Fifth Gospel:The Odyssey of a Time Traveler in First-Century Palestine

by William Roskey

  And a lot of times you did not, for the scar-faced fisherman in Magdala had been right. His words were hard. This is the Way. Choose it and live; reject it and die. The choice is yours, and you cannot straddle the fence. I was sent to die that you might have that choice. God’s love for you, for all of you, is that strong.

  The Way is hard, and, if you should choose it, I can assure you that you will suffer and be persecuted. Father will be set against son, mother against daughter, brother against brother. I did not come into the world to bring peace, but to bring a sword. To follow me, you will need all the courage and strength you possess, and still that will not be enough. You would still fail without the Holy Spirit. But I will send Him to you, and you only need ask and He will come into your hearts. If you think it’s going to be easy, forget it. Choose now between the things of this world, the pleasures of this life, and the Way. It must be one or the other. It cannot be both, for you cannot serve two masters. It cannot be done, and in your hearts you know it.

  His words were powerful, and they were hard. Oftentimes when he spoke, I would see people get up and, eyes guiltily downcast, slink away. Sometimes there were tears on their cheeks. For them the words were too hard.

  I will not, in this book, report all of his talks verbatim for several reasons. Even the Gospels don’t give the full text of each speech because there would be much redundancy. Jesus talked about the concept of the Good Shepherd, not once, but many, many times. The same thing is true of the story of the Prodigal Son, of the parable of the Sower, the parable of the Workers in the Vineyard, the story of the Ten Virgins, and of the Good Samaritan.

  Before I move on, I’d just like to mention how the tale of the Good Samaritan rankled the nerves and offended the sensibilities of the Jews who heard it. It was not just a nice little story about how people should be kind to each other. It was flung out as a challenge. Some were shamed by it, still others insulted. You see, the hatred between the Judeans and the Samaritans dated back to almost a thousand years before Christ, when Solomon’s empire was divided into two parts—Judea and Samaria. The Samaritans were a mixture of various peoples who had settled in that area after the Israelites had been exiled. And although they had, for the most part, adopted the tenets of Judaism, they hadn’t adopted them as completely as the Israelites considered to be proper. Therefore, when the Israelites returned from exile, there was big trouble. Feelings ran deep, and around 340 B.C. the Samaritans built their own temple on Mount Gerizim, claiming that theirs was the true Temple, not the one in Jerusalem. The people of Judea considered them to be unclean, heathens, and worse. Even the Talmud says, “A piece of bread given by a Samaritan is more unclean than swine’s flesh.” So you can imagine what a bombshell it was for Jesus to hold up a Samaritan as one whose actions were to be emulated. People thought of and talked a lot about that. As of course they were meant to.

  As I was saying, for me to re-report the messages contained in the Gospels would serve no useful purpose. If you’ve read the Bible, you already know them; if you haven’t, Bibles can be bought in any bookstore, and I urge that you buy one. The primary objective of my mission was to verify the accuracy of the writings, the testimony, if you will, of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John; this I did. Although I did not follow Jesus for a very long period of time, I saw many of the events recorded in the Gospels happen exactly as described. In the nineteen weeks that I followed him, I saw not a single event occur otherwise than it was reported in the Bible. I saw some events that are not recorded, and, of course, there are things that were recorded that I was not around to see. But one need not see all to believe all, a point that Jesus would make to me later on, on the shore of the Sea of Galilee.

  Before I leave the topic of the parables, I want to tell you how much I came to appreciate their importance. The genius of the parables, I would later come to realize, lay not in the fact that they were short and easily remembered. The genius of the parables lay in the fact that they represented the condensation of enormously broad and deep theological concepts and usually had more than one meaning. A man could hear the words of a parable, walk away, and two months later, as he was tilling his field or tending his sheep or mending his nets, realize in a flash of inspiration what Jesus’ deeper meaning had been. How do you teach theology to non-theologians? Jesus had the answer. He implanted psychological time bombs in people’s souls, bombs that would automatically be triggered when the listener was ready to understand.

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  That day, along with the nineteen weeks that followed it, was to literally change my entire life. Just as the world dates all its events in terms of B.C. and A.D., so I was to come to view my own life. Before Christ and After Christ. It was not a sudden thing, to be sure. No Saul-on-the-road-to-Damascus sort of thing. But day by day, as we followed him, the words of the Nazarene made me think. His words were like meat that one gnawed on; they spoke to the innermost heart, and the heart knew it.

  But let’s return for a moment to the question of physical evidence, of supernatural manifestations. Of tangible proof, that Jesus was indeed more than mortal man. It was not as easy as you might think to collect such evidence. For, while I and all the others who crowded around Jesus had no problem in at least literally hearing his words, it was usually quite difficult to get close to him, sometimes even impossible. In his chronicle of Jesus’ ministry, Luke (8:19) tells of an occasion when even “his mother and his brothers … could not come at him for the press.”

