As I speak in public I become more and more a master of words. Idetect the difference in just a month or so. I am encouraged. I nolonger 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 overus at the benediction. The passion of living is obvious, touchingeach 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 beenbeaten by his guards. Several times I have returned to Capernaum tovisit Joseph, the young officer. He has promised to use his influenceto free John. How wary he is of becoming involved with the prisonauthorities. In Jerusalem my intercessions are ridiculed: John isbranded treasonous.
Authorities are evasive or antagonistic. They ridicule our wish touplift 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 toplumb them is still beyond me. Each child is a mystery. The temple isa 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—preachingoften, healing often. I am writing in a borrowed tent; James and Markare asleep inside.
Yesterday, on the lake shore, I was circled by a crowd. I talked tothem till late. I wish to record the promises I made them:
Verily, I say unto you, he that believeth in me hatheverlasting life. I am that bread of life. Your fathersate manna in the wilderness, and are dead. I am livingbread. If any man eat of this bread he shall liveforever.
In keeping with my promise I passed out bread and fish in baskets. Iblessed the food and there was an abundance for everyone, many ofthem hungry children.
Mark and James and Phillip passed the baskets till each was fed, thefish and bread always sufficient. At parting I reminded the people ofthe deeper meaning but some were overwhelmed by the miracle. Ayoungster ran about shouting: “He made the bread...he made thefish...with his own hands. Jesus made...”
A strange restlessness troubled almost everyone.
Phillip, Andrew and I strolled along a white path, as white, in themoonlight, as if made of crushed shells. Galilee was flat andsilvery. Andrew continued to comment about the “bread and fish” atalmost every turn of the path. His youthful, enthusiastic face warnedme, warned me that youth is irresponsible. What is the proper age forwisdom? As for miracles is there a miracle surpassing the miracle offaith?
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 anumber 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 myhands.
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. Hewas beheaded at a drunken orgy—his head was displayed like a trophyat the palace. What desecration, abuse, folly, horror. I can barelywrite...sorrow...resentment... my mind whirls to the days we passedtogether in the desert, our wilderness comradeship. His faith was myfaith. Our bonds were those of true brotherhood.
I should have been able to free him. Instead I gave him dried fruitand a comb. The letters I wrote did nothing. My petitions weredisregarded. I was too patient. I have sat in this room allday...nothing has come of my sorrow but more sorrow. Peter and Jamesand 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 hisbody. It is best to have the sacred privilege of farewell. We telleach other that we must succeed for his sake, man of poverty, prisonand death.
For his sake we can burn our lamps and candles and share latecommunion, get up early, walk many leagues and extol his faith. Wewill tell it on the hills and in the towns and in the villages. Ifeel his wrestler’s hand tighten on my shoulder.
Kislev 12
We brought John to the ancient rocky crypts, a dozen of us. Some ofus wound scarves around our faces. Mother suspected that we werefollowed. She insisted on two to act as guards.
Simon was there... Matthew, Peter, Luke, Mark...they helped us layJohn outside his crypt, helped us cut stone. A torch burned Mark’sarm; someone smashed our hammer. “Work fast,” someone was constantlyurging. Peter got defiant: “Let the Romans come,” he shouted. “Wehave a right to bury our dead.” Luke had to calm him. It was dawnbefore 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 finalprayer. Think of it...we had buried a headless man, friend, friend...
As we stole into town we met the Kittim officer, riding forCapernaum; he did not recognize me of course. What a stark figure! Iwanted to talk to him about his son but Mother begged me: we must nottrust 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 meaware 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 mustchop up the two thousand crucifixes, chop them into pieces forfirewood 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 musthelp God. Heal. Lift up our eyes.
Nazareth—home
Kislev 20
When I picked corn in a field with my disciples I was reprovedbecause it was Sunday. When I healed the withered arm of a man I wasrebuked because it was Sunday. I am threatened by various authoritiesfor such “misdemeanors.” Men spy on me and plot against me for actsof kindness. Kindness has reached the level of a crime. Officialsremind me, rather discreetly, that John met a tragic death. TheSadducees hate me.
At the pool of Bethseda I helped a man who could not get into thewater: I brought him health. He had been a paralytic for years. A crywent up because this was on a feast day. I explained that I intendedto carry out my work regardless of the day.
“The son of man is lord even on the Sabbath,” I said. “The world ofkindness must be a part of our world.”
At Nazareth, as I preached on a hill, the crowd turned on me. Theyinsisted I perform miracles for them. Angered that I would notrespond willy-nilly, men attempted to throw me off the cliffside ofthe hill. James, Mark and Phillip protected me; the four of usclimbed down the cliff to a wadi.
Disgusted, Father feels I have gone out of my mind. He longs for thepeace of my boyhood days. Mother understands: her feeling isintuitive. Though I disappoint and worry her she hides her concern,offering encouragement. She visits those I have healed and tells mehow they have changed. Not all are like Simeon, grateful. Some do notwant to have anything to do with me.
Peter’s
Kislev 22
As I write Peter leans over my shoulder, reading this record that issuch a poor record. In the midst of my writing I see John’
s face; Ihear him. We talk about him.
“The Romans are going to take you, one of these days! What can I doto look after you? All of us...what can we do? Look at that madmanthe other day. He rushed at you... I thought he would kill you...hehad a knife. And you cured his madness. There...there, he became oneof us...or so it seems. Luke wants to help me look after you. Youcan’t go on without any thought for yourself!”
