“Don’t say that,” James said sharply, his fingers tightening around the fishnet he hadn’t realized he was still holding. “Don’t talk like that again.”
Jesus didn’t answer right away. The wind stirred the fringe of his mantle, but he stood unmoved, eyes set toward some place beyond the Galilee hills.
“It must happen,” he said, quietly.
James looked away. The others had gone still, the usual snatches of laughter gone silent. Around them, the lake shimmered, uncaring.
He turned back, his voice hushed but burning. “You said you are the Christ.”
“I am.”
“Then how can the elders reject you? How would the priests hand you over? That’s not the end of the story.”
Jesus met his eyes. “No,” he said. “It’s the beginning.”
James felt something recoil in him. He’d left the nets, forsaken his father’s trade, walked dusty village roads, gone hungry and laughed and followed wherever Jesus called. For what, if it ended in this?
He dropped the net.
Andrew picked it up without a word.
That night, he could not sleep. The campfire had burned down to red cracks in the wood, and he watched them, arms around his knees. Words of Isaiah dragged through his mind: like a lamb to the slaughter... cut off from the land of the living...
He wanted to tear them out.
He did not want a dying Messiah.
He rose just before dawn, sandals scraping the stones, and walked until he was beneath the olive trees outside the village. He thought maybe he could pray—but he could not bring himself to speak aloud.
“You heard him too,” said a voice. It was Thomas, sitting low against a tree. “You’re not the only one who hated it.”
James sat down slowly.
Thomas rubbed a palm over his eyes. “He didn’t even flinch when he said it. It was like he’d already accepted it.”
James looked down at his hands. “Then why not tell the crowds? Why only us?”
“Maybe because he knew they’d run,” Thomas said bitterly. “Maybe he knew what it would do to us.”
James swallowed. “We keep saying we’d die for him.”
“And maybe we will. But not like that.” Thomas drew his knees in. “Not like lambs.”
The word struck him again.
James stood, unable to stay still. The sky was turning with the earliest light. Somewhere behind the hills, the sun was breaking.
And Jesus was already awake.
He sat alone just up the ridge, his back to them, facing what lay ahead.
James approached slowly, each step feeling wrong and right at once.
He stopped just behind Jesus. “Rabbi,” he said quietly.
Jesus turned.
His eyes were not sad.
They were clear.
“I don't want to lose you,” James said. “I can’t imagine…—” His voice broke, and he hated it, but he didn’t look away. “I thought you were going to take the throne.”
“I am,” Jesus said. “But not the one you see.”
“But why—why the suffering? Why the shame?”
Jesus looked at him gently. “Because that’s where I’ll ransom the world.”
James lowered his head. He felt the churning in his chest ease, just slightly—not release, not peace, just a pause, like the moment between wind gusts.
He nodded once. Not because he understood.
But because he wanted to stay.
Jesus reached out a hand.
And James sat beside him, watching the sun lift over the hills.
“Don’t say that,” James said sharply, his fingers tightening around the fishnet he hadn’t realized he was still holding. “Don’t talk like that again.”
Jesus didn’t answer right away. The wind stirred the fringe of his mantle, but he stood unmoved, eyes set toward some place beyond the Galilee hills.
“It must happen,” he said, quietly.
James looked away. The others had gone still, the usual snatches of laughter gone silent. Around them, the lake shimmered, uncaring.
He turned back, his voice hushed but burning. “You said you are the Christ.”
“I am.”
“Then how can the elders reject you? How would the priests hand you over? That’s not the end of the story.”
Jesus met his eyes. “No,” he said. “It’s the beginning.”
James felt something recoil in him. He’d left the nets, forsaken his father’s trade, walked dusty village roads, gone hungry and laughed and followed wherever Jesus called. For what, if it ended in this?
He dropped the net.
Andrew picked it up without a word.
That night, he could not sleep. The campfire had burned down to red cracks in the wood, and he watched them, arms around his knees. Words of Isaiah dragged through his mind: like a lamb to the slaughter... cut off from the land of the living...
He wanted to tear them out.
He did not want a dying Messiah.
He rose just before dawn, sandals scraping the stones, and walked until he was beneath the olive trees outside the village. He thought maybe he could pray—but he could not bring himself to speak aloud.
“You heard him too,” said a voice. It was Thomas, sitting low against a tree. “You’re not the only one who hated it.”
James sat down slowly.
Thomas rubbed a palm over his eyes. “He didn’t even flinch when he said it. It was like he’d already accepted it.”
James looked down at his hands. “Then why not tell the crowds? Why only us?”
“Maybe because he knew they’d run,” Thomas said bitterly. “Maybe he knew what it would do to us.”
James swallowed. “We keep saying we’d die for him.”
“And maybe we will. But not like that.” Thomas drew his knees in. “Not like lambs.”
The word struck him again.
James stood, unable to stay still. The sky was turning with the earliest light. Somewhere behind the hills, the sun was breaking.
And Jesus was already awake.
He sat alone just up the ridge, his back to them, facing what lay ahead.
James approached slowly, each step feeling wrong and right at once.
He stopped just behind Jesus. “Rabbi,” he said quietly.
Jesus turned.
His eyes were not sad.
They were clear.
“I don't want to lose you,” James said. “I can’t imagine…—” His voice broke, and he hated it, but he didn’t look away. “I thought you were going to take the throne.”
“I am,” Jesus said. “But not the one you see.”
“But why—why the suffering? Why the shame?”
Jesus looked at him gently. “Because that’s where I’ll ransom the world.”
James lowered his head. He felt the churning in his chest ease, just slightly—not release, not peace, just a pause, like the moment between wind gusts.
He nodded once. Not because he understood.
But because he wanted to stay.
Jesus reached out a hand.
And James sat beside him, watching the sun lift over the hills.
