Epiphany Part I.

Epiphany Part I

I

T was the fifteenth year of the rule of Tiberias, on a day when Venus stood in Aquarius that John the Baptiser awoke, feeling his muscles and sinews taut, his mind awake and alert and his heart calm.

The sun had popped up out of its desert crib to cast its fiery eye over Israel and to beat upon the brows of men and the backs of beasts. Each day he faced this sun, standing waist deep in that freezing river, observing with an unfaltering eye the whirling tumult of dead thoughts and sins that were discharged into the river from the souls of those whom he baptised. Each day he wondered where the strength would come for his work and each day he was given the forces necessary. But this day something was altered. In himself he felt it, the nearness of the fulfilment of his task, accompanied by a strange bewilderment…since he found himself desiring to forestall it!

In this mood he left his hut of rushes to say his prayers to the God of Israel and to perform his ablutions before taking himself to that little bend in the river near Bethany, situated in the lower Jordan. 

Large crowds came to be baptised and he worked for hours without pause, looking into each soul to determine its measure and value, dividing the lambs from the vipers. Near the midpoint of the day the leaders of these vipers arrived at the river, a deputation of priests and Levites upon asses preceded by a retinue of guards whose swords caught the bold sunlight and reflected their sharp sting into John’s eyes. They pushed aside the crowds to allow the priests to come to shore.

Well…well…his words had moved across the land, so that even the Temple in Jerusalem had heard of him! He was pleased for the sake of his task.

He said to them, ‘The Masters of the ancient wisdom of the snake, the brood of vipers, the initiates of Lucifer, have come!’

One Pharisee said from his high position, ‘We are here on behalf of the Sanhedrin, to ask you some questions.’

‘Questions?’ the baptiser said, looking about with mockery in his eye. ‘If you come asking questions concerning laws that are written in books, you will not find anything here to satisfy you. I do not answer to laws that indicate this or that to be right or wrong. I answer only to the power that exists in every man to know right from wrong in his own heart!’

‘Heresy!’ the Pharisee said, ‘A son of Abraham must follow the laws of Moses!’

The Baptist looked at him with flares for eyes. ‘You make much of having Abraham for a father, but this alone does not make you worthy! Your body of flesh is like the stones at your feet…in the same way that you can pick up any of these stones and make them yours…God can make any man, a child of Abraham.’

Gasps came from the priests. Rants, and raves and astonishment filled the air. ‘You dare to say, any man can be a child of Abraham! Any man can enter the lineage of the blood tree of your forebears, which is sanctified by God!’

The Baptist roared like a lion at them, ‘Why do you call on this dying tree! God has given me the axe–and I will cut it down!’ He pointed to the people and cried, ‘Israel! This tree no longer bears good fruit!’

The delegation was turned over into a rumble of voices. The guards stood at the ready with their weapons.

‘Jerusalem!’ He pointed at the delegation. ‘Your laws and your knowledge were brought to you by way of Moses, but the time of these laws is finished now! Soon, grace and truth will come into the world by way of the anointed one. He will descend to earth so that the blind sons of Israel may see Him! But only those who can hear the voice of conscience in their hearts will recognise him!’  

The rabbis, priests and the Levites talked in an excited fashion among themselves, shaking their heads and distorting their countenances. They could not agree. Meanwhile in the crowds, a man called out to John,

‘But how shall we become good men? What is this voice you speak of, that is in the heart?’

John the Baptiser answered, ‘Do you not shrink to see others cold or hungry? Do you, who have much, not hear a voice that tells you to help those who have little? This voice speaks tenderly in the wilderness of your soul, and it will say to you: he who has two coats, let him share with him who has none; and he who has meat, let him do likewise.’

Then a publican called out, ‘But what of our livelihood?  We have to earn a living, from shelter and food! What will you have us do? Give men a bed, and a bowl of soup for free, to be good?’

‘Listen to the voice, it will say: Do not ask for more than is rightfully yours.’