Peter’s voice expresses sincerity, warmth, education. Speech is man’sfinest quality. More than the eyes, the smile. Its powers are almostlimitless. Its tenderness, the child, the babe. My mother consoleswith a word perhaps. Out of the past it goes on and on with itsrevelations, its mirages.
Peter crumples leaves in his hands and reminisces as we sit around atable, the door open, his dog lying outside, flumping his tailagreeably.
“...No, Papa wasn’t a clever fisherman. When Mama died he didn’t lookafter our house; it didn’t much matter to him what we had to eat. Heseemed to be looking for her. I tried to light his lamp but it didn’twork. He got very thin, weak; he coughed. I did all the fishing forus. I provided but I didn’t do a very good job... I miss him...it wasgood 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 eveningsto study Greek or write in my journal. I prefer my journal. Doorswide open, the lamp bright, I read or write. My legs get restless, myeyes blink and the next thing I know the lamp has burned out and myroom is dark.
The other night, after tossing on my pallet, I dreamed that a womancame and brought an antique alabaster box and knelt beside me—toanoint 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 wasnobody else. The man began repeating a parable, imitating me, eachword curiously vivid. He said:
“There was a creditor who had two debtors. One owed his master fivehundred but the other owed fifty.” The speaker stopped, adjusted hispurple robe. “When their master forgave them their debts who was themost 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 aboy I learned values. I learned how to accept and how to refute. Iremember holding a scroll against the light in the doorway of thesynagogue: 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 anoasis.
Tevet 5
For days I have been trying to compose a meaningful prayer. I havetrudged along the shore at Galilee; I have listened to the waves andgulls. I have tried to find words suitable for fisherfolk, villagers,countrymen. I walked the wadis, climbed the cliffs. I have lain in mytent 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 ourtrespasses,
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 andI walked to the lake to watch the waves. I felt cold but pulled mycloak around me and continued walking. Clouds were traveling fast.When the rain started I retraced my steps. I heard voices and men attheir oars. Waves were piling against rocks. The voices in the boatsounded 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 seethrough the rain and spray. I recognized the boat. As I walked thewaves calmed; the water was black underfoot. Two of our men hadslumped over their oars. I shouted. Nobody responded: they werefrightened 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 himand helped him climb into his boat. Luke welcomed me. The boat swungtoward me and I got in and sat at the stern with Phillip. Everyonebegan bailing. The rain was letting up and I pointed to the shore. Wesoon beached her and everyone began to talk, telling his panic, thatthey had been unable to see; they crowded around me; they thought Ihad saved their lives.
Luke built a fire of beachwood and as the sun came up we hadbreakfast together—some of them singing, everyone hungry, the fishtasting marvelous.
“Mark broke his oar,” Luke said and laughed. He was drying by thefire, his clothes steaming. He explained that they had been blownfirst one way and then another.
Nain
Tevet 18
This has been a beautiful week because I raised a man from the deadand made a blind man see.
At Nain, a small village, my disciples and I met a burial processionheaded for tombs cut in the side of a nearby hill. A young man lay ona flower-covered bier. I learned his name from a man in theprocession: it was David. He and his mother had been my friends foryears. 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 outof place as the procession passed. As the bier scraped against arock, as the bearers stopped, I approached one of them and asked themto 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 upamong his flowers and his mother rushed to his side. He recognized myvoice and asked for me. I talked gently with him.
A happy procession. The bier was abandoned; someone threw flowersinto the air as David walked...
I am overjoyed as I write. I see David and his mother kissing eachother. Someone is singing.
From Nain I went on to see the daughter of Jairus as she lay in bedin 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. Iasked everyone to leave us alone.
“Talitha cumi,” I said. “Daughter, I say arise...you are no longerill. The fever has left you.” As I prayed I also thought of John andhis death. This little girl was not to fill a grave. I bent over herand took her hand. I could see her rolling a hoop, laughing.
“Talitha cumi,” I repeated, and sat beside her, pressed my hand overher forehead, touched her eyelids. “Rise, my daughter...you mustsleep 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 overhis eyes and spoke to him. I wet clay and placed it over his eyes. Iallowed the cool clay to comfort him as I spoke; his wife watchedwith 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 mancalled Jesus of Nazareth? That must be a tree out there...” He waswalking into the garden of his home. “Is that...is that a bird...whoare 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 itseems to me that I have lived many years
in a short span; it seems tome I am very much alone; it seems to me I hear voices: Deuteronomyvoices, Jeremiah voices. I hear and yet I am alone. Today is mybirthday. I am thirty-three.
Shevat 8
A
s a boy I respected Greek—such a rich vocabulary, I found; I thoughtthe language overly concise. Hebrew is the city man’s tongue, bestsuited to argument. I prefer my Aramaic. It is more gracious andagreeable for public speaking.
Haran believed in learning three languages: he was the mostintelligent rabbi I have met. To him I owe my background; his yearsof tutoring gave me freedom to think. Morning after morning we satfacing each other at his home.
“We have to think, not memorize...you memorize and then forcememories to evolve into patterns of original thought. Yes, memory andthought are brothers. But, make no mistake, thousands repeat the lawand the scriptures and only a handful think.”
I see his sparsely bearded, wan face. He was a man who ate sparinglyyet lived to be eighty. A great walker, he was as restless in body asin mind.
Haran was proud of two ancient scrolls—one of them on copper. Thelibrary at Qumran had greater rarities of course.