As I’d expected, there was no high-pressure pulsatile spurting of bright red arterial blood. Instead, there was only the seeping of dark deoxygenated blood. Yet another proof that she was dead. But more than that, it meant that even if her heart started beating again, either spontaneously or through some outside force, she’d be unable to live more than a few seconds, because the heart would simply pump the blood right out of the severed carotid. I watched transfixed, knife still in my hand, as the dark, dead, evil-looking blood continued to ooze out of the wound and trickle down the side of her neck, down onto the bedding, where it began to soak in.
I was struck with sudden horror. What had I done? What in the world had I done? Had I been handpicked and highly trained, had I traveled halfway across the world and two thousand years back in time to slit the throat of a poor little dead child? Was this the act of a rational man? Mesmerized by the blood on my knife, unable to take my eyes off it, I knelt frozen into total immobility while my mind shrieked inside my skull.
Move. I must move. Absently, I wiped my knife on my left sleeve and replaced it in its sheath. The blood continued to ooze slowly out of the wound and trickle down the side of her neck. There was nothing for it but to cover it. I pulled the thin blanket all the way up to her chin, where I folded it over several times so there was an accordion-like fold of four or five layers over the wound. No sooner had I done that when I heard voices behind me.
I rose to my feet to face the group as it entered the room. Jairus’ wife clung to him fiercely, weeping disconsolately. The disciples were crestfallen, mumbling dispiritedly among themselves about arriving too late, and that the child had been too young to die. If only the Master had been told of this sooner, then this tragedy surely could have been averted. Jesus said nothing but stood alone, apparently deep in thought. Pointing to me, the neighbor woman spoke to him, saying, “Sir, this man has given us to believe that he is one of your men. He barged in here and insisted on examining the child thoroughly, behaving most curiously. Do you know him?”
A faint smile was on his lips as he replied.
“I know my own, and my own know me … isn’t that so?” he asked, his eyes gazing full into mine.
“Yes … that is so.” Then it seemed that there was no one in the room, in the world, in the universe, except him and me. A most unnatural hush fell over the room.
“You have examined the little girl thoroughly,” he said. It was a statement, not a question. Nevertheless, I nodded.
“And what then have you to say?”
“She is dead.” That drew a heart-wrenching sob from the mother. We all watched spellbound and silent as he walked up to where the child lay and looked down. His words came like a thunderclap even though he spoke them softly.
“Why the wailing and weeping? She is not dead but only sleeps.”
At that, the neighbor woman and a few others who had pressed through the doorway began to ridicule and laugh bitterly. He looked sadly at each of them and shook his head. “Leave us,” he said, the softness still in his voice. In a moment, the room was cleared except for Jairus, his wife, Jesus, the disciples, Peter, James, and John, and me. The disciples had moved to escort me out of the room but Jesus had restrained them with a motion of his hand.
He knelt over the child, took her hand in his, and said, “Talitha koum,” Aramaic for “Little girl, I say to you, arise.” I don’t think I would be exaggerating when I say that all hearts stopped beating when the child rose to her feet, smiled happily, and walked over to hug her mother and father.
“Give her something to eat,” Jesus instructed them, “and do not speak of this.”
Astonished, although by all rights I shouldn’t have been, I ran over to look at the child’s neck. Not a scratch on it. I next checked the bed. No bloodstains anywhere. Not a drop.
I became aware that He was watching me, and I turned around to see a twinkle in His eye. I walked over to Him. Outside the room there was quite a commotion going on as the parents told all the mourners that there had been a mistake; the child wasn’t dead but had only appeared to be.
“Master,” I bumbled, “I must see you. I mean I must speak to you.” He looked at me with affection tinged with amusement. I blundered on, aware of all the curious eyes upon us as people started to drift into the room. “In private. You see, I come … from a far land, and …” He nodded, as if to Himself, and held up a hand to silence me.
“My Father in heaven has revealed to me where and when you come from. Camp by the shore tonight, and I will come to you.”
When you come from! He had said, “When you come from!” He knew! Dazed, I could only begin to make my way through the now joyous crowd to the courtyard.
39
Bartholomew, now fully recovered, was waiting for me in the courtyard. It was hard to tell whether the sun shone more or his face.
“Again He has raised a person from the dead, Lightfoot! Can there be any doubt remaining, even in your hard head?” I was still dazed as I answered him.
“He raised that girl from the dead. I saw it with my own eyes. No, Bartholomew, I no longer have any doubt.” I felt limp and washed out. As if I had just stumbled out of the cockpit after a fierce touch-and-go dogfight with three hot MIGs. I felt dehydrated, and my legs were rubbery. I leaned up against the side of the house.
“What now, Bartholomew?” I said more to myself than to him. Bartholomew shrugged.
“We follow Him. What else can we do?”
“But we’re back in Capernaum now. You’ve been gone well over the thirty days you gave yourself. Anna must be furious. We’re just a few minutes’ walk away from your house. You mean you’re not going home?”
“I’m not going home. Are you?”
“I can’t go home.”
