The Gospel According to the Son Read online

  I looked into the eyes of each of the twelve and said: "I have come not to send peace but a sword." And this was different from all I had said before. I had come to bring peace on earth, but now the Lord had given me a vision of many battles and they would all take place before peace could come. And my heart was sore with the pain that I had not made peace with Mary when I was last in Nazareth. So I spoke not only with the Lord's anger but with my own. My family had left me divided. So I said: "A man's foes can be the members of his own household. Whoever would love father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, just as he who would find his life must first lose it. Yet he who loses his life for my sake shall find it."

  Now my apostles were weeping. No thought arouses more compassion for oneself than the belief that one is losing one's life for a friend; at such an instant one feels noble. It is natural to mourn for oneself. So I tried to teach them what is to be found in the laws of love, for such laws are much concealed. I said: "Love your friends like your own soul. Guard them like the pupil of your eye. Be glad only when you can look at them with love. Know that no crime is more onerous than to sadden your brother's spirit."

  With this, they sighed. They saw the truth of what I had said; they also saw its difficulty.

  With those words I sent them out to preach.

  Now, I chose to live alone in a hut abandoned by shepherds, high in the hills above Capernaum. And I tried to subdue the fears that still remained with me.

  Each fear was terrible. Each came upon me in the middle of the night. My limbs were heavy, and no road appeared.

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  The first of these fears was the worst. Nor was it a dream. I had learned that John the Baptist was dead. He had been slain in his dungeon at Machaerus, and it was King Herod Antipas who commanded the deed.

  For so long as I had known of John's imprisonment I had believed that God would set him free. Now I knew that the firmest of my beliefs could be in errorùI was like a man whose foot has slipped on the edge of a cliff.

  A second fear followed the first. Many were already saying that John had risen from the dead. He was bringing forth mighty works and miracles. Some were ready to believe that John and Jesus were one. The peril was clear. If Herod Antipas had slain John the Baptist once, he might not fail to kill him again. The way of John's death was a scourge to my sleep.

  My disciples had told me how it came about. They had heard much, and from many: Herod first imprisoned John as punishment for saying: "It is not lawful for you to take your dead brothers wife." Lady Herodias, once married to Philip, the brother, was now wed to Herod Antipas. Having heard those words, Herodias, the new wife, reviled John's name. Then she reviled Herod Antipas. He had not punished John. Finally, the king ordered his guard to arrest the preacher. A monarch is weak before the righteous wrath of a queen who is without righteousness.

  Yet Herodias could not convince Herod Antipas to name a day when the Baptist would be executed. The king still feared such an act. Who knew what powers God had given to John?

  On the birthday of Herod Antipas, a feast was prepared in the fortress of Machaerus. Before all of the lords and high captains, Salome, the daughter of Herodias and the dead brother, now danced. Salome danced so ardently that Herod Antipas put her in a seat of honor beside him. Then he said: "Ask of me what you will. I will give it." Salome replied that his words were without weight. They had been promised to the air and only to the air.

  Herod Antipas now gave his vow: "Whatever you ask for, I will give, even if you ask for half of my kingdom. That is my oath."

  A king's oath weighs as much as the keel of the ship that he builds for his soul; his oath strengthens him. To break such a vow would leave him damned by the filth of his own deeds and the bloody misdeeds of his servants.

  When Salome told her mother what the king had promised, Herodias said, "Ask for the head of John the Baptist."

  Herod Antipas honored his oath. In that hour, he sent for an executioner and ordered the head of John to be brought to him. And when it was carried into the banquet room, Herod Antipas gave it to Salome. She is said to have placed it on a silver platter and then danced with it before Herod's guests.

  I did not often sleep. Alone in my cave, I looked for solace in the thought that God was near while Herod Antipas was in his palace and far away.

  In the darkness I wept. John's way had been hard. He never drank wine, yet many said that he had a devil; now of me, what would they say? "A drunkard and a glutton. A devil equal to Beelzebub." My apostles would meet many who would not listen to them.

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  There came the day when they returned. They were woeful as they spoke of their attempts to cure others. They asked me often: "Why could we not cast out devils? All things should be possible to him who believes."

  I told them that even when one prayed for one's faith to be perfect, a portion of oneself remained without faith. "I asked a man once if he could believe. He answered, 'Lord, I believe. Help me in my disbelief.' This," I told them, "is wisdom!"

  My disciples were still gloomy. They had failed to cure the sick.

  I decided to embark again with them on the Sea of Galilee. Boats could always be found for us by Levi, who knew many ship owners who wished to please him since he counted their taxes. So we were soon able to escape our followers for a few hours. Yet some people saw us departing and followed on foot around the empty shore. When we landed and went up into a mountain, they continued to follow.

  I had been weary from loss of sleep when we set out, but now I was moved with compassion and was ready to teach once more. How could I not? I knew every error I had made. My throng were like sheep without a shepherd, and I had given them quick hope that they could perform cures. But they did not love my Father enough. I should have known that. But then, I did not love Him enough, not enough. I had not trusted Him with the same whole faith that I asked my followers to offer. I must put away, therefore, all doubt. I must convince all who listened of my love for Him. And so, full of the loss of John the Baptist, I taught for most of that day on the mountain.

