invited me to return to the monastery for a second
residency. He wants me to instruct others in the
Messianic Rule.
I am no longer in accord with Qumran’s rigid communal
life: such sharing would be difficult for me; certainly
none of my disciples would understand.
But I think of the Qumran desert; I think of the cliffs
and caves near the monastery. Morning and evening
shadows! What great fogs used to engulf us!
ÿ
Urusalim
Adar 28
I spoke outside the temple and, as I spoke, men and
boys picked up stones to throw at me.
Sadducees want me excluded from the temple; others want
me excommunicated. They stamp me an untouchable. Such
intrigue! How am I to help mankind? My disciples urge me
to leave Jerusalem. The world is beautiful, they remind
me: Go to Cana, go to Bethlehem, to Galilee, to Jericho.
Date groves. Olive groves. Roses. As if I needed a
reminder.
This afternoon I walked about Solomon’s city to an
impressive ruin, a series of roofless rooms, fallen
columns, weeds growing through marble floors, lizards on
walls. Birds dotted the sky. I tried to imagine the regal
furnishings of Ptolemy’s time. Underfoot were
hieroglyphic slabs, a cartouche among them. I climbed old
stone walls, were they Nehemiah’s walls when he fortified
the city? I found a broken scarab and remembered Egyptian
words my mother taught me as a boy. In the street below
the vast ruins a Roman soldier talked with another Roman
soldier. Herod’s workmen were capping stone pillars. Tall
men in dark red robes, red turbans on their heads,
prodded camels, heavily laden animals. Were they Syrians?
Somewhere along the way I met a blind man led by a boy.
The sun sent sweat down the boy’s face. Tired, they sat
by a spring where women and girls were filling jars.
People recognized me and soon a crowd formed, as I
rested. The blind man, wearing a sash woven with gold,
white-bearded, tall, erect and proud, asked about me. The
boy whispered desperately to him.
“It’s Bartimaeus and his son, from Jericho,” a woman
said.
“Son of David, have mercy on me,” Bartimaeus pled,
speaking softly. Then he cried:
“Lord, have mercy, that I may receive my sight. Are you
Jesus of Nazareth? Will you help me? Will you touch my
eyes? I must see again.”
I sat close to him and talked to him, the aura of his
faith evident. As we talked I realized he could see: his
expressions were so startling. He embraced his son.
Erect, silent, he stared about him. Everyone was silent.
Fumbling a little, he walked away; then, he returned and
knelt by me and kissed my hands.
“Master...let me follow you... I believe...let me be
one of your chosen...let me tell others what you have
done for me. I know about your ministry.” He kissed my
robe. “When I heard you speak yesterday I tried to reach
you.”
He urged me to stay at his home; perhaps he had heard
me say that fox have holes and birds have nests but the
man of God has no home. I warned Bartimaeus not to look
back if he put his hand to the plough.
Lately I have not seen much of Judas. He refuses to
visit me at Clibus’ home. I hear that Judas has
quarrelled with the daughter of Pilate. Faithful to our
group, he collects and disperses funds. Our group is
increasing in number—committed to everyone. Some of us
provide food, clothing and shelter.
A nomad group is famine stricken. The babies need sugar
and salt and we have provided packets by way of a
caravan.
ÿ
Clibus’
Through Clibus I have written a letter home. Mother
will find someone to read it aloud. I don’t want Mother
and Father to come here. They dislike the city. Father
has been unable to work and needs to husband his
strength. He must avoid danger.
Getting up at dawn I have been able to memorize lines
from Horace, lines that help. The tiny garden helps. The
children help. But when John’s cousin, Elihu, came,
distortion returned as we talked of John’s imprisonment,
torture, death. Elihu is a frail soul, so unlike John. He
is so in need of encouragement. He tells me that a storm
flooded homes in Nazareth. They did the best they could
with shovels and baskets.
ÿ
Jerusalem
Nisan 8
I
look forward to resurrection. The promise of resurrection
sustains me although I am, at times, confused, confused
because resurrection means a blurring of the future,
perhaps a cessation of the future. I can not plan a
sabbath. I can not say “We shall meet together at
Samaria.” Since the beyond is truly incomprehensible
today is distorted as well.
I must warn myself of the onslaught of pain that will
crush me during the crucifixion. How to bear it? Gird my
loins, perhaps. It will not be easy to die for my
fellowmen. Will my ascension help others rise from their
tragic lives?
Dread eats away at me.
Hate undermines me.
