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

  Bartholomew and I spent all morning at the well talking to people, for Jesus had spent some time here and had made quite an impression. It is perhaps important to point out here that, for the most part, there were no individual wells in Palestine. Water was extremely scarce and digging a well was a big undertaking. For this reason, there would usually be a single community well where the people tended to congregate, not only to draw their water, but to meet, rest for a spell, gossip, and socialize. We took a light snack and a siesta at noon, which was the custom in those days. It was after we awoke that I saw the old man approaching, and there was something about the way he walked, something about his eyes.

  “Yes, I have seen Him,” he answered in response to my question. He pointed due south. “You’ll find Him no more than a day’s journey in that direction.” His smile was so benign, so serene, and his eyes so incredibly clear. Eyeglasses were a long, long way off, so it was nearly always the case that old people squinted. One reason was simple presbyopia, a hyperopia for near vision which develops with advancing age. It results from a physiological change in the accommodative mechanism by which the focus of the eye is adjusted for objects at different distances. As a person grows older, his lens substance gradually grows less pliable and eventually can’t change shape in response to the action of the ciliary muscles. That’s why you see so many old people who aren’t wearing their glasses looking like they’re doing a trombone act when they’re trying to read. Other ways in which age can wreak havoc on the eyes is the development of cataracts, glaucoma, and spots. The man standing before me was seventy if he was a day, and his eyes were as wide and clear as those of a child.

  I had started out the day in high enough spirits but, as time had worn on, found myself drifting off, only half listening to the people we were interviewing. It may sound strange, but I’ll tell you why. True, we had talked to person after person who either had received or observed a physical healing of some sort, and true, these people had nothing to gain by lying to us about it. I did not question their sincerity; I questioned their judgment, their objectivity. Every healing we had heard of until then could have been explained in nonsupernatural terms. Every type of healing we had heard of until then was being performed by numerous faith healers in America of the 1950’s (and is still done today, I might add). I’m talking about the lame walking, the deaf hearing, and so on. Plenty of people even in twentieth century America have risen from wheelchairs, or thrown away crutches or hearing aids in faith healing services. And I know doggone good and well that none of those healers are the Messiah. How then are those people healed? As near as I can tell, all physical healings can be attributed to three broad causes. First, the person healed had never had anything physically wrong with him in the first place. As more and more research is done in the area of psychosomatic medicine, we are finding that, despite outward symptoms, there is absolutely nothing physically wrong with anywhere from ten to twelve percent of the people admitted to hospitals. Their psychogenic pain is real enough, their illness or disability real enough. But only in the sense that they believe it is real and believe they have no control over it. A charismatic authority figure, medical or religious— it makes no difference as long as the patient has complete faith in him—can therefore “cure” such a credulous and disturbed person instantly. Could some of the people I had met or heard about who were presumably cured by Jesus fall into this category? As a completely impartial observer, I had to allow for that possibility.

  There was a second and very real possibility. We know that under extreme stress or emotional turmoil, the human body becomes capable of seemingly incredible feats of strength. You see it in the violently insane. You also read about 110-pound women lifting the front ends of automobiles to free their injured children, or about ordinary people bending iron bars with their bare hands, or running or jumping enormous distances when the chips were drown and there was nothing else they could do to save their lives or the lives of those dear to them. We’re even quite used to such stories. We simply chalk them up to the amazing power of adrenalin and the wonder that is the human body. But that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Modern scientists are only now discovering and isolating even more subtle and remarkable defense mechanisms. For example, there is a certain complex biochemical compound that the body begins to manufacture under extreme pain and extraordinary emergency conditions. It’s a powerful pain killer, and its properties are strikingly similar to those of morphine. Researchers are trying to reproduce this “natural narcotic” synthetically primarily because, with the proper dosage, it can be every bit as effective as other narcotics but has the added advantage of being nonaddictive. We know now that it is probably due to its presence in the bloodstream, rather the presence of adrenalin, that makes it possible oftentimes for a man to be seriously, sometimes even mortally, wounded in combat and yet not even realize it until the battle is over. There have been cases of men running on broken legs or driving a bayonet thrust home with broken or shredded arms during the heat of battle. Even dying men have been known to summon up near superhuman strength for one last valiant act.

  Naturally, there is a price to pay when one draws strength from these marvelous biochemical wells. It’s not a free ride. As soon as the crisis is over, the effects of further strain heaped on a body already suffering from torn muscles and ligaments, loss of blood, shattered nerve endings, and fractured bones, are felt with full force, sometimes causing permanent disability or death. Could it be that these or similar biochemical phenomena are responsible for some “healings?” Could it be that, in an emotionally supercharged state, when a vibrant, forceful, and enigmatic figure lays a “healing” hand on some people, that, responding in a burst of pure faith, they unknowingly unleash or tap into these biochemical springs, enabling them to feel no pain, but instead a surge of power and exhilaration? Could this biochemical lift last for a few hours, a few days, a few weeks? As a completely impartial observer, I had to allow for that possibility too.

