And I walked towards him and said, “Sir, who is this man who stands alone, even like another temple?” And he answered me, “This is Jesus of Nazareth, a prophet who has appeared of late in Galilee. Here in Jerusalem all men hate Him.”

 

 

And I said, “My heart was strong enough to be with His whip, and yielding enough to be at His feet.”

 

 

And Jesus turned towards His followers who were awaiting Him. But before He reached them, three of the temple doves flew back, and one alighted upon His left shoulder and the other two at His feet. And he touched each one tenderly. Then He walked on, and there were leagues in every step of His steps.

 

 

Now tell me, what power had He to attack and disperse hundreds of men and women without opposition? I was told that they all hate Him, yet no one stood before Him on that day. Had He plucked out the fangs of hate on His way to the court of the temple?

PETER

On the Morrow of His Followers

 

Once at sundown Jesus led us into the village of Beithsaida. We were a tired company, and the dust of the road was upon us. And we came to a great house in the midst of a garden, and the owner stood at the gate.

 

 

And Jesus said to him, “These men are weary and footsore. Let them sleep in your house. The night is cold and they are in need of warmth and rest.”

 

 

And the rich man said, “They shall not sleep in my house.”

 

 

And Jesus said, “Suffer them then to sleep in your garden.”

 

 

And the man answered, “Nay, they shall not sleep in my garden.”

 

 

Then Jesus turned to us and said, “This is what your tomorrow will be, and this present is like your future. All doors shall be closed in your face, and not even the gardens that lie under the stars may be your couch.

 

 

“Should your feet indeed be patient with the road and follow me, it may be you will find a basin and a bed, and perhaps bread and wine also. But if it should be that you find none of those things, forget not then that you have crossed one of my deserts.

 

 

“Come, let us go forth.”

 

 

And the rich man was disturbed, and his face was changed, and he muttered to himself words that I did not hear; and he shrank away from us and turned into his garden.

 

 

And we followed Jesus upon the road.

MELACHI OF BABYLON
AN ASTRONOMER

The Miracles of Jesus

 

You question me concerning the miracles of Jesus.

 

 

Every thousand thousand years the sun and the moon and this earth and all her sister planets meet in a straight line, and they confer for a moment together.

 

 

Then they slowly disperse and await the passing of another thousand thousand years.

 

 

There are no miracles beyond the seasons, yet you and I do not know all the seasons. And what if a season shall be made manifest in the shape of a man?

 

 

In Jesus the elements of our bodies and our dreams came together according to law. All that was timeless before Him became timeful in Him.

 

 

They say He gave sight to the blind and walking to the paralysed, and that He drove devils out of madmen.

 

 

Perchance blindness is but a dark thought that can be overcome by a burning thought. Perchance a withered limb is but idleness that can be quickened by energy. And perhaps the devils, these restless elements in our life, are driven out by the angels of peace and serenity.

 

 

They say He raised the dead to life. If you can tell me what is death, then I will tell you what is life.

 

 

In a field I have watched an acorn, a thing so still and seemingly useless. And in the spring I have seen that acorn take roots and rise, the beginning of an oak tree, towards the sun.

 

 

Surely you would deem this a miracle, yet that miracle is wrought a thousand thousand times in the drowsiness of every autumn and the passion of every spring.

 

 

Why shall it not be wrought in the heart of man? Shall not the seasons meet in the hand or upon the lips of a Man Anointed?

 

 

If our God has given to earth the art to nestle seed whilst the seed is seemingly dead, why shall He not give to the heart of man to breathe life into another heart, even a heart seemingly dead?

 

 

 

I have spoken of these miracles which I deem but little beside the greater miracle, which is the man Himself, the Wayfarer, the man who turned my dross into gold, who taught me how to love those who hate me, and in so doing brought me comfort and gave sweet dreams to my sleep.

 

 

This is the miracle in my own life.

 

 

My soul was blind, my soul was lame. I was possessed by restless spirits, and I was dead.

 

 

But now I see clearly, and I walk erect. I am at peace, and I live to witness and proclaim my own being every hour of the day.

 

 

And I am not one of His followers. I am but an old astronomer who visits the fields of space once a season, and who would be heedful of the law and the miracles thereof.

 

 

And I am at the twilight of my time, but whenever I would seek its dawning, I seek the youth of Jesus.

 

 

And for ever shall age seek youth. In me now it is knowledge that is seeking vision.

A PHILOSOPHER

On Wonder and Beauty

 

When he was with us He gazed at us and at our world with eyes of wonder, for His eyes were not veiled with the veil of years, and all that He saw was clear in the light of His youth.

 

 

Though He knew the depth of beauty, He was for ever surprised by its peace and its majesty; and He stood before the earth as the first man had stood before the first day.

 

 

We whose senses have been dulled, we gaze in full daylight and yet we do not see. We would cup our ears, but we do not hear; and stretch forth our hands, but we do not touch. And though all the incense of Arabia is burned, we go our way and do not smell.

 

 

We see not the ploughman returning from his field at eventide; nor hear the shepherd’s flute when he leads his flock to the fold, nor do we stretch our arms to touch the sunset; and our nostrils hunger no longer for the roses of Sharon.

 

 

Nay, we honour no kings without kingdoms; nor hear the sound of harps save when the strings are plucked by hands; nor do we see a child playing in our olive grove as if he were a young olive tree. And all words must needs rise from lips of flesh, or else we deem each other dumb and deaf.

 

 

In truth we gaze but do not see, and hearken but do not hear; we eat and drink but do not taste. And there lies the difference between Jesus of Nazareth and ourselves.

 

 

His senses were all continually made new, and the world to Him was always a new world.

 

 

To Him the lisping of a babe was not less than the cry of all mankind, while to us it is only lisping.

 

 

To Him the root of a buttercup was a longing towards God, while to us it is naught but a root.

URIAH
AN OLD MAN OF NAZARETH

He was a Stranger in our Midst

 

He was a stranger in our midst, and His life was hidden with dark veils.

 

 

He walked not the path of our God, but followed the course of the foul and the infamous.

 

 

His childhood revolted, and rejected the sweet milk of our nature.

 

 

His youth was inflamed like dry grass that burns in the night.

 

 

And when He became a man, He took arms against us all.

 

 

Such men are conceived in the ebb tide of human kindness, and born in unholy tempests. And in tempests they live a day and the perish forever.

 

 

Do you not remember Him, a boy overweening, who would argue with our learned elders, and laugh at their dignity?

 

 

And remember you not His youth, when He lived by the saw and the chisel? He would not accompany our sons and daughters on their holidays. He would walk alone.

 

 

And He would not return the salutation of those who hailed Him, as though He were above us.

 

 

I myself met Him once in the field and greeted Him, and He only smiled, and in His smile I beheld arrogance and insult.

 

 

Not long afterward my daughter went with her companions to the vineyards to gather the grapes, and she spoke to Him and He did not answer her.

 

 

He spoke only to the whole company of grape-gatherers, as if my daughter had not been among them.

 

 

When He abandoned His people and turned vagabond He became naught but a babbler. His voice was like a claw in our flesh, and the sound of His voice is still a pain in our memory.

 

 

He would utter only evil of us and of our fathers and forefathers. And His tongue sought our bosoms like a poisoned arrow.

 

 

Such was Jesus.

 

 

If He had been my son, I would have committed Him with the Roman legions to Arabia, and I would have begged the captain to place Him in the forefront of the battle, so that the archer of the foe might mark Him, and free me of His insolence.

 

 

But I have no son.