Later, when a judge demanded an explanation, I saw my own di_Christ's Journal

Produced by Al Haines

FROM THE COVER OF CHRIST’S JOURNAL:

In Christ’s Journal, the author takes a daring step in this unique

novel and places the reader for the first time in the shoes of The

Fisherman. In this finely crafted and historically realistic portrait

of the ancient Biblical world, Bartlett recreates the moving story of

the last months of Christ’s life as Jesus Himself may have

experienced them when He brought to mankind a message of love and

enduring hope.

Bartlett’s writing has been praised by many leading authors,

reviewers, and critics, among them:

JAMES MICHENER, novelist: “I am much taken with Bartlett’s work

and commend it highly.”

CHARLES POORE in The New York Times: “...believable characters

who are stirred by intensely personal concerns.”

GRACE FLANDRAU, author and historian: “...Characters and scenes

are so right and living...it is so beautifully done, one

finds oneself feeling it is not fiction but actually

experienced fact.”

JAMES PURDY, novelist: “An important writer... I find great

pleasure in his work. Really beautiful and distinguished.”

ALICE S. MORRIS in Harper’s Bazaar: “He tells a haunting and

beautiful story and manages to telescope, in a brilliantly

leisurely way, a lifetime, a full and eventful lifetime.”

RUSSELL KIRK, novelist: “The scenes are drawn with power.

Bartlett is an accomplished writer.”

PAUL ENGLE in The Chicago Tribune: “...articulate, believable

... charms with an expert knowledge of place and people.”

MICHAEL FRAENKEL, novelist and poet: “His is the authenticity

of the true and original creator. Bartlett is essentially a

writer of mood.”

WILLIS BARNSTONE, Sappho scholar and translator: “A mature

artist, Bartlett writes with ease and taste.”

J. DONALD ADAMS in The New York Times: “...the freshest, most

vital writing I have seen for some time.”

PEARL S. BUCK, Nobel Laureate in Literature: “He is an

excellent writer.”

HERBERT GORMAN, novelist and biographer: “He possesses a

sensitivity in description and an acuteness in the

delineation of character.”

FORD MADOX FORD, English novelist, about Bartlett: “...a writer

of very considerable merit.”

LON TINKLE in the Dallas Morning News: “Vivid, impressive,

highly pictorial.”

JOE KNOEFLER in the L.A. Times: “...an American writer gifted

with...perception and sensitivity.”

FRANK TANNENBAUM, historian: “...written with great

sensibility”

Worchester Telegram: “Between realism and

poetry...brilliant, colorful.”

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CHRIST’S JOURNAL

BOOKS BY

PAUL ALEXANDER BARTLETT

NOVELS

VOICES FROM THE PAST:

Sappho’s Journal  Christ’s Journal  Leonardo da Vinci’s Journal

Shakespeare’s Journal  Lincoln’s Journal

When the Owl Cries

Adiós Mi México

Forward, Children!

POETRY

Wherehill

Spokes for Memory

NONFICTION

The Haciendas of Mexico: An Artist’s Record

CHRIST’S JOURNAL

PAUL ALEXANDER BARTLETT

and

Illustrated by the Author

Edited by

STEVEN JAMES BARTLETT

AUTOGRAPH EDITIONS

Salem, Oregon

AUTOGRAPH EDITIONS

P. O. Box 6141  Salem, Oregon 97304

 Established 1975 

This book is protected by copyright. No part

may be reproduced in any manner without

written permission from the publisher.

First Edition

ISBN 978-0-6151-5645-3

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006028950

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Bartlett, Paul Alexander.

Christ's journal / by Paul Alexander Bartlett and illustrated by

the author ;

edited by Steven James Bartlett. -- 1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: "A historical novel that recounts the last months of

Christ's life

from an autobiographical perspective"--Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-0-6151-5645-3

1. Jesus Christ--Fiction. I. Bartlett, Steven J. II. Title.

PS3602.A8396C46 2006

813'.6--dc22

2006028950

CONTENTS

PREFACE by Steven James Bartlett xi

CHRIST’S JOURNAL 1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 67

COLOPHON 71

PREFACE

Steven James Bartlett

Senior Research Professor of Philosophy, Oregon State University

and

Visiting Scholar in Psychology & Philosophy, Willamette University

hrist’s Journal is one of five independent works of fiction which

together make up Voices from the Past, a quintet of novels that de-

scribe the inner lives of five extraordinary people. Progressing

through time from the most distant to the most recent they are:

Sappho of Lesbos, the famous Greek poet; Jesus; Leonardo da Vinci;

Shakespeare; and Abraham Lincoln. For the most part, little is known

about the inward realities of these people, about their personal

thoughts, reflections, and the quality and nature of their feelings.

