Next installment of my new historical novel: Peter and Paul.
It took Shimon
the whole of the night to recover. Whatever happened on Shavuoth, on the
southwestern hill of Jerusalem, was not only beyond his expectations, but it
didn’t make any logical sense. Not with logic as he knew it.
Frankly, his recollection of that day was hazy. Fragments went well
beyond real, yet they were as vivid as some of the things Yeshûa did and said
when still amongst them. Others, other things he, he himself, has said, other
reactions from the crowds, seemed veiled with a haze of improbability. Yet,
again, throng of people seemed to sway with his every word, as though grasped
in a gigantic wave of Truth spilling from his mouth.
In a strange way, it was a humbling experience.
Those were fragments of events, or recollections, Shimon couldn’t quite
accept, quite reconcile with the way he’d always regarded the world.
Just imagine.
Twelve frightened men, deprived of will of their own, taking to
thousands of people coming from different parts of the world; talking to total
strangers, in the strangers’ own tongues, in their local vernacular, telling
them of things which completely upset the usual, accepted norms of behaviour.
And the men, those foreigners, seemed to be accepting the new world-view,
accepting the new concept of reality; accepting, absorbing, making it their
own.
“Does this make any sense?” Shimon looked at his friends, his
co-conspirators, who stood throughout the long day, from sunrise till sunset,
sharing the Good News.
His colleagues all knew what he meant. They all returned smiles of
understanding. Whatever they did yesterday, on that incredible Yom
Ree-Shon, on Shavuoth
unlike any other Shavuoth, was as much beyond their understanding as beyond any
logical process that could be explained by human mind.
“Does this make any sense…” Shimon repeated softly.
To Shimon it didn’t. He was a stubborn man. He wouldn’t give up his
established mindset easily. In that sense, he really was Kepha. And he might be persuaded to compromise on any matter, other
than the Master’s teaching. On that he was immovable.
Yet, at the same time, it was he, Shimon the Rock, who was no longer
afraid, who stood proud in the midst of the hornets’ nest, on the broad steps
of the Temple itself, steps leading to the Hall of Hewn Stones, to the Sanhedrin, to the Holy of Holies beyond, who
preached to the swaying masses.
He stood and spoke the words Yeshûa put in his mouth, with priests
looking on, unable to do anything, unwilling to show their true colours in
front of the milling thousands who seemed to hang on Shimon’s ever word.
The same was true of all his friends. Every one of them. They just
couldn’t reconcile their own memories of that day with the way they regarded
reality of everyday life. It was as if the Master had been there, standing
amongst them, speaking through their lips.
And then, with the rising sun, the fire lit his heart again.
Ignoring the danger inherent from the priesthood, Shimon and John
returned to the Temple. People, hungry for the Word, were already there,
waiting. They both delivered another sermon. It wasn’t quite like yesterday,
but the remnants of fire still burned within them. This time close to five
thousand people heard the Word. This time close to five thousand people
accepted the Good News.
These were the most incredible days. Had someone mentioned them a week
ago, not one of them would have believed it. And yet it had been promised by
Yeshûa.
At nightfall, after the second day of preaching, of sharing the Good
News, sanity prevailed. Shimon led his men, in small groups of three or four,
back to their hiding place. There was no need to tempt the priests and the
Pharisees any further. The News has been announced. It would spread. Those who
heard it would go back and pass it on the others.
(to be continued)
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