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 dis-
appoint 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.
ÿ
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
I
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.
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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.
ÿ
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.
ÿ
Shevat 8
A
s a boy I respected Greek—such a rich vocabulary, I
found; I thought the language overly concise. Hebrew is
the city man’s tongue, best suited to argument. I prefer
my Aramaic. It is more gracious and agreeable for public
speaking.
Haran believed in learning three languages: he was the
most intelligent rabbi I have met. To him I owe my
background; his years of tutoring gave me freedom to
think. Morning after morning we sat facing each other at
his home.
“We have to think, not memorize...you memorize and then
force memories to evolve into patterns of original
thought. Yes, memory and thought are brothers. But, make
no mistake, thousands repeat the law and the scriptures
and only a handful think.”
I see his sparsely bearded, wan face. He was a man who
ate sparingly yet lived to be eighty. A great walker, he
was as restless in body as in mind.
Haran was proud of two ancient scrolls—one of them on
copper. The library at Qumran had greater rarities of
course.
Haran said:
“Something lives in you...your mother has called my
attention to it, an inner voice. When I heard you declaim
in the synagogue I perceived it.”
So, it is my privilege to help, merge dream and
fulfillment: I believe it is a privilege no other man has
had: I am the husbandman.
Come unto me ye who labor and are heavy laden
and I will give you rest...suffer the little
children to come...
Tonight I see the world shining in their eyes; I hear
hope in their prattle.
ÿ
Tent
Shevat 12
Years ago I experienced the greatness of the Sinai
desert, its crags and dunes, the heat and cold. I came to
understand its desolation, its loneliness, its calm and
fury. Now, during these troubled times, I long to return
to the Sinai...have a lizard sit beside me, my straw-
covered basket filled with golden dates.
In the Sinai I perfected my Greek to a greater extent
and studied the classical Hebrew until it came easily.
The history of man became an important part of my
meditations. Silence and the simoom became part of those
devotions.
A tiny plant sprouted outside my tent and withstood the
heat, cold and winds. It was my companion and incentive,
a little calendar in leaves.
I found the same plant growing at Qumran, behind the
monastery. While I studied there it survived several sand
storms.
ÿ
Locusts, dates, bread, honey—the wilderness taught me
the true taste of food. During the months since the
wilderness I have eaten well, too well, but the taste is
lacking.
I have not thought as clearly as I thought when
unencumbered by men. There, each morning was mine, each
evening was mine. Worship was as natural as breathing.
My tent flaps billowed. They were pinned back every
night by the stars. Heat and thirst were often there yet
a sense of praise was foremost. Wonderment was on top of
a dune. As I slept a mirage might come and bathe me in
its cool water.
I slept on my boyhood blanket, one woven by my mother.
She wove it when I was ten.
ÿ
Nazareth
Shevat 15
I am leaving Nazareth—leaving home.
It is farewell to friends and places, all I have loved.
Only in memory will I walk along the orchard creek and
hunt for crayfish, think and stare as a boy thinks and
stares. I had several pals... We had niches in cliffs
where we often hid. We had an old fig we liked to climb;
there was a cave where we lit fires. We found menhirs and
dolmen—strange, strange things! In Galilee we had a stout
little boat and we’d drift, drop anchor, fish for chromis
and watch the pelicans.
There’s a feeling to my Nazareth: the stars are
brighter there, the sun seems a little bigger, the wind a
little cooler. How good it was to turn a corner and
think: Mama’s home...supper is almost ready...Papa’s
working in his shop.
ÿ
Nazareth
Shevat 20
Today was cool and windy.
I visited Simeon. I visited Mark. I visited Jude. I
called on the captain, who has been transferred to
Nazareth. His son sat in my lap a while. I did not say
good-bye although I lingered at each place. I wanted to
feel the peace of each place and keep it with me. I did
not need to talk much. Being with friends was all I
asked.
Oh, how the wind blew me along, flapping my cloak,
flapping the olive branches, the weeds and the papyrus.
How hard it is to write.
ÿ
Nazareth
Before I left home Father displayed the gifts of the
Magi on his work bench, first removing his tools and
shavings. He locked the door and lit two candles. Mother—
so excited—seemed to be seeing the star as she handled
the gifts.
“They haven’t changed... Joseph, you’ve taken good care
of them! Oh, they’re so beautiful!”
And she knelt in the sawdust, the gold cup in her
hands, its jewels redder than I had remembered. I had
forgotten the gifts were so beautiful.
“Where have you kept them...in the synagogue? The
geniza?” I asked.
Father nodded, frowning.
“We have decided to present them to the
elders...tomorrow...at the meeting. They’ll become the
temple possessions. It’s different with you going away...
Mother and I have decided...”
But I wasn’t listening; I was absorbed in Mother’s
appreciation as she handled the gifts, kneeling or half-
kneeling, smiling; her shoulders lost some of their age.
