The Life of Jude: Saint of the Impossible

The Life of

JUDE

Saint of the Impossible

Brian Morgan

THIS Smashwords edition first published for world-wide distribution in 2014 by The Writers Trust. Copyright 2014 Brian Morgan and The Writers Trust.

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention. All rights reserved world-wide. No part of this publication may be stored in a retrieval system transmitted or reproduced in any way, including, but not limited to, digital copying and printing.

The right of Brian Morgan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted. Intellectual property rights have been assigned by the author to The Writers Trust.

This book is associated with the website www.brianmorganbooks.com. A print version of this book, including a bibliography, is available online.

Dedication:

This book is dedicated to the millions of people throughout the world who, in times of desperation and despair, have turned their prayers heavenward in the hope of finding Jude. May you find him in the pages of this book, and may your prayers be answered.

Award Winner:

The Life of Jude has won the prestigious Fellowship of Australian Writers’ National Literary Award, the Jim Hamilton Award. This award was open to all books in any genre, including books of poetry, whether published or unpublished.

~~~~~

Table of Contents

Unsolicited Praise

Author’s Note.

Book 1: Shame.

Book 2: Omens.

Book 3: Peril.

Book 4: Prey.

Epilogue.

Historical Note.

Acknowledgements

A Final Word.

About the Author.

~~~~~

Unsolicited Praise for The Life of Jude

A very accomplished piece of writing that sustained the interest of the reader throughout. Polished in style and execution, seamlessly weaving fact and fiction to tell the story of a man beyond time and place. A captivating journey back in time.

Archimede Fusillo, author and judge of the FAW National Literary award.

This is such a good concept, Brian. It’s 1.30am here and I’m sitting up in bed, reading. I couldn’t put it down. You have a gift with words and a story that’s never been told, but should be. I happen to know there is a huge market waiting for this book. I would love to handle this book.

The late Jane Jordan Browne, literary agent, Chicago, in a phone call to Sydney.

This book is full of breath-taking highlights. The reader gets a wonderful sense of actually witnessing the story of Christianity being spread, and the struggles Jude and others went through to do it. The reader sees how Jude’s unique personality influenced the way he went about his work. You also vividly paint the conflict between the cultures, a technique which is necessary to show Jude walking into a spiritual and physical battlefield. You have impressed me with the evidence of very thorough research. You have found a popular topic to bring to light. It is a fascinating topic very well handled. I don’t very often get this excited about a work in progress.

Brendan Longcore, book editor, reviewing part of the draft manuscript.

I love what you have written. So many cultures, so much research... my God. Many, many people have waited a long time for this story. Jude is so popular, as the Saint of the Impossible and the Patron of Desperate Cases, all over the world, that your book cannot fail to sell everywhere. And it’s not just the story... you write so very, very well.

Joyce Patterson, reviewer and former editor.

This is a very impressive effort. You have written a story never before told in a way that is uniquely yours. I understand your research alone, before you set pen to paper, took forty years or so (part-time, of course). I doubt if anyone has assembled this amount of information about the saint. A highly commendable project that deserves a wide readership.

Don Purvis, Professor of English Literature.

~~~~~

Author's Note

AT THE START of the third millennium after the birth of Christ, a man long dead is alive in the hearts of millions, and this book sets out to unravel one of the most intriguing mysteries in the history of Christendom.

The man’s name is Jude - Judas Thaddeus (not the Iscariot, not the traitor). He was a cousin of Jesus Christ and the most obscure of the Twelve Apostles. This is the man they now call the Saint of the Impossible, the Patron of Desperate Cases, the Hope of the Helpless, the Help of the Hopeless, the Saint of Last Resort...

Why and how did he gain such a reputation? Why do so many people around the world have an unshakeable belief in him – in his ability to help when hope is gone and despair has set in?

In this modern era, he is seen in notices of petition and thanks in newspapers and websites around the world. Web pages are devoted to him and attract many thousands of visitors. All over the world, shrines in his name attract millions.

I first heard of Jude’s reputation in 1962 and I became fascinated. Who was this man? With my then fiancé, Judy (who likes to be called Jude), I began research in a dusty old Catholic library in Sydney. This research continued, part-time and in many places, for 50 years. After about 30 years of that work, I lost all my notes in a house move and had to start again.

I was determined to look for answers that have intrigued the faithful for two millennia and I was drawn into the great, sweeping saga of the birth of Christianity, told through the life of an extraordinary man.

In the end, I have written what I believe is the most accurate and true-to-life story I could write of this obscure saint.

All the characters are real. All of the names are real, except for three guides, Hany, Bhima and Smbat, whose real names are uncertain. The story is presented as a historical novel, but real events and tradition have been preserved. I have been as true to Jude as I could be.

This is a story many believed could never be written. Some said it should not be written. It’s a story of faith. It’s a love story. It’s a story of religious zeal. It’s a saga drawn over a blood-soaked landscape in extraordinary times. It’s a story of the triumph of hope over despair.

But, above all, I hope it begins to answer questions for believers all over the world.

No-one has ever been more beloved by the outcasts of the world, the destitute, the sick, the frightened, the lonely, the dying.

Many know of Jude; few know about him.

This is his story. It is as true as a story can be that waited 2000 years to be told.

