Chapter One
| firstrevelation__1_.txt |
THE SINS OF JESUS
Chapter 1. Nazareth
We lived in the village of Nazareth, an insignificant
hillside town in Galilee, nowhere mentioned in the
Scriptures-you probably haven't heard of it even if you come
from northern Israel yourself. Nazareth is located just four
miles from the famous city of Augustus, formerly called
Sepphoris, and I was born nine years before the great
catastrophe that befell that city and its residents. Near
the upper reaches of the Nazareth hill, below the woods but
far above the single well, is the mud and brick house where
I spent the first fourteen years of my life. Regardless of
the mockery of our adversaries, I am proud of this humble
origin.
We had but a single room, just large enough to sleep
the family. Inside was dark and cool even during the hot and
dry summer months; outside was whitewashed and cheerful.
Around the corner to the rear was my father's carpentry
shop, with a workbench, table, two stools, and shed. A
ladder led to the roof, which was my mother's favorite work
area and my favorite play spot.
My first revelation-and the beginning of my tragedy-
began that day, one spring, when my father and I went down
to the valley to search for fresh shallots.
No, we didn't go just for the shallots. We went to
listen to the happy gurgle of the runoff from the recent
rains, and to smell the fragrance of the yellow blossoms
bursting from the jasmine vines. "These are the Lord's gifts
to us," my father said, and he pushed aside the flowers and
led me to the edge of the brook. "They're little gifts, but
they're given with love. You show the Lord your gratitude by
enjoying them." The cool water trickled between my toes and
I thought I saw a tadpole. Yes, those were my happy days.
A willow blocked our route along the edge of the
stream, and my father climbed the bank to get around. I
threw a flat stone over the water and watched it skip two,
three, four times! "Father!" I shouted out, but he was gone.
I waded into the deeper water, hoping to see fish, while
groping with my feet for balance on the larger stones. The
water rose to chill my thighs. It was quieter here-until the
silence was broken by the trill of a mockingbird. I searched
for the bird and finally spotted it nodding its head on the
top of a nearby cedar. What, I wondered, is it
impersonating? My mother would know, but she wasn't here, so
I listened as it repeated its song. A mountain sparrow! --
That's what it was. The song had been transformed into a
delightful lilting warble, lacking the delicacy of the
original, and yet beautiful in its own way.
Shouting up ahead broke my reverie. My father appeared
by my side, took my hand and led me back to the shallow
water. We followed the yelling around a bend towards the
main crossing. On a small knoll I could see a group of a
half dozen boys, older than me but still not adults,
throwing stones down at the stream. I followed the flight of
one rock as it splashed next to an old man, whom I hadn't
previously noticed. He was standing at the edge of the water
and was trying to fill a goat-hide water skin. A puff of
dust kicked up on the shore next to him as another rock
landed. The boys were trying to hit the old man! I was
suddenly afraid, and I clutched my father's leg.
Farther up stream was a small bridge, and three men
stood on it. They wore blue cloaks with tassels, the
clothing of Pharisees. They were watching the boys, but they
just stood there. They did nothing to help the old man.
My father put his large hands under my arms, lifted me
as if I weighed nothing, and gently placed me on the top of
a moss-covered boulder. "Wait here," he said, and he ran
through the shallows towards the old man and the boys.
One tall boy held a small sling. He whirled it above
his head and lofted another rock. I watched it arc down
towards the stream-but to my horror it struck my father on
the head, and he stumbled and fell. In terror, I dug my
fingers through the moss into the hardness of the boulder. I
couldn't move. Bright red blood streamed down my father's
face as he knelt in the water. He slowly staggered to his
feet.
"Move away!" the tall boy jeered as he spun the sling
again. "The rock was for the Samaritan, not you!"
My father moved closer to the old man. The boys held
their stones. The tall one shouted, "Why do you stand with a
sinner?"
My father's response was so soft as to be almost
inaudible: "Let he who is without sin throw the next stone."
The boys stood still for a few moments, just staring at
the two men. I was sick with anxiety. Why didn't those men
on the bridge help?
Then the tall boy let the rock drop out of his sling.
He turned to the others and said something that I couldn't
hear. They laughed and walked away together, vanishing
behind the knoll.
It was a miracle. My father had stopped them-with
nothing but words, and with courage.
He talked for a few moments with the old man, rinsed
the blood off his own forehead, and then worked his way back
along the bank to me. He picked me off the boulder and
hugged me. In one burst I let loose a stream of tears. Tears
came to his eyes too, but then he laughed. "You needn't have
worried, Jesus," he said. "The Lord was protecting me." He
carried me to where the old man was standing, put me down,
and talked with the stranger for a while. I picked up the
man's goatskin and filled it with water. "Come with us to
our home," my father told him. "We would be honored." I
looked down the stream towards the bridge, and noticed that
the Pharisees had disappeared.
