The Extra Mile

The morning sun burned low over Nazareth, casting the town in waves of shimmering heat. Fourteen-year-old Jesus Bar Joseph walked steadily toward the marketplace, a small leather pouch tucked securely under his arm. Over his other arm was draped the cloak he had needed when he left home, but no longer needed with the sun now high in the sky. The coins inside the pouch clinked softly with each step, a tangible reminder of his father’s trust. Joseph had sent him to buy nails, flax rope, and a new chisel—supplies essential to the carpentry shop.

Usually, Jesus enjoyed these errands, the moments alone offering him time to think. But this morning, his thoughts were uneasy. Lazarus, the neighborhood bully, had made a promise the day before: “Next time I see you, you’ll feel the sting of my hand across your cheek.” Jesus wasn’t sure how he’d respond if it happened. His mother had always taught him to seek peace, but it was hard to imagine standing there, doing nothing, as someone struck him. Such a strike was humiliating for a Jew. And Lazarus knew it. Of that much, Jesus was certain.

The smell of olive groves reached him as he rounded the bend in the road. The scent, usually calming, didn’t reach him today. His steps slowed when he spotted the two figures leaning against the low stone wall ahead. Roman soldiers.

Their helmets gleamed in the sun, the crimson plumes on top barely moving in the still air. They were older than he was—maybe in their twenties, but the authority they carried made them look older. One was tall and wiry, his sharp features framed by a perpetual scowl. The other, stockier with a thick neck and an easier smile, adjusted the straps of his armor as Jesus approached.