“My Best Friend, Jesus” © 2018 Mark H. Massé Case # 1-6279018701 United States Copyright Office
Welcome to SUCH FRIENDS, a new fictional series on my Substack platform, Massé Musings (markhmasse.substack.com). This week’s story (“The Torah”) is from my young adult religious collection, “My Best Friend, Jesus.” Hope you enjoy the read.
“My Best Friend, Jesus” (Chapter 4: The Torah)
“What does your heart tell you?”
When I first heard that Jesus had discussed scripture with the priests, scribes and elders in the Jerusalem temple, I didn’t believe it. After all, we Nazarene boys knew our friend Asher liked to exaggerate, which is a nice way of saying he told little lies. How could he have known what Jesus did more than a hundred miles away?
Jesus wasn’t considered an adult. So how could he be allowed to converse with holy men in the most sacred place in all of Israel? I refused to fall for Asher’s latest tall tale.
I was, however, eager to see Jesus again. For it had been almost two weeks since he, Mary and Joseph left for Jerusalem on their annual pilgrimage. Not only did I miss my friend, I was also tired of tending his family’s herd of sheep as well as my family’s. But mostly I looked forward to his return. I wanted to hear all about his journey to and from the holy city.
“Jesus is here,” my mom called to me early one October morning. I rose from my bed and hurried to our kitchen, where he sat talking with my mother. She held his head in her hands as one would grasp a dove.
“You are truly blessed, Jesus. May God continue to watch over you.”
“And may he always bless you, Sarah, and your family,” he said.
“Don’t I get any special blessings?” I joked. Neither Jesus nor my mother smiled at my words. “Why are both of you so serious? Is anything wrong?”
“Stop talking, Ethan, and sit with your best friend, Jesus. Listen to his most wonderful words about Jerusalem. I will fix you both some breakfast.”
As my mother busied herself with preparing bread and honey for our morning meal, Jesus took both of my hands in his.
“I spoke to the priests, scribes and elders in the temple. We talked for almost two hours,” Jesus said, his face beaming.
“But how is that possible?” I asked. “You and I have not yet turned 13. Children are not allowed to speak to anyone in the temple. How can you say that you did?”
“Because I was inspired by our heavenly Father. When I spoke, I was as wise as any prophet.”
“Why are you so proud for such boasting, such lies?” I challenged. “Have you no shame?”
“Ethan!” my mother cried out. “How dare you speak to Jesus like that. He was blessed by God. Show him the respect he deserves.”
Jesus had long been a favorite of our rabbi in Nazareth, and all the village’s parents praised him. While I knew he was wise beyond his years and rightly deserved such acclaim, I was tired of hearing about all his achievements. Besides, I had work to do.
“Well, congratulations, Jesus,” I said grudgingly. “It sounds as if some kind of miracle happened to you in the temple. But we ordinary children have chores to do. So you must excuse me.”
I rushed outside without even eating a piece of my mother’s delicious warm bread. I was hungry but still angry and confused. Why wasn’t I proud of Jesus instead of resentful?
•••
I went into the hills to look for any stray sheep. The higher I climbed, the more tears I shed. I couldn’t stop crying, and I knew that it was because of my jealousy toward Jesus. I hated myself for having such feelings.
Sitting on a large boulder, I gazed onto the vast landscape surrounding my home, far beyond the village. My tears subsided and a sense of calm descended. It was as if Jesus himself had his arms around me. I was no longer just looking at the brown hills, rocks and plains below, there were new sights to behold.
I envisioned myself as a grown man with a beautiful wife and three children—two sons and a daughter. And I saw Jesus speaking to a huge crowd of people. He wasn’t in the temple but on a fertile hillside. He too was a tall man with a full dark beard. I couldn’t hear his words, but I could see his impact on the faces of those who listened reverently to this handsome, inspired prophet. I felt such pride for him, and I knew I must go and apologize.
That afternoon I found Jesus on the outskirts of Nazareth trying to push a large cart loaded with items he and his father, Joseph, had made. He was straining to move the cart up to more level land. But I could see that one of the wheels was broken, making it impossible for one person to advance the cart.