~~~~~

Book 1.

Shame.

~~~~~

THERE WAS one small mercy: Jude did not see the swoop of the battle-axe as it fell.

Small mercies, thought Craton. How often does the good Lord send small mercies to heavy hearts? And you have to cling to them when they come, he thought. What else is there? Cling to the thought that he did not see the axe. Cling to that.

But eyes and ears will not be deceived. Sights and sounds of barbarism will not be denied.

The sight of a thousand white-robed men, bustling, bloodlust in their hearts, and here and there a shameless woman in black. The eerie silence as the death sentence is pronounced, the murmur as the executioner appears - a man chosen for his stone heart and sheer size.

The sight of Jude the holy man, on his knees, dazed, head forward and touching the sand, body pulp from a battering with the clubs of Mithra. Ah, the sound of those clubs on the old man's flesh. The sight of him rocking slightly, a smile somehow showing, a radiance.

I think I hear the Lord calling me. The words whispered out of a bloodied face as he urges Craton away.

The sight of seventy priests, thunder on their faces, cruelty in cold eyes. The rumbling from the crowd now, rising, anticipating. The sight of the executioner, stepping forward in black robes and brandishing the halberd, the combined spear and battle-axe.

The sight, or was it the sound, of a shiver rippling through the crowd. A sob, somewhere in the crowd.

The thin smile on the face of the executioner as he nods to the priests and takes another step. He plunges the spear, suddenly, into the holy man, at the base of his spine - and achieves his brutal purpose. The condemned man's head lifts off the sand, his back arches, his neck becomes exposed.

The evil smile broadens, the halberd twirls and the battle-axe swoops in a fierce arc. As Craton turns swiftly away, there is the wet, chopping sound, and a thud, and a great sucking of breath from the crowd.

Craton collapses against a wall, struggles to breathe. Cling to it. Cling to the thought that he did not see the axe fall. Cling to that.

Jude... Lord Almighty... Jude... How on earth could it have come to this?

~~~~~

Jerusalem

THE SKY died first. Gloom closed in from all edges of the earth, turning the sky dark blue, then indigo, and finally the colour of mourning. Gusts of wind churned heavy clouds into an awesome foreboding of doom. Night fell long before day ended.

On the bald rim of Golgotha, three crosses stood out starkly against the gathering storm. The men impaled on the outside crosses suffered alone, but the one in the centre had two groups of attendants in strange contrast: Roman soldiers and women.

The soldiers, who had been laughing and mocking, now shuffled quietly, kicking up dust. Occasionally they looked up at the storm clouds and their gaze lingered on the body staked to the cross, then their heads went down again and they waited, kicking the earth.

The women, who had been silent, began to moan. They clung to each other, veiled heads touching, and swayed with the moaning and weeping. Wind snatched at their clothing. If the women noticed the man's nakedness, they showed no sign of it. They looked up at times, raising their hands and eyes to his suffering, while he looked down on them, and then the grief clutched at their throats again and they huddled together, holding on to each other.

Down the hill, boulders were strewn as if pushed away by a giant hand. At the base of a boulder, a man crouched. He was far enough away to barely catch words spoken on the crest, but close enough to see all. The man huddled and rubbed his chest and saw all.

With his dark robe, he blended into the shadows cast by the boulders and the threatening skies. Only his face showed - bearded, pale - and sometimes a hand wiping his eyes. The eyes were somehow too large for the face, with the staring, haunted appearance of a man ashamed to look, but unable to look away.

His gaze drifted from the cross to the women, his mother among them, and to the one man with courage enough to stand vigil with the women. His gaze lingered most on the man of courage. He tried to blink away the anguish.

Lightning began to illuminate the hill of death every few moments with white streaks. Thunder threatened to crack the boulders or the very hill where the man crouched. Drenching rain began to wash mud down the hill. It melded the women's clothing to their bodies and cleansed all but the dried blood from the naked man on the cross.