Broken covenants...Golgotha, place of skulls...rocky
Judea... Caesar Augustus, your crimes are
everywhere...imperator...killer!
I need to be baptized with love.
With wisdom.
Yesterday, in this city of rocks, I noticed straw in a
stable, yellow straw, fresh, clean, glistening in the
sun. I took a few. Straw is simplicity. Simplicity points
to a balanced way.
ÿ
Bethany
Nisan 12
Yesterday I walked to Bethany. Martha and Mary said
that Lazarus had died. Among graves and stunted trees, in
a stinging wind, I became keenly aware of the days I
spent at their home, with the three of them. How often
Lazarus and I had done carpentering under his thatched
shed.
Here, with his sisters, friends and relatives, here at
the tombs, I knew death was not the answer. I walked to
the crypt where Lazarus lay. Loose rocks tumbled
underfoot. Wind whipped. A boulder blocked the crypt and
I asked Martha to have her friends help me drag it aside.
Men consulted and argued that it was useless; they glared
at me savagely as they pushed and dragged the stone.
At the opening I bent over and cried:
“Lazarus...come... I am the resurrection and the
life...come...this is Jesus!”
I needed him. His family needed him. Mary and Martha.
Death did not need him, surely.
Men jeered and howled. But I knelt and shouted as the
wind spat on all of us.
Ah, sorrowing women, yellow rocks, death, a man in his
crypt, cold stone, a hawk screaming...
I called again and again.
“Lazarus, this is Jesus. Arise! Come with us! Remember
us, remember I am the resurrection and the life. Come
unto me...believe...God is here...”
It was late afternoon: the sun was behind the yellow
cliff.
Martha clutched my arm and said:
“Lord, let us leave. Lazarus has been dead four days.
He stinks.”
A funeral procession passed by—men and women—the men
carrying a child’s coffin.
“God, our Father, help us. Give this man life again!” I
beseeched with passion. I knew, as I prayed, that Lazarus
would respond.
Swaying, wrapped in burial clothes, Lazarus appeared, a
scarf across his face. He could not see or move his
hands. I went to him and Martha uncovered his eyes. Mary
ran to help. We unwrapped his legs and arms.
“Jesus has given you life,” Martha said. “You are going
home with us...you are one of us again.”
Stumbling over rocks, Mary guiding him, Lazarus found a
place to sit down. We unbound him and someone gave him a
robe. Someone offered him a piece of bread. He shook his
head, stared at us, turned from one to the other, his
face birdlike, hawklike, white. He peered at his crypt.
Martha hugged him, laughing. People gathered. Some knelt
around us.
“Mary, what happened?” Lazarus began, speaking his
first words.
“Why am I here in this place? Why am I wearing a robe?
And these people... and Jesus! Was I sick? Where are my
clothes?”
I longed to leave this place of death: it was closing
in on me. The wind blew harder and a hawk leaped upward.
With Martha I walked away, listening to her happiness,
her praise.
“We must have supper. What shall we eat? Will he be
hungry, able to eat? Jesus, you have saved him. I love
you. It’s wonderful! He’s back...think of it, after four
days. Then, then there is no death for us who believe...”
At supper Lazarus was unable to talk; he drank a little
and soon had bread wet with olive oil. No one had much to
say. Lazarus sat next to me. Bending over his plate he
gave me a few boyish grins—like old times. He had gotten
into his work clothes. Putting his hand into a pocket he
pulled out a small chisel and laid it on the table. But
he said nothing. I urged him to eat Martha’s fish or
lamb, delicately prepared. Every face at the table
expressed a wonderment and rapture. The candles burned
down. The women ate. Suddenly there was chatter and then
laughter—rejoicing.
It was difficult to return to Jerusalem, leave my
friends. I lingered a day for the fields of barley, the
paths that were peaceful paths. I had to have time to be
with Lazarus, be with Mary and Martha, write my journal.
Alongside the carpentry bench I have a table. I prefer
writing outdoors. There is a vine on the thatched shed
and it is in flower. As I write Lazarus is sleeping on
the ground, in the sun.
Caretakers at the graveyard claim that one of the
crypts has been robbed.
ÿ
Jerusalem
I keep hearing the words of an old hymn as I go about;
it was John’s favorite, one we learned while at Qumran.
Was it solace while he was imprisoned? I hope it was. It
is a comfort to me—so gracious.
I give thanks unto Thee, O Lord,
For Thou has wrought a wonder with dust.
Thou hast made me know Thy deep, deep truth,
Thou hast given me a voice;
I continually bless Thy name.
