Joseph

My name is Joseph bar Jacob of the line of David, originating in the area of Bethlehem. Despite my bad health, I have consented to be called here before you, the elders of the city, because the story about Mary and Jesus needs to be told. No one, it seems, is in a better position to know the truth than I am. That is, except Mary herself, who because of her feminine gender, cannot testify before you.

The issue, as you well know, is whether my son Jesus is really my son or whether he is, as some have said, the son of a Roman soldier Pantera by name. Who would invent such a story to blacken our name? Of course, the whole issue will decide the matter whether my wife Mary is to be convicted of adultery and therefore, to be put out of my house and forced to leave our fair city.

It seems impossible to me that thirteen years have passed since Jesus' birth. Our life has been so quiet and pleasant since our return from Egypt. Time has a way of making important things unimportant. But not in this case.

Since we lost Jesus in Jerusalem last month and found him in the temple, impressing the teachers of the law with his knowledge, people have been asking questions about him. They cannot believe he is the son of a carpenter and a peasant woman. Rumours have spread and gossip has turned our lives inside out.

You have already noted that I myself do not condemn Mary. It is others who have brought this charge. Even though, as is our custom, Mary and I were legally betrothed one year before her arrival in my home, it was noticed that the boy Jesus was born only six months after fourteen year-old Mary arrived.

I must add that despite her peasant origins, I consider Mary among all women in the city to be the most devout and humble I know. She is widely respected by the women who know her. She has been a loving wife and mother. Indeed, if she were sent away, I doubt whether the paper-thin walls of my heart could withstand one more minute of this sinners life.

But you, my elders, are the only ones in a position to judge. You must forgive me if part of my tale seems ridiculous to you, even blasphemous. For it is precisely this reason which has prevented me from telling anyone what transpired those thirteen years ago. But now it does seem to me a greater blasphemy to have Mary convicted of a crime she did not commit.

The whole thing started innocently enough. I was going to visit someone at the Lion’s Gate Hospital, as was my habit in those days. I entered by the front entrance and stood by the elevators. I pushed the up button and patiently waited. It seemed to take forever, and considered taking the stairs, but something prevented me.

When the UP elevator arrived, I stepped on board. Two other people joined me. Dear brothers, as you well know, there is no greater obstacle to human communication than the elevator. If someone should speak, its tantamount to swearing in church. Silence and awkwardness are gods of the elevator. From the moment you enter, not an easy word is spoken, the eyes of our fellow travelers never meet, and we all stare vacantly at the progress of the numbers, or the permit with the two illegible signatures, or the maximum weight allowed. How many times have I counted and calculated the weight of my fellow travelers just to occupy the time between floors?

We had progressed from the main floor to the third floor, one person got off and another got on. The doors closed, when without any warning at all, the telephone began to ring. I have always wondered whether elevator telephones really work and often, I have almost succumbed to the temptation to pick the receiver up and see who, if anyone, would be on the other end. But I never did. That is, until this moment.

Call it what you like. Perhaps an obsessive-compulsive streak in me. When a phone rings in my vicinity, if no one answers, something urges me to pick it up. After all, I know what its like to be a caller with no answerer, unsure if you have called a wrong number or if the party was really not at home or is simply ignoring the ring. Except, who could be calling the wrong number on an elevator? Didn't Telus guard against such accidents? Could it possibly be the right number?

As the phone continued to ring, my elevator mates didn't move. It was as if they were stones, too heavy to shift their weight. Or as if the floor of the elevator had become as hot as an iron, melting their goulashes and sticking them to the floor. So, after some hesitation and four rings, I succumbed. I answered the phone. The elevator stopped dead.

The person called me by name. "Joseph," it said. The voice sounded so familiar to me. Was it my parents? But they had been dead for many years. Besides, how did they get the number? Were they checking up on me? Or was this someone's idea of a practical joke? Could it be Candid Camera?

But the voice was not my father's nor my mother's. Perhaps some other relation or a former girlfriend.

It was a voice I had heard in my heart from time to time, in the silence of the night when I wake for no reason, it was like the heartbeat in my ears in the quiet and the dark. Urging me. Holding me.

And the feeling I felt as I heard it! I felt strangely warmed, as when one returns to a summer place filled with fond, youthful memories; or when one dwells on a delicate phrase from Mozart and the whole world becomes, for an instant, briefly beautiful. But whomever it was, I had no fear of being familiar.