  The third possibility, of course, was that the healings were truly of supernatural origin. If so, from whence did this power emanate? From a munificent Creator, from the Christian God, the embodiment of Good? Or from, as the detractors of Jesus suggested, a malevolent Force of Evil, Satan? Although theologians tell us that one of Satan’s favorite tactics is misleading and deceiving people, I couldn’t figure out what his angle could be in giving enormous power and its attendant credibility to a man who spoke out so forthrightly against him, to give power to a man who told people to love their enemies. It was crazy. There was no percentage at all for Satan in a set-up like that. No, clearly if the healings were indeed supernatural, and, if Jesus continued to fulfill the prophecies concerning the Messiah as set forth in the Scriptures, then Jesus of Nazareth was exactly what be purported to be: the Son of God, the Christ.

  But that brings me right back to my point. Up until we met this old man, we’d had no clear evidence that the supernatural was involved. All of the healings we’d investigated could have been explained away in other ways. The old man’s clear eyes glowed, and his whole face was radiant with joy.

  “Yes, I have seen Him,” he repeated. “Only a week ago I was dying. Even breathing was rapidly becoming so laborious that I knew I couldn’t keep it up much longer. I had become a frail, pitiable skeleton racked with terrible, unendurable pain. For years before, I had been almost totally blind, able only to discern lightness, darkness, and shapes. I had no teeth, not a one. Any real hearing acuity had also fled years before. It was just when I was experiencing what I was certain was the final viselike tightening in my chest that I suddenly felt a strange peace flood over me. Peace, well-being, and a powerful compulsion to go outside, to the source of the peace and light. I felt a Force, a Power … ,” he shook his head. “I can scarcely begin to describe it, and, to my surprise, I was able to get to my feet! I had not been able to do that unassisted for the previous three years! I had to get outside, that’s all I knew. I groped toward the Light, trippin
g over things, yet never wavering in moving toward the Light. Then suddenly I was outside in the street in the midst of a huge and tumultuous crowd. I was being jostled around by the eagerness of a hundred bodies all with the same goal as I—to get closer to the Light. Then a woman’s voice said, ‘Make way! Let the old one through!’ I felt dozens of hands lifting me, passing me over and through the throng until I was at last lowered to the ground at the very Source of the Light. A Light brighter and warmer and purer than any I’d ever known.

  ‘“Grandfather,’ the Light said, ‘your sins are forgiven you, all of them. And, as a sign that my Father in heaven has given me the authority to do this,’ I felt His gentle but firm hand on my forehead, ‘I bid you arise and begin a new life.’ My eyes were opened instantly, and I saw Him kneeling over me. An indescribable joy washed over me, and I sprang to my feet like a boy of twenty. ‘Master,’ I said, ‘let me follow you, for you are, I know, the Light of the World.’ He lay his hand on my shoulder and addressed the now hushed crowd. ‘Do you hear this man? It is not man who has revealed this to him, but my Father in heaven.’”

  “‘Then may I come with you, Master?’ I asked. He shook his head. ‘No, grandfather. I would have you remain here as a witness that the Son of Man has passed this way, healing the sick, forgiving sins, and, to as many as received Him, giving them the power to become sons of God.’”

  The old man had finished his story. As I said before, we had already heard a number of stories similar to it, so many that listening to them had been rapidly becoming a wearisome task, not unlike that of a man working in his third week as a department store Santa Claus. But still, there was something about this man. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He stood before me smiling, displaying a set of perfect teeth … TEETH! That was it! It wasn’t so much his excellent vision that had been gnawing at me as it had been his teeth. What in the world was a man of seventy-odd years doing in first century Palestine with a set of perfect teeth?

  “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but notice your teeth. May I?” He smiled strangely, sat on the edge of the well, and opened his mouth for my examination. Evidently he was used to people asking for a look. Now, thanks to Dr. Namuh’s desire to have some of my teeth yanked out so I’d fit in better with the populace, my interest in first century dentistry had been piqued, and I’d asked Clarence to do a little research on the subject. So it was that I knew that the replacement of lost teeth with artificial ones of gold, silver, and wood was indeed done in those days, at least by the well-to-do. The very first artificial dentures were made by the Etruscans around 450 years before the birth of Jesus. They used the teeth of oxen held together by gold bands. The Phoenicians, slightly more advanced (if you want to look at it in that way), had the teeth of their slaves extracted to make dental bridges, and the bridges were held together by gold wire. The Greeks had artisans carve ivory teeth to replace lost originals. What I saw when I looked into the old man’s mouth, though, defied belief. A perfect set of thirty-two gleaming original teeth. There weren’t even any plaque or tartar deposits. I tugged and pulled and practically stuck my head in his mouth, examining them closely. They were his teeth.

  “Impossible,” I said softly.

  “They came to me at that moment He healed me. When my eyes were opened, my hearing restored, and all illness left me.” He stood up.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled, turning to look off toward the south. He began to walk away but turned and came back.

