“Did you ever see him perform any feat which you might consider a miracle, something contrary to the normal laws of nature?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear him claim to be the Messiah, that Jewish savior and king for whom you all wait?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear him say that he was the Son of God?”

“No.”

“You were not with him during that last week in Jerusalem, prior to his execution?”

“No. I was in Nazareth with our family.”

“Then you were not with him in the garden on the night he was taken prisoner?”

“No.”

“You were not present when he was tried and condemned to death by your respected jury of eminent citizens, the Sanhedrin?”

“No.”

“You were not among the crowd, there in the yard of the Antonia Fortress, on the morning when Pilate tried him, scourged him, and condemned him to die on the cross?”

“No.”

“You did not observe his crucifixion?”

“No,” he sobbed.

“You did not assist this man, Joseph, in the burial?”

“No.”

I took hold of both his hands and looked directly up into his eyes. “Yet even now, here in this courtyard, the followers of your brother gather and recruit each day, and they are multiplying in numbers faster than flies. And who is it that is being acclaimed and honored as one of the leaders of this mob, six years after the death of Jesus? You, James! You!”

He lowered his eyes.

“While your brother stirred up the people and broke the laws, you were so ashamed of him that you would have nothing to do with him. But ever since his crucifixion you have risked the same punishment that he received by preaching his philosophy in the streets and even here, in your Temple, under the very noses of those who tried and condemned him! You refused to join him while he lived and preached, you said, because you were so convinced that he was on a path that would lead to his shame and destruction. Why are you now on that same path, James?”

There was no response.

“Why, James?”

Still no response. I closed my eyes in frustration. James had already endured too much in his Jerusalem years to be intimidated by a mere writer when the ever-present threat of Roman swords and priestly injunctions had not affected him.

Suddenly I felt both his hands on my head, his strong fingers and thumbs cradling my neck as if I were a child. When I opened my eyes, his were only a few inches away. There was not the slightest hint of anger or hate in his fatigue-lined face for the grilling I had just given him—only compassion.

“Matthias, in truth you have not asked all these questions for a mere history book, have you? Can it be that your own peace of mind and soul wait on my reply?”