For this reason they have become no more than voices from the past:

The contributions they have left us remain, but little remains of

each person, of his or her personality, of the loves, fears,

pleasures, hatreds, beliefs, and thoughts each had.

Voices from the Past was written by Paul Alexander Bartlett over a

period of several decades. After his death in an automobile accident

in 1990, the manuscripts of the five novels were discovered among his

as yet unpublished papers. He had been at work adding the finishing

touches to the manuscripts. Now, more than a decade and a half after

his death, the publication of Voices from the Past is overdue.

Bartlett is known for his fiction, including When the Owl Cries and

Adiós Mi México, historical novels set during the Mexican Revolution

of 1910 and descriptive of hacienda life, Forward, Children!, a

powerful antiwar novel, and numerous short stories. He was also the

author of books of poetry, including Spokes for Memory and Wherehill,

the nonfiction work, The Haciendas of Mexico: An Artist’s Record, the

first extensive artistic and photographic study of haciendas through-

out Mexico, and numerous articles about the Mexican haciendas.

Bartlett was also an artist whose paintings, illustrations, and

drawings have been exhibited in more than 40 one-man shows in leading

museums in the U.S. and Mexico. Archives of his work and literary

correspondence have now been established at the American Heritage

Center of the University of Wyoming, the Nettie Lee Benson Latin

American Collection of the University of Texas, and the Rare Books

Collection of the University of California, Los Angeles.

Paul Alexander Bartlett’s life was lived with a single value always

central: a sustained dedication to beauty, which he believed was the

most vital value of living and his reason for his life as a writer

and an artist. Voices from the Past reflects this commitment, for he

believed that these five voices, in their different ways, express a

passion for life, for the creative spirit, and ultimately for beauty

in a variety of its forms—poetic and natural (Sappho), spiritual

(Jesus), scientific and artistic (da Vinci), literary (Shakespeare),

and humanitarian (Lincoln). In this work, he has sought, as

faithfully as possible, to relay across time a renewed lyrical

meaning of these remarkable individuals, lending them his own voice,

with a mood, simplicity, depth of feeling, and love of beauty that

were his, and, he believed, also theirs.

The journal form has been used only rarely in works of fiction.

Bartlett believed that as a form of literature the journal offers the

most effective way to bring back to life the life-worlds of

significant, unique, highly individual, and important creators. In

each of the novels that make up Voices from the Past, his interest is

to portray the inner experience of exceptional and special people,

about whom there is scant knowledge on this level. During the many

years of research he devoted to a study of the lives and thoughts of

Sappho, Jesus, Leonardo, Shakespeare, and Lincoln, he sought to base

the journals on what is known and what can be surmised about the

person behind each voice, and he wove into each journal passages from

their writings and the substance of the testimony of others. Yet the

five novels are fiction: They re-express in an author’s creation

lives now buried by the passage of centuries.

I am deeply grateful to my wife, Karen Bartlett, for her faithful,

patient, and perceptive help with this long project.

For my father,

Paul Alexander Bartlett,

whose kindness, love of beauty and of place

will always be greatly missed.

CHRIST’S JOURNAL

Peter’s Home

Elul 10

he sun is setting. The evening is very warm. Across the fields I hear

children’s voices as they play.

This evening I have been reading the Psalms and their beauty fills my

mind. I have decided to write my thoughts, not because I am a

psalmist, but because I hope to get closer to the meaning of life. Of

course I should have started writing long ago. When I was in the

wilderness I had an opportunity. Now, it is hard for me to find the

time, and writing is not a habit of mine and does not come easily.

However, like a shepherd, I shall gather together my thoughts,

watching for strays. In spite of vigilance my thoughts may wander.

It is pleasant sitting here at this table, the night air blowing in;

a star is caught in a tree. Peter is talking to a friend; Peter’s

voice has always pleased me, so deep.

Elul 20

Yesterday, when I was in Naim, someone pointed out a sick man huddled

in rags at a street corner. It was one of those windy days and dust

spun around us. The man reached up his arms and mumbled; I remembered

seeing him before and maybe he remembered me. I felt his hope; I felt

I could help, and I said:

“Pick up your mat, get up...walk... God will help you.”

The fellow trembled. He seemed to shrink inside himself as if afraid

of me. He closed his eyes and doubled his hands. I waited and then

repeated my command slowly. Like someone in a dream he untangled his

rags and knelt. As he rolled his mat I encouraged him. Glancing about

furtively, he stood, tottered. I thought he would fall but he kept

his eyes on mine and I urged him to walk.

“Master...master,” he muttered, staring about uncertainly.

“Master...where... how can I?”