And the soldiers, who were Herod’s men and had come with the priests and Levites, asked him, ‘How can we soldiers be good men, if we must use a sword and accuse others for our wages?’

John the Baptist told them, ‘The voice will say: do not do violence to any man and do not accuse another falsely. What you do, must be good and right, if you are to take to yourself your wages and be content.’

‘Who are you?’ Another Pharisee called out, ‘Are you the Messiah?’

John knew these questions needed to be asked, to prevent confusion in the people’s minds, and so he answered, ‘Listen to me…all of you…know that I am not the Christ. He shall come after me!’

‘Do you say that you are Elijah, then?’ Another priest said.

John shook his head, ‘I am sent in the spirit of Elijah.’

‘But it is said, that a prophet will come before the Messiah comes, are you not that prophet?’

‘I have told you…do not look at me, look for that other who will come!’

‘Who do you say that you are? We must return to tell those who have sent us, the council of great men at the Sanhedrin,’ that same Pharisee said.

‘Tell them, that I am the voice of the soul, crying in solitude, cut off from the likes of those who hold fast to the blood of Abraham. I am the free voice, without a folk, who seeks Him who comes to sustain me!’

‘Why do you preach repentance and baptise, and make pure men, if you are not a Prophet, or Elijah, or the Messiah?’ A Levite gave back.

‘I baptise with water, but there stands one among you that you do not recognise. He has the forces derived from a higher source than mine! He is mightier than I, for I am not worthy to stoop down to unloosen even the laces of his sandals. I baptise you with water. I do this in preparation for Him, who will baptise men not with water, but with the Holy Spirit fire!’

‘Is he here?’

John’s heart was full with joy, ‘I feel he is among us!’

The priests looked about them.

Each man searched his neighbour.

‘Where is he?’ they asked.

‘You shall not see Him until He makes himself known to you.’

The priests mocked him and said he was a madman. They told the crowds that no man should believe such lies and with their dispositions proud, gathered to them the reins of their animals, and took themselves and their soldiers from the shores of the river. But two members of the Sanhedrin remained behind, and sat among the crowds. John sensed that these men had been touched by his words.

After that, he continued with his work until the sun reached its zenith, and the crowds began, as was their custom, to disperse for the midday meal. Now standing alone in the chilling water, he saw a man step forward and come to the edge of the river.

He put a hand up over his eyes to see, for the sun’s rays were shimmering on the surface of the river, blinding him.

He recognised the man’s form and the contours of his face. How bright did the sun shine at that moment! As if it’s body were leaning over to touch the river! John squinted, and still he could not see, and yet he did see. This was a man he knew, and yet, it was not simply that he saw a man he knew, for this man, whom he had met at Qumran, seemed not to be there at all, but in his place was a soul that he recognised in its essential foundations. It was as if he were looking at his own reflection, a part of himself, long lost and forgotten. Did this soul that came towards him not seem like the youngest, and purest, soul in the world? And was this not the opposite of his own soul, which felt to him ancient, cracked, and used up, like an old jug emptied of its contents?

His heart near burst with the mighty impression this thought created, and his eyes filled with tears, and he let go his staff into the water.

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SCORPION~EAGLE - Excerpt from Fifth Gospel - a Novel

SCORPION~EAGLE

T

HEY came into Bethany and Judas followed last of all, his mind full of strange thoughts. The sun began to drop its bruised body into the godforsaken hills as they neared the township, and the men were weary, having travelled since yesterday.

It was now more than three days since word had reached them of Lazarus’ worsening sickness, and all feared that he was by now dead. But Judas was not concerned for it, something else made his brow dark and his eyes aflame. That spirit, which had plagued him these many months, had begun to make a way into his head and he could feel it, rearranging the rooms of his mind. It wrapped around his heart to combine his disappointments, his hate and his lust, into a poisoned leaven for his limbs.