“Jesus, I’m here to help,” I shouted.
How happy he was to see me.
“You answered my prayers, dear Ethan. Thank you.”
I found a large smooth rock and pounded the broken wheel back onto its axle. Although the wooden wheel was cracked, I believed it could hold together until we got the cart back to Jesus’ house. At least I hoped it would.
We each took turns pushing and pulling the cart. The damaged wheel fell off its axle twice more, and each time I pounded it back into place.
“Thank the Lord for you, Ethan,” Jesus said, patting my shoulders as I worked on the wheel.
“No need to thank me, my friend,” I said. “But I ask that you forgive me for my harsh words this morning. I am ashamed at how I acted. I should be proud of you not jealous. Please forgive me.”
“I forgave you even before your words left your lips,” Jesus said, his face straining to pull the cart up the latest hill.
“How is that possible?” I asked. “How could you know what was in my heart?”
“The Lord knows what is in every man’s heart,” he said.
“But, but … you are not God. And to even speak those words is blasphemy. You know that as well as I do. Surely, you are not … .”
“No, dear Ethan, I’m not claiming to be God our Father in heaven.”
“Then why do you say you knew what was in my heart?”
“Because I hear the word of God.”
“Are you then proclaiming yourself a prophet, even though you are only 12 years old?”
Again I found myself growing angry. I stopped pushing the cart and sat down on the dusty path.
“My mind is so troubled,” I said. “I want to believe you, Jesus. But when I look at you, I see my best friend but not a prophet, not an Isaiah or an Ezekiel. Just Jesus, son of Joseph and Mary. Am I wrong to think this way?”
•••
He came to where I was sitting and joined me on the hard ground.
“You are not wrong to think as you do, Ethan. I can’t explain why I hear the word of God just as our prophets did. And I’m sorry it makes you angry.”
I rubbed my forehead with my dirty right hand and closed my eyes. My heart was racing, and I was afraid I would say something mean and hurtful.
Just then I felt Jesus’ warm hand on my forehead. His other hand was on my shoulder.
“Ethan, will you let me pray for you?”
“Yes, of course.”
He started to speak in a language I did not understand. His voice sounded different, older and wiser than any 12-year-old. When he was done chanting, he placed both of his hands over my face.
“What do you see, Ethan?”
“Nothing of course,” I said. “You are covering my eyes.”
“Yes,” he said, chuckling. “That is true. But what do you see in your mind’s eye?”
As I stared, the darkness was pierced by a brilliant blue light and then … and then I saw the earth from above as if I were suspended in air, soaring like a bird. I was looking down on our village, and I saw both Jesus and me sitting on the ground next to the wooden cart. Was this a dream? How was this possible?
“I don’t understand,” I said. “I am watching you and me from high above. Have you put me under a spell?”
“I am giving you a glimpse of the world I see when I close my eyes,” Jesus said. “But you must tell no one about what you have just experienced. Can I count on you to keep this secret between us?”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “But what does this all mean? Are you really a prophet?”
“What does your heart tell you?”
“That you are chosen. Chosen for a great mission. Is that correct? Am I right?”
With that, Jesus removed his hands from my eyes. He was looking at me with the warmest of smiles, and he kissed me lightly on my forehead.
“You ask many questions, my friend,” he said, getting to his feet and brushing the dust off his tunic. “We have a long way yet to go. Come, let us get this cart moving.”
“I think you are trying to trick me, Jesus,” I said, assuming my position at the front and pulling with all of my strength as he pushed the cart from the rear.
“Maybe I’m trying to love you as God loves you,” he said.
“There you go again,” I said. “Trying to confuse me once more.”
“Be at peace, Ethan, but pull the cart as hard as you can.”
“Whatever you say, Lord Jesus. Or should I say, master and rabbi? Or maybe: Your wish is my command.”
I heard Jesus’ wonderful giggle from behind the cart, and I too started laughing as the wheels wobbled all the way back to Nazareth.
###
© 2023 Mark H. Massé
NOTE: To access more of my fiction and nonfiction, please visit my Authors Guild website: www.markmasse.com & https://www.amazon.com/author/mhmasse