Limping, carrying his mat under one arm, he headed for the synagogue

and as I watched he began to walk easily. He threw down his mat and

began to run. Dust swirled around us and he disappeared from sight.

Later, someone told me he had been bedridden, crippled for almost

forty years. Forty years—he had been crippled longer than I had

lived! Now he was walking...running... I felt such joy, such joy, all

day. I couldn’t eat when I sat at the table at Peter’s; his mother

scolded me. To please her I nibbled a little fruit. I couldn’t find

anyone who could share my joy so I walked alone, roamed the

countryside. As I walked I could see his tortured face, dirty beard,

beggar’s clothes. Forty years...

His name is Simeon.

Probably I will see Simeon soon. And what shall I say when he thanks

me? What can he say? I will see a changed man and that will be

enough.

Tishri 2

t seems only yesterday I was in Nazareth yet that yesterday was years

ago. Regardless of the passage of time I feel the summer heat and

hear flies buzzing. Father is at work in his shop. Whitey comes to me

and meows; she’s scared of the thunder rumbling in the distance;

she’s hungry too. Mama is cooking and the smell of beef is

everywhere.

Father begins to saw and sawdust spills over his feet. I lean against

a wall and sunshine spreads and I feel everything impregnate me, the

stucco, earth floor, the bench, the broken handle of the saw, Father

batting flies that try to settle on his beard. This will last

forever. Caught in the web of time we will eat supper together,

before lamp lighting, and Whitey will sit on my lap.

I recall another afternoon years ago—the same place. But Father is

upset, talking volubly, denouncing Herod and his tyranny, an old, old

story for all of us. I have tried to deny the truth of that story but

there it is, Herod’s soldiers slaughtering innocent children, hoping

to kill me. Surely I hate the man and yet I have learned to pity his

blundering.

As a boy I wandered, praying, asking understanding. The dry hills

were uncommunicative. If it is impossible to forgive it is possible

to look ahead. I felt too that my guilt might become a disease. I saw

that the past can have too powerful an influence.

Peter’s Home

Tishri 6

Tomorrow I am to preach on a hill... Peter says the weather will be

fine. I hope so, after windy days. For weeks we have had wind and

cold.

Here, in my room at Peter’s, I am discontented. The windows try to

send me outdoors. They face cornfields and the corn is waist high,

brown and roughly swaying. I wish I could stretch out in the middle

of a field, lie there and watch the clouds and listen to the wind. I

am happiest when outdoors.

The sun is down but I won’t light my candle; instead, I’ll watch the

coming night and perhaps I can summon thoughts for tomorrow; perhaps

something will talk to me in the cornfields, something I can impart.

Friends and strangers will arrive tomorrow...

Darkness has taken over and I can barely see to write...a cricket

speaks...may profound thoughts come.

I spoke to them on a little hill, a rocky place. It wasn’t windy or

hot and we were not troubled by flies and as I stood before them,

fishermen, villagers, friends and strangers, sitting on rocks and on

the ground, on shawls and blankets, I was deeply moved. I was

specially moved by an old woman near me who never took her eyes off

me. 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. Hers

was the patience of the poor. Her spirit became my spirit as I

talked.

“Blessed are the poor...for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. You are

the salt of the earth—you are the light of the world. Let your light

so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify

your 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 are

those who hunger after justice...blessed are the merciful for they

shall obtain mercy.”

The old woman had buried her face in her hands: she was my mother and

every 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 approached

and held their flocks in check, listening.

“...Rejoice and be exceedingly glad,” I said to them, “...yours is

the strength of thousands...yours is the strength of the chosen, the

humble 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 the

desert, that has been accumulating, that is, for me, the essence of

living. I tried to speak slowly, measuring each word. By the time I

was finished I was very tired. I was glad to feel Peter’s hand on my

arm and hear him ask:

“Aren’t you hungry?”

A lamb blundered against my legs and I stooped and picked it up and

held it in my arms, thinking of my humble birth. There was such

comfort, holding it; I felt my strength return. I thought of the

stable in Bethlehem. When I went to see it years ago nothing remained

but a watering trough and a fence. Time had also swept away the star

and the Magi.

Men, women and children pressed around me, talking, praising, asking

questions. When I put down the lamb it dashed away. Questions—there

is no end to questions. I am glad and yet I am world-weary. World

thoughts oppressed me. The moon was well up before I could get away

and walk to Peter’s; as we bowed our heads at the table someone

knocked 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 them

was the wedding at Cana. What a pleasant stroll it was, the day

temperate, the path climbing gradually above palm trees of the

valley, up to the vineyards. Birds were gossiping in the vineyards.

