gentler stroll allowing the twelve and the rest of us to catch up. Walking next to him in silence for a few moments, I ventured a question, "Where are we going, Lord?" He looked at me, smiled and said my name.
"Joseph." He said nothing more for the moment and then, "Joseph, the son of rest, the son of comfort. I am glad you are with me, Joseph. I need your company."
"I will always be with you," I replied. "You are my dearest friend, my Master and Lord. I could no more take leave of you than the sun takes leave of the sky."
He paused, his eyes measuring me, and softly said, "I suppose you wouldn't," walking slower, his arms folded across his chest. "You never knew your father, did you, Joseph?"
"He died when I was an infant. My mother left our home shortly after. I never saw her again." Life without a father, indeed without a mother as well, had not been easy.
"So you managed to grow up with no parents in your home?"
"I was fortunate to have a home," I replied. "I had brothers, sisters, uncles and other older men who seemed to want to help me. But there was no man whom I could call, father; a father whose love would envelop me, and whose mantle of integrity might fall on me. Mostly, I was surrounded by women old enough to be my grandmothers . . . and one African servant who was more of a mother to me than almost anyone."
"Did you miss not having a father?" I wondered at his line of questioning. Why is he pursuing this? Doesn't he know how it pains my heart?
"Always. I confess I have often envied those who had fathers, even bad ones."
"My father was a good father." He was pensive. "He was a carpenter, Joseph." Then he laughed wistfully, "His name was Joseph, too. What do you think of that, Joseph? And what do you think of a son, Joseph," he said with some emotion, "who is not there for his father's funeral? What do you think of a son who does not hurry to see his family during their time of grief?" The words were clipped, almost angry.
I stopped walking and stared at him. He stopped, too. He turned and looked at me. "I don't know what to think, Master. I would have never done that, but I am not you. You have had two fathers. One is dead, the other will never die. It is that Father's hand that is upon you, his call, his purpose." I took a breath and then added softly, "Sometimes God's purposes are peculiar and, more than peculiar, difficult."
"Yes," said Jesus. "Difficult." Then he turned and walked on.
I caught up with him again and asked, "Why do you speak to the people in stories they do not understand?" "God our Father, my Father," he glanced at me with a resonating twinkle, "has a message he wishes to convey. It is a message of love, a message of invitation . . . but you know, Joseph, there are people, who because of suspicion or fear, do not respond to an invitation of love. These 'stories,' as you call them, separate those who respond from those who will not." "But do they not respond because they do not believe the love is real, or because life has treated them so harshly they cannot recognize it when they see it? Would it not be better to make it plain and simple for these people?" The logic to me seemed inescapable. "It is more complex than it seems. Every man and woman lives life in a cloud of conflicting complexity. This cloud consists of what has been learned from parents, family, teachers and experience. The cloud forms and shapes opinion and character. Each opinion is the result of willful choice based on what is understood from their cloud. The Father will not disturb one's choices--whatever their cloud--he does not force response to his love, Joseph. Nor does he manipulate or cajole. A person still has his own mind and makes his own decisions. So, he who has cleaned his ears of the jaded wax of his cloud will respond to the Father's invitation. Are you familiar with the prophecy of Isaiah?" "Not very," I confessed. "Isaiah said . . . you will be ever seeing but never perceiving. This people's heart has become calloused; they hardly hear with their ears, and they have closed their eyes. Otherwise they might see with their eyes, hear with their ears, understand with their hearts and turn, and I would heal them." I thought it amazing how he could quote, apparently at random, obscure passages from the sacred writings. ". . . But blessed are your eyes Joseph, because they see, and your ears because they hear. Many prophets and righteous men longed to see what you see but did not see it and to hear what you hear but did not hear it." "I don't teach in stories to illustrate my point or even to make it interesting. On the contrary, I teach in stories so that truth may find a heart predisposed to acceptance. I teach in stories so that truth may be lost on a callous heart. This is not as cold as you might imagine, Joseph. It simply acknowledges the freedom Father has given men to make up their own minds as to what they choose to believe. "So what do you think of my story now, Joseph?" "Which one, Lord? "The one I just finished, Joseph! About the farmer sowing seed. Is your memory that short?" he chuckled. "I think I understand," I smiled. He returned the smile. "I grieve painfully for my mother, my brothers and sisters and the rest of my family. But my father, the man who raised me, has known from the beginning that I must be about my heavenly Father's business. Funerals are for the living, Joseph. Such ceremonies help cement the memory of the beloved one lost. But Joseph my father is now with my Father . . . and his Father. He is at peace and, at the same time, exuberant beyond human imagination. I love my family, but I cannot grieve as they do. Nor can I be among them to comfort them. Nothing stays the same, Joseph. Nothing but eternal things and eternal truths. My father, Joseph, understands this. He has known it for a long time. My purpose must not be interrupted, not even by his passing." He put his hand on my shoulder and spoke to me as though he had further explanation to make. He owed me nothing. Least of all, explanations. Yet he went on . . . "Your name is Joseph," which means 'God will increase.' And you are the son of Sabbas, the son of comfort and rest. Indeed, you are all these things, dear friend, but you are more. You are upright and just. Therefore I give you a new name, 'Justus.' Justus the upright and strong." And then he took my face in his hands and kissed me on the forehead. "You will suffer, dear Justus. You will suffer because you have chosen to follow me. But you will endure and you will conquer because of your trust and devotion. Do not fear, Justus the upright. You will conquer!" He then did something that changed my life more than my name; he removed his mantle and laid it on my shoulders, spreading it about my arms and tugging it firmly in place. "There," he said, "you have your mantle," and then he turned to the others who had begun to stare. "Come, friends" Jesus said. He appeared to be comforted, somewhat relieved. "Let's go back. I am hungry." So now I am called Justus, and his mantle I have kept to this day. It is worn and tattered and I no longer wear it. I keep it folded and put away for safekeeping. But I do wear it in my heart, and the mantle that covers my heart shall never become worn and tattered. It has become my shepherd, my shroud and my salvation. It has become the mantle of his blood. It shall never be put away.
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