“Neither can I.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. All you have to do is take a short stroll, and you’re back in your own home, with your wife, family, and friends. You’ve been gone only a relatively short period of time. Things don’t move all that quickly in this age and in this country. In no time at all it will seem as though you’ve never been gone. Things will be as they were before.”
“Friend Lightfoot,” the little innkeeper smiled sadly, “don’t you see? Things can never again be as they were. Not for you or for me or for anyone who has heard the words of Jesus of Nazareth.”
“But what of Anna?”
“Anna doesn’t need me. She never has. But besides that, I’ve found that this is bigger than family relationships. Don’t you remember what the Master said only last week? ‘No one who has left home or wife or brothers or parents or children for the sake of the Kingdom of God will fail to receive many times as much in this age and, in the age to come, eternal life.’”
“What about your business?”
“That is of even less consequence. You have heard His words just as I have, Lightfoot. Surely you know that.”
“Yes … yes I do. It’s just that … I don’t know, but just now, in there … He really is the Son of God, Bartholomew … I’m afraid. If I could go home as easily as you could … I would think very seriously about it … I’m afraid.” In reply, the little man, who only weeks before was a henpecked buffoon, a pompous, self-important zero, spoke with conviction, assurance, strength, and wisdom.
“Don’t think of the past, my friend; therein lies death. Remember what Jesus said. ‘Anyone who loves his father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and anyone who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.’”
“Bartholomew, I’d be honored if you’d continue to walk with me as we follow Him.”
“Friend Lightfoot, I was about to speak the very same words to you.”
40
Time was measured with great imprecision in those days, especially during the hours of darkness. But as nearly as I could estimate it was about 1:00 a.m., or the first hour of the thir
d watch, as it was termed in those days. One of the customs the Romans brought with them into Palestine was that of dividing the night into four watches, a custom that had been rapidly picked up by the inhabitants. The night was still and quiet, the only audible sound the gentle, almost imperceptible lapping of the Sea of Galilee against the shore. The stars were so clear and bright that I might have been standing in a planetarium.
Bartholomew had gone to sleep long ago, and he was as sound a sleeper as I had ever run across. But I was too keyed up with nervous energy to even lie down. The Nazarene had told me that He would talk to me privately this very night. How could I or anyone else have possibly slept? The only reason Bartholomew was asleep was that I hadn’t told him about the Visitor I expected. I had to talk to Jesus alone. I had traded the whole rest of my life for this moment to come, and I wasn’t about to invite guests. I couldn’t even if I had wanted to, for security reasons. All the cards were going to be laid on the table. We would speak of the twentieth century tonight. God willing.
The excitement was almost too much to bear. This meeting could literally alter all of human history. I thought of Clarence’s explanation to me of long ago. He’d told me that the reason he’d thrown in with Ike rather than return to the classroom was that he wanted to help make history rather than teach it. This making of history was heady stuff, and my moment was fast approaching. I could feel it in my bones.
I’d been scanning the shore line, which is why when I first saw Him, it was out of the corner of my eye. At first, I got only the faint impression of a spot of phosphorescence out on the water, quite some distance off. I raised my eyes and watched transfixed. The luminous cloud ever so gradually became larger and larger. It was moving from where Peter and the others had dropped anchor a couple of miles out to escape the crowds and get a good night’s rest, directly toward me. He was about 150 yards off when I recognized Him. Jesus was walking across the surface of the water. The hairs on the nape of my neck stood straight up, and my heart began to pound at about three times its normal rate. Even though I knew who it was, and that He meant me no harm, for a few wild moments I wanted to just turn and run away as fast as my legs could carry me. That ghostlike apparition, coming slowly, inexorably, ever closer to me, the concept, the idea of it, was so alien to my scientific mind, that I yearned with every fiber of my being to run, to run fast and far, and later, in the light of day, when I was once again calm and rational, to convince myself that I’d been dreaming or hallucinating. But, summoning up more strength than I’d ever imagined I had, I forced myself to remain rooted to the spot where I stood.
As His feet touched shore, the aura of luminosity disappeared, and He stood before me, apparently as solid and as real as I was. But, as though He sensed that I needed physical confirmation, He stretched out His arm and put His hand on my left shoulder. The moment had come, and I was speechless.
“As I have told you, my Father has revealed to me from where and from when you come. And now, in your own words, tell me why.”
“I have come to ascertain whether or not you are the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of God. Upon ascertaining the truth, one way or the other, my instructions are to compile documented proof, incontestable evidence, so that the people of my time will know once and for all. Finally, if you were indeed the Christ, the leader of my nation asked me to ask you to give us guidance, because he isn’t sure that we’re following the right path.”
An infinite, an ineffable sorrow filled his brown eyes, eyes only two feet from my own. He shook his head sadly. “Not long ago, I saw your face in the crowd when I told the story of Lazarus the beggar and the rich man. Do you recall it?”
“Yes, I do. When both died, Lazarus went to heaven and the rich man went to hell. Across the gulf that separates the Kingdom of God from Hell, the rich man saw Abraham and Lazarus. He begged Abraham to send Lazarus to him with but a drop of water to cool his tongue, but Abraham said that he could receive no comfort, because the gulf was impassable. Then the rich man asked Abraham to at least send Lazarus to warn his five brothers, so that when they died they wouldn’t go to Hell too. Abraham refused, saying that if the brothers didn’t pay any attention to Moses and the Prophets, then they wouldn’t listen to Lazarus either. That even a man risen from the dead wouldn’t be able to persuade them.”
