Darkness has taken over and I can barely see to write...a cricketspeaks...may profound thoughts come.
I spoke to them on a little hill, a rocky place. It wasn’t windy orhot and we were not troubled by flies and as I stood before them,fishermen, villagers, friends and strangers, sitting on rocks and onthe ground, on shawls and blankets, I was deeply moved. I wasspecially moved by an old woman near me who never took her eyes offme. Dressed in blue, her clothes in tatters, her face gleamed.Wrinkled cheeks were kind. There was kindness in her folded hands,but, most of all, it was the compassion in her eyes, soft, tearful,blue eyes, that had searched for so long and hoped for so long. Herswas the patience of the poor. Her spirit became my spirit as Italked.
“Blessed are the poor...for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. You arethe salt of the earth—you are the light of the world. Let your lightso shine before men that they may see your good works and glorifyyour Father in heaven.
“Blessed are the meek,” I said, “for they shall inherit the earth.Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted...blessed arethose who hunger after justice...blessed are the merciful for theyshall obtain mercy.”
The old woman had buried her face in her hands: she was my mother andevery mother, sincerity and love, the symbol of integrity.
A breeze came and white clouds piled along the horizon. The crowd in-creased and the hill was covered with people. Shepherds approachedand held their flocks in check, listening.
“...Rejoice and be exceedingly glad,” I said to them, “...yours isthe strength of thousands...yours is the strength of the chosen, thehumble and the contrite, the pure and lowly...blessed are the lowly.Be ye perfect, even as your Father who is in heaven...”
I tried to express my sincerity, the sincerity that began in thedesert, that has been accumulating, that is, for me, the essence ofliving. I tried to speak slowly, measuring each word. By the time Iwas finished I was very tired. I was glad to feel Peter’s hand on myarm and hear him ask:
“Aren’t you hungry?”
A lamb blundered against my legs and I stooped and picked it up andheld it in my arms, thinking of my humble birth. There was suchcomfort, holding it; I felt my strength return. I thought of thestable in Bethlehem. When I went to see it years ago nothing remainedbut a watering trough and a fence. Time had also swept away the starand the Magi.
Men, women and children pressed around me, talking, praising, askingquestions. When I put down the lamb it dashed away. Questions—thereis no end to questions. I am glad and yet I am world-weary. Worldthoughts oppressed me. The moon was well up before I could get awayand walk to Peter’s; as we bowed our heads at the table someoneknocked on the door.
Tishri 21
Sometimes people say I am an unhappy man.
That is not true.
For one thing, I like to remember happy experiences, and one of themwas the wedding at Cana. What a pleasant stroll it was, the daytemperate, the path climbing gradually above palm trees of thevalley, up to the vineyards. Birds were gossiping in the vineyards.The blue of the Jordan flashed through oleanders. The snowy top ofHermon sent out a string of flamingos.
At Cana, Mother greeted me. There were old friends among the guests.Miriam was beautiful, more beautiful than I remembered. I thought ofSolomon’s song as I watched her, “Thou art in the clefts of the rock;let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice, for sweet is thyvoice and thy countenance is comely...”
After we had eaten Mother came to me and said “there is no morewine... Miriam is distressed...a wedding without wine!” sheexclaimed, gesturing toward the guests at their outdoor tables.Certainly it was Miriam’s day. I thought of our friendship throughthe years and I decided to change water into wine, a token to theiryouth and their happiness.
I called two of the servants.
“Fill the water pots with water...now empty them into the winepitchers. There will be wine for everyone.”
“It’s good wine,” I heard someone remark.
Miriam thanked me and I hoped for acceptance on the part of everyone.A beginning has been made, perhaps a seal or symbol had been placedon my ministry. I tasted the wine on my lips as I walked to Peter’s.Before I had gone any distance Andrew and Phillip criticized themiracle. They said I could change a man’s soul as easily. They wereafraid. Mother, walking with us, defended me and ridiculed them.
Alone, I struck out across a grain field where men were dismantling atent; behind a stick fence donkeys brayed; day was closing behind itsfence of clouds; I felt that the men dismantling their tent were alsodismantling time.
Alone, the happiness of the wedding returned.
I tasted the wine.
Heshvan 3
F
ather is too old to work and I want him to sell one of the Magigifts, help himself and Mother. This has been a poor carpentry seasonfor him and for others. No use has been made of the gifts these yearsbut he won’t listen. He will not so much as hint where they arestored. Where else but the synagogue? He is afraid of the wealth, ofrobbers...
It is easy to get him started about the Magi. His eyebrow cocks, hishead tilts, he pulls his beard and settles himself, legs crossed. Hedescribes camels, accoutrements, attendants, a long, long story,growing longer with the years. The star and the angels are alwaysthere. He becomes eloquent like someone who had dabbled indivination.
“Casper...Melchior...Balthasar...”
Mother is pronouncing their names. She is fondest of the Babylonianking.
“He was tall and stately and wore a dark blue robe. His hair andbeard were snowy white...”