The blue of the Jordan flashed through oleanders. The snowy top of

Hermon 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 of

Solomon’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 thy

voice and thy countenance is comely...”

After we had eaten Mother came to me and said “there is no more

wine... Miriam is distressed...a wedding without wine!” she

exclaimed, gesturing toward the guests at their outdoor tables.

Certainly it was Miriam’s day. I thought of our friendship through

the years and I decided to change water into wine, a token to their

youth and their happiness.

I called two of the servants.

“Fill the water pots with water...now empty them into the wine

pitchers. 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 placed

on 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 the

miracle. They said I could change a man’s soul as easily. They were

afraid. Mother, walking with us, defended me and ridiculed them.

Alone, I struck out across a grain field where men were dismantling a

tent; behind a stick fence donkeys brayed; day was closing behind its

fence of clouds; I felt that the men dismantling their tent were also

dismantling time.

Alone, the happiness of the wedding returned.

I tasted the wine.

Heshvan 3

ather is too old to work and I want him to sell one of the Magi

gifts, help himself and Mother. This has been a poor carpentry season

for him and for others. No use has been made of the gifts these years

but he won’t listen. He will not so much as hint where they are

stored. Where else but the synagogue? He is afraid of the wealth, of

robbers...

It is easy to get him started about the Magi. His eyebrow cocks, his

head tilts, he pulls his beard and settles himself, legs crossed. He

describes camels, accoutrements, attendants, a long, long story,

growing longer with the years. The star and the angels are always

there. He becomes eloquent like someone who had dabbled in

divination.

“Casper...Melchior...Balthasar...”

Mother is pronouncing their names. She is fondest of the Babylonian

king.

“He was tall and stately and wore a dark blue robe. His hair and

beard 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. A

sergeant repaired her sandals. They followed an ancient caravan

route, asking for help. They lived with Gabra nomads—borrowing a

white camel, a day or two. Father says “she was a real princess on

that camel!” They hid in a hutment from Herod’s men, his troops

passing on maneuvers. A lone traveler gave them dates and bread. They

begged eggs at a caravanserai...a little goat’s milk...a little meat.

Mother praised her donkey. He never refused to carry her. For a while

they stopped under sycamores where it was cool, a pond nearby. But

they were very hungry. There, under the trees, the donkey died. They

thought they would never get back to Israel. Father had the Magi

gifts sewn to the donkey’s pad but when the animal died he had to

carry everything. Utterly disheartened, they trudged on. They got

lost. There were sand storms.

Mother begged him to sell the gold cup. “It’s not mine to sell,” he

objected. But he traded Melchior’s coins, “for the sake of our boy.”

So they survived. Herod’s men continued to haunt them; then they

learned that he was dead.

“Despicable men do despicable things,” Father said. “Rome is the

great instigator of crimes. The Kittim! Political schemes are hatched

in the Forum with the wild beasts. Rome appoints a governor for

Jerusalem; 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’s

problems wipe out yesterday’s problems. When the oil in the lamp

burned out I tried to find oil in the storage shed. There was no

more. At dawn I read my favorite psalms.

A thousand hoplites marched through our town. Drums. Horns. Thud of

spears.

Many people fled.

Last month the hoplites caused a riot in Naim.

I am unable to countenance such hirelings. I am unable to countenance

military death.

Friends are still troubled by my miracle at Cana. As a group of us

walked to Jerusalem their annoyance went on and on.

In Jerusalem I was annoyed by the bellowing of cattle, the bleating

of sacrificial sheep. An ox screamed. Dust rose from underfoot as I

jostled turbaned men... A woman in a striped veil blocked my way.

Passing Herod’s temple I searched for sky. Men had worked for years

to build that temple—was it for dust and smoke?

At the temple I stood among money exchange tables and listened to men

haggle. A strange, dark, bestial man lorded over everyone. At an

ivory-topped table men quarreled and spat. A sacrificial trumpet

shrilled. I grabbed my taliss, the one Father gave me. Knotting it

into a whip I struck the money from a table. Coins spun. An exchanger

howled. I lashed another table, upset it, then another. A crowd

jeered as I demanded that they honor the temple.

“This is man’s place of worship. You offend God. Look, what you’re

doing... take your money away...you know our temple is sacred. God’s

temple 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 rankling

perturbations of my life.

“I’m a Greek,” he said. “I realize your alienation. I’m new here. I

have much to learn. When a man revolts there is usually well-grounded

reason. But be careful! The next time there may be fines or

punishment; another man may not be lenient.”

Heshvan 9

That night, after scourging the temple, I dreamed of home: I was

working at the carpenter’s bench, making a three-legged stool. I

finished 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 and

flies and smell of olive oil and earth would never leave me. And I

thought, as I worked on the stool, how pleased Mother would be when I

finished it for her birthday. I glanced at a mark on the wall and

wondered if I had grown taller.