As we approached our house, I saw Mother washing
clothes on the roof. She saw us, smiled, and then, when she
noticed the stranger with us, scowled. She raised her hands
and eyes towards heaven, as if to ask the Lord, "Why does my
husband make so much trouble?" But as we got close she
gasped, perhaps from noticing the blood on my father's face
and clothes. She rushed down the ladder, examined my
father's forehead, went inside and brought out a bowl of
rainwater. She sat him on a bench and gently washed his
forehead. Then she wrapped it with linen. "Joseph, you are
so foolish," she chided. "You never worry about yourself!"
The old man did stay for dinner. At my father's
insistence, my mother added a piece of meat to the stew, to
let the stranger know that he was an honored guest. I still
remember his odd, darkly colored clothes, his strange
accent, and the peculiar little cap he wore on the back of
his head. Despite my mother's obvious discomfort, my father
invited him to stay overnight. But he refused. "I know your
neighbors consider Nazareth a clean village," he said.
"You've been kind and generous. I don't want to cause you
more trouble."
The next day my mother collected all the rainwater from
our cisterns and borrowed more from our neighbor Esreth.
Such water is prescribed by the Torah as the only kind
suitable for ritual cleaning. She muttered quietly to
herself as she scrubbed the floor of the house and all the
walls she had seen the old man touch. Submerging our dishes
and plates in a large bowl and letting them soak, as she
repeated the rote prayer, "Blessed be you, the Lord our God,
who has made us holy with his Law and has commanded us about
the immersion of vessels." Only after the sun set did she
deem that our house was once again clean. My father didn't
interfere with this ritual, although he clearly wasn't
pleased.
As usual, Mother cooked dinner in front of our house
that evening, and we ate on the roof. As it grew dark, we
watched the stars appear. A cool breeze came from the north,
carrying with it the fragrance of the green hills. "That's
the breath of the Lord," my father said. As he looked up, he
didn't seem to notice that I was staring at him, the hero.
His lean face was softened by a gentle smile. Suspended
behind his ear, as a symbol of his trade, was a chip of oak,
the best and most durable wood. I had tried to put a chip
behind my ear, but it wouldn't stay-because I wasn't yet a
good enough carpenter, I assumed. He had removed the linen
bandage, and a scab sat like a badge of honor on the large
bluish bump that had grown on his forehead.
I was still consumed with the events by the stream. Why
had the boys attacked the old man? Why had the Pharisees
stood passively by? Why had my mother scrubbed the house
afterwards? Suddenly I spoke aloud: "Why did they call him a
Samaritan?" I asked. "He wasn't ugly or dirty."
My father smiled as he briefly continued to examine the
stars, but then his face turned serious, and he looked right
towards me. "I know," he said, "that your friends use the
word Samaritan as an insult. But really all it means is that
the man comes from the west bank of the Jordan, the region
called Samaria. Many Jews hate the people of the west bank.
And many of the west bank people hate Jews. Guess what
Samaritan children call someone they want to insult?" I
shook my head. "A Jew!"
I was astounded-and momentarily speechless-as I
pondered the incredible idea that anyone could consider the
word Jew to be an insult.
"Why do we hate them? I mean, why do our neighbors hate
them?" I asked.
"Probably because they are so similar to us, but
different. They worship the same God as we do, but they
interpret the Scriptures differently. A hundred years ago-
not very long ago-they were considered Jews. But then the
disagreements started, and they grew like an avalanche.
First, the Samaritans began to marry gentiles. The gentiles
converted-but our pious Hasidim called the families mongrels
and half-breeds. Next the Hasidim excluded them from the
Temple in Jerusalem. So the Samaritans built their own
temple, on Mount Gerizim, which outraged the Hasidim even
more. Our king, John Hyrcanus, interpreted the Scriptures to
prove that all Palestine belonged to him. So he attacked the
Samaritan's temple and destroyed it, and built a special
canal to flood their city and wipe clean all signs of their
existence. A ritual washing-that's what he called it."
"I can see why they hate us."
"Yes, Jesus, as most Jews hate them in return. Those
boys yesterday were only doing what they had seen their
parents do. The Scriptures say that punishment is passed on
from sinners to their children, on to the third and fourth
generation, but I believe it's not the Lord who does this,
but parents, when they pass on their hatred, like a disease.
Love is contagious too," he said, and it too can be passed
on from parent to child." He drew me to him, and embraced
me. "Do you know what is the greatest blessing that comes
directly from the Lord?" he asked with a smile.
Of course I knew the answer, because he had asked this
so many times before. "Children," I replied.
"Yes, children. Now, go to bed."
-----------------------------------------
This is the end of the selection. To obtain the full novel, visit www.richardmuller.com.