I seem to hear John’s commanding voice, his loving
benediction as I left his prison:
The Lord bless thee and keep thee,
the Lord make His face to shine upon thee
and be gracious unto thee...
ÿ
Ephraim
Nisan 14
I am staying at a beautiful old stone house in nearby
Ephraim. I have allowed myself a respite, among
pomegranate, olives, roses. Herons fly at dawn and eve-
ning. Children run in and out. A boy with shaggy head has
a pet dove. A girl with almond eyes is learning to weave.
My disciples are here, the new and the old. We have met
in a low room, plain and bearded men, clothes new and
disheveled; Ezra shows me his injured leg; Luke works
over it; Lamech (a strong youth) is from Casarea, an
expert swimmer, he said.
“I will walk to Jerusalem tomorrow. I’ll remain there.
The high priests will accost me. They may mock and
scourge me, as they have many others...but I will
return.” I tried to speak calmly. I could not be
forthright...
Calling me “Rabboni,” a pretty girl knelt in the jammed
room and anointed me with fragrant oil. It was a moment
of calm, a moment of beauty.
ÿ
Nisan 15
Holy Week has begun.
I walk accompanied by my disciples.
As we pass a tall wooden cross I remembered that the
Romans have crucified as many as two thousand men at one
time because of religious dedication. Almost every single
one of us has witnessed a crucifixion.
Hail Caesar!
Ours was a solemn path on a clear morning, larks
singing, the air brisk.
Carrying fronds, waving, hoping to speak to us,
hundreds filled the paths and streets, wanting the
miracle of love and life.
Our path crooked upward to the “House of the Figs,”
where I was given a donkey, a tall, white one. Children
shouted joyously. For me, he was my donkey of peace. I
waved as I rode along. Some women cut branches and tossed
them in front of me. Others threw flowers and shouted
“Hosanna.”
Jerusalem spread around me, blocks of stone, yellow
walls, piles of ancient masonry, new porticos, towers,
shops... It was my city, my hated city; I esteemed the
meaning it has for my forefathers, men who slept in the
valley, with peaked cypresses above their graves.
Dust fanned over us as we followed a narrow way. Romans
turned on me and turned on the crowd but I warned them to
desist.
At the temple I found more money changers. The
courtyard was cattleyard; waiting rooms were storerooms.
Animals bellowed. I struck again at the vendors, toppling
tables, hurling money trays. The crowd screamed, cheered.
In the midst of this bedlam strangers, travelers, stopped
Philip and Andrew. They insisted upon being presented to
me. The four men offered me sanctuary in the kingdom of
Edessa.
Priests, soldiers, young and old crammed around me as I
explained the life eternal, the image of redemption,
eternal salvation and the price we must pay.
God is our Father...the world of nature proclaims His
goodness...men must share His divine harmony...you reach
God from within...reborn, you recognize the light.
Children sang.
My love went to them.
Astride my donkey I preached to them in simple words.
As the sun slipped behind the city towers there were
scores listening and we lingered on the terrace:
“There is light for you for a little while
longer...walk while there is light... darkness will
come...he who walks in darkness cannot tell where he is
going... believe in the light...”
The evening air was becoming chilly; a wind was blowing
in from the desert.
With my twelve I walked through the Golden Gate,
passing great herds of sheep and goats, grey pastoral
sheep and black mountain goats. I was proud of my men,
proud of their courage and love, proud of their humility.
ÿ
Jerusalem
Nisan 29
We met in an upper room—a white-walled room. Centering
it was a long table and we sat around it, sharing bread
and wine...below us roses were in flower.
God was with me as I told them, my legatees, that I
must die.
“Tonight you are entrusted with the keys of the
kingdom. Two at a time you are to go about the world,
preaching the gospel. Faith is our church.”
I loved each man. Such faces! Bartholomew, Matthew,
Luke, James, Simon, Peter, Thaddeus, Judas, John,
Phillip. I gazed at one and then the other, fisherman,
cobbler, farmer, physician, lawyer...brothers.
“Your task is to save mankind!”
The lamps on our table shaped shadows on the walls, on
the floor, far more than shadows. The white walls
enshrined each of us. When the wind puffed our lamps
blinked. Ours was an aura that may never recur.
“Soon my enemies will crucify me...one of you will
betray me...”
What consternation! What hysterical exclamations! What
accusations! Then the pleas began: you must escape! Let
us help you! We can! Listen...flee...tonight.
“Faith is the miracle for everyone,” I said. “Heal the
sick. Remember Cana... Galilee...Lazarus...the lepers on
the roadway...”