It was a harsh journey into Egypt, some of the time without water,the heat so overpowering they walked at night. At an encampment,Egyptian soldiers provided food while Mother rested a few days. Asergeant repaired her sandals. They followed an ancient caravanroute, asking for help. They lived with Gabra nomads—borrowing awhite camel, a day or two. Father says “she was a real princess onthat camel!” They hid in a hutment from Herod’s men, his troopspassing on maneuvers. A lone traveler gave them dates and bread. Theybegged eggs at a caravanserai...a little goat’s milk...a little meat.
Mother praised her donkey. He never refused to carry her. For a whilethey stopped under sycamores where it was cool, a pond nearby. Butthey were very hungry. There, under the trees, the donkey died. Theythought they would never get back to Israel. Father had the Magigifts sewn to the donkey’s pad but when the animal died he had tocarry everything. Utterly disheartened, they trudged on. They gotlost. There were sand storms.
Mother begged him to sell the gold cup. “It’s not mine to sell,” heobjected. But he traded Melchior’s coins, “for the sake of our boy.”So they survived. Herod’s men continued to haunt them; then theylearned that he was dead.
“Despicable men do despicable things,” Father said. “Rome is thegreat instigator of crimes. The Kittim! Political schemes are hatchedin the Forum with the wild beasts. Rome appoints a governor forJerusalem; the man is in exile so he devours us, his subjects.”
Last night I lay awake most of the night, haunted by these ghosts.The past can be a simoom. Maybe it is a good thing when today’sproblems wipe out yesterday’s problems. When the oil in the lampburned out I tried to find oil in the storage shed. There was nomore. At dawn I read my favorite psalms.
A thousand hoplites marched through our town. Drums. Horns. Thud ofspears.
Many people fled.
Last month the hoplites caused a riot in Naim.
I am unable to countenance such hirelings. I am unable to countenancemilitary death.
Friends are still troubled by my miracle at Cana. As a group of uswalked to Jerusalem their annoyance went on and on.
In Jerusalem I was annoyed by the bellowing of cattle, the bleatingof sacrificial sheep. An ox screamed. Dust rose from underfoot as Ijostled turbaned men... A woman in a striped veil blocked my way.
Passing Herod’s temple I searched for sky. Men had worked for yearsto build that temple—was it for d
ust and smoke?
At the temple I stood among money exchange tables and listened to menhaggle. A strange, dark, bestial man lorded over everyone. At anivory-topped table men quarreled and spat. A sacrificial trumpetshrilled. I grabbed my taliss, the one Father gave me. Knotting itinto a whip I struck the money from a table. Coins spun. An exchangerhowled. I lashed another table, upset it, then another. A crowdjeered as I demanded that they honor the temple.
“This is man’s place of worship. You offend God. Look, what you’redoing... take your money away...you know our temple is sacred. God’stemple is a temple of peace.”
Later, when a judge demanded an explanation, I saw my own disrespect,my own violence. He was a lanky, stone-like figure, grey-haired,grey-faced, palsied. He understood my rebellion, the ranklingperturbations of my life.
“I’m a Greek,” he said. “I realize your alienation. I’m new here. Ihave much to learn. When a man revolts there is usually well-groundedreason. But be careful! The next time there may be fines orpunishment; another man may not be lenient.”
Heshvan 9
That night, after scourging the temple, I dreamed of home: I wasworking at the carpenter’s bench, making a three-legged stool. Ifinished smoothing the legs and sat on the floor, Whitey beside me.She was playing with a heap of shavings.
Again I had that illusion that time was mine, that the sunshine andflies and smell of olive oil and earth would never leave me. And Ithought, as I worked on the stool, how pleased Mother would be when Ifinished it for her birthday. I glanced at a mark on the wall andwondered if I had grown taller.
Galilee
A storm. The lake. Two fishermen drowned. Tents blown over. Next dayas I bury the dead a little girl comes and throws herself at my feet,a flower clutched in her hand. What does death mean to her?
Heshvan 11
Wearing dirty work clothes I was readily admitted into the prison atMachaerus, a citadel high above the countryside. Guards shrugged as Ientered. A door clanged with a terrible crash: I was in John’s cell.Kissing me, hugging me, we embraced: as always I felt he was part ofme.
“How are you, cousin? I thought we would never get to see each otheragain...in all those rags they didn’t know you. You chose a goodtime; there has been an ugly quarrel going on...we have new guards.Here, here, sit by me.”
John has been imprisoned five months and is chained to the wall, aloop around one leg, letting him move a few feet. Rattling the chain,he nodded and grinned at me. I did not understand what he whispered.When he was certain we were alone he grasped his chain and forced itopen, first one link and then another. Though he had been a wrestlerand farmer I was amazed. Free, he clasped me in his arms.
“It’s a great trick...nobody knows...I can get up at night and walkaround... maybe there’s a way to get out of here.”
How often we have been taken for brothers because of our red hair; wetrim our beards the same way; our faces are much alike except thatmine is leaner. We were brothers as we talked, sitting on the stonefloor, the chain between us.
John urged me to leave Capernaum.
“You can’t go on preaching there. Antipas has men on the lookout foryou. He’s as cruel as Herod, you know that! Go in hiding for a while,Jesus. There’s no good in it if both of us end up in chains. Ourministry will fail.”
