P
aths formed by countless sheep laced the mountainside like a spider’s web. It was on one of these that Jesus walked as the sun descended into the western horizon. Abishag trotted ahead of him stopping from time to time to see if he was following, or to wait for her Master, or pausing to sniff the earth in curious investigation of the animals and beasts that had left their scent. Jesus had spent most of the day asleep in the boat before they had put ashore. As soon as his foot touched the earth he struck out on his own, the dog in his trail. “Master, where are you going?” his friends had queried. He did not answer. He just kept walking away from them. I need solitude, he thought to himself. His friends sensed his need to be alone and did not follow. The rest on the boat had renewed him and he had now walked several miles away from the water’s edge. The elevation of the terrain had risen until he had reached this place on the side of the mountain. He continued, one step in front of another, his body in cadence with his pace up the mountain. He would find a place, there is a place, where he could stop, spend the night, he could use a drink of water, I need to pray.
There were several things on his mind. His growing popularity among the people, the escalating hostility generated among the religious leadership, and his sense of need for emotional support, his need to surround himself with a cadre of . . . what? What shall I call them? Disciples? They are all my disciples. All who follow me. All who seek me. No, these would be different. Set aside to help me in my mission. Messengers of the message I bring. “I need friends, Father,” he said aloud.
At length, the sheep trail led over a grassy rise and down into an alcove shaded by several trees, boughs spreading to form and umbrella. The effect was a kind of room, a place designed by nature for the protection of those who sought refuge. Jesus, feeling the strain of the trail in his joints, halted and sat down, leaning his sweating back against the coolness of a large rock. Pulling his legs up so that his arms rested on his knees, he plucked a stalk of grass, inserted it into his mouth and gazed at the darkening sky. His mind focused. At first, he thought of them as a group. All the men and women he had known. Those that had been with him up to that time. That’s it. I need friends to be with me. With me! The words comforted him. Who? His heart lifted to God. He began to pray.
How does one choose a disciple? What should they know before being chosen? What kind of men should they be? Men? And what of women? And how many? Two or three? A dozen? A hundred maybe? Jesus briefly considered the plausibility of all night campfires with women present. The needs to bathe, the normal concourse of human functioning. He ruled out the possibility of including women in those that would “be with him.” There could be no women. No gender mixing. Too much sexual chemistry. Too much distraction. Since I am male, they should be. A hundred would be too many. The thoughts went back and forth like that. Following no logical order or development. Just thoughts, often disconnected. It was curious how Jesus communed with the Father at these times. It was as if the Father were sitting beside him, or across from him chewing on a stem of weed as well. There were no spoken words, only the offering of thoughts which seemed to be exchanged, to interact, as though it were two Minds communicating without the bother of speech. Abishag, curled at his side raised her head to sniff the air.
