June 25, 2006

What Is There to Fear?
by Pamela J. Tinnin



1 Samuel 17:1a, 4-11, 19-23; Mark 4:35-41 



If I was only a man like my brothers…how many times have I wished that…too many to count. 
When we were younger, I trailed after them like a puppy and they would include me in their games. 
After all, I am not much younger, but soon they had no use for my company.



As the years passed, my mother would call me back from following them. 
“Abigail,” she would say, “Come grind the grain… Abigail, come with me to the river 
to wash the clothes… Abigail, there is spinning to do…”



And my brothers? Even as early as their fifth year, they went with Papa in the boat, 
pulling in the nets filled with shining fish. When they were a bit older they went to Temple lessons, 
though Mama had discovered I was the one who taught myself to write most of the letters 
by tracing them in the sand under the watchful eye of old Levi, a freed slave 
who had once served as scribe to a great prince.  Mama said 
I must never let anyone know or I would never catch a husband, a woman who fancies herself a scholar.



Then last year I could not bear it—Simon and Andrew traveled with our uncle on a journey to the east. 
They returned with wondrous tales of all that they had seen there—a giant striped beast with teeth like a lion; 
a man who could walk on fire unharmed; a palace with a dome of pure gold shining in the sun. 
Every night as she brushed my hair, Mama would tell me I must give up my foolish dreams, 
that soon I would marry, and that is adventure enough, but at night I would lay in bed 
and think of all the things in the world I had never seen.



I confess I envied my brothers…although I did not envy the trouble they brought upon themselves. 
They went off with the one called Jesus. They left their nets, left my father, 
and walked away with this strange one from Nazareth. As for myself, 
I would have joined the rebels that hide in the hills, the ones who strike at the Romans, 
stealing their horses and killing them one by one, not throw in my lot with a ragged carpenter 
who had neither sword nor shield, but filled the air with strange words, 
stories of how he would make my brother and Andrew fishers of men; 
of how faith is like a mustard seed, the tiniest seed of all; 
of how you cannot put new wine in old skins.



They said the Nazarene had performed miracles—cured a man with a withered hand, 
spoken magic to a lame man who then stood up and walked; drove out an evil spirit from one possessed. 
My brothers told of how they had witnessed these things, but Papa only scoffed and said 
there are tricksters in the world who can make you believe anything. 
I have never seen Papa so angry— Mama has always said his rage will be the death of him 
and then what will we do. Papa said if they did not return home by Passover, 
his sons were dead to him.



Then one morning before the sun had crept above the far hills, I walked with Ester to the well. 
To the east the sky held a pink light and already the day’s warmth could be felt as we walked along, 
the empty jugs on our hips. Ester and I are like sisters, born the same year, and neighbors since birth. 
She is a pretty girl, her red curls so different from my own dark hair that hangs straight to my waist. 
I have always hoped she would marry Andrew, his quiet ways much more to her liking than our Simon, 
rough spoken and wild, though he has always had a gentle heart. With the troubles that have come, 
she would choose neither—besides, with no work and no home, how could either of them take a wife?



But that morning they were there before us, my brothers, there near the well, waiting. 
I could see Ester was frightened, looking this way and that, her hand trembling, pulling her veil across her face. 
I ran to them, the water jug forgotten by the well. It felt good to hug them, my face pressed against Andrew’s chest, 
his arm hard around my shoulders. In his own awkward way, 
Simon clapped me on the back, his laugh loud in the stillness.



“We come to ask you to speak with Papa,” said Simon. “To make him listen to reason,” he said.



“Brother, I cannot—he is beyond words,” I told them. “Besides, I am only a girl, 
and you think he would listen to me?”



“Abigail, you must —besides, you are the youngest, his beloved Abbi. 
We want Papa…we want all of you to come and hear the messiah,” pleaded Andrew.



“Papa says that the man does not speak the truth—that he has made fools of you
…that this will end in trouble for all… there is even talk that there are those in the Temple who want…”



“Hush, girl—let me tell you of what happened last night.” Simon grabbed me by the shoulders and continued.



“We were all together, there by the water. Jesus got in the boat with Andrew, James and John, 
and I was there, too…” said Simon, his voice a harsh whisper. “We sailed out across the water, 
going to the other side. Jesus fell asleep on a cushion and we floated on. 
The sky grew darker and a wind came from the north, pushing the waves before it. 
Higher and higher they rose, the water splashing over the sides, pooling in the bottom of the boat, 
until it was to our knees. It was a storm like we had never seen.”