“Precisely. Proof …” He shook His head again. When He resumed speaking, rebuke was in His words. Rebuke and grief and heartrending disappointment. “Four of those men,” He gestured toward the apostles’ fishing boats, “will write accounts of my ministry. Have not their accounts and the rest of the Scriptures survived? Haven’t you the Gospels? Are the Scriptures not freely available, particularly in your own country?” I could only swallow hard and nod. “And yet,” He continued, His hands raised in angry frustration, “you and those who sent you seem to feel that a fifth gospel is necessary. Why not a sixth or a seventh or an eighth? What will it take?
“You are on a fool’s errand, and I say that not unkindly because your intentions are good, and to do what you have done took great courage and commitment. But it is a fool’s errand nonetheless. Don’t you understand? Whatever evidence you amass will not change the mind of a single doubter. Those whose hearts are hardened will not respond to a fifth gospel anymore than they would to the four which preceded it. The writer was deluded, they will say, or he was imagining things, or he was purposely lying. He was tricked, they will say, or the writer himself never really existed, or he was exaggerating, or any number of things to give themselves excuses to turn away from what, they know in their hearts, is the truth. You cannot ‘make’ anyone believe in anything, Aloysius Lightfoot O’Brien. For faith must be freely given.”
“I believe,” I said, hoping to ease His distress, His sorrow. But it only seemed to hurt Him even more.
“You believe because you have seen. Anyone can do that. Can’t you or your countrymen believe without seeing?”
“It is not our way,” I answered lamely.
“You and your countrymen, I fear, are very much like Thomas. You will believe only in things you can see and touch, and sometimes not even in those. You have not life and will not obtain it until you can believe without seeing. You have not believed me even when I have spoken of earthly things. What then will your reaction be if I speak of heavenly things? You would do well to take a lesson from your friend sleeping over there.” He nodded toward Bartholomew, then I spoke.
“He believed in your divinity even before we laid eyes on you. He was certain you were the Messiah the first time we heard you speak, before there was any kind of physical evidence that could be validated. His faith is childlike; it comes from his heart, not from his head.”
“Precisely. Hear me, Aloysius Lightfoot O’Brien, and mark me well. You were made in the image and likeness of God, and God is more than a Cosmic Abacus or Ethereal Scale, counting and weighing and measuring rights and wrongs. Would such a dispassionate dullard of a Being send His only begotten Son to suffer and die so that those who sinned against Him would be forgiven and attain Eternal Life?
“Hear me, and if you understand nothing else, understand this: the God, whose image man was made in, has a heart. Else what am I doing here? The Lord your God shows mercy, compassion, and love because He has a heart. So you too, made in His image, were given the capacity for all these things. So you were given a … heart. Do not ignore it, my friend; use it. Listen to it.” Jesus sighed a deep and sorrowful sigh and turned to gaze out over the Sea of Galilee, reflected brightly under the full moon. I longed to touch Him, to comfort Him, but could not. What could a man, as stupid as I had proven to be, possibly say to comfort God?
“You speak of evidence,” He said. “Two millennia after my death you still are more interested in signs and wonders than you are in what I came to tell you, more excited by the changing of water into wine or the multiplication of loaves and fishes than by the fact that I loved you enough to die for you. Miracles must be performed before you will believe. Tell me
, how many lepers must be cleansed? How many blind, deaf, diseased, and crippled must be cured before your people or the world is satisfied? Ten? Fifty? A hundred? A thousand? I came into this world, not to heal, but to die that you all might live. I came into the world to tell people how they might gain eternal life, but most seem to feel it more important that I heal the withered limbs of their temporal bodies, bodies that are here today, gone tomorrow.” His voice was drenched in sorrow. “Of what use are healthy limbs if a person loses his immortal soul?
“You put great stock in my raising Jairus’ daughter from the dead. I tell you, to raise one from the dead is an insignificant thing. I could with a few words from my lips, raise all who have ever died. It is easy. But for what purpose? For what end? I came to save the souls of all men from eternal death, and I cannot do that with words. To do that, I must die a horrible death.” He shuddered at what He saw in the near future, and the entire world, I felt, held its breath for the next few moments. I dared not break the silence. He turned back at last to face me.
“Tell me Aloysius Lightfoot O’Brian, do you honestly think that a fifth gospel will make any difference?”
Now it was I who gazed out over the water, seeing more than the water. He was right. How stupid we’d all been! How arrogant and prideful! I’d had faint glimmerings of doubt at various stages in the project but had suppressed them. A fighter pilot who was also a Chiricahua Apache can be pretty good at suppressing things, and a man always has doubts about any big mission anyway. But now, it hit me with crystal clarity and with all the momentum of a speeding freight train. I looked into those eyes and admitted it, not only to Him, but for the first time, to myself.
Fifth Gospel:The Odyssey of a Time Traveler in First-Century Palestine Page 23