Loud slapping of wooden-soled sandals on stone eventually announced John’s return just before he rushed into the room and greeted Joseph. This “son of thunder” was smaller and far more frail than his brother, James, and also much younger. His light brown hair was clipped so that it did not quite reach his shoulders, and his sparse beard irregularly edged a fair-complexioned face whose protruding cheekbones gave him an almost emaciated appearance. As I studied him it was difficult for me to realize that here was the “beloved disciple” who, six long years ago, had been one of the inner circle of three, along with his brother and Peter, chosen by Jesus to be near him during so many of the most significant moments in his life. First impressions again. He sat across from Joseph and me, listening intently as the old man described the purpose of our visit, smiling and nodding frequently to both of us.

“My brother and Matthew have already told me about you, Matthias, and said I should be expecting a visit. Someday,” he said earnestly, “I hope to write a history too, but only of our Lord.”

I liked him. For an insane moment I wondered how I could assure him that he would indeed write that history, eventually, and unlike the others he would have many years to reflect on his experiences before he assembled what the world would come to know as the Gospel According to John.

“You will help me then?” I asked.

“Ask. What I know I shall tell you. Joseph, here”—he grinned—“can vouch for my honesty.”

“Thank you. John, I have already spoken to many who were close to Jesus, as you know, and also to some of his enemies. You were with him almost from the beginning of his mission, and I have been given to understand that you were the only apostle at his crucifixion. Where you can be of the greatest assistance to me is by providing information to fill some of those gaps in his life on which I have no firsthand testimony, either because none was available from the others or because I was too ignorant to ask the proper questions of them.”

“I understand.”

“Do you also understand that I do not believe that Jesus rose from the dead?”

No change of expression. None of the bigot’s customary cold animosity dulled his eyes. His lips curled into a half smile, and he said, “Your belief is shared by a great majority of our people, not only here but even in his own village. We still have much work to do.”

“The more I hear about his final days,” I began, “the stronger grows my conviction that Jesus came to Jerusalem, that last week, not only for the purpose of celebrating Passover but to rally all the people to his cause, somehow expecting to be able to convince them that he could lead them to a better life, a new kingdom here on earth. Since even his most bitter foes are in agreement that he was neither foolhardy nor ignorant, I find it difficult to understand how he expected to impose his will on this great city with only a dozen or so unarmed Galileans to help him.”