  “Son,” he smiled sadly, “you and your friend are going about this in the wrong way.”

  “About what?” I asked shortly, preoccupied and angry for having my thoughts interrupted.

  “Why, your inquiry into Jesus, of course.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I don’t mean to be critical, but if you confine your investigation to only those things that can be seen and touched, you will be missing the whole point of what Jesus has come among us to do. You see, curing my blindness, my deafness, giving me new teeth, renewing my whole body—all those things are as nothing compared to the biggest change He makes in men … He changes their hearts. He changed my heart, and my life will never again be the same. I know a peace and a joy now that is far more precious than the healing and renewal of my physical body. He has renewed my soul. That has made all the difference.” So saying, he turned and walked away. I felt a chill at the base of my skull.

  Bartholomew erupted in jubilation. “Then it is true! He is the Christ! The Anointed One!” He shouted, beaming at me. “Just think, my friend, soon we will come face to face with the Messiah!” I said nothing in reply.

  “What is the matter? We have found what we sought!”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “How can you possibly say that when—”

  “When at second and third hand strangers relate incredible things to us? When a peculiar old man tells us a tall tale?” I interrupted harshly. “You are too ready to accept, Bartholomew. You’ve already decided what you want to believe. One cannot seek truth with an attitude like that. We must deport ourselves as if we were judges in a court of law. There is much at stake here, more than you could possibly know.” He looked hurt, and I softened. “Look, Bartholomew, would the unsubstantiated testimony we’ve heard so far stand up in any court? Be reasonable, use your head, not your heart.”

  “Friend Lightfoot, isn’t your heart after all, the only court that matters?” I looked into the eyes of a man whose words I could not answer.

  “Let’s get going, Bartholomew. Southward. We should be able to get a good piece of distance behind us before the sun goes down.”

  30

  That night I lay gazing into the small campfire lost in thought. This was lunacy. First, time travel was impossible. Second, even if it were possible, no sane man would volunteer to be marooned for the rest of his life in a remote and, in many ways, still primitive province of the Roman Empire in the first century merely to scribble down notes and make observations on an itinerant Galilean preacher. Perhaps he was what he claimed to be and perhaps not. Did it really matter at all? As long as millions believed he was and followed his teachings, what did it matter? The important thing, I thought, was that men should live together in harmony, in peace. The important thing was that most people cared about justice and honor. The important thing was that most people had compassion for those less fortunate than themselves. Whether this state of affairs came about through people following the teachings of Ghandi, Confucius, Mohammed, Jesus, or whomever, was of little or no consequence. (Little did I realize at the time how radically my opinion would be altered in the coming weeks.) Well, it was too late now, I thought, sighing deeply.

  “Lightfoot,” Bartholomew said, responding to the sigh, “you’re troubled?”

  “I’m just having some trouble getting to sleep.”

  “Sometimes talking helps.”

  “And sometimes it doesn’t,” I replied irritably. At that moment, further talk with Bartholomew was the last thing I wanted. He was an O.K. little guy, but he just talked too much. I had tuned him out several hours before on the trail and had begun searching the skies for even a single jet contrail to prove that I was still in the twentieth century. In a backward and primitive place to be sure, but still in the twentieth century. Bartholomew spoke again, evidently deciding he knew what was best for me.

  “Tell me about the land you come from, what it is like, and so forth.”

  “What it is like,” I repeated, still staring into the fire. “It is a big country, and one must make a long ocean voyage to get there. Our government is similar to Rome’s, but our Senate has much more real power than the Roman Senate has in comparison to the Emperor. Our … emperor attains office by popular vote rather than through heredity. All citizens aged twenty-one or over may vote. I … don’t quite know what to say, what to tell you.” I shrugged. “There is so much to say and yet so little. We are a people like any other. We have our philosophers, our farmers, our statesmen, our merchants,
our thieves, our poets, our murderers, our architects, our teachers, our holy men and sinners, our great men of vision and courage, our knaves and fools. We are not so different from any other people in any other place or time. We just try to make it from our mothers’ wombs to our graves with as little pain and as much happiness as possible.”

  “Your land, what is it called? You haven’t yet told me.”

  “Since it is composed of a union of separate provinces, or states, we simply call it ‘The United States.’”

  “From what you say, your land seems to be much like Greece. You have your city-states and the idea of democracy.”

  “Yes and no, Bartholomew,” I said, my gloom subsiding as I found myself unexpectedly warming to the conversation. “As you undoubtedly know, the civilizations of Egypt and Sumer began with a number of independent city-states, each one a city with a few miles of dependent agricultural villages and cultivation around it, and, out of this phase, they passed by a process of coalescence into empires. But the Greek city-states, for hundreds of years, remained totally independent; they did not coalesce. Even though the Greeks shared a common language and a common heritage, they had no strong feeling of national identity. They thought of themselves as Athenians or Spartans or whatever first and foremost. It took nothing short of a revolt against King Darius and the mighty Persian Empire to finally unite them.