Jesus did not respond. He gazed intently at the men with worn, dark eyes. He considered their eager curiosity. He saw the expressions of anticipation on their faces. At length, he replied weakly, "Come, and you will see." He turned and continued unsteadily down the path. Come! How inviting the sound when it came from him.

They had walked together for perhaps an hour, Jesus breathing heavily. Just the act of walking was an incredible effort, sapping him of strength. Conversation spasmodic and uncomplicated. The men were afraid to ask questions or to engage him overmuch, in consideration of his obvious weakness. Jesus abruptly faltered again. He had been doing well. His strength appeared to be holding until at length, he could not continue. Simon's hand steadied him. Jesus looked at him and said, "Thank you. I think I will be fine when I have some food." And then their eyes met. With effort, Jesus lifted his arm to Simon's shoulder. The older man stood still. "You are Simon, the son of John?" It was phrased as a question, but it came across as a statement of fact. Jesus said this as if looking directly into the other man's soul. Simon started. How could this starving man know him? As they had walked, what little conversation Jesus was able to muster concerned his experience on the mountain. Although they did not press him, they sought to know every particular. They were amazed that he had not had food now for forty-one days. Can he really be the Messiah? They wondered. Simon needed little convincing. In his heart, he knew what the Baptist had known. His heart was settled. Yet Jesus' gaze penetrated. Jesus saw inside him. Jesus knew him.

"So, Simon." He paused, his hand still on the big man's shoulder. "I give you a new name, Simon; from this day on, you will be called Peter, the rock!" Simon's heart leapt. In that moment, this follower of John the Baptist knew that he had been changed forever. And that is how it would be for all who would discover intimacy with this unusual man. One's heart, one's mind, one's life is radicalized for the rest of one's days on earth and beyond. A shift occurs. A new beginning. A new birth. Simon became a new person. He would be Peter, the Rock forever.

As they crested a rise in the road, they observed a group of low buildings from which a small stream of smoke issued. They had come to an inn. The sky had turned gold, the sun dipping into silver western clouds. A calm touch of vesper hours fell upon them. The exquisite aroma of roasting meat adorned the air. Jesus, mouth watering and stomach painfully demanding, said simply, "I must eat."

John, a man of means said, "Teacher, let us stay in this inn and take food." Before Jesus could respond he said, "I will pay the innkeeper, Master. It will be my honor." Teacher? Master? So much had happened in so short a time.

Simon (now Peter) and John went back a long time. John owned the commercial fishing business where they both worked, but Peter was the professional. He captained John's boats. While Peter was unlettered, the distance usually maintained by employer and employee had long since disappeared between these men. Their families dined together. Their children played together. Their wives chatted together. Both were men of faith. Both were men who looked to God for the bounty of the Galilean sea. Both had been told of the events in Bethlehem thirty years ago, and both had sought the baptism of John the Baptist.

The talk around the table flowed slowly, each man taciturn and lost in thought. Peter and John wondered about Jesus. In some measure afraid of him, in awe of him, in another measure calmed and at peace for being with him. An odd mixture of apprehension and security.

No one felt like talking. For all of his hunger, Jesus ate modestly. Still weak from his ordeal and travel, he spoke few words. To observe him one might conclude that he thought he was alone. He chewed his food at length and washed it down with red wine. Nominal conversation drifted into long periods of contemplative, quiet inebriation--and yawns.

Since the day he told his father and his family, "I must leave," Jesus had traveled alone through the countryside, finally ending up in Judea, a long way from Nazareth, a long way from home. It was in the Judean mountains that he had encountered the evil one. It was on the Judean banks of the Jordan river that he had been baptized. Here, he had met Peter and John, the first of those who were to become his apostles.

Sated, they slept well into the morning, Jesus gathering strength from rest and food. As they breakfasted, Jesus announced that he wished to leave for Galilee. Peter and John, both professional fishermen, were pleased. Galilee was home for them. They had already decided, however, to leave their nets and follow Jesus wherever he went. Life could no longer exist without him. Had Jesus chosen to return to the Judean wilderness, they would just as easily have followed him there. After journeying several days, at length they came to the green, rolling hills of Galilee. As they walked, they came upon a small group of men harvesting figs.