For months now, he had waited for Jesus to bring back the glory days of the Maccabees, but benevolence and kindness, patience and love were all that he had offered. In Judas’ mind, all the deeds of salvation, enacted so inconspicuously by Jesus, whatever they might be, were worthless. Words of compassion and tolerance were not enough to change the world; only the sword could change it. Blood for soil! It had taken him time to see it, but finally Judas had realised that Jesus was not the Messiah. For revolution and war were not accomplished by a man deliberate in his desire to change nothing, but to leave all men free.

The other disciples spoke of Jesus as the Son of Man. They spoke of how he had fed thousands, how he had quietened storms, and produced otherworldly transfigurations of his being. For his part, Judas had seen nothing of it, and yet he had been with them always. How could they have seen what he had not? He supposed that they had seen dreams…only dreams…and even now none of them could see what he could see: that even in his body, once so youthful and strong, Jesus was less vigorous and obviously headed for decay, like a wasted old man.

But something more had stirred his hate, and made his rebellious spirit rip at his soul: a fire-laden desire had grown in Judas for the woman whom Jesus had named Magdalena.

From the first, he had disliked her brother, the Hellenistic youth, Lazarus, whose life was lived in luxury and privilege and whose soul was the opposite of his. However, in Magdalena, Judas had sensed something akin to his own restlessness, a soul full of dammed up passions. But it was not only her soul which drew him. The woman’s unparalleled beauty had stirred his loins–a beauty which time, and again, betrayed her attempts to mortify it, or to conceal it. For no matter how many veils the woman wore, or how coarse was the garment draped over her shoulders, a fundamental note of allure was plucked from the instruments of his manhood each time he saw her, and he would have the song played in full!

Each night, his daily thoughts rose up into the ecstasy of dreams full of the consummation of their mutual passion. In his dreams, she wanted him with a near crazed desperation, which fired his virility and turned the seed inside him and churned the waters of his soul.

During those long months apart from her, when the women were sent to Bethany for their safety, and the disciples were sent out, two by two, into the villages to announce the coming of the Kingdom, Judas’ lust had matured and curdled in the darkness of his soul, so that by the time he returned to the rich youth’s house, with the other disciples, it sought, by any means, to find its satisfaction. What dread force of hate had he felt then, on finding that in his absence, a love had grown between Magdalena and Jesus? A love that others said was warm, and calm of heart, full of wide spheres, and generous pastures, which cared nothing for itself but sought only the welfare of another.

A love he did not understand!

He suffered when he saw how Magdalena’s eyes were full of devotion, for a man who would never take her in his arms and ignite her womanly passions.

Even Simon-Peter had seen it, and had asked Jesus,

‘Why do you love her more than all of us?’

‘Think of it like this, Peter: I am the light of the world and your soul receives my light, my love, according to its capacity to see and to receive it. Magdalena’s soul has more capacity than yours, and for this reason she receives more love than you.’

Judas, blinded by anger, schemed and schemed.

Many of the disciples were simple fishermen and they did not know that Jesus had in the past months revealed secrets of initiation to ordinary people. The betrayal of these secrets was punishable by death and it was for this reason that the Pharisees and Sadducees sought vehemently to find witness of it. Judas would use this to his advantage, an advantage that became clearer at Perea, where Jesus finally unveiled his reason for leaving his ailing favourite, Lazarus, behind.

When Jesus told his worried disciples that Lazarus’ sickness was not unto death, but only a sleep, that his sleep was for the glory of God, Judas put two and two together: Lazarus was not dying, but undergoing an initiation, and this was the reason why Jesus waited a day before returning to Bethany, since the initiation must last three days.

Jesus wanted to make a show of his power near to Jerusalem; not those powers that had made possible the raising of the dead boy at Nain, but something more. Jesus would show to all men what lived only in the deepest recesses of the mystery temples:  the raising of an initiate from the tomb, from the underworld of the dead!