The myrrh box interested me, its aroma still evident, its
chased lid yet untarnished. Mother lifted the clasp. The
clasp was set with green stones. She called my attention
to the ornamented hinges. She held out the gold cup to my
father...
“I wish you hadn’t worried about the gifts,” she said
with a sigh. “We ought to have enjoyed them...now we can
see them at the temple... Look, Jesus, at this
handle...ah, those were strange days in Bethlehem... God
was with us...”
I loved her for her dreams and sacrifices.
I loved the hints of youth and beauty in her face.
ÿ
Nazareth
Shevat 25
Tomorrow is my last day here.
As I lay on my pallet I heard rain lash our roof; I
heard the wind in the trees. Then my mind dropped back
and I remembered Mother singing, crooning to me, as I lay
sick as a boy. I remembered songs in the evening. I heard
her laughter as we played jacks. I smelled her barley
bread... I smelled roasting lamb.... Father was in his
workshop, his plane sliding; he was singing. As a child I
loved his singing.
Now, silent, worried, he works in a preoccupied state,
bothered by frequent visitors, concerned about my future.
“It is wrong of you to go to Jerusalem, wrong to throw
yourself into the hands of your enemies.”
There will be no more Festivals of Light.
ÿ
At Nazareth I used to have a pet goat.
Memories... I can not tolerate juvenile memories any
longer. I am not an old man. Memories must not impede my
ministry.
There must be beauty. Life must have beauty.
ÿ
Jerusalem
Shevat 29
Thy rod and Thy staff will comfort me...yeah,
though I walk through the valley of death yet
will I be with Thee.
As I walked into Jerusalem I heard those words. It was
dusk. An immense caravan choked the air, camels, drivers,
gapers. Again I thought of Herod and the innocents: city
life brings Herod to mind. The Kittim are evident on the
main streets: helmets, standards, shields.
A camel sank to the ground beside me, eying me, begging
for kindness. Trumpets blared.
Crowds circled the temple, some chanting, some bearing
fruit, some waving palm fronds. Flares burned. On two
giant candelabra, perhaps eighty feet high, torches
smoked, guttered.
Shall I be able to help the people of Jerusalem? Shall
I remain? My loneliness here was so unlike the loneliness
of the desert.
I was to meet Judas who was to take me to friends. When
he did not come I bedded down in a booth of branches,
with cattle nearby.
I slept and woke to their animal sounds, without dread.
Someone roused the oxen, then the sheep; the beasts
wanted to be fed and watered. Nobody disturbed me.
Probably I was considered a herdsman. I dreamed until a
child brought me a cup of water: holding it out prettily
she asked: “Are you thirsty?”
“Yes,” I said.
“My papa is taking care of the oxen.”
Opening my pouch I offered sugared dates to the girl.
ÿ
I found Judas at the home of a mutual friend. I had
never seen him so well dressed. He drew me aside and gave
me money from our treasury. He seemed forlorn. I am told
he is having a love affair with the daughter of Pilate.
Marcus, the son of a senator, has described Pilate’s
daughter as a beautiful, talented, ruthless woman. Marcus
and I sat on a garden bench and he enthused about
Jerusalem: “So unlike Rome, so much more oriental—can it
be we are free of our penates here?”
That evening I stayed in the house of Leonidas Clibus.
My windows were olive tree windows. Garden paths circled
a tiny fountain where someone had tossed fresh oleander
blossoms, red blossoms.
A copy of Horace lay on a circular table by my bed;
lamps and rugs, hangings and x-shaped Roman chairs,
cushions and inlaid boxes brightened the room. Propped on
a cushion I read Horace for hours; when my candles dimmed
a slave brought me fresh candles and volumes by
Lucretius—recent translations.
...What’s this wanton lust for life
To make us tremble in dangers and in doubt?
All men must die and no man can escape.
We turn and turn in the same atmosphere...
I went to sleep preferring the thoughts of Horace: his
love of nature, his fondness for rustic surroundings, his
boating on the river Aufidus, his fishing. He liked to
play ball. I could visualize him, as a boy, when wood
pigeons covered him with leaves as he slept on a
hillside.
ÿ
Clibus’ Home
Adar 6
T
here are children here. What priceless looks they give. I
love their delight in simple things, their warmth, their
trust, so obvious, so quick. Truly, theirs is a special
kingdom. I am happiest when they are around me, as they
were yesterday in Clibus’ garden. It was a birthday party
for his daughter who is six. I told stories as they sat
around me. What laughter, giggles. A little boy brought
me a toad and put it in my hand, saying:
“It’s for you, Atta.”
ÿ
Clibus
Of course I miss the great library at Qumran. The
beautiful library in his home is a fraction of that
monastic collection but bearded Clibus has invited me—
with widespread arms.
A delicate bronze of Minerva stands on a plinth at the
window end of the narrow room.
