The Keriot

By Anne McKeown Austin

Who was Judas? Spawn of the devil, bent on evil? Stooge, duped into actions whose consequences he could not have seen? Or ordinary human chasing one dream and discovering another, reaching for both? Judas tells his own story; his meeting with Jesus, his discipleship, his missionary journey with Simon the Zealot, and the events that led to his downfall.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Austin
• Release date: Jun 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9798201432676

Anne McKeown Austin

A lifelong Californian and longtime resident of the Sierra Nevada region, Ms. Austin has written several plays and Vacational Bible School curricula for use by her local church. This is her first novel.

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The Keriot

Anne McKeown Austin

The Keriot

All Rights Reserved © 2000

by Anne McKeown Austin

Second Edition

To Dick: for his great patience during the times when the world of my book was as real and urgent to me as the world in which I ate and slept.

Table of Contents

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epigraph

F or he was numbered among us, and was allotted his share in this ministry. Acts 1:17

Chapter 1

Iam very close to it now. I know I must be near to the place. Here, on the road we had traveled, I move slowly, trying to remember the exact spot. When was it? Only five days ago. Surely not five days – a lifetime.

It was at this bend in the road that he stopped, that he uttered the curse. The rise was to our left as we came down toward the city. Coming up from the valley it will be on my right – a single fig tree, set apart on a knoll below the terraced olive orchards. It is in view now, this disobedient subject of his realm, spreading its ample branches, a skeleton in the moonlight. It deprived him in his moment of glory and received the punishment I have so far been denied. Punishment, dire punishment, I could have borne. Instead, I felt the force of his love. My lips burn where they touched his cheek – the taste of wormwood.

But I did not come here merely to see the tree. I must climb up to it. I must feel its deadness under my hand to be convinced of annihilation, the assurance of eternal oblivion that is the only comfort of the damned.

The wet grass is slick on the steep hillside. My sandals slip until I reach dry purchase. Parched leaves crunch under my feet, the discarded shroud of the fig tree. I reach out to grasp a twig. It snaps off, desiccated.

Unbidden memories flood my brain. I slump against the tree, the weight of my thoughts sapping my strength.

In my mind’s eye I see him still, as I saw him for the first time, striding down the rocky path to the Jordan. I, as a student at the temple in Jerusalem, had conjectured whether my position and dignity might be better served by coming there incognito, perhaps in the dress of a tradesman. As I watched this princely figure descend the slope in his humble garb, I realized how thin such a disguise would have been. I was dissuaded from assuming a false identity mainly because any costume I might reasonably assume would reveal my face. Now I saw it was not merely my visage that would have made me known to my friends, but every gesture, every attitude.

The man, for instance, was of the very highest class. There was ease in his bearing, a confidence that was unusual in our poor conquered country, where even the rich must bow to the foreign rulers. There was no hint of bluster or self-importance, which would have shown him less secure in his place, but he behaved with a natural courtesy, giving way without loss of assurance to the less able. It was his bearing that made me wonder the more at his costume. Would a man of such enviable confidence resort to a ruse? He had, no doubt, come here, as had I, out of curiosity. John was the talk of the temple. I wished to test for myself if his preaching was as powerful as it was said to be. I could understand the same motive in another. But why should a man of such poise, such confidence, fear, as I did, to be caught up in the emotions of the occasion? But this man would not fear, as I did, the moment when, with arms outstretched, he would proclaim repentance of his sin to all and sundry, and would rush to the Jordan to be cleansed in its somewhat muddy waters by a desert eccentric. What he did, he would do with intention. I sensed that in him.

He was a well-built man, on the tall side of average height, so that it was not his height that drew my attention. His features were regular, no idiosyncrasy or exaggeration to set them apart, so that one could find nothing to distinguish him except for the obvious purity of his Hebrew ancestry. His stride was unhurried, yet purposeful; his posture, erect. It was his eyes, I was later to learn, that set the character of his face. But I was seated at some distance from the trail, and at that time, I could not perceive them.