Galilee

A storm. The lake. Two fishermen drowned. Tents blown over. Next day

as 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 at

Machaerus, a citadel high above the countryside. Guards shrugged as I

entered. 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 of

me.

“How are you, cousin? I thought we would never get to see each other

again...in all those rags they didn’t know you. You chose a good

time; 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, a

loop 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 it

open, first one link and then another. Though he had been a wrestler

and 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 walk

around... maybe there’s a way to get out of here.”

How often we have been taken for brothers because of our red hair; we

trim our beards the same way; our faces are much alike except that

mine is leaner. We were brothers as we talked, sitting on the stone

floor, the chain between us.

John urged me to leave Capernaum.

“You can’t go on preaching there. Antipas has men on the lookout for

you. 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. Our

ministry will fail.”

I had concealed bread and fruit in my clothes but John would not eat

while I was there. I gave him a comb and he combed his beard and

head, 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 of

feet 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 and

fruit for a great man, a man of God. As I walked through the night I

heard and re-heard those words:

“May the Lord bless thee and keep thee, the Lord make His face to

shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up His

countenance 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 the

last few days. I do not like preaching indoors. The sky is best and

weeds and grass make the best floor. Old laws become new laws

outdoors. I stress repentance and faith—the time is now at hand. I

try 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 every

meeting I am again surrounded by questioners, most of them

respectful, some are quite idle and oblivious of anything but

themselves.

At Capernaum, as I spoke, swallows flew in and out, swooping low. I

wondered, as I watched them, are we the interlopers, have we usurped

their place? For me birds epitomize the highest form of beauty.

Near Capernaum I met an officer as I rested under trees along the

road. His horse was lathered with sweat and the man was tired; he

leaned forward in the saddle and eyed me critically, in silence. I

asked him to dismount and rest.

Joining me he said he had heard of my miracle at the wedding and my

cure of the street beggar. He brushed dust off his immaculate

uniform. Wiping his face he scrutinized me, then pled with me to come

and heal his son who was, according to his doctor, dying of fever. I

shared fruit and he introduced himself; he admitted he had sought me

as a last resort. I pitied the young father, fond of his only child,

yet so skeptical. Rising nervously, catching his horse’s bridle, he

urged me to go to his home.

“I can’t wait any longer... You don’t seem to understand that my son

is dying. Ride to Capernaum. Take my horse. Ride...help my boy.

Master, cure him...he has been ill with a terrible fever...for

days... I must find help if you can’t help...”

“Ride home,” I said. “Your son will live; from this very hour he will

improve. Ride home in peace...do not hurry... God has answered your

plea, our prayers.”

I felt my faith attend the boy as he lay in bed. For a little while

he 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 not

need to travel to Capernaum.

Never looking back, the officer rode off, dubious, angry. A breeze

clattered 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 clamored

at the door, the demented as well as the sick.

Still riding his bay, the officer found me and assured me his son was

recovering—his ardent gratitude was so bewildering, so nervous. As we

talked in the courtyard of my host’s home people jostled him. He

tried to send them away, to establish a sense of intimacy with me.

Walking through the town at dusk I touched this one, spoke to

another. A sense of anonymity troubled me: it was everywhere. The

exultant friends, the overjoyed crowd, forced me to retreat. As I

closed the door of the house I observed Roman soldiers. I asked to be

left alone. I ate supper alone. Early in the morning, shortly after

dawn, 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 how

thrilling it was to be able to move about, to “really walk.” He

explained what it had been to be “a stone in the street, a stone to

spit on.” Eyes burning, 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 imitated

poking hands. Simeon is a pathetically handsome man, still frail, his

frailty accenting his features. “My cousin Ephriam has promised me a

job,” 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, a

faith that conquers obstacles; it is a faith based on patience and

kindness. We have no right to kill, no right to inflict pain. Ours is

the gift of understanding, contentment. Ours is the honoring of

simplicity and honesty.

Sun on the hills is a kind of faith...the vineyard that endures is

another...the wounded heron struggling on...childbirth

pain...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

have been reading a scroll, an ancient one.

I write outdoors, on a table, under olives.

As I speak in public I become more and more a master of words. I

detect the difference in just a month or so. I am encouraged. I no

longer have to think what I do with my hands and arms, how I stand.

Thoughts flow.

Going from place to place I see the same heads. The sun streams over

us at the benediction. The passion of living is obvious, touching

each of us, offering kinship and peace.

Salt of the earth...

