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.
ÿ
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 increased 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.
ÿ
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.
ÿ
Heshvan 3
F
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.
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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.”
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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?
ÿ
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?
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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...”
ÿ
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.
ÿ
Kislev 2
I
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...
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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?
ÿ
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?
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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.