I had concealed bread and fruit in my clothes but John would not eatwhile I was there. I gave him a comb and he combed his beard andhead, grimacing, laughing. I asked him to change clothes with me:“You can put me in chains,” I said.
An empty cell, stone walls, chains, the Dead Sea glistening dozens offeet below, a cold floor, a little food...what could I do?
“Are there other prisoners on this floor, John?”
“I never see them... I’m not allowed outside.”
“You know that we are trying to free you.”
“Don’t run any risks.”
“We aren’t afraid.”
“I have enough to eat...time to pray.”
“We need you.”
He bowed in prayer.
To be born anew...that is our hope for mankind.
I went away embittered. Think of it, I left a comb and some bread andfruit for a great man, a man of God. As I walked through the night Iheard and re-heard those words:
“May the Lord bless thee and keep thee, the Lord make His face toshine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up Hiscountenance and give thee peace.”
Peace inside stone walls.
When shall John and I meet again?
Peter’s
Heshvan 19
I have preached in the synagogues at Cana and Capernaum during thelast few days. I do not like preaching indoors. The sky is best andweeds and grass make the best floor. Old laws become new lawsoutdoors. I stress repentance and faith—the time is now at hand. Itry to speak with authority and yet avoid rigid precepts.
Usually I walk alone. Being alone, from time to time, is essential:there is a peace in the company of one’s own shadow. After everymeeting I am again surrounded by questioners, most of themrespectful, some are quite idle and oblivious of anything butthemselves.
At Capernaum, as I spoke, swallows flew in and out, swooping low. Iwondered, as I watched them, are we the interlopers, have we usurpedtheir place? For me birds epitomize the highest form of beauty.
Near Capernaum I met an officer as I rested under trees along theroad. His horse was lathered with sweat and the man was tired; heleaned forward in the saddle and eyed me critically, in silence. Iasked him to dismount and rest.
Joining me he said he had heard of my miracle at the wedding and mycure of the street beggar. He brushed dust off his immaculateuniform. Wiping his face he scrutinized me, then pled with me to comeand heal his son who was, according to his doctor, dying of fever. Ishared fruit and he introduced himself; he admitted he had sought meas a last resort. I pitied the young father, fond of his only child,yet so skeptical. Rising nervously, catching his horse’s bridle, heurged me to go to his home.
“I can’t wait any longer... You don’t seem to understand that my sonis dying. Ride to Capernaum. Take my horse. Ride...help my boy.Master, cure him...he has been ill with a terrible fever...fordays... I must find help if you can’t help...”
“Ride home,” I said. “Your son will live; from this very hour he willimprove. Ride home in peace...do not hurry... God has answered yourplea, our prayers.”
I felt my faith attend the boy as he lay in bed. For a little whilehe became my son—the son I would never have. I blessed him. My faith,God’s grace, would renew the child. My power was adequate. I did notneed to travel to Capernaum.
Never looking back, the officer rode off, dubious, angry. A breezeclattered dry leaves above me.
I knelt in prayer.
I am troubled because there are so many sick in the world.
Capernaum...Capernaum...the village might be all mankind.
Here I healed the mother of my host, a woman gravely ill of seizures.I had hardly helped her and finished my dinner when people clamoredat the door, the demented as well as the sick.
Still riding his bay, the officer found me and assured me his son wasrecovering—his ardent gratitude was so bewildering, so nervous. As wetalked in the courtyard of my host’s home people jostled him. Hetried to send them away, to establish a sense of intimacy with me.
Walking through the town at dusk I touched this one, spoke toanother. A sense of anonymity troubled me: it was everywhere. Theexultant friends, the overjoyed crowd, forced me to retreat. As Iclosed the door of the house I observed Roman soldiers. I asked to beleft alone. I ate supper alone. Early in the morning, shortly afterdawn, I slipped away to the hills.
Peter’s
Simeon came. We sat on stools and he thanked me, tears in his eyes.Clean, wearing new clothes, a little shawl around him, he related howthrilling it was to be able to move about, to “really walk.” Heexplained what it had been to be “a stone in the street, a stone tospit on.” Eyes burnin
g, he made me know what it was to be forsaken,abused, hungry.
He says he has told others of his cure. Only a few mockers doubt.Friends and strangers visit his house, to touch him. He imitatedpoking hands. Simeon is a pathetically handsome man, still frail, hisfrailty accenting his features. “My cousin Ephriam has promised me ajob,” he said.
“I’m fifty-three but you’ve made me young. My memory is coming back.Everything tastes good...”
I believe my faith will help people because it is a faith of hope, afaith that conquers obstacles; it is a faith based on patience andkindness. We have no right to kill, no right to inflict pain. Ours isthe gift of understanding, contentment. Ours is the honoring ofsimplicity and honesty.
Sun on the hills is a kind of faith...the vineyard that endures isanother...the wounded heron struggling on...childbirthpain...fishermen drying their nets on the beach...
Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name...
He is our guide, Father of us all, brother of us all, master of all.Seek and you will find. Our kingdom is at hand.
Kislev 2
I
have been reading a scroll, an ancient one.
I write outdoors, on a table, under olives.