I reminded them that we are samaritans. Mercy is ours,
ours to give. We are to help the heavy laden. Love our
children. We are to teach by example.
Israel, I told myself, you are to nurture goodwill,
tolerance, peace, hope.
So it was in that white room, at that hour.
ÿ
Clibus’
By the light of candles I write, to shepherd words, to
commune once more. There is little time for writing,
little time for thinking. I feel that I must endure. By
the flickering lights I commune with Father, Mother,
earth.
I would like to go on healing the sick, alleviating
pain, the body’s pain, the soul’s. To be a good shepherd,
yes. Will my disciples persevere?
I can write no more tonight.
ÿ
Peter’s
Iyyar 2
O
h, Jerusalem, you killer of prophets, stoner of those
sent to help you! How I have wanted to care for your
children as a hen cares for her chicks under her wings.
You would not have me!
Plotters have attempted to trap me. A group cornered me
near the temple. Is it lawful to pay tribute to Caesar?
they asked. I asked for a coin. I called their attention
to the face on the coin, the face of Caesar Augustus.
“Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and unto
God the things that are God’s.”
Not to be defeated, men queried me, as I sat in the
court of the temple, old, old questions. It seemed to me
they were stunned when I reminded them that God is not
the god of the dead but of the living. Other
interrogators appeared at noon. A huge grey-bearded
priest demanded:
“Master, which is the greatest commandment of the law?”
I deliberated, wanting to impose on his arrogance.
“You shall love the Lord will all your heart and with
your soul and with your mind...this is the first and
greatest commandment,” I said. “The second commandment is
similar,” I pointed out. “You shall love your neighbor as
yourself.”
By now I was angry and left these idlers and when I was
alone with my disciples I shamed the trouble-makers who
clean the outside of the cup and leave the inside
dirty... I called them a generation of vipers...they are
the ones who will persecute the faithful from town to
town...crucify them...
Grief overcame me. I could talk no longer.
Disgusted with the day, Matthew asked if the world
would come to an end soon. That question had to be left
unanswered. Inventors of questions are everywhere. I
wanted to add, watch, be on guard, pray ceaselessly,
work... Don’t be careless while your master is away. You
can’t tell when he may return.
Mother came to visit me, she arrived in the night,
afraid. Rumors had reached her that I was ill. She was
ill. It is a long, long walk, from Nazareth. Peter gave
us melon and though it was long past midnight we sat at a
little table under the stars and ate.
ÿ
It is impossible to go on writing.
I see what is to take place. I am frightened. I must
wait until I have risen from the dead to continue
writing. I have spoken to Matthew. I will entrust my
journal to him.
Judas, in a drunken rage, has gone to the authorities
and has promised to deliver me to them for a sum. He
ridiculed me when I refused to ask God’s protection.
ÿ
Here are my final thoughts:
I beg You, dear Lord, hear me. Be attentive to my last
supplications.
I wait, my soul waits. My soul waits for You more than
any who wait for the morning. I say, more than those who
watch for the morning.
ÿ
Peter’s
Iyyar 10
I am alive.
A tremor roused me and I slowly unwound my grave
clothes, noticing how beautiful they were. I looked at my
left hand. I looked at my right hand. They had healed.
The stone that blocked my crypt had been rolled aside. It
was dawn when I went out. Outside I found a discarded
robe.
The sky was grey but sun slanted across spring hills. I
walked toward the sun on a path that led away from the
tombs. Perhaps no one can grasp my bewilderment and my
happiness. I tasted the air. My brain rushed about,
rebounded from a bush, crashed against rocks. Light was
splintering around me; inside that light was the
realization that my suffering is over. I need not die.
Life was living in me like a seed, but a perpetual seed.
Following a path across flowering fields I picked
flowers; then, across the field, I saw Mary Magdalene.
She was sobbing, crying. I called her and she ran to me,
saying “Rabboni” over and over. “Dearest...”
Mary and Martha appeared. The women surrounded me,
laughing, touching me, kissing my robe, my hands. Later
in the day we set out for Nazareth, for my home, Mother
and Father. Halfway Mother met us and threw her arms
around me—no words were necessary.
That evening, as we ate together, Mother described
Father’s imprisonment. He had sold the gifts of the Magi
to obtain bribe money: he planned to bribe the soldiers
to free me. The merchant who bought the gifts summoned
officials. By lying he got Father jailed for theft.
It required four days to free him, our Nazarene priests
testifying...
