Lamb: the Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal

a second to digest the meaning of the words, and I waited for Joshua to say something, but he had turned his face skyward and seemed to be basking in the light, a silly smile locked on his face.
    Finally I pointed a thumb at Josh and said, “He was born in the city of David.”
    “Really?” said the angel.
    “Yep.”
    “His mother’s name is Mary?”
    “Yep.”
    “She a virgin?”
    “He has four brothers and sisters now, but at one time, yes.”
    The angel looked around nervously, as if he might expect a multitude of the heavenly host to show up at some point. “How old are you, kid?”
    Joshua just stared, smiling.
    “He’s ten.”
    The angel cleared his throat and fidgeted a bit, dropping a few feet toward the ground as he did so. “I’m in a lot of trouble. I stopped to chat with Michael on the way here, he had a deck of cards. I knew some time had passed, but…” To Joshua he said, “Kid, were you born in a stable? Wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger?”
    Joshua said nothing.
    “That’s the way his mom tells it,” I said.
    “Is he retarded?”
    “I think you’re his first angel. He’s impressed, I think.”
    “What about you?”
    “I’m in trouble because I’m going to be an hour late for dinner.”
    “I see what you mean. I’d better get back and check on this. If you see some shepherds watching over their flocks by night would you tell them—uh, tell them—that at some point, probably, oh—ten years or so ago, that a Savior was born? Could you do that?”
    “Sure.”
    “Okey-dokey. Glory to God in the highest. Peace on earth, goodwill toward men.”
    “Right back at you.”
    “Thanks. Bye.”
    And as quickly as he had come, the angel was gone in a shooting star and the olive grove went dark again. I could just make out Joshua’s face as he turned to look at me.
    “There you go,” I said. “Next question?”

    I suppose that every boy wonders what he will be when he grows up. I suppose that many watch their peers accomplish great things and wonder, “Could I have done that?” For me, to know at ten that my best friend was the Messiah, while I would live and die a stonecutter, seemed too much of a curse for a ten-year-old to bear. The morning after we met the angel, I went to the square and sat with Bartholomew the village idiot, hoping that Maggie would come to the well. If I had to be a stonecutter, at least I might have the love of an enchanting woman. In those days, we started training for our life’s work at ten, then received the prayer shawl and phylacteries at thirteen, signifying our entry into manhood. Soon after we were expected to be betrothed, and by fourteen, married and starting a family. So you see, I was not too young to consider Maggie as a wife (and I might always have the fallback position of marrying Joshua’s mother when Joseph died).
    The women would come and go, fetching water, washing clothes, and as the sun rose high and the square cleared, Bartholomew sat in the shade of a tattered date palm and picked his nose. Maggie never appeared. Funny how easy heartbreak can come. I’ve always had a talent for it.
    “Why you cry?” said Bartholomew. He was bigger than any man in the village, his hair and beard were wild and tangled, and the yellow dust that covered him from head to toe gave him the appearance of an incredibly stupid lion. His tunic was ragged and he wore no sandals. The only thing he owned was a wooden bowl that he ate from and licked clean. He lived off of the charity of the village, and by gleaning the grain fields (there was always some grain left in the fields for the poor—it was dictated by the Law). I never knew how old he was. He spent his days in the square, playing with the village dogs, giggling to himself, and scratching his crotch. When the women passed he would stick out his tongue and say, “Bleh.” My mother said he had the mind of a child. As usual, she was wrong.
    He put his big paw on my shoulder and rubbed, leaving a dusty circle of affection on my shirt. “Why you cry?” he asked again.
    “I’m just sad. You wouldn’t understand.”
    Bartholomew looked around, and when he saw that we were alone in the square except for his dog pals, he said, “You think too much. Thinking will bring you nothing but suffering. Be simple.”
    “What?” It was the most coherent thing I’d ever heard him say.
    “Do you ever see me cry? I have nothing, so I am slave to nothing. I have nothing to do, so