  Later, those who became my scribes, and most notably Matthew, in his gospel, would speak of my Sermon on the Mount. They had me saying all manner of things, and some were the opposite of others. Matthew put so many sayings together, indeed, that he might as well have had me not ceasing to speak for a day and a night, and speaking out of two mouths that did not listen to each other. I can only recount what I know: I wished to bring all of them to my knowledge of God.

  I was beginning to understand how large was the task.

  I could not carry the Lord's message by myself. Too many would oppose me. I needed an army of apostles. If each of my twelve would be able to find his own twelve, and each of these new apostles were to bring to us another twelve, I would have an army. So I knew that I must send my apostles out again, to return with their own disciples.

  Yet large armies bring discord. If faith was simple for some, it would soon be a labyrinth for the Son of Man; at each turning I would soon wonder whether I was closer to the light or had drawn nearer to darkness. And it may be that for this reason (my faith still remaining simple to me) I spoke with much conviction on this day and was full of admiration for my Father's works. Indeed, I was now confident that His love was ready to forgive all who would come to Him. So I sought to move them to love of God rather than to adoration of my cures. My words rang out on the mountain.

  "Blessed are the poor in spirit," I told them on this day, "for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek; they shall inherit the earth." And saying this, so too did I believe it.

  "Blessed are those who thirst after righteousness," I said, "for they shall be filled. And blessed are the merciful; they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart. For they shall see God."

  I felt hope in all who listened, and its rising was as visible to me as the gathering of the dawn. So I spoke of

  light. I
told them: "You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick and then it gives light to all who are in the house."

  And if I would bring them to greater love, I knew that I must also use words that they would not wish to hear, and would have trouble believing, even as I had trouble believing. The desire for revenge was not only in the marrow of their souls but in mine. Yet if I would love God in such a way that they also could love Him, then they must believe in Him as I did at this moment. So I said what they could hardly bear to hear:

  "If someone," I said, "shall strike you on your right cheek, turn to him the other cheek. And if a man will take your coat, give him your cloak as well." I could feel the desperation with which they sought to understand this, to believe this. "You have heard it said," I told them, "that you shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy. But I say: Love your enemy. Bless him who curses you. Do good to those that hate you. Pray for them who persecute you. Then, and only then, can you become the children of your Father. For He makes His sun to rise upon the evil and on the good, and He sends rain on the just and on the unjust. If you only love those who love you, what reward do you have? Be perfect, therefore, even as your Father in Heaven is perfect." And I knew that they, like me, had a great desire to believe this.

  For that reason, I sought to explain how His generosity was mighty: "Take no thought for your life, nor for what you shall eat or what you shall drink, nor yet for your body, nor for what you shall put on. Is life not more than meat? And the body more than raiment? The fowls of the air do not sow, neither do they reap. Yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Consider the lilies of the field: They toil not, neither do they spin, and yet even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of them. If God so clothed the grass of the field, shall He not clothe you? Therefore, take no thought to go about, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'Where shall we be clothed?' For your heavenly Father knows that you have need of all these things. Seek first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you. Take, then, no thought for the morrow; tomorrow will take thought for itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

  And I said to them: "Let us all pray together," and as I heard their voices repeating my words, I felt as mighty as Leviathan rising from the deep.

  Together we prayed:

  "Our Father, who art in heaven,

  Hallowed be Thy name.

  Thy Kingdom come,

  Thy will be done

  In earth as it is in heaven.

  Give us this day our daily bread,

  And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

  And lead us not into temptation

  But deliver us from evil.

  For Thine is the Kingdom and the power and the glory forever.

  Amen."

  And I said "Amen" many times as we descended from the mountain. It was late in the day. My disciples said, "It would be wise to send them away now. They must go back into their villages and buy bread, for they have nothing to eat and here is a desert."

  But to send them away was not in my thoughts. These people had walked over sharp stones to join us and they had listened to me. And I could still feel the Lord's hand at my elbow. I said: "Give them to eat."

  My disciples said: "You are the one who must provide. Did you not say to us: 'Take no thought of: "What shall we eat?" or "What shall we drink?" ' "

  I had said it.

  "How many loaves have we?" I asked.

  They looked. There were five barley loaves and two dried fish. So I told the disciples to seat all our followers in companies upon the ground. And I took those five loaves and divided them exceedingly small, until there were a hundred pieces of bread from each loaf. Then the two fish gave up more than twice two hundred small morsels. And, with five hundred bits of bread and five hundred of fish, I passed these morsels to each of the followers, doing it myself for all five hundred. I would lay one flake of fish and one bit of bread upon each tongue. Yet when each person had tasted these fragments, so do I believe that each morsel became enlarged within his thoughts (even as once in Cana I had been enlarged by eating one grape), and so I knew that few among these hundreds would say that they had not been given sufficient fish and bread. And this was a triumph of the Spirit rather than an enlargement of matter. Which for the Lord is but a small deed, considering that He made the heavens and the earth out of nothing, and could certainly have changed our five loaves into five hundred.