I fell to speculating on his background. I thought I knew by sight all the important people of Jerusalem. I knew of no Herod who could fit his description. Perhaps he was the son of a wealthy merchant. Perhaps he had taken to the Greek practice of participating in athletic competition. That might explain his sureness of movement.

In any case, the clothing he wore did not seem habitual to him. It was simple village homespun, softened by wear, somewhat dusty from the road. I looked at the hem of my own robe and noticed a like condition. The dust, then, was not necessarily a part of his disguise.

My attention was called away at this point by the appearance of the Baptist on the farther bank. We had gathered here on the western bank of the Jordan waiting for him, several hundred of us, a motley group, all male but varied as to age and class, some in companionable groups, others, like myself, solitary. It was no formal meeting place. We had heard from friends, from tradesmen, from those who had been here before us, that it was here, to the south of the point when the main road from Jericho crosses the river into Perea near Bethany-Beyond-the-Jordan, that we would find him.

The day was mercifully cool, cloudy with a gentle south breeze, so that, though we had been sitting on the unshaded incline for some time, we did not suffer from the heat.

John and perhaps a dozen of his disciples emerged from under the alders on the farther bank to gather on a broad flat rock outcropping that jutted out into the water. The disciples fell back and he stood alone, a shaggy giant of a man, another Samson, his unshorn locks cascading over his shoulders, his brown cloak of camel’s hair belted around his waist by a broad leather band.

The sounds of casual conversation, the rustle of movement ceased. It was as if all on our side of the river had leaned forward at once to catch his words. Indeed we had. It was this in particular I had come to witness. John was known a great speaker, a mighty exhorter. News of his stirring words had drawn us here. He called the nation to turn from the blandishments of foreign culture and seek its rightful purity, to recognize and seek the moral excellence of our heritage with the prophet’s eternal cry, Return to the Lord, your God. It had led us to leave our normal occupation, had led most of us to brave the wild, treacherous road from Jerusalem through Jericho down into the valley of the Jordan. We anticipated accepting his message, but we were here to be convinced in our hearts. We must hear and see him to be convinced.

I was aware of a movement to my left. I looked to see the stranger I had watched come down the trail rise from a place quite near to me. Was this man not going to wait for the exhortation?

John had noticed the action. I looked across to where he stood to see how he would treat this interruption. Instead of rebuke, the stranger gained a nod of recognition. Could it be this personage was so famous that even the Baptist, in his wilderness, knew him?  

As the stranger raised his hand to remove his mantle, I noticed the incongruity. It was not possible. The man’s hand was a match to his habit rather than his mien. It was broad and callused, the hand of an artisan. I must have been mistaken in my first impression of him. Yet, as I studied him, only a few feet from me, I was certain I could not have been. To all other evidence of nobility, I could add the intensity and sensitivity of his gaze. No one of inferior status could maintain that fearless openness into adulthood.

He had removed his sandals now, and was walking into the muddy water. From the far side, John waded out to meet him. The current was still strong with the remnants of the spring runoff, but they moved surely, conscious only of each other, as if fulfilling a long anticipated appointment. Nevertheless, as they met in the middle of the stream, the Baptist seemed to demur. With their words lost to distance and the sounds of the river, I could only watch the pantomime: argument on John’s part, assurance on the part of the other. In the end John agreed. He seized the stranger by the shoulder, and bending him backward, purposefully submerged him.

What happened next, I cannot tell. In some way, I became distracted. Was my attention drawn by a distant roll of thunder? Did I become so engrossed in puzzling over the inconsistencies I had noticed in the stranger’s appearance that I lost track of what was happening in front of me? I have tried to relive that moment without success. Something momentous occurred. I know that I was present. I know that I did not see what it was.

