Judas is dead. He took his own life. His body was found by the daughter of Pontius Pilate. Since he was one of us we have buried him; at his grave a downpour struck us and drove us to a shelter. In a few moments the earth was flooded. I can’t recall such rain and thunder. Judas, born in Gamala, vineyard proprietor, dead at twenty-eight years. As Ecclesiastes says: “Woe unto him who is alone when he falls.” Startling, on a hillside, on a hilltop, a contingent of Roman soldiers, a new encampment, white tents in rows, banners, standards, smoke. Shields flash as men drill. Camels are hobbled behind the tent town. We can make out men in half armor, men wearing helmets, men at work shoveling, men erecting a large striped tent. Is this always glory, power and death? Peter’s—early morning Sivan 8 Shall we be like trees planted by rivers of water? Shall we mature slowly like the olive? Shall we endure two hundred years? Shall these men replant? They are humble men. Are humble men more or less successful with their lives? These men know ambition and is ambition the safe route? Verily, verily “all is vanity and vexation of spirit,” if we listen to Ecclesiastes. What will evolve when the sil- ver chord is broken? I have answered these questions in the past but I wish to answer them once more. Peter’s Sivan 10 Sivan is a beautiful month, a month of subtle changes. I lay in deep grass yesterday. While I lay in the grass I remembered the fields around Nazareth and I remembered climbing olive trees at harvest time—how we sang and shook down the ripe fruit onto nets. Mama made the finest olive oil in Papa’s oil press, the finest in Nazareth some Nazarenes said. I hurried to fill our baskets... I wanted to gather more than anyone. I never did. Tomorrow I go to villages and will heal the sick...it is a joy, a joy rather kindred to lying in deep grass in the warm sun. I have read my journal. I will return it to Matthew’s care. Among our disciples he is the most reliable. Sivan 12 So, as I write with my bronze stylus, I listen to the evening, familiar sounds; through my window I see the Milky Way and the great constellations and I am aware God is affirming his handiwork. I write very slowly, lingering over each letter, the square letters superior to the old script. I go on listening. The lamp burns steadily. There is no wind. There is gratitude. Nazareth Sivan 17 Father has suffered from his imprisonment. His hands tremble. After seeing me on the cross he is unable to believe that I am alive. I held out my arms to him as we stood in front of our home. He backed away. “...Father, remember how we visited together at Qumran? Remember that old long-bladed saw, how I repaired its handle three times? “Mama gave you that shirt at the Feast of Lights...” He turned and walked away, trembling.