Richard A. Muller
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Chapter One

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​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.
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