"Yes," I said, "What is it? And why are you calling me here? Can't you see I'm busy?" Even I was surprised by my curtness. It did indeed sound as if I were talking to my parents. All of a sudden, I became conscious of where I was again. My companions were staring at me in terror. This was no ordinary elevator ride.

"It's just my mmmmma, my faaaa, its just a, a friend," I stammered. "I won't be a minute."

"What do you want?" I snapped impatiently. The voice said something about Mary.

"What's wrong with her," I said. "Has something happened?" For, although she did not live with me as yet and I did not have responsibility for her, she was, after all, my betrothed.

And then the voice told me. It was the worst possible thing. It was like the crashing of cymbals in my ears. My standing in the community fell to the bottom of the elevator shaft. All my plans. All my hopes.

"She's what?" I asked. Then I looked again at my mates on the elevator. Their expressions had changed from terror to incredulity. Perhaps they thought I was a doctor, I reasoned, receiving an emergency call, or more likely perhaps I had escaped from the psychiatric ward. I started to feel hot. I loosened my collar.

"I'll be right there," I said. And hung up the phone. The elevator began moving again. I couldn't wait to get off. When the doors finally opened, I rushed out and disappeared down a corridor.

My mind was racing. My heart was in my mouth. I felt faint. I felt angry. What was I to do? Somehow I found my way to the chapel and sat down.

I could do nothing but put her away. Divorce her. But she could be tried and stoned. The law requires it, as you know brothers. O Lord! I could not do nothing, that was sure. But how could it be possible, unless perhaps the rumours around the countryside were true, that Roman soldiers were seducing and raping young women with impunity.

But even this seemed incredible, for Mary's parents mentioned nothing to me of this and they kept diligent watch over their daughter. O what did it all mean?

This was no time for anger and yet all I felt was rage. O Mary, Mary who would have thought that you of all people would come to this, that I would come to this.

I would be quiet about it, so as not to cause her shame. And as a result, dear brothers, I resolved not to bring her before this august gathering then. Yet, I could not help being overwhelmed with it all and I dissolved helplessly into sobs and bitter tears.

And then when I was at the very bottom of the pit, I remembered the voice. As comical as it may seem to you, brothers and though you may think me quite out of my mind, it struck me that I was left with a choice. If I followed the logical and most practiced way of dealing with such matters, according to the law of our people, I would cause nothing but hurt. I would be hurt. Mary would be shamed. Her family. My family. The community scandalized. The law, it would seem, was wrong in this case. But how could the law be wrong?

If I took the other course of action, it would be nothing but graceful for all concerned. You know as well as I do brothers, that there are many situations we men are faced with, including the children of dead relatives, where a man has the choice of taking a child as his own, even though the child is not genetically his own.

So it was my choice. I could make the child my own and the child would be my own. No one could dispute it. All I needed to do was say the word and he was mine. All of a sudden the solution seemed so easy. After all, I did not love Mary any the less for this. No, strangely, I loved her even more now than I had. I would name the child Jesus, meaning "he shall save" because he saved me, he saved my heart from becoming hard. He would become part of David's heritage, a son of the royal family, of which even Solomon, one of the greatest, was conceived by David and Uriah's wife Bathsheba under dubious circumstances.

Something told me, my brothers, that this was the way God was leading me and that despite the scandal which might occur and has in fact occurred thirteen years later, I could do nothing other than trust the voice which told me of the news and warmed my sinners heart. This child was special. And even now, he has proven to be so, even in his thirteenth year.

May God be praised that I did what I did, my brothers, for my son Jesus has been nothing but a blessing to me and if I should die tomorrow, my brothers - and let us make no pretenses, you all know my time is short - I shall die a proud man for what I did, a proud husband for whom I married, and a proud father for whom I gave my name and David's.

And now it is up to you my brother's to decide what the truth is. May God search your hearts and find in you courage and strength. With all due respect to your power here, dear brothers, I must tell you: I have a sense that whatever you decide shall make little difference to the events that have occurred in our land and will occur in our land. For I have a feeling that what is happening here has greater significance than the judgment of men and therefore it will be debated by many people from now and until no human questions need be asked any more.

© Donald M. Collett, 2004