The figs were almost too ripe for picking. Birds had left many of them hanging on the trees with gaping holes in the fruit where they had dined. The ground beneath the trees, littered with rotting fruit. Wasps, yellow jackets, honeybees, lured by the aroma of the summer spectacle, swarmed lazily on half-eaten figs, crawling over each other with apparent nonchalance. Were you there among these harvesters of figs, you would have to be careful where you stepped.

One of the harvesters, stripped to the waist, rubbed his torso vigorously, complaining bitterly of the itching residue the leaves left on his body. When he noticed the watching travelers, he shouted, "Come, friends. Help yourself. There is enough fruit here to feed a legion of Romans." Jesus walked over to where the man stood in the tree, each foot braced against a limb. Accepting a plump fig from his hand, Jesus smiled as if to comment on the good flavor. Then, instead of an elucidation of its quality and flavor, or an expected, "Thank you," he said only these simple words, "Follow me."

Philip, his feet still braced against the forked limbs, laughed nervously. His eyes darted from Jesus to his friend Nathanael, also picking figs. "Nathanael," he said, "step over here," he paused, his eyes now fixed on the face of Jesus, "step over here and meet this man." Follow me? Philip pondered. Before Nathanael responded to his call, Philip knew what he would do--what he had to do.

As Nathanael approached, Jesus remarked, "Well . . . here is an Israelite in whom there is nothing false!" It was meant to be a humorous remark, as if finding such a man was rare indeed. The term, "Israelite" was a reference not so much to race as it was to the Jewish religious leadership, most of whom were notoriously false. Smiling, Nathanael asked,

"How do you know me?"

Jesus answered, "I saw you while you were still under the fig tree before Philip called you." He could have said, "I have known you for a very long time. I knew your unformed substance before you were in your mother's womb." But he did not say that.

Like Peter and John, Nathanael was a Galilean and a fisherman. He was indeed an honest man, worked hard and loved figs. Like most people of intelligence, however, he did not like to gather them. The stinging insects, the spoiled fruit lying like a moth-eaten carpet on the ground, the prickly leaves all combined to make fig harvesting a delicate and often unpleasant task. In his hands, he held a basket filled with the fruit he had picked. He held the basket out to Jesus who took another fig and savored it.

Nathanael's home was Cana, a small town west of Galilee not far from Nazareth where Jesus grew up. Now, listening to him speak, Nathanael knew. What was it? The quiet, confident tone of his voice? The easy way he smiled? His arresting gaze? Something about this man beyond . . . what? Nathanael was not sure, but whatever the compulsion, he blurted, "Teacher, you are the Son of God; you are the King of Israel."

Peter and John reacted in surprise. Only Philip knew Nathanael well. Others had seen him among the fishing crews, laughing at coarse and sometimes vulgar humor as fishermen do. Such men are often honest to a fault (if such a thing is possible), preferring to say what they think to anyone who will listen, holding pretense and airs in contempt. But none could have conceived such words coming from this sailor's mouth. They did not believe him capable of such a statement. Nathanael, however, had said what he meant to say. He knew what he knew and had declared it with straightforward directness.

Even Jesus seemed incredulous. "You believe this merely because I told you I saw you under a fig tree picking figs?"

It had not occurred to Nathanael just what it was that justified his blind acceptance of this man or the declaration he, himself, had made. The faith of a child needs no justification. That Jesus had knowledge of him before this moment did not enter his head. He was not certain of what it was, perhaps the force, the power and simple presence of this man. Perhaps an inner revelation. He let Jesus' question hang unanswered. The silence between them spoke more than words. At length, Jesus laughed, "My friend, you will witness greater things than that." Then he said, "Let me tell you how great, Nathanael; in the future, you shall see heaven open, and you will see the angels of God ascending and descending on the Son of Man."

In decades to come, in moments of triumph and failure, when his hands shook and his eyes were old and watery, Nathanael never forgot this moment, these words.