  The accounts of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are replete with other references to the multitudes that surrounded him wherever he went. In the third chapter of his Gospel, Mark tells us of one of the times when the crowds literally backed him right into the Sea of Galilee, and the disciples had to evacuate him by boat. In his fifth chapter he tells of another occasion when “much people gathered unto him, and he was nigh unto the sea.” Luke, in his twelfth chapter, talks of a time “when there were gathered together an innumerable multitude of people, insomuch that they trode one upon another.”

  It certainly made my job tough. Jesus was always in the center, of course. The twelve formed a core about him, and about a hundred dedicated disciples were in turn deployed about them. (Seventy-two of these latter would later be sent out as the first missionaries.) Well, these hundred and twelve or so people did their level best to protect Jesus, not only form physical harm, intentional or otherwise, but also from stress and fatigue. They saw to it that he had the opportunity to take his meals and to rest. They made sure that he had the privacy he needed to pray, to sleep, to meditate, and to instruct them. Not that they didn’t let people through; they let plenty of people through when they saw the need and when they felt that Jesus had the time. Or when he himself told them to let people through, which was almost all the time.

  He always wanted the doubters, the haters, and those who were attempting to discredit him around him. He wanted the vaunted Teachers of the Law right at his side, asking their silly questions designed to ensnare him, witnessing the healings, listening to his words. He also wanted the blind, the crippled, the deaf, and lepers to have free access to him. And then there were the thousands of ordinary people like Bartholomew and me. No, getting to his side was no easy matter. I considered faking blindness or deafness so I could make it through the screening process of the disciples, but after I thought about that idea for eight or ten seconds was ashamed of myself.

  I’ve always believed that, to a large extent, you make your own luck. Also, that all things come to he who waits. Bartholomew and I doggedly followed him, day after day after day. And, as those at the center of the throng had received their healings or had their questions answered or just had to return home, we moved closer and closer to him all the time. The Chiricahua Apaches are justly famed for patience and perseverance. Apache braves of old, when stalking, could sit as immobile as rocks under the desert sun for twelve hours or more. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, could run for twenty miles across the burning sands with a mouthful of
water, and spit out the water at the end of the run. We like to think we haven’t changed. I have my mother’s blood in me, and it’s served me well. We haven’t changed. I was determined to get to his side, whether it took me two weeks or two years.

  Eleven days after we had first joined the throng, we had finally penetrated the screen of the hundred or so and were only yards away from him. But there we stayed for two days. It was almost insanely frustrating. We could hear all his words, of course; we had been able to do that from the beginning. But we couldn’t see what was going on. One of the biggest things I was after was physical evidence, and I wasn’t getting anywhere at all. The hundred and the twelve had a mysteriously efficient way of making sure that the crippled, the blind, the lepers, the deaf, the diseased had first priority, but even many of those sometimes had difficulty in getting to his side. Son of God or not, he was but one man, and there were only twenty-four hours in every day.

  I tried some bombast on Thomas and on Andrew, but I may as well have been whistling an aria to the deaf. Thomas, somewhat self-importantly, I thought, merely sniffed that everyone wanted to see the Master and that everyone said it was urgent and that they had traveled a great distance. Andrew was very sorry, very sorry. But surely I could see that it was impossible at the present time, could I not? He wished that he could help me, he sincerely did. He would if he could, but he couldn’t. Peace be unto me.

  I can’t begin to describe how frustrating those two days were. I constantly caught glimpses of him through the press and heard his words, but I needed to get to his side. Sure, I saw people who were apparently infirm make it through to the center of the crowd and saw many come back through, apparently healed. But evidence like that was useless, for reasons I spoke about earlier in this book, i.e., the possibilities of the infirmities being psychogenic in origin or the “cure” being a temporary condition brought about by the body’s producing exotic and as yet, little understood biochemical pain-killing compounds under high stress. Add to that the fact that I seldom had the opportunity to examine any of the “healed” both before and after. Some I saw before and some after, but, those I did, well you could hardly say I examined them as they were borne past me in the milling multitudes; I saw them. That’s about all you can say. And, as far as the lepers were concerned, nobody saw them too closely. The crowds parted like the Red Sea for them, leaving a very wide corridor indeed.

  Then there were those who were not healed immediately or were seeking healings for people other than themselves. Jesus would say to some, “Return home and you’ll find that your son (or daughter or wife or whatever) has been healed.” To some others he’d say, for example, “Go, show yourselves to the priests,” at which time presumably, they’d be healed. Such healings, of course, were impossible to validate since that would have required our going off and following those people, thereby giving up our hard-fought-for places in the crowd, something neither Bartholomew nor I was willing to do. And, unfortunately, almost none of those who received such healings ever returned. Did that mean that the promised healings never took place or that the people were just too ungrateful to come back and say thanks? Or, perhaps, there were some in each category. As an objective reporter and a scientific observer, I could make no speculations; as a man, I had to ask myself—if I were blind or had leprosy, and if a man healed me, could I imagine not going back to thank him who had miraculously given me a whole new life? I thought I knew the answer to that question until Jesus told ten lepers to go and to show themselves to the priests. One came back. Jesus asked if the other nine had been healed also; the man replied that they had. Where then, Jesus asked, were the others? The man shrugged and cast his eyes upon the ground. In the silence only the wind was heard.