John is the salt of the earth and yet he writes me that he has been

beaten by his guards. Several times I have returned to Capernaum to

visit Joseph, the young officer. He has promised to use his influence

to free John. How wary he is of becoming involved with the prison

authorities. In Jerusalem my intercessions are ridiculed: John is

branded treasonous.

Authorities are evasive or antagonistic. They ridicule our wish to

uplift the world. I am told to take care.

Guards at the citadel refused to allow me to visit John.

Written requests go unanswered.

Peter, James and Matthew are no luckier than I.

A finch is watching me as I write under the olives.

Rain is threatening.

Conception. Birth. Death. Each is a mystery.

In my father’s house I grew up among mysteries. I heard them talked,

argued over, curtly dismissed. I have resented the unknowns, yet to

plumb them is still beyond me. Each child is a mystery. The temple is

a mystery. The shell that I pick up on the beach has its mystery.

Some say I am a man of mysteries. Does the turtle have its mysteries?

Kislev 5

For days I have been too busy and preoccupied to write—preaching

often, healing often. I am writing in a borrowed tent; James and Mark

are asleep inside.

Yesterday, on the lake shore, I was circled by a crowd. I talked to

them till late. I wish to record the promises I made them:

Verily, I say unto you, he that believeth in me hath

everlasting life. I am that bread of life. Your fathers

ate manna in the wilderness, and are dead. I am living

bread. If any man eat of this bread he shall live

forever.

In keeping with my promise I passed out bread and fish in baskets. I

blessed the food and there was an abundance for everyone, many of

them hungry children.

Mark and James and Phillip passed the baskets till each was fed, the

fish and bread always sufficient. At parting I reminded the people of

the deeper meaning but some were overwhelmed by the miracle. A

youngster ran about shouting: “He made the bread...he made the

fish...with his own hands. Jesus made...”

A strange restlessness troubled almost everyone.

Phillip, Andrew and I strolled along a white path, as white, in the

moonlight, as if made of crushed shells. Galilee was flat and

silvery. Andrew continued to comment about the “bread and fish” at

almost every turn of the path. His youthful, enthusiastic face warned

me, warned me that youth is irresponsible. What is the proper age for

wisdom? As for miracles is there a miracle surpassing the miracle of

faith?

Peter has made me a tent. It is dark green, and big enough for two.

The tent pole is an antique shepherd’s staff. A charioteer and a

number of untranslatable characters have been carved on the wood.

“Papa gave me that staff long ago. He said it is Assyrian.”

I can carry the tent comfortably and the staff is never out of my

hands.

Peter’s

Kislev 6

Last night I dreamed I was a tree—a cedar tree.

“Don’t cut me down,” I begged. “I am shade...I am the home of birds.”

I sat underneath the tree and fell asleep. I slept inside a dream.

Peter’s Home

Kislev 10

John is dead. Murdered.

He has been beheaded.

The world has lost a voice of reason. I have lost my best friend. He

was beheaded at a drunken orgy—his head was displayed like a trophy

at the palace. What desecration, abuse, folly, horror. I can barely

write...sorrow...resentment... my mind whirls to the days we passed

together in the desert, our wilderness comradeship. His faith was my

faith. Our bonds were those of true brotherhood.

I should have been able to free him. Instead I gave him dried fruit

and a comb. The letters I wrote did nothing. My petitions were

disregarded. I was too patient. I have sat in this room all

day...nothing has come of my sorrow but more sorrow. Peter and James

and Mark have had their say.

Late in the evening friends arrived, wanting to plan his burial.

Permission has been granted: we are to be permitted to claim his

body. It is best to have the sacred privilege of farewell. We tell

each other that we must succeed for his sake, man of poverty, prison

and death.

For his sake we can burn our lamps and candles and share late

communion, get up early, walk many leagues and extol his faith. We

will tell it on the hills and in the towns and in the villages. I

feel his wrestler’s hand tighten on my shoulder.

Kislev 12

We brought John to the ancient rocky crypts, a dozen of us. Some of

us wound scarves around our faces. Mother suspected that we were

followed. She insisted on two to act as guards.

Simon was there... Matthew, Peter, Luke, Mark...they helped us lay

John outside his crypt, helped us cut stone. A torch burned Mark’s

arm; someone smashed our hammer. “Work fast,” someone was constantly

urging. Peter got defiant: “Let the Romans come,” he shouted. “We

have a right to bury our dead.” Luke had to calm him. It was dawn

before we had the crypt sealed; we were cut and bruised. No torches.

As I sat among the cliff rocks I tried to obliterate the tragedy,

tried to refute his death. Hard to breathe. Hard to utter the final

prayer. Think of it...we had buried a headless man, friend, friend...