The man huddling beneath the boulder watched. He heard the man on the cross cry out, saw the women raise their arms to the heavens, saw the condemned man's head slump and knew it was all over.

Afterwards, he would say the earth trembled, but it might have been his own shaking that finally forced him to rise on cramping legs and begin to stumble down the hill. Halfway down he looked back and saw them lowering the cross to the ground and begin to release the body.

Jude shuddered, turned away again and slouched down the hill.

###

SHAME. The dungeon had the cold, clammy feel of it. The rat had the furtive, darting, look of it. Disgrace swamped Jude like a flood tide. He shook his head and shivered as the final leaf on an autumn tree shivers. He raised his robe from the dank floor and shut his mouth against the stench. He watched the shadow of the rat slip into a dark corner.

Shame. It had trapped them both, each in their own prison of misery.

A fungus clung to the slimy stone walls of the dungeon. Thick timber beams carried the etchings of earlier despairing souls. The clang of the bolt on the door had a finality to it that chilled him more than the cold air, and the gloom of the place matched his wretchedness.

He knew he deserved all this, and more, and yet... Was there not so much that he must do? What of Makaria now? What of the children? What of Edessa?

In the dim light, he could make out the forms of the others. Someone was groaning softly. Some were muttering against the Sanhedrin.

Dear God. Who would have thought that they, of all people, could have incurred the wrath of the Sanhedrin, the highest tribunal of the Jews, the Council of Seventy? But the Sanhedrin had a plan; that much was clear: remove the leaders and you destroy the movement. He should not have been shocked, but he was, when the Temple guards surrounded them quickly in the streets and shuffled them into the foul prison they called the House of the Bound.

Jude's head ached. He tried to think. There had been liars at the trial of the Master and there would be here, you could count on it. Betrayal was a mighty sword. Or would they not even bother with witnesses? Could he expect crucifixion as well? Torture?

The shiver was running deep into his bones now.

In the darkness, a rough Galilean voice trembled into song and others joined softly, hesitatingly, in the singing of the psalms.

The danger of death was all around me;

and the grave set its trap for me.

In my trouble I called to the Lord;

I called to my God for help.

In his Temple he heard my voice;

he listened to my cry for help.

As the voices trailed away, and even the stomping of the guards in the cold ceased, silence descended on the dungeon and the long night began.

The crucified one had risen, but Jude could only feel the bitterness of shame. He had run, terrified, in the Rabbi's hour of need, and the humiliation burned into him like a poker. He had failed his own flesh and blood. It was a shame that seared him and branded him a coward. If he spent the rest of his life, every last heartbeat, spreading his words, telling people about him and what he stood for, the odium of his guilt would surely remain.

A life for a life. The thought now took hold of him. It must be that: a life for a life. He must spend his life seeking redemption. It was not enough, but it must be at least that. He had the request to start with Edessa and...

But how could he - locked in a dungeon and facing trial by an unforgiving Sanhedrin? Dear God. He deserved to suffer, no doubt of that. Perhaps it would help absolve the shame. Yet he must be free before he could do anything to ease the burden of it.

And what about Makaria, he thought. How do I tell her? What do I tell her? Eventually, head aching, he fell into tormented sleep.

###

SOME HOURS before dawn, a fresh breeze woke Jude from his exhaustion. Others were rising and whispering. Someone was urging them out of the open doors.

How could this be? How could the guards not see? Where were they? How could those thick doors open without the clang of iron bolts? Without creaking or noise of any kind? But then they were free and he was scurrying away into the night, looking about him, furtively, like the rat, half expecting a trap. But free.

At dawn, as the sun spread its pink and apricot glow over Jerusalem, Jude walked with the others to the Temple. They could have escaped in the night, but they had all run away before and they had no stomach for flight.

So they did not run, though the fear was great. They stood and spoke about the miracle of the risen Lord, about the Spirit that had come upon them, and about the promise of life everlasting.

But for Jude, speaking of his beliefs did not come easy: the Spirit tore him one way and shame the other. Time after time, he would feel himself soar on the strength of the Spirit and come crashing to earth when the shame took over.

And the guards came and arrested them again and marched them up the stairs to the Hall of the Great Stones, the judgment hall of the Sanhedrin, where they stood before the council.

Have we not forbidden you to teach in the name of this man? The High Priest, Caiaphas, an obese man, was red in the face and breathing heavily, his voice shaking with rage. "But what have you done? You have spread your teaching all over Jerusalem and want to blame us - us - for his death."

Peter had the look he had when he faced a storm on Galilee.

We must obey God, not men, he said, his voice rumbling like thunder. The God of our ancestors raised Jesus from death. We saw with our own eyes.