The man had risen from the water. He and John looked at each other for a long moment, and then turned away without a word, each moving toward his own side of the river. Both seemed dazed, bemused. The stranger came up the slope to the place near me where he had left his clothes. His face held a glow, even as his consciousness turned inward. With the elaborate concentration of a drunken man who is called upon to perform a delicate task, he fastened his sandals and adjusted his cloak over his wet shirt. Without looking around, he straightened himself and started off with determined step in the direction from which he had come.

Back on the rock, the Baptist was gathering himself to speak. This is – he started. It is a new time –. He seemed lost in himself.

No more today –. I’m sorry. No more today –. And he, too, turned from the river and the crowd waiting on the far side. With his puzzled disciples trailing after him, he disappeared in the foliage.

Without waiting to see how others would take this dismissal, I hurried after the stranger, who was just disappearing around a bend in the trail. I had no plan, simply the feeling that I had witnessed some extraordinary event that was just beyond my grasp. I did not want the major participant in the event to slip beyond my observation.

The path led steadily upward. If my guess was correct, and the subject of my interest was headed for Jericho, it would only become steeper. Soon I was panting with the effort to keep up with that steady stride. I had gained not one step on him, and I was yearning to sit and catch my breath. So eager was I in my quest that I fought of the impulse, yet with each turning of the way, my quarry was hidden from my view for longer and longer. It was some three or four miles, I judged, from the site by the river to the junction of this trail with the main road to Jericho. Surely, he would stop and rest there before starting up the grade. I made up my mind to pursue that far even if I lost sight of him entirely, which I was soon to do.

Some minutes later, I stood puffing at that very crossroads. The trail on which I had traveled, I found, continued to the north, up the valley of the Jordan, while the road to Jericho rose to my left and to my right wound down the slope to cross the river, continuing to Perea. To where? Gerasa? Machaerus? I could only guess. I had ventured far to come down here to the Jordan River. I was truly familiar, I had to admit, only with that little stretch of country between the home of my father at Kerioth in Idumea and Jerusalem.

While the man I sought had disappeared, in this rocky country he might still be quite close though hidden from my view. I might still catch up with him, if I chose rightly. I stared down the road that continued up the valley, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

Don’t worry. He didn’t go that way.

I was startled by the voice behind me. I turned to see a small man with a beard thick enough on his upper lip and chin, but sparse and straggly across his cheeks. He wore his head cloth fastened round his head with a braided cord and a striped coat over a long sleeved shirt that was belted at the waist with a faded sash that might once have matched his coat.

There’s nothing that way.

This was a gross exaggeration. The road had the well-worn look of a major thoroughfare. Still, the hint of Galilee in the man’s faint accent told of a familiarity with the area.

Nothing?

Oh, it is a trade route to the north, but it goes for many miles with a mountain wilderness on one side and only acres of farm land on the other.

Who is more provincial than a man who aspires to live in the city? I accepted his assessment.

Jericho, he said, motioning up the slope, is near at hand. And Jerusalem lies beyond that.

He told only what I knew, but the point was well taken. Jerusalem, the core of our culture and the focus of our religion, would draw the holy man like a lodestone. I turned west, toward Jericho, as the best of the choices.

Think. If I had only chosen the northern path, as I might have done without advice, I might have overtaken him. I might have been the first of his disciples, rather than one of the latest to be called.

I noticed you back there. I saw you take out after him. My advisor continued at my side. I might say bounced. There was an eagerness about him that infected even his step.

What did you think? I mean about him and John the Baptist.

I shrugged. I was not accustomed to sharing my deepest thoughts with strangers on the road.

Did you see the way the sun shot through the cloud upon his face in a single ray as he rose from the water?

I’m not a sun worshiper, I growled, hoping he would take the insult.

Of course not. Of course not. But it could have been a sign of a special blessing upon him.

I did not answer him. Was that the thing I had missed? Had a chance sunbeam so impressed John that he was unable to continue? Mulling through that thought caused me to shake my head, and he must have taken that for encouragement.

My name is Simon. I’m a sandal maker by trade. I was born and raised in Galilee, near Nain, but I came down to Jerusalem to be here when it all starts.