Chapter 1. Nazareth
We lived in the village of Nazareth, an insignificant
hillside town in Galilee, nowhere mentioned in the
Scriptures-you probably haven't heard of it even if you come
from northern Israel yourself. Nazareth is located just four
miles from the famous city of Augustus, formerly called
Sepphoris, and I was born nine years before the great
catastrophe that befell that city and its residents. Near
the upper reaches of the Nazareth hill, below the woods but
far above the single well, is the mud and brick house where
I spent the first fourteen years of my life. Regardless of
the mockery of our adversaries, I am proud of this humble
origin.
We had but a single room, just large enough to sleep
the family. Inside was dark and cool even during the hot and
dry summer months; outside was whitewashed and cheerful.
Around the corner to the rear was my father's carpentry
shop, with a workbench, table, two stools, and shed. A
ladder led to the roof, which was my mother's favorite work
area and my favorite play spot.
My first revelation-and the beginning of my tragedy-
began that day, one spring, when my father and I went down
to the valley to search for fresh shallots.
No, we didn't go just for the shallots. We went to
listen to the happy gurgle of the runoff from the recent
rains, and to smell the fragrance of the yellow blossoms
bursting from the jasmine vines. "These are the Lord's gifts
to us," my father said, and he pushed aside the flowers and
led me to the edge of the brook. "They're little gifts, but
they're given with love. You show the Lord your gratitude by
enjoying them." The cool water trickled between my toes and
I thought I saw a tadpole. Yes, those were my happy days.
A willow blocked our route along the edge of the
stream, and my father climbed the bank to get around. I
threw a flat stone over the water and watched it skip two,
three, four times! "Father!" I shouted out, but he was gone.
I waded into the deeper water, hoping to see fish, while
groping with my feet for balance on the larger stones. The
water rose to chill my thighs. It was quieter here-until the
silence was broken by the trill of a mockingbird. I searched
for the bird and finally spotted it nodding its head on the
top of a nearby cedar. What, I wondered, is it
impersonating? My mother would know, but she wasn't here, so
I listened as it repeated its song. A mountain sparrow! --
That's what it was. The song had been transformed into a
delightful lilting warble, lacking the delicacy of the
original, and yet beautiful in its own way.
Shouting up ahead broke my reverie. My father appeared
by my side, took my hand and led me back to the shallow
water. We followed the yelling around a bend towards the
main crossing. On a small knoll I could see a group of a
half dozen boys, older than me but still not adults,
throwing stones down at the stream. I followed the flight of
one rock as it splashed next to an old man, whom I hadn't
previously noticed. He was standing at the edge of the water
and was trying to fill a goat-hide water skin. A puff of
dust kicked up on the shore next to him as another rock
landed. The boys were trying to hit the old man! I was
suddenly afraid, and I clutched my father's leg.
Farther up stream was a small bridge, and three men
stood on it. They wore blue cloaks with tassels, the
clothing of Pharisees. They were watching the boys, but they
just stood there. They did nothing to help the old man.
My father put his large hands under my arms, lifted me
as if I weighed nothing, and gently placed me on the top of
a moss-covered boulder. "Wait here," he said, and he ran
through the shallows towards the old man and the boys.
One tall boy held a small sling. He whirled it above
his head and lofted another rock. I watched it arc down
towards the stream-but to my horror it struck my father on
the head, and he stumbled and fell. In terror, I dug my
fingers through the moss into the hardness of the boulder. I
couldn't move. Bright red blood streamed down my father's
face as he knelt in the water. He slowly staggered to his
feet.
"Move away!" the tall boy jeered as he spun the sling
again. "The rock was for the Samaritan, not you!"
My father moved closer to the old man. The boys held
their stones. The tall one shouted, "Why do you stand with a
sinner?"
My father's response was so soft as to be almost
inaudible: "Let he who is without sin throw the next stone."
The boys stood still for a few moments, just staring at
the two men. I was sick with anxiety. Why didn't those men
on the bridge help?
Then the tall boy let the rock drop out of his sling.
He turned to the others and said something that I couldn't
hear. They laughed and walked away together, vanishing
behind the knoll.
It was a miracle. My father had stopped them-with
nothing but words, and with courage.
He talked for a few moments with the old man, rinsed
the blood off his own forehead, and then worked his way back
along the bank to me. He picked me off the boulder and
hugged me. In one burst I let loose a stream of tears. Tears
came to his eyes too, but then he laughed. "You needn't have
worried, Jesus," he said. "The Lord was protecting me." He
carried me to where the old man was standing, put me down,
and talked with the stranger for a while. I picked up the
man's goatskin and filled it with water. "Come with us to
our home," my father told him. "We would be honored." I
looked down the stream towards the bridge, and noticed that
the Pharisees had disappeared.