As we stole into town we met the Kittim officer, riding for

Capernaum; he did not recognize me of course. What a stark figure! I

wanted to talk to him about his son but Mother begged me: we must not

trust him.

She railed against wickedness and power.

Luke left us, to care for a sick man.

As we walked, Mother leaned on a stick. Her wrinkled face made me

aware that the star of long ago was not around.

At Matthew’s home we talked of John’s betrayal.

Perhaps we should be somewhat mad to combat man’s madness: we must

chop up the two thousand crucifixes, chop them into pieces for

firewood and with that firewood we shall bake our bread—our pita.

Crucified bread is the bread of the poor, the waiting, waiting poor.

God must help them; we must help them; we must help them as we must

help God. Heal. Lift up our eyes.

Nazareth—home

Kislev 20

When I picked corn in a field with my disciples I was reproved

because it was Sunday. When I healed the withered arm of a man I was

rebuked because it was Sunday. I am threatened by various authorities

for such “misdemeanors.” Men spy on me and plot against me for acts

of kindness. Kindness has reached the level of a crime. Officials

remind me, rather discreetly, that John met a tragic death. The

Sadducees hate me.

At the pool of Bethseda I helped a man who could not get into the

water: I brought him health. He had been a paralytic for years. A cry

went up because this was on a feast day. I explained that I intended

to carry out my work regardless of the day.

“The son of man is lord even on the Sabbath,” I said. “The world of

kindness must be a part of our world.”

At Nazareth, as I preached on a hill, the crowd turned on me. They

insisted I perform miracles for them. Angered that I would not

respond willy-nilly, men attempted to throw me off the cliffside of

the hill. James, Mark and Phillip protected me; the four of us

climbed down the cliff to a wadi.

Disgusted, Father feels I have gone out of my mind. He longs for the

peace of my boyhood days. Mother understands: her feeling is

intuitive. Though I disappoint and worry her she hides her concern,

offering encouragement. She visits those I have healed and tells me

how they have changed. Not all are like Simeon, grateful. Some do not

want to have anything to do with me.

Peter’s

Kislev 22

As I write Peter leans over my shoulder, reading this record that is

such a poor record. In the midst of my writing I see John’s face; I

hear him. We talk about him.

“The Romans are going to take you, one of these days! What can I do

to look after you? All of us...what can we do? Look at that madman

the other day. He rushed at you... I thought he would kill you...he

had a knife. And you cured his madness. There...there, he became one

of us...or so it seems. Luke wants to help me look after you. You

can’t go on without any thought for yourself!”

Peter’s voice expresses sincerity, warmth, education. Speech is man’s

finest quality. More than the eyes, the smile. Its powers are almost

limitless. Its tenderness, the child, the babe. My mother consoles

with a word perhaps. Out of the past it goes on and on with its

revelations, its mirages.

Peter crumples leaves in his hands and reminisces as we sit around a

table, the door open, his dog lying outside, flumping his tail

agreeably.

“...No, Papa wasn’t a clever fisherman. When Mama died he didn’t look

after our house; it didn’t much matter to him what we had to eat. He

seemed to be looking for her. I tried to light his lamp but it didn’t

work. He got very thin, weak; he coughed. I did all the fishing for

us. I provided but I didn’t do a very good job... I miss him...it was

good to have him there, even when he was sick...”

Peter’s

Tevet 4

n this little, comfortable house I try to find time in the evenings

to study Greek or write in my journal. I prefer my journal. Doors

wide open, the lamp bright, I read or write. My legs get restless, my

eyes blink and the next thing I know the lamp has burned out and my

room is dark.

The other night, after tossing on my pallet, I dreamed that a woman

came and brought an antique alabaster box and knelt beside me—to

anoint my feet. I tried to say something to her but I couldn’t speak.

The woman was beautiful.

Suddenly I was standing on a hill. A man was near me; there was

nobody else. The man began repeating a parable, imitating me, each

word curiously vivid. He said:

“There was a creditor who had two debtors. One owed his master five

hundred but the other owed fifty.” The speaker stopped, adjusted his

purple robe. “When their master forgave them their debts who was the

most grateful? The one who owed the most or the one who owed less?”

Someone laughed uproariously.

Ah, the strictures of the mind: without discipline we are weak. As a

boy I learned values. I learned how to accept and how to refute. I

remember holding a scroll against the light in the doorway of the

synagogue: I noted how carefully each word was written. Pen strokes.

Such a frail thing, this wisdom.

I found other kinds of wisdom on a dune, at a desert pool, in an

oasis.

Tevet 5

For days I have been trying to compose a meaningful prayer. I have

trudged along the shore at Galilee; I have listened to the waves and

gulls. I have tried to find words suitable for fisherfolk, villagers,

countrymen. I walked the wadis, climbed the cliffs. I have lain in my

tent and peered at the stars. I have repeated scriptures. Talked.