Everything now made sense. Throughout their time in Perea, when Jesus spoke of the good shepherd who gives life to his sheep, he was pointing to himself, as the priest, who is the awakener of initiates; when he had spoken of other sheep which were not of the fold, but which the shepherd must bring forth with a call, he had been speaking of Lazarus. But when Jesus had said that he and the Father were one, Judas recognised these as mystery words. Words that meant a priest was ready to use the forces of the Father, that is, to awaken the body of an initiate, and to raise him from his Temple Sleep.

No man came to the Father, that is, no man returned to the physical body from the three-day initiation sleep, except through a priest! 

Jesus was not a priest! This would be enough to destroy him.

When they came now near Bethany, some furlongs from the township, they passed that desolate place of burial, the tombs that were set into the walls of the hills. Here, near what they called the house of rest, many men stood mourning, without their women, as was the custom. The sun was near gone over the land, and made long shadows of those dry hills. The mourners turned to see Jesus, and rushed to tell him of Lazarus. Soon, Andrew was sent to fetch Martha. The woman came in her drab attire of lament and with her face the colour of ashes. She fell at Jesus’ feet and told him that Lazarus was dead. She said that had Jesus had been here he could have prevented his death by performing a miracle. She said her sister Magdalena was full of grief and was sat as still as death in the house, waiting for him to come.

Judas watched Jesus carefully, in his face was written pain for her sorrow and something other, which he did not discern. Jesus told Martha that Lazarus was not dead, for he was the resurrection and the life, and all who believed in him, though they were dead, would live. After that she fell on her knees and affirmed that he was Christ, the Son of God.

He said to her, ‘Tell Magdalena I call her. That she must arise, for I need her by my side.’ 

She took herself away then, and many came to gather around. Judas heard them mumbling, that if this was the man who had cured a blind man and lepers, and had cast out demons why had he not prevented Lazarus from dying? As they speculated on what he might do, from out of the sun’s vanishing luminance there emerged the figure of Magdalena.

Judas saw only her face, gazing out from that mourning veil, streaked with tears. What a face it was! Did her tears seem to him to be tears of joy or mourning? He could not tell. She was inscrutable. His blood made skips in his veins. He was restless. He waited for her to glance his way. He beckoned her to look just once.

The women of the town, who had followed Magdalena’s steps, now came upon the place where Jesus stood with his disciples. They wept and pulled at their clothes, while Magdalena fell at Jesus’ feet – without so much as a fidget of glance in Judas’ direction.

He waited. Quiet fell over the day, save the groaning and moaning of the mourners.

‘Had you been here, my brother would not have died!’ she said to him. But her words were spoken differently, for in them, Judas noted a tone of thankfulness that Jesus had not come sooner! Tears fell from her eyes. Were these tears of joy?

When Jesus saw it, he raised Magdalena’s chin with his hand and Judas saw then what passed between them, and this awakened in him a realisation. Rage and discontent surged through him, and he could taste gall in his spit. He wanted to howl like an animal for the anguish of it – not only for its intimacy, which must be clear to all, but also for its complicity, since he now understood that Magdalena was in some way entangled in Lazarus’ initiation.  

His bowels were full of thorns, and his spit was sour.

‘Where have you laid him?’

Jesus’ voice was soft and tender. His eyes were full with tears and Judas knew that he was harnessing a force of love in his heart, a force that would raise his pupil from his death trance.

Even those who were not his disciples sensed it, and said, ‘Look how Jesus loves Lazarus!’

Magdalena showed him the grave, covered with a great round stone.

Would he do it now? Judas leaned his mind in his direction, daring him to do it.

Jesus walked to the grave and paused before it, looking troubled. He turned and his eyes fell on Judas. Judas felt a gasp come, for it was as if Jesus had seen in that moment all of his thoughts.

Jesus turned around again, and said, ‘Take away the stone.’

Martha was alarmed, ‘But Lord! By this time there will be a smell, for he has been dead near four days.’

