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birth and rebirth, whether from womb or tomb. And only for those who have true faith.”
    “Our brother Lazarus can share his experience with you himself,” Martha assured Joseph. “He is out on the terrace now, with the other guests.”
    “And Miriam?” asked Joseph.
    “You really should do something about her, Master,” Martha said, working herself into a small fit. “She’s been cavorting all morning on the mountain with you and the others; and now she’s in the orchard with the disciples and their families from out of town. She’s only interested in philosophical chitchat, while life goes on and reality is tossed like a saddle over the shoulders of us beasts of burden. She needs your reprimand.”
    The Master held Martha away to look at her, and when he spoke it was with an urgency, a passionate intensity, that Joseph found positively dizzying.
    “I love Miriam,” the Master told her sister in a tone that sounded more angry than loving. “I love her more than my mother, more than I love Joseph here, who raised me. I love her more than any of my brothers, even those who’ve been with me from the very beginning. There is a bond, a knot , that links the understanding of Miriam and myself, which must be strong enough to transcend anything—even death. Do you imagine that Miriam’s importance will be increased by helping you cook a meal, even if for a thousand, rather than by sitting at my feet for one more hour while you have me with you?”
    Joseph was astounded at the Master’s cruelty. How could he upbraid a woman who’d just exalted him to the skies for saving her brother’s life, and who’d spent three days cooking for him, his disciples, and a hundred uninvited guests?
    Joseph saw Martha’s chin tremble and her face begin to crumple. But as he started forward to intercede, the Master changed again. As Martha was trying to cover her teary face with her hands, the Master seized her wrists, bowed his head, and kissed her upturned palms, which were still covered with pastry dough and flour. Then, folding her once again into his arms, he kissed Martha’s head and rocked her gently, until she seemed to relax and the tears subsided. Then the Master held her away and looked at her.
    “Miriam has chosen the right path, Martha,” he said softly. “Let each of us give according to our own capacity. Never ask that anyone be chastised for doing the Father’s will.” Then, before Joseph knew what was happening, the Master took him by the arm and slipped outside to the terrace.
    Below in the walled gardens, the invited guests were milling about where tables, carpets, and other arrangements had been set up for them beneath the grape arbors that led to the orchard. Beyond the gardens were weathered stone walls upon which uninvited but welcome guests could dine in shade beside a small creek.
    Beneath the grape bowers where the first vine shoots were just unfurling, Joseph saw the fishermen down from Galilee: Andrew and his brother Simon huddled whispering together with their partners, Johan and James Zebedee, whom he called “thunder and lightning” for their impetuous, stormy personalities. Nearby was young John Mark, who’d come out for today’s feast from his mother’s house at Jerusalem.
    It frightened Joseph to see so many of the important disciples and their families gathered together in one place. Especially here in Judea, where they were now under Roman jurisdiction and within reach of Caiaphas. If they intended to stay longer, he must move them to his estate of Gethsemane, where he always had servants securing his property.
    Shaking these thoughts aside, he stopped the Master and drew him within the shelter of the grape trellises before the others beneath could notice them.
    “My beloved son,” said Joseph softly, “you’ve altered so in the one short year of my absence that I don’t know you anymore.”
    The Master turned his gaze to Joseph. His opalescent eyes, that strange mixture of brown