As we approached our house, I saw Mother washing
clothes on the roof. She saw us, smiled, and then, when she
noticed the stranger with us, scowled. She raised her hands
and eyes towards heaven, as if to ask the Lord, "Why does my
husband make so much trouble?" But as we got close she
gasped, perhaps from noticing the blood on my father's face
and clothes. She rushed down the ladder, examined my
father's forehead, went inside and brought out a bowl of
rainwater. She sat him on a bench and gently washed his
forehead. Then she wrapped it with linen. "Joseph, you are
so foolish," she chided. "You never worry about yourself!"
The old man did stay for dinner. At my father's
insistence, my mother added a piece of meat to the stew, to
let the stranger know that he was an honored guest. I still
remember his odd, darkly colored clothes, his strange
accent, and the peculiar little cap he wore on the back of
his head. Despite my mother's obvious discomfort, my father
invited him to stay overnight. But he refused. "I know your
neighbors consider Nazareth a clean village," he said.
"You've been kind and generous. I don't want to cause you
more trouble."
The next day my mother collected all the rainwater from
our cisterns and borrowed more from our neighbor Esreth.
Such water is prescribed by the Torah as the only kind
suitable for ritual cleaning. She muttered quietly to
herself as she scrubbed the floor of the house and all the
walls she had seen the old man touch. Submerging our dishes
and plates in a large bowl and letting them soak, as she
repeated the rote prayer, "Blessed be you, the Lord our God,
who has made us holy with his Law and has commanded us about
the immersion of vessels." Only after the sun set did she
deem that our house was once again clean. My father didn't
interfere with this ritual, although he clearly wasn't
pleased.
As usual, Mother cooked dinner in front of our house
that evening, and we ate on the roof. As it grew dark, we
watched the stars appear. A cool breeze came from the north,
carrying with it the fragrance of the green hills. "That's
the breath of the Lord," my father said. As he looked up, he
didn't seem to notice that I was staring at him, the hero.
His lean face was softened by a gentle smile. Suspended
behind his ear, as a symbol of his trade, was a chip of oak,
the best and most durable wood. I had tried to put a chip
behind my ear, but it wouldn't stay-because I wasn't yet a
good enough carpenter, I assumed. He had removed the linen
bandage, and a scab sat like a badge of honor on the large
bluish bump that had grown on his forehead.
I was still consumed with the events by the stream. Why
had the boys attacked the old man? Why had the Pharisees
stood passively by? Why had my mother scrubbed the house
afterwards? Suddenly I spoke aloud: "Why did they call him a
Samaritan?" I asked. "He wasn't ugly or dirty."
My father smiled as he briefly continued to examine the
stars, but then his face turned serious, and he looked right
towards me. "I know," he said, "that your friends use the
word Samaritan as an insult. But really all it means is that
the man comes from the west bank of the Jordan, the region
called Samaria. Many Jews hate the people of the west bank.
And many of the west bank people hate Jews. Guess what
Samaritan children call someone they want to insult?" I
shook my head. "A Jew!"
I was astounded-and momentarily speechless-as I
pondered the incredible idea that anyone could consider the
word Jew to be an insult.
"Why do we hate them? I mean, why do our neighbors hate
them?" I asked.
"Probably because they are so similar to us, but
different. They worship the same God as we do, but they
interpret the Scriptures differently. A hundred years ago-
not very long ago-they were considered Jews. But then the
disagreements started, and they grew like an avalanche.
First, the Samaritans began to marry gentiles. The gentiles
converted-but our pious Hasidim called the families mongrels
and half-breeds. Next the Hasidim excluded them from the
Temple in Jerusalem. So the Samaritans built their own
temple, on Mount Gerizim, which outraged the Hasidim even
more. Our king, John Hyrcanus, interpreted the Scriptures to
prove that all Palestine belonged to him. So he attacked the
Samaritan's temple and destroyed it, and built a special
canal to flood their city and wipe clean all signs of their
existence. A ritual washing-that's what he called it."
"I can see why they hate us."
"Yes, Jesus, as most Jews hate them in return. Those
boys yesterday were only doing what they had seen their
parents do. The Scriptures say that punishment is passed on
from sinners to their children, on to the third and fourth
generation, but I believe it's not the Lord who does this,
but parents, when they pass on their hatred, like a disease.
Love is contagious too," he said, and it too can be passed
on from parent to child." He drew me to him, and embraced
me. "Do you know what is the greatest blessing that comes
directly from the Lord?" he asked with a smile.
Of course I knew the answer, because he had asked this
so many times before. "Children," I replied.
"Yes, children. Now, go to bed."
-----------------------------------------
This is the end of the selection. To obtain the full novel, visit www.richardmuller.com.