Andrew was nodding at his side. Ester was huddled by the well, her head down 
as if she could shut out their words.



“We have sailed those waters a hundred, no, a thousand times, and never have we been that frightened,” 
said Simon. “Andrew, James, and John looked at me, but what was I to do? So I stepped close to Jesus 
and shook him awake, ‘Don’t you care if we sink?’ I cried, wondering how he could have slept through it.”



“Abigail,” Simon whispered, “he had the strangest look, but he only shook his head 
as if shaking off a bothersome fly. Then he turned to face the water and called out, 
‘Quiet now. Be still!’ Only that. ‘Quiet now. Be still.’ And the storm? It was gone, 
the wind silenced, the waters calm once again.”



I stood, unable to speak, while birds chattered in the fig tree and the well crank creaked. 
“Abigail,” Andrew spoke for the first time. “You must believe us—there is something different 
about this one—we would stake our lives on it.”



Looking into his face, my eyes filled with tears and I tried to tell him that from the talk in the village, 
they probably would stake their lives on it. But my voice would not come. I only shook my head, 
and pushed them from me. After we filled the jugs and walked away, I looked back. 
Simon and Andrew stood there watching us, but with no word of farewell. 
I wondered if it was the last time I would see them.



Ester and I told no one of the meeting, not even our parents. The days passed much like before. 
We heard that Jesus and his followers were on the move, never staying long in one village, 
great crowds following after them. Night after night, I lay long hours without sleep, 
thinking of what my brothers had told me, thinking of how badly I had wanted to be brave 
and have courage, to stand for what was right and fight like a man; thinking of how quickly 
I had let my fear rule my thoughts and turn me towards home and safety.



Then one morning old Levi came on his crutches and sat on the bench against our wall, 
warming himself in the sun. The children from the street gathered round, begging for a story.



“What story shall I tell?” he asked, and louder than all the rest came the voice of little David, 
son of Malachi the weaver, and named for that long ago hero. “David and Goliath, David and Goliath…”



I knew the story by heart, but Levi told it well, so I sat down and pulled a little one onto my lap. 
Levi told of how the Israelites had prepared for a great battle against the Philistines, 
but no soldier in all of the Israelite army would stand and fight the Philistine champion, 
a giant of a man named Goliath. He said that Goliath stood and taunted our soldiers, 
calling them cowards and weaklings and worse. Then one…one Israelite came forward, 
David, a mere boy, David who refused to wear Saul’s armor, but stood to face Goliath 
with nothing but his shepherd’s slingshot and his faith that Yahweh would stand with him and deliver him.



I must confess to you that I have never known whether those old stories are true or perhaps 
through time and, as many have told and retold them, a bit was added here or there. 
A man who stood as tall as three men? But listening that day to Levi, I had a very different thought
—perhaps the truth of the story is that if a mere boy could stand against an enemy such as that, 
can we not stand against the forces that would destroy us? If we have the faith 
that Yahweh is with us always, it does not matter whether we fight a giant 
or whether we find ourselves lost in a storm.  How can we let our fear defeat us, 
no matter what we face, if we truly believe we are in God’s hands?



That day I tried to speak with Papa, to tell him of what my brothers had seen, 
of how the man from Nazareth had stilled a storm with his voice. I told him that Andrew and Simon 
believe he is the one, the messiah come to save all of Israel. I told him that I wanted to see for myself.



“Hush,” Papa shouted and, when I would not, my papa struck me…my papa 
who has never laid a hand on me, slapped me so hard I fell to the ground. 
Then he turned to Mama and shouted, “Woman, control this child” and he  
left the house. I knew it was his own fear, his worry about what was to become of his children, 
but still I could not stop weeping. The days of my girlhood were over; the time for choosing my own path had come.



Now I am with my brothers. We have no home, but sleep wherever we can, first  
in one house, then another, or sometimes rolled up in our blankets under the night sky. 
We have no money, but accept gifts of food, at times from people so poor they look like 
they have not eaten for a week themselves, but who want us to share what little they have.



Is Jesus the Messiah? Well, you must answer that for yourself. But when I am afraid, 
when I hear the whispers of arrest and crucifixion, I hold fast to his words
…that no matter what comes, he will be with us always. If you could only look into his eyes, 
you would see that he speaks the truth. And then you would ask as I do, 
“Who can this be, this one who with a glance can still the storm in my heart?

(Comments to Pam at pamelatinnin@EARTHLINK.NET )