Jesus said to her, ‘Martha, did I not just say to you, that if you believed, you would see God glorified in Lazarus?’

Martha lowered her eyes, ‘Yes, Lord.’

When the men rolled away the heavy stone, and returned to the crowds, the people immediately put the corners of their garments about their faces to fend off the smell.

But there was no smell.

Jesus raised his eyes, and said, ‘Father, I thank you. That my word is one with you in spirit, and that you hear me always, but because of the people who stand by, I will say it out loud, that they too might hear how the Word, your Son, is in me, so that they might believe, that you have sent Him to me, and that through Him you and I are one!’

Judas knew, that by saying this, Jesus wished to reveal how in himself lived the Word, the Son of the Father, which he would make enter into Lazarus’ soul, to awaken him.

‘Lazarus come forth!’ resounded the forbidden words.

Nature drew a breath. Above, came the sound of a great eagle, making its noises as it rose upwards over the mountains, circling the skies, and falling away into the melting sun of day’s end.  The world followed it, and Judas also followed it as it soared aloft and died away. A thought came then, foreign to his experience: why could he not be like that bird, basking in the light of the sun with hopeful abandon? Must he live always like a scorpion, fearing the sun?

But this self-understanding was short-lived, for upon hearing a round of gasps, his concentration was now returned to see the beloved of Jesus, the initiate, coming from out of the black mouth of the cave, bound with graveclothes.

‘Loosen him, and let him go!’ Jesus told the women.

Martha, shocked, remained behind. Only Magdalena went to Lazarus to help. After that, Jesus, thronged by all those who had come to the burial place, was swept away to Bethany, but not before turning once more to look upon Judas.

That glance made a path clear from Judas’ head to his heart. He was standing upon the soil of freedom, between his hope and his fear. Here, it seemed to him, was his last occasion to love this man; to love him despite his urge to betray him; to recognise his greatness, despite his impulse to follow his destiny.

But he could not.

The eyes, multicoloured and endless-deep, held and held him, until they held no more. Gasping, with his head turning in circles, Judas was let go, and he sat upon a rock to get his breath back. After a moment he rose to make his way to Bethany, his eyes tethered to the ground.   

High above him, the eagle scooped wind with its wings and circled him, its eye ranged the sky…its gaze was upon him, unblinking, open, shut, perfect...

But Judas did not see it. He told himself,

‘The time for pruning has come!’

On Writing in Chaos and other Necessary Habits.

Well, I have just finished The Sixth Key, my latest book, and as usual, basking in the warm, afterglow of publisher approval and editorial self-satisfaction, I turn a little reflective. I do this with every book. I like to retrace the creative impulse; to look back at those early drafts trying to remember  those difficult first pages, those anxieties, those self-doubts and sleepless nights, like a woman who gives birth looks back on nine moths of indigestion, varicose veins, swollen legs, urinary frequency and light-headedness - wistfully and happily. She would do it all again to have that baby in her arms! 

   Conception in all its manifestations is the result of a creative impulse from the father and a receptive gathering up and a combining of this impulse by the mother, with the germ that is inside her. In the physical sense one generally knows when one conceives and who has contributed to this magnificent creation. But for an author, in fact any artist I would dare to venture, it is by and large a mysterious, magical process. Inspiration enters in and then one conceives - 'the Idea'. It bubbles up from some strange fount and one has to have the presence of mind to combine this 'idea' with one's abilities and skills in order to create the 'ideal' or else it dries up and dies, like a seed that falls on barren ground.