A book on my lap, I watched a golden Persian cat steal
about, stiffly independent.
Though I can not read Latin I can understand titles and
the names of authors and I appreciate handsome volumes,
ancient volumes, family treasures.
Minerva—I used to think of visiting Rome and Athens.
ÿ
Adar 15
I spoke to a group near the city gate. I was aware that
officials were present, Sadducees.
I saw men dragging a woman, kicking her, letting her
fall. She had been caught in adultery. When she was
brought to me I suspected a trick. Why should I pass
judgment when officials were in the crowd? Authorities
wanted me to break the law by passing judgment.
I was shocked by the woman’s fear, her beseeching face.
As she stood by me a soldier hit her with a chain. Men
yelled: “Stone her, stone her!” When a man shoved her to
her knees she hid her face in her arms—pretty, a country
girl, I thought.
To give myself time to think I wrote on the ground with
a stick. I wrote and obliterated words, watching the
crowd and the woman. I smelled death. It was in the smoke
of sacrifices burning in the city. It was in the crowd
around me. I had never smelled the death of a person.
Taking in the street ruffians and the officials I said,
in a loud voice:
“Look at her, at her torn clothes. Do any of you know
her? Think. Go deep inside. Think. Let the man who has
not sinned throw the first stone. You accuse her...where
is the man? Go home, all of you. Have you no pity?
Remember the commandment: Thou shalt not kill. We are not
animals! Let her go... I repeat, let her go. Go home—all
of you!”
I helped the woman to stand. Someone had thrown ashes
on her face and I bought water at a shop and washed her
face and hands and bought oil for her cuts and bruises.
Matthew found us and brought her food.
“Where can I hide?” she asked us. “What is to become of
me? They will catch me...beat me... Master, master...what
shall I do?” Her words mixed with sobs.
Matthew and I helped her out of town, beyond the gates.
We sent her to the home of Talus where Luke cares for the
sick.
ÿ
I returned to Clibus’ library but I was too disturbed
to read. While I sat there, the Sayings of Moses spread
before me, Affti, Clibus’ Egyptian wife, brought a pillow
and sat by me. She is as beautiful as Miriam; to have her
there was a comfort but her words were not comforting:
“It isn’t safe for you to preach in Jerusalem... Your
faith is for the little towns and villages where the
Romans have less influence or none at all...
“When James was here a month or so ago he mentioned
going to Rome. Do you wish him to preach your gospel
there?”
She went on to urge me to send apostles to Egypt.
“There are more than seventy of you now... I hope you
can send two or more to my country...to preach in the
villages...you are needed there.”
That evening, after dinner, she rapped on my door: she
is very tall, very elegant; dressed in an Egyptian gown,
she made a little bow, and presented me with a bronze
stylus.
“It will be better than your wooden one,” she said.
While enjoying my stylus someone brought me a dish of
lemon paste.
ÿ
Sadly, more than twenty years have passed since our
Nazareth synagogue acquired a scroll. Our scrolls are in
tatters and all are asked to refrain from using them.
Learning this, Clibus has offered several scrolls.
“I’ll send two of my men...one to carry the scrolls,
the other to see that the first man doesn’t wander off.”
Perhaps little Nazareth may have a worthwhile
collection someday.
ÿ
Jerusalem
Adar 20
My enemies come closer.
Verily, I say unto you, the man who climbs
the sheepfold wall is a thief. He who enters
by the gate is the shepherd. To him the
porter opens and the sheep hear his voice and
he calls his sheep by name and leads them...
My parable is realistic but people do not listen. They
push one another, talk.
When I encountered a blind man, a man who had never
seen during his lifetime, I sent him to the Siloam pool.
He bathed there and at my touch his sight became normal.
He stumbled, fell, rushed about, shouted. Trembling he
raced for home. He brought friends and there was great
rejoicing. Then, stunning everyone, authorities
questioned me rudely. Because he defended me and called
me his healer he was put in jail.
I had to go before the local magistrate, affirm his
honesty; then he was freed. I said to the magistrate:
“I came into this world to help men see...”
ÿ
Last week I cured lepers on the Jericho road, men and
women, all in rags. All were afraid of me, afraid of
themselves. I thought I could change their minds but
their minds were in tatters like their clothes. One man
thanked me, a young man from Tyre; the others,
quarrelling, pushing one another, tearing at their rags,
left the road to crawl into a cave.
I asked the man from Tyre what he knew about the others
but he could not concentrate on what I said: he was so
moved, so pleased, so enraptured over his health he stood
in front of me, smiling, laughing. He kept holding up his
arms and hands—showing me. I asked him about people I
knew in Tyre. He shook his head, laughed, kissed my
hands, rushed off. A caravan was passing, camels,
drivers, onlookers; he disappeared among the camels, the
dust.
ÿ
Jerusalem
Adar 25