Liberated from death I see life as a singular
continuity, a continuity embodying my imperfections, many
hopes. I find a new calm in all that I experience: as I
project into tomorrow I sense this serenity. Simplicity
itself wears an aura of riches.
Tonight, living in this composure, I write freely.
Time, as a force, has dropped away. Pressures are
comprehensible such as the stress at our last supper, the
betrayal of Judas. Though I held my emotions in check I
felt confused by many doubts: above all I felt that my
ministry would fail. Ah, that white room, those shadows,
our courage as we sipped salt water in memory of the
Egyptian exodus. Those faces as we sang. Now those
memories are glassed inside a mirror, unblemished. And I
may open that mirror and experience a memory or I may
close the surface.
ÿ
I stand alone. It is a beautiful feeling. I stand here
without past and without future. I am a naked man, a man
of the wilderness. This is the miracle of self. The mind
owns itself. It does not ask. Acceptance blocks out
intrusion. Each of us should experience the wilderness of
mind.
ÿ
Iyyar 18
This is how it was:
As I knelt in the garden I thought of John and his
prison bars, for around me were bars of shrubbery,
blacker than any I had seen. Immobile bars.
Death was in the bars and in the air around me,
imagined but none the less real, as real as death had
been in the street that day men wanted to stone the woman
taken in adultery. This was my death—I listened for
approaching soldiers, for the voice of Judas.
“If it is possible,” I prayed, “let this cup pass from
me quickly.”
I heard the brook below: it had a place to go. I had
this, this waiting, this expectancy, my disciples asleep
on the ground.
Death...death is the ransom for man’s sin, I reminded
myself.
Cries of sentinels rang out.
Judas knew that I was here, that I had come here to
pray; presently I heard the unmistakable clank of side
arms and men’s voices, foreign speech. I could wait no
longer. I stood up and waited for Judas to identify me.
Stumbling over shrubbery, Judas called.
I answered.
“Who are you looking for?” I asked a soldier carrying a
torch.
“Jesus of Nazareth,” he said.
“I am Jesus.”
Lanterns and torches appeared. Peter saw and heard the
soldiers and snatching a sword from one of the guards he
slashed a man’s ear. I rebuked him and cared for the
guard, an Arabian named Malchus, who was singularly
afraid of me, afraid of the garden, his task.
“We shouldn’t have come...you were praying...this is
the garden where you come to pray,” Malchus said.
“Is Judas with you?” I asked.
“He has gone... I’m captain here...you must come with
us. We have been commanded to take you to the high
priest, Ananias.”
“You take me with swords and shields—like a thief. I
taught in the temple... I prayed daily for you...”
Malchus, his face in torchlight, mumbled in Arabian and
turned away.
“Leave him alone...get out of here,” Peter shouted; I
saw the guards struggle with him.
Malchus led me along the narrow streets, dark. People
lay asleep in corners and doorways. Donkeys were hobbled
together. We walked over piles of garbage. As we filed
toward the house of Ananias wind smoked our torches. At
the door of the house we were kept waiting. Two of my
guards fell asleep.
Amid bickering I was led into a small room and left
there; then, late in the morning, I was brought before
Caiaphas, before scribes and elders, in an open
courtyard. There I heard someone say that it is expedient
for us that he die for his people.
Caiaphas asked me about my teachings and I responded:
“I have spoken openly. I have taught in the synagogues
of Nazareth and Cana and Capernaum and in this city... I
have said nothing in secret. Ask those who have heard me
what I have said.” I spoke tersely because I realized
this was a false trial.
One of the scribes struck me across my face and hurled
me to the floor.
Witnesses were brought—citizens. One testified that I
had vowed to destroy the temple within three days and
rebuild it without hands. Other witnesses disagreed. A
woman said I faked miracles. A man testified I had
threatened to depose the governor. Others disagreed.
“Are you Christ...are you the man the people call
Christ?” Caiaphas asked.
“I am.”
A priest gestured; he seemed to tear his robe. Caiaphas
smiled.
“You have heard this blasphemy,” he said. “We need no
more witnesses. I condemn this man to death.” I knew
nothing more could be said in my defense.
As I sit at my table, underneath the trees, at Peter’s
home, I write as if I were writing about someone else, a
friend perhaps. I write without prejudice. I am shaken by
man’s corruption and yet my lack of faith in man does not
influence my writing.
I was left in the hands of guards and palace servants
and then I was led into a room where my hands were roped
behind me. I was thrown on the floor and beaten and
kicked and spat on. Men placed me in a chair and covered
my eyes and asked me to guess who struck me, everyone
laughing.