  Every author will tell you that he or she has developed little habits over long years of practice,  mechanisms proven to help in the conjuring forth of those magical words and those brilliant sentences. Habits which, they will tell you, must never be altered or dispensed with, lest terrible, unthinkable consequences befall them. In fact many writers are as superstitious as old sailors. Break a ritual, change a routine and who knows what calamities may be unleashed upon the fragile little vessel sailing through the wide and turbulent sea of inspiration? Bad luck, you see, is waiting just around the corner in the form of Writer's Block' personified as a grim-reaper holding a scythe, barring the way to that paradise that awaits every writer over that dreaded threshold known as the 'Dead-Line'. On this side lies a ruined reputation, a nervous breakdown and the inevitable return of an already spent advance, on the other  side is the possibility of recognition and perhaps, who knows, even financial independence? Ha ha!
  I have  always been fascinated by how writers write and before I divulge my own writing secrets, I thought I would share some of the habits of other writers.
  Stephen King has his own 'Den' which is off limits and in which he writes at least ten pages a day without interruption.  Earnest Hemingway wrote in the early hours of the morning when everyone was asleep; Vladimir Nabokov wrote standing up; Truman Capote lying down; Richard Powers in bed; Junot Diaz in the bathroom perched on the edge of the tub with his notebook; Hilary Mantel of "Wolf Hall" fame jumps in the shower if she has a problem (something I also do!); while Victor Hugo wrote naked and William Wordsworth composed out loud to his dog - if it barked he knew a revision of his work was necessary!
  What about me, where and how do I write? Well, Temple of the Grail and The Seal were both written while my children were very young and so I wrote in my husband's study in the early evenings or when my son was at school and my daughter took her nap. I wrote on a very old lap top but in those days there was no internet as such and so when my daughter was a toddler she spent a lot of her waking hours in libraries! Whether through necessity or ability I've always been able to write in the midst of the chaos of family life, that is, before and after P and C meetings, around car pooling, piano lessons, HSC exams, parent teacher interviews and concerts, house renovations, helping with homework and while cooking dinner sometimes!
  When it came to writing The Sixth Key things had to change - or so my husband told me. I had a new publisher and a tight deadline to meet - a deadline that he called 'mission impossible' with a grin on his face that could have led to dire marital discord had it not come with a dose of practical help. He bought me a very compact lap top and suggested that we go to our little boat tethered to a good marina in order to escape the drudgery of house work and the obvious distractions that had always plagued me. Why not? He said. After all, the children were now older and independent. 
  I wasn't totally convinced - but thought I'd give it a go.
  So each morning I packed a dozen or more books into a bag gathered up my laptop and our dog and a coffee on the way and we set off for uncharted territory - the territory of silence and inspirational bliss. It would be my own Nepal, a tranquil paradise of unlimited contemplative surrender.
  Actually, for a time it was just that. I spent the cold winter months on our sunny boat working to the sound of the gentle lapping of waves, the calling of sea gulls and the sounds of boat engines chugging over the bay. Sometimes I listened to music - soundtracks mostly, writing solidly for about seven hours only breaking for lunch. My only distractions were the odd friendly boating neighbour, who, upon walking past would call out either, 'How many pages now?'  and 'What's the book about?' or 'Is it about boats because I would buy it if it was about boats!' However sooner or later life does have a way of pulling you in, and chaos, my old friend, returned via technology - Mobile phone and emails - at all times of the day! I'll leave it to your imagination!
   But setting that aside, How do I write, what is the process you might ask? Well every book has been the same in this respect, it usually starts out with a question. In this case it was: What is the connection between the Apocalypse of St John, the Templars and the Cathars in the South of France? It then evolved into what did Otto Rahn have to do with them and with the mystery surrounding Rennes-le-Chateau? When I have my question I set out to answer it. I write in one large block without looking back. I don't formally plan anything, just small sketches of ideas. I do a lot of doodling and one day I'll show you just how much! Of course I do know who my characters are going to be, roughly, and what the story will be about but I allow the characters to tell me what to do next and that way each chapter leads into the next one and I never really know the story so its fresh. In fact in my office at home, which looks out to sea I have a note taped to the wall which says: 
  'This book must be written in the same way an organism arises: one thought grows out of a previous thought, a chapter out of a previous chapter.'
  I usually write the end first, strangely enough. The end is usually at the beginning and it meets itself again at the end - somehow - but I never know how! This means that what arises in the middle has to connect the two - and it always miraculously does! For the Sixth Key I had three concurrent interweaving time-lines and I only had to do some minor tweaking at the end! My motto is to stay open minded and to not allow habits to alter my flexibility. Perhaps that is my habit!
  To sum it up, every writer has his or his own way of getting through the various writing stages until finally we are all faced with that inevitable, nerve racking moment when our words say goodbye and walk out of the house to live in the hearts of readers who may or may not be kind to them! 
  I do miss my characters and I often go to my bookshelf to pull out The Seal so as to visit with Etienne or Jourdain, or else I pull out Temple of the Grail to listen to Christian and Andre arguing about heresy. When I do, I have an added bonus - I recall exactly what was happening at the time I wrote something. I remember that at a particular point in my writing my son was composing a piece of music for his final exams and that my daughter was rehearsing for a play. I will always remember where I was in The Sixth Key when my daughter called about her orthodontist appointment; when my son rang looking for the Teriaki tuna recipe; when a fellow 'boaty' came aboard for a cup to tea and a chat or when I helped to organise a petition. 