A wave of anger swept all but one of the Seventy to their feet, all shouting at once, waving their fists, demanding a vote. A lone scream filled the chamber: Death - and others took it up: Death! Death!

As the High Priest held up his hand to take control again, the one who had remained seated, the Pharisee Gamaliel, a teacher of the Law, moved to the centre of the room and, by his presence and his dignity and the wisdom of his words, began to settle them back into their seats.

Fellow Israelites, he said, finally, let us not take such drastic measures against these men. If their plan is a human plan, it will fail; but, if it is God's plan, you will not be able to stop them. You could, he said, his gaze locking on each in turn, find yourselves fighting against God.

He took up the scourge

The lives of the apostles were thus spared, but not without suffering. And Jude took his turn to be bound with his arms around a stone pillar. A servant of the Temple, a man chosen for his strength of arm, tore Jude's clothes from him and took up the scourge - a wicked double strip of cowhide weighted with jagged pieces of bone. The brute stood beside the pillar and set to work. Twenty six times the scourge gouged the flesh of the exposed back before the limp victim was turned around to be lashed thirteen times across his bare breast.

Every time the lash struck, the shock stopped Jude's heartbeat and pain shocked a breathless grunt from his lips.

Eventually he was set free with the others and, as they staggered from the Hall of the Great Stones, they tried to ease their suffering and humiliation by singing the psalms, but they had no breath for it, no heart for it.

Afterwards, they did defy the Sanhedrin by continuing to preach in the name of Jesus. They had no choice, though their eyes betrayed their fear, and they knew the hatred of the High Priest would always remain a threat. Whenever they spoke of the Master, they would always be looking over their shoulders. In the space of a few hours, how things had changed.