  And, oh yes, the one who came back was a Samaritan.

  Finally, on the third day of being so close to Jesus, yet still not close enough to really see what was going on, I screwed up all my reserves of energy and willpower, and seeing a small break in the crowd, hit it like a crazed fullback on the three-yard line with four seconds to go in the game and tie score. Bursting through a tangle of flailing arms and legs, I suddenly found myself face-to-face with him and barring his way. Two of the disciples grabbed me, prepared, evidently, to “escort” me away most unceremoniously. He stopped them with a hand motion. They released me, and I imagined that the whole earth had stopped turning on its axis.

  He was about 5’9’ and weighed about 165 pounds. His features were markedly Semitic, and he was dressed quite simply. He looked to be three years older than I and in excellent physical condition. His outward appearance was unremarkable except for two things—his bearing and his eyes. The man whom millions would call King of Kings did in fact have a regal bearing. He carried himself with the assurance of a man who knows exactly who he is and what he must be about. But neither before nor since has the world seen a ruler like him. Instead of pride there was compassion; instead of pomp, humility; instead of imperious demands, there was only self-sacrifice.

  Then there were those eyes. Luminous brown eyes from which, you were certain, nothing could be hid. I forget who it was who said that the eyes are the windows of the soul. Try if you can, to imagine looking through warm, soft, benevolent, and loving living windows into the soul of God Himself. That’s how it was, and it was at this very point that I began to believe. I say began because full belief would not come until I had heard more in the coming weeks, and until I had collected my physical evidence.

  Physical evidence. Only much later would I see and begin to understand the tragic, heart-breaking irony of it all. I, like the great masses of people who surrounded him, couldn’t see beyond the physical world. When he spoke of healing, we could think only of the healing of bodies. At the time, few if any thought in terms of redemption and of being made whole spiritually. Jesus told us time and time again why he had come, and we heard his words but did not listen to them. Instead we, who were so obsessed with physical phenomena, regarded his ministry as little more than a traveling medicine show. How stupid we all were. How very stupid.

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  After what seemed like an eternity, during which I was transfixed by his probing gaze, he smiled a secret smile and spoke a single word to me.

  “Come.”

  Swallowing hard, I moved on rubbery legs over to his side. He pointed to a pitiable blind man, who knelt before him in supplication. “You have heard the words. I have been asked who sinned, this man’s parents or he himself, that he was born blind. I know of your interest in such matters,” again he gave me a secret smile, “for it is exceedingly obvious. Who do you say sinned?”

  “Sir,” I said, “I know nothing of such matters.”

  He looked up and addressed the entire assemblage. “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life. As long as it is day, we must do the work of Him who sent me. Night is coming when no one can work. While I am in the world, I am the Light of the World.”

  I was right at his side when, using the index fingers and thumbs on each hand, he gently pried both the man’s eyelids open. No wonder he was blind! He’d been born without pupils or irises! His eyeballs were stark white! Jesus gave me that strange, secret smile again and asked, “Could the thoughts or the actions of man alone heal him?” His eyes bored into mine, and my reply was long in coming, since it took me a while to calm my swirling maelstrom of thoughts. I stood on the edge of a metaphysical precipice; the Nazarene knew it and I knew it. Finally, I found my voice.

  “Only God Himself could heal this man,” I replied, and the crowd began to set up a murmur. Jesus inclined his head.

  “You have said it.” So saying, he knelt beside the blind man, spat on the ground, and began to make a paste of mud. There was an absolute hush as he worked the mud in the palm of his left hand, then applied it to the blank, stark-white eyeballs. After this, he placed a hand on the man’s shoulders. “Go now, and wash in the pool of Siloam.” Then, yet again, Jesus looked
at me. I nodded. No words were needed. I took the blind man’s right arm, and Bartholomew his left. We helped him to his feet and started for the pool. The crowd parted to let us through.

  Now even I didn’t need to be given directions on how to get there. Clarence’s briefings were very thorough, and the pool has an interesting background. Seven hundred years before Christ, Hezekiah revolted against Assyria. Among the many extensive preparations he made in order to ready Jerusalem for siege was to have an underground water tunnel dug to bring in water from the Gihon Spring in the Kidron Valley. The 1750-foot tunnel was chipped through solid rock using only the simplest of hand tools. A monumental task indeed. The tunnel empties into the Pool of Siloam, which is still in use even today.

  We had gone no more than an eighth of a mile when I noticed that we were being followed closely by a group of five men. They constantly stayed no more and no less than fifty yards behind us. Clearly, they were Pharisees. They were usually the only Jews to wear their talliths at all times. Then too, they also wore small cases, tefillin, made from the skin of ritually clean animals, attached by leather thongs to their foreheads and left hands. Inside each case, I knew, were four passages inscribed on parchment from Deuteronomy and Exodus. I told Bartholomew and the blind man to stop. Then I turned and stared them down. There was a hurried consultation among them, after which they walked up to us. I didn’t like their looks.