Last night, after supper, the words came to me:

Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name,

Thy will be done,

on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread, forgive us our

trespasses,

lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil

for Thine is the kingdom,

the power and the glory, forever.

When I repeated the prayer to Luke and Peter they were pleased.

Galilee

Tevet 11

A storm woke me as I lay in my tent. The wind was churning leaves and

I walked to the lake to watch the waves. I felt cold but pulled my

cloak around me and continued walking. Clouds were traveling fast.

When the rain started I retraced my steps. I heard voices and men at

their oars. Waves were piling against rocks. The voices in the boat

sounded familiar. Again the thud of oars. Yells. Wasn’t that Phillip?

It was Peter. Through rain and spray I made out the hull of the boat;

then I recalled someone saying they had to land a catch before dawn.

Someone shouted:

“We’re sinking...we’re sinking!”

I walked over the water toward the boat; it was difficult to see

through the rain and spray. I recognized the boat. As I walked the

waves calmed; the water was black underfoot. Two of our men had

slumped over their oars. I shouted. Nobody responded: they were

frightened at seeing me. Peter cowered. I called again.

“Peter,” I cried. “ Don’t you know me?”

“Is it you, Jesus?”

“Yes.”

“Let me come to you.”

“Come,” I said.

He sank as he walked toward me and I caught his arm and steadied him

and helped him climb into his boat. Luke welcomed me. The boat swung

toward me and I got in and sat at the stern with Phillip. Everyone

began bailing. The rain was letting up and I pointed to the shore. We

soon beached her and everyone began to talk, telling his panic, that

they had been unable to see; they crowded around me; they thought I

had saved their lives.

Luke built a fire of beachwood and as the sun came up we had

breakfast together—some of them singing, everyone hungry, the fish

tasting marvelous.

“Mark broke his oar,” Luke said and laughed. He was drying by the

fire, his clothes steaming. He explained that they had been blown

first one way and then another.

Nain

Tevet 18

This has been a beautiful week because I raised a man from the dead

and made a blind man see.

At Nain, a small village, my disciples and I met a burial procession

headed for tombs cut in the side of a nearby hill. A young man lay on

a flower-covered bier. I learned his name from a man in the

procession: it was David. He and his mother had been my friends for

years. I recognized Athalia walking behind the bier, weeping. Aaron,

her husband, had died recently.

It was a warm, still afternoon. The warbling of a bulbul seemed out

of place as the procession passed. As the bier scraped against a

rock, as the bearers stopped, I approached one of them and asked them

to wait.

“David...David...this is Jesus...arise...”

The disciples, astonished, bunched around the bier. I touched David,

spoke loudly, shook him.

“David, you are all right. Your mother is here. Get up...” He sat up

among his flowers and his mother rushed to his side. He recognized my

voice and asked for me. I talked gently with him.

A happy procession. The bier was abandoned; someone threw flowers

into the air as David walked...

I am overjoyed as I write. I see David and his mother kissing each

other. Someone is singing.

From Nain I went on to see the daughter of Jairus as she lay in bed

in her home. The curtains were drawn; the air was sick room air;

flowers had wilted on her bed table; her dog cringed under her bed. I

asked everyone to leave us alone.

“Talitha cumi,” I said. “Daughter, I say arise...you are no longer

ill. The fever has left you.” As I prayed I also thought of John and

his death. This little girl was not to fill a grave. I bent over her

and took her hand. I could see her rolling a hoop, laughing.

“Talitha cumi,” I repeated, and sat beside her, pressed my hand over

her forehead, touched her eyelids. “Rise, my daughter...you must

sleep no longer...”

Her eyes flashed; she was afraid because she had never seen me;

smiling, I said:

“Your mother is outside your room...shall I call her?” She nodded.

When I came to the blind man in his home I pressed my fingers over

his eyes and spoke to him. I wet clay and placed it over his eyes. I

allowed the cool clay to comfort him as I spoke; his wife watched

with an expression of doubt; as I removed the clay she stepped aside.

He made a curious noise, pushed me aside, stood.

Walking, he asked:

“Is this my home...is that my garden out there? Are you the man

called Jesus of Nazareth? That must be a tree out there...” He was

walking into the garden of his home. “Is that...is that a bird...who

are the people watching me...and that, is that a flower?”

I write and the evening sun shines on my table and on my hands and it

seems to me that I have lived many years in a short span; it seems to

me I am very much alone; it seems to me I hear voices: Deuteronomy

voices, Jeremiah voices. I hear and yet I am alone. Today is my

birthday. I am thirty-three.

Shevat 8