  I look back at fifteen years of writing and I can honestly say that not a lot has changed! I'm still writing around the chaos of life with all its minor disasters, joys and frustrations - and I admit that I wouldn't have it any other way!

Pentecost - Excerpt from Fifth Gospel - A Novel.

‘And the Pentecost?’ I asked.

‘Well, pairé, as you know, on the tenth day after the Lord’s ascension, His disciples were assembled again at the cenacle to observe the ancient festival of Pentecost. The celebrations had lasted all night and it was near sunrise when a wind entered the city. This was that ancient wind called Ruach and it moved over the colossal bridge, sweeping through archways and forcing its way through the streets until it made a rise to the upper room where they were gathered.

‘Ruach, Elohim, Aur! Breath, Elohim, Light!

‘This is the Holy Spirit!’ I said.

‘Yes, pairé, and the disciples had heard the roar of it before, on the night of their Lord’s sacrifice. When it entered the room it swept over the mother of the Lord, and she became a pillar of fire before their eyes; a fire whose cool flames swathed them in good will.

‘Yes Lea! This is like our consolamentum, this is the consoler!’

‘It came through the mother because it was her task to unite even those who were not kin by blood…this is the community of the future, pairé, which Christ Jesus had said Peter would lead.’

‘I remember now! How the water had tasted of wine at the marriage of Cana…yes…a marriage, where the husband and wife were not kin! I remember now what he said about the fish swimming together as one!’

‘You remember well, pairé, but do you know what it means? It means, that it does not matter what blood a man possesses, what nation or race he belongs to, if his soul has married the spirit, then he can unite with others who have done the same.’

I took a moment to understand it. ‘Why does the church of Peter not recognise this spirit of the Pentecost, then? Why do they persecute us because we have a reckoning of it?’

‘Because they fear it, pairé.’

‘Why do they  fear it?’

‘Because if all men believed they could come close to God without a priest or a church…they would fall into error.’

Yes…this was the same reason why the church of Rome would not allow the translation of the bible into the vernacular; why only priests could own a bible without incurring punishment.   

DO NOT TOUCH ME! - Excerpt from Fifth Gospel - A Novel.

DO NOT TOUCH ME!

I

N the early hours before day rise, the mother of the Lord and the other women went to the rock-hewn tomb in  Joseph’s garden, to see to the proper anointing of their master’s body. Magdalena was late in following, and she had not yet reached the garden when she was met by the mother and the others returning from the tomb. They told her that on arriving they had found the tomb open and empty. In and around the tomb, they had seen visions of angels who had said their lord was already risen, and that they must look for him among the living.

Magdalena full of concern, returned with the others to the cenacle to tell the men and found only Lazarus-John with Simon-Peter in the upper room.