I could have asked what it was that was about to start, but I had no idea of encouraging this acquaintance. I had, rather, a dread that I might soon be hearing details of his theories whether or not I so desired.

The time is ripe, you know.

What demon of politeness is it that causes us to put forth that minimal answer when pressed to it?

Oh? I said, quite against my will.

Yes, the Messiah, the new leader that will bring us back to our rightful place among the nations.

I had suspected my new companion of Messianic fever. It was a prevalent malady. We are unhappy as a subject nation. It seemed that for as long as I have been living in Jerusalem, every cracked pot and seeker of notoriety in the whole country has come there to proclaim himself the Messiah. Almost everyone has gathered a following, and they have all come to similar ends. Most of them are fetched home by their families, some simply lose credibility with their adherents, and the troublesome few who remain are dealt with by the Roman authorities, who are ever watchful of sedition.

Oh. I hoped to sound distant and noncommittal.

The Messiah will come and drive out the foreigners.

Instinctively, I looked around. We were on a traveled roadway now. Spies were everywhere, and we ran a risk in calling attention to ourselves. I doubted shushing the man would have any effect. 

You have no idea of the power of Rome, I said in as low a voice as I could manage. What we see here is no measure of her might. She rules the whole world.

That only set him off.

Do you think it is the power of numbers that will save us? he shouted. Remember Gideon, how the Lord reduced his army to three hundred men, so that all should know it was the power of the Lord that put the enemy into his hand? Remember David, how he slew Goliath because the power of the Lord was upon him?

He was gesticulating now, waving his arms as he danced along beside me. I could only hope his very fervor would discount his importance and that any informer would understand him for what he was, a chance irritant of the road.

The Messiah will come. He will drive out the foreign culture. No more naked racers. No more statues. He will sweep Mt. Moriah clean and restore the Temple.

I judged this Simon to be about my age, that is, not beyond his mid-twenties. He could no more have seen the Second Temple than I. This nostalgic yearning on the part of even the very young radical religionist for a building that was fallen apart and replaced by a dignified modern edifice, in every way suited to the needs of the worshipers, was a facet of our society that was beyond my ken. He had, at last, succeeded in drawing me into argument.

There is nothing wrong with Herod’s temple. It is only the outer courts that have been changed. The Holy of Holies is still in its place as it always was. The Holy Place is just as ever, only more beautifully decorated. The old temple was simply too small for the number of people who used it.

He was incensed that I should disagree with him. What about those pillars? Marble pillars all the way around. How dare they allow the temple of the Lord to look like a home of pagan idols!

That modern architecture derives certain motifs from the Greek doesn’t make it bad. The columns give the building dignity and grandeur. Besides, you have to agree that the enlargement of the Women’s Court and building special booths for the moneychangers and the animal dealers were needed.

I don’t see that at all. If you are to sacrifice an animal or a bird, you should bring your own. It should be of the best of your flock.

Will the people drive animals all the way from, say Caesarea Philippi? Or will the city people keep sheep?

I could see I had caught him off guard. It was a minute before he could think of an answer.

Leave the sheep for the farmers, then, he said at last. "Let the city people raise doves.

Anyway, the Messiah will knock that eagle right off the gateway. That eagle has no right to be there.

This only showed how little enthusiasts like Simon understood of our nation’s situation. To be sure, there was a golden depiction of the imperial eagle crowning the temple gate. That Herod the Great had been able to content Rome with this slight bow to its authority was one of the wonders of his reign. While that eagle signifies that the temple exists under the aegis of the Emperor, there is no implication that either it or the Emperor himself is to be held as an objection of worship, as I understand is required in other parts of Europe.

It seemed unnecessary to attempt to educate Simon on this point, especially as we now approached the gates of Jericho. I excused myself with the claim that I must seek lodging. Since it must have been obvious that I could afford more adequate accommodations than he, he made no protest, and I was at last relieved of his company.

I made no further effort to find the man whom John had baptized that day. In the first place, I felt it would be futile and, in the second, I was in a mood to steer clear of any sort of religious fanaticism.