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  Later, this story was much exaggerated by Mark and Matthew and Luke. No angel appeared in the sky, nor did the manna that God gave to Moses appear. But such was the power of the blessing of the Lord that my followers were satisfied. I felt as if I were a carpenter's apprentice again and had gathered with my fellows in a green field (rather than on the stones of a desert beach). We were eating with much joy. Indeed, it was a feast. Perhaps that is why Mark gave me not less than five thousand loaves and hundreds of fish and burdened my disciples with twelve baskets of food to bear home. Whereas we were five hundred, and brought nothing back but ourselves.

  Exaggeration is the language of the Devil, and no man is free of Satan, not even the Son of God (and certainly not Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John). So I knew that many of my followers would increase the numbers of this feat. Yet I also suspected that my Father preferred each miracle to equal no more than the need that called it forth. Even as waste will exist in all matters, so in the working of miracles, extravagance is best avoided. And by that, I believed I now understood my Father.

  But it was not for me to understand Him. Not every one of my miracles would be so modest. A little later, after I debarked again with my disciples, we rowed to Bethsaida, on the other side of this Sea of Galilee.

  As we came to land, I told them all to sleep on the ship. I would go ashore by myself. I wished only to satisfy my desire to meditate upon the events of this fine day.

  As night came, a gale arose. From where I sat, high on the shore, I could see that our ship was tossed by waves. So I came down again to the water and began to swim to the boat. Of a sudden, I was up and above the waters! I was walking! And I could even hear my Father's laughter at my pleasure in walking upon His water. Then came a second wave of His laughter. He was mocking me. For I had concluded too quickly that there was no extravagance in His miracles. I had forgotten how in the Book of Job, our Lord had trampled upon the back of the sea. I, walking now upon water (if with a gentle step), thought of how my Father had spoken to Job out of the whirlwind and told him: "Here shall the proud waves be stayed," yes, and He had "entered into the springs of the sea" and He had "walked in search of the depth." When young, I had read these words many times, and now the waves beneath my feet had become a path. And God was joyful at my admiration. For now I knew the true extent of His domain. He had lived before the day was born or the water stirred or the earth formed. He had brought my seed from the east and He had gathered me from the west and He controlled the waters of chaos. And I was joyful for such a vision, and did not want my joy to end. I was going to continue walking right past the boat of my disciples. But I didn't. I stopped instead to look at them. And they were frightened. Who could be striding beside them? I heard many cry out. One said, "It is a ghost!" I said, "Have courage. It is I. I am." Which is to say that I was not a spirit. And added, "Be not afraid."

  Peter now said, "Lord, if it is you, ask me to come to you."

  "Come."

  Peter stepped out of the ship. We both thought that he too could walk. But the wind was wild. He sank. "Lord, save me!" he cried.

  I stretched out my hand and caught him and said: "Why did you doubt?" And went back into the boat with him.

  It was then I knew that Peter wanted to be loyal. Yet I also knew that there would come a time when he would have to fail me. For his faith was in his mouth, not his legs. Never would men's se
ntiments reveal the presence of the Lord. He would only appear in their deeds. That was just! For the Devil, having learned the arts of speech from the Lord, could utter glorious phrases worthy of the Lord and stirring to the heart, even if nothing that was good in his words could last.

  When Peter and I returned to the ship, my disciples asked: "Are you the Son of the Highest?"

  Now, they had asked this many times before and each time I heard in their voices something that told me they were ready to believe. Still I also heard how they did not yet believe. With each day they might come closer, but not completely, not yet. So I understood that as much as they wished to be loyal, they might also fail me. In the presence of my great joy on this nightùand I was feeling great joy at having come so close to my Fatherùtheir hearts would harden. For they could not share my wonder.

  After our night at sea, we came ashore in the land of Genessaret and multitudes once more awaited us. When we entered a village, the afflicted lay on the street awaiting our visit.

  By midday, I was weary; by evening, low; my garment was imbued with entreaties. And when I went to the synagogue, Pharisees were there from Jerusalem, and scribes among them. It was not long before they wished to speak.

  They told me that they had seen my disciples eat bread with unclean hands. The publicans, sitting in each village square, had been collecting taxes for the Romans and had handled coins from early morning until they were done, then they gambled at night with the coins they kept for themselves. How could their hands not be filthy? But the Pharisees, when they come home from the market, do not eat unless they wash.

  Yet one cannot honor the pious. For no matter what care is taken to satisfy them by studious observance of the laws, they can never be satisfied. Indeed, how can one obey the Law absolutely? The laws of observance were written by men more pious than oneself. Therefore the Law, if by a tittle, has once more been broken. One has failed again. So I stood before the Pharisees in the synagogue and spoke to them like a physician, saying: "There is nothing that can enter a man and defile him. It is only the things that come out of a man. Those who have ears to hear, let them hear."