Jude knew danger would stalk him for the rest of his days, but there was no escape. He must seek redemption, absolution. It may never come, but he could no longer face life without trying. He would remember that scourge and bear its scars for a lifetime, though he had been wrong about one thing. The scars on his body did nothing to remove the one scar that tortured him more than all the others - the scar on his heart. The scar of shame.

~~~~~

Emmaus

JUDE'S HEAD was splitting. His heart was torn in two directions and his head bore the pain of it.

Life had been unsettled enough for three years, but now he must leave his family as his great obsession consumed him. He would never have believed he could walk away from his wife, his children, his parents   all those he loved and cherished   to spread an impossible message to people who worshipped sun gods and moon gods, wind, rain, earth and water gods, gods of love, gods of war, gods of fire, gods of all kinds, except the one, true God.

He farewelled them all, finally, except his eldest son, Judah, who was away with a caravan taking oil to the Egyptians, as his father and his grandfather had done before him. But he had spent precious time with Judah before the son left for Egypt - and that was as much as a father could bear.

The younger children were despondent that he was leaving, but proud of the trust he showed in them with the extra duties at home and at the olive groves.

He farewelled his father, hard-working, God-fearing Cleophas, who would never be the same after the risen Lord walked with him and with Simon on their way home to Emmaus after the despair of the crucifixion. And Mary, the matriarch. Such a beautiful soul. She always gave of herself, always. The arms that had rocked Jude had also carried another baby, her nephew, Jesus - and she had been devoted to him ever since. With the other women, she had followed the Rabbi for three years, ministering to him, and was rewarded by finding the empty tomb. She had produced two others like her, Jude's sisters Melkha and Eskha. Fine women, pious women and such a Godsend to parents approaching the winter of their lives.

And the brothers.

James, the man with the pious soul, whose devotion to God dominated his whole life. He was the older brother who became the spiritual leader, not only of the family, but also of the early band of believers, for now he had been elected Bishop of Jerusalem.

Simon, the spirited one, the zealot. Simon of the quick temper and short patience, who vowed to join Jude in his travels as soon as he had settled his own family. And after he followed Judah to Egypt to spread the word there.

Joseph, who would stay behind to manage the olive groves with young Judah's help as Cleophas grew older, would surely become a pillar of strength among the believers in Jerusalem and the surrounding towns.

And, not least, his wife, his own beloved Mary. Not that he called her Mary, or even thought of her now, really, as Mary. There were so many Marys: Mary, his own mother; her cousin - Mary the mother of Jesus; Mary of Magdala; Mary the mother of Mark; Mary the sister of Lazarus. Too many Marys, so he had called her Makaria.

Makaria. He smiled as he thought of it. Makaria - the Greek word for blessed and joyous used later by Jesus. Blessed are the pure of heart, the Rabbi would say, for you will see God.

Makaria. He called her that because it described the pure joy that comes from God: serene joy, loving joy. Joy that nothing on earth could take away. No one, said Jesus, will take your joy from you.

What shall I do, Makaria? he asked one day. Shall I do what a husband should do and put the family first? Should I bury my thoughts and ideals like olive kernels, spending my life waiting for them somehow to grow? Or should I tell the world of him? What shall I do?

Makaria walked away. For weeks she had been morose. She had barely been able to look at him or speak to him. Gone was the intimacy they had always enjoyed, even when they were apart and only thoughts could remain. Now they felt estranged and the feeling left them empty, unable to think.

Jude followed her.

What have I done? he asked. What... And he immediately regretted his words.

The endless road

She turned on him and her eyes held all the fear, all the betrayal, all the loneliness, all the sorrow felt by lovers since the dawn of time.

What have you done? she said, unable to see through the tears. What have you done? You seek absolution from shame by being more shameful and you ask what have you done? You betray me, you betray your family, you would leave us after all your words of love, and you ask what have you done? For three years you followed him, and now you would follow him when he is dead? You would face your shame by running away and becoming a nomad, a preacher on an endless road?

She turned away again, her shoulders shaking. Jude was unable to speak, unable to touch her, to comfort her.

She turned on him again.

"You say you will offer a life of selfless service to find forgiveness? What you do is not selfless, it is shameful. It is selfish. My love is not enough for you. Your family's love is not enough. No, you must have his love, the love you have spurned. Selfless? No, you are thinking only of yourself. You want the love you once had - the love he has offered to John, because John was the only man willing to stand at the foot of the cross. To gain his love, you spurn ours."

Much later, she came back to him. She shivered like a petal in a breeze, searching for words. After a while, she spoke, through her heart, softly, as if afraid of what it would say: Forgive me. Forgive me, she said. I hurt you terribly... I did not mean it. I am distraught at the thought of losing you. If you choose to serve God, who am I to protest? Yet I am... I don't know how I can live without you.

Tears streamed from pleading eyes and streaked her face and she had to turn away again.

In a little while, as Jude sat brooding, she returned and sat beside him.

We must do God's will, she said. I don't think we have a choice.

The greatest of gifts

Choice, Jude thought, is something we do have. It is the greatest of God's gifts, and the worst. He had never before felt so keenly the anguish it could bring.

You must go, she said, simply, at last, when she saw he had become bedevilled by his dilemma. You must listen to the yearning that consumes you. This is how you must heal yourself.

Dear God. What impulse could draw him from Judea and everything he loved to an unknown future, a future that would surely contain distress, sickness, discomfort, misery and danger - perhaps even death - among peoples whose morals and customs would be so very different?

But, even as the shadows crossed his soul, vivid memories of the Spirit came flooding back and buoyed his own flagging spirit. And Makaria, sick at heart, smiled, and he felt the surge of her strength.

If his life is to mean anything, she said, people must know of him and what he has done... what he has promised. He has risen, but someone must help him truly live. There is so much at stake, who knows how much?

She walked a little way in sorrow, then quickly turned and the smile flashed and the eyes danced. You must go... but I am also part of your life and I must be with you. I will care for our children and your father and mother and, when I can, I will come with the caravans to spend time with you. I will cherish the time with you and when we are apart, I will carry a little piece of your heart, and you a little piece of mine. I will think of you every day and pray, and we will never be truly apart.

And he loved her with an intensity that burned in him and fired the resolution he was able to carry to the other disciples on the day they met in the vast cave high on the Mount of Olives. Here the Master's mission had ended; here theirs must start. It was appropriate that they meet in this place, but it was thoughts of safety that led them to it. Man-made walls have ears, and what these men were planning must remain secret between them and their families. Persecution would surely come, but it must be delayed.

For the rest of his days, Jude would remember the fear in that cave. His own fear had turned his stomach to mush, but there was other fear as well. They were all afraid, though all strived to hide it. The men in the cave were quiet at first, hiding their feelings, but in time there was a slow climb to exhilaration, and then to intensity, to passion.

It surprised him that the others shared his resolve, despite their fear. No-one spoke of what drove them there, only of what they would do, where they would go. Shame drove Jude and he wondered what the others felt, but there was little time for reflection.

The final instruction had been plain enough: Go, then, to all peoples everywhere and make them my disciples... and I will be with you all days, even to the end of the world.

Here, in the cave, when Peter repeated those words, it was as if the Spirit had come again and the fire had been lit again.

I'll go to Egypt, said Simon, unable to sit, pacing around the cave.

I'll go east to India, said Thomas, who had obviously given it previous thought. His voice shook and he spoke louder to hide it. "I've spoken to Jude. He will work in the territories between