The next morning, I rose late and took a leisurely breakfast of bread and olive oil. I judged by his eagerness and energy that my companion of the road on the previous day would be an early riser. As I saw no more of him on my road to Jerusalem, I congratulated myself that I had guessed right.

Chapter 2

Ihave said that I was a student at the temple in Jerusalem. Now, if ever, is a time for me to be honest, at least with myself. I never had any serious intent to connect myself with the Temple, either as a scribe or as any kind of teacher, though I was qualified by my education to perform such minor scribal duties as writing letters and drawing up contracts, and I was often pleased to add to my income in this manner. In fact, in addition to the Hebrew I learned in the temple, I had acquired enough of other languages to be able to write in Greek and Latin, skills much in demand in the world of commerce. It was a profitable niche. I had never been called upon to settle a dispute of either a spiritual or legal nature.

My father owned vineyards and flocks near the town of Kerioth, in Idumea, south of Judea. As his firstborn son, he saw fit to dedicate me at birth to the temple in the old fashioned tradition. However, as sometimes happens, the Lord granted him no further male offspring. I was his only heir.

Mine was a comfortable situation. I resided in Jerusalem in the home of my uncle, where I could seek instruction in the scriptures. I had the run of the city in my leisure hours. My father was generous in the allowance he provided, which, along with my scribal fees, allowed me to seek entertainments not in keeping with the holy nature of my parent’s dedication. Yet I could look forward to the day when I would be called home to assume control of my father’s estate, which, even after the deduction of seven dowries, would be considerable.

When I look back on this pleasant life, I am surprised to remember the nagging discontent I felt over my failure to discover the identity of the stranger I had seen at the Jordan. Could I not simply have forgotten the incident, as I had forgotten my half formed intent to allow myself to become a disciple of John? I reviewed in my mind what I had seen. I had missed the crucial moment. It may have been a wishful interpretation on my part, based on an event I failed to observe, but I continued to believe this man was somehow set apart. He remained in my mind as such a striking individual that I could not believe I would hear no more of him. It seems I had become a Messiah watcher.

Then a thing happened which made all this more poignant for me. John the Baptist was arrested and imprisoned.

I was at the temple, listening to a discourse on the law as it relates to money and trade, when I heard the news. It came as a visible ripple running from pillar to pillar around the portico, through each knot of students, each money-changing stall, and each animal seller’s stall. Someone came to us and whispered to our Rabbi. He was visibly shaken when he related John’s fate to us. All through the area we heard the sounds of sorrow and dissent.

All in Jerusalem were not admirers of John. Although he allied himself with no particular group, he was closest to the Essenes, which caused all sorts of little jealousies to erupt among the Pharisees and Sadducees as he came to attract his large following. Whenever his name was mentioned, some niggling criticism of him was bound to arise. He didn’t lecture on the fine points of the law. His manner of living was an uncalled for bit of showmanship. He smelled. (The last was the least justified of all, as he was constantly being washed in Jordan’s current.)

Yet, at the news of his imprisonment, we were united in genuine sorrow that so good a man should have to bear such a fate. And there was fear. In all his preaching, John had not pressed for an uprising against Rome. His was a battle of the conscience, not the sword. He had denied Messiah-ship, though he had affirmed the idea of the Messiah’s coming. In short, he did not comprise a political threat. What did that mean for religious practice in Judea? Were new restrictions coming into being? Were we to lose the freedom of worship we had enjoyed under Rome thus far? Were we to be made to worship Ceasar?

These fears were only partly allayed when we learned that Herod had made the arrest, and not Pilate. Herod was as capricious as he was despotic, (Made fearless by desolation, I am now as free as a man can be to speak my mind.) and he was also much too close to Rome to content his subjects. Now, we were told, he had ordered John imprisoned merely because John had said publicly what every good Jew, and every Samaritan, knew to be true. That is, for Herod to marry the wife of his brother, while his brother still lived, was incest.