Upon seeing them, Simon-Peter came directly to the Lord's Mother, to beg her forgiveness. He recounted how on the night of Passover he had fled the court of Caiaphas, and that afterwards he had denied his Lord three times for fear of his life. Because of this, full of shame, he had gone to Olivet, where he found a cave. In it he had slept fitfully, until awakened by an overwhelming effulgence – the brilliant form of his master illuminating the gloom of his cave! His master told him to go and tell the others what he had seen.  

The Mother of the Lord now recounted what the women had seen: angels, rolled away stones, and an empty grave. Full of wonder, the men resolved to see it for themselves and took themselves out of the city with Magdalena following in their train. 

By the time the three of them arrived at the tomb, a red-gold promise of sunrise lay on the margins of the horizon. Lazarus-John, carrying the lamp, was first through the low door of the sepulchre and he told them what he saw: a great gash in the earth, a deep cleft had opened up, and now the linen cloths were lying on one side of it, and the head napkin on the other.

Simon-Peter, having by now entered the sepulchre himself, confirmed that the grave was empty. There followed some discussion between them and not knowing what they should do, they left to find the other disciples.

Magdalena remained behind.

Alone, at the entrance to the sepulchre, a deep sense of loss beckoned tears from her eyes; her master was gone, his body was not found, and she did not know how he could return without it.  Not having seen the angels like the others, she wanted to know it for herself. She watched the sun rise over the hills and when it cast its benevolent rays on the mouth of the tomb, she braced herself and dared to look inside.

She gasped.

Lit up by the birthing light were two angels, one at the head of the great stone bier and the other at the foot of it.

Woman, why do you weep?

She harnessed her mind to answer. ‘Because they have taken away my Lord and I know not where they have taken him!’

Fearful, she turned to go, but there was a man standing before her, haloed by sun. She did not know him, but he seemed full of the power of bourgeoning and sprouting life –  as if he were a gardener, a planter, or a cultivator. To see him made her hope that he might know where her master’s body might be.

He took the words from out of the mouths of the angels,

‘Woman, why do you weep?’

‘Sir, if you have borne his body from here, tell me where you have laid it, and I will take him away.’

The man now called her by her old name, ‘Mary!’

The memory of her master’s words rose up into her thinking:

Unite with the bridegroom in the bridal chamber of your heart, and from this union will arise in you a knowledge of Who I Am!

Her eyes saw Him now! The youthful body of Jesus, in all its flawless fullness!

‘Master!’ She moved to go to him, but he forestalled her.

‘Touch me not, dear Magdalena, for it will pollute me, the mystery is not yet consumed. Christ must yet unite fully with me. Go, tell the others to wait, tell them not to be sorrowful, for I will soon come to them!’

Joyful and obedient, she ran all the way back to the cenacle.

GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL - Excerpt from Fifth Gospel - A Novel

 

He was in the Garden with his heart full of woe, for he did not know if any of his followers, even his chosen ones, would be capable of remaining awake with him during his tempestuous struggle with death.

He looked to heaven: the wolf was biting at the moon and clouds were covering her face. He remembered that temptation in the wilderness those years ago, and recognised the feeling of dread that was come upon him.

The wind paused – a reprieve.

It was a moment stolen from out of the stream of time. Soon his agony would begin, but not yet…for now the part of him that was a man, took in the smells of the night and the aroma of wild roses. It recalled to his mind a tale spoken with his mother’s voice, of a Nightingale that loved a white rose and sang the most beautiful songs to it, but only from afar, for fear of its thorns. One night, beneath the swollen moon, having drunk her fill of song and emboldened by love, the Nightingale resolved to embrace the rose. Clasping it to her breast, she was pierced through by a thorn, and yet she sung the most beautiful song she had ever sung; a song of sacrifice and true love found, pressing the thorn closer and closer to her heart. When she died the rose mourned, and stained with her heart’s blood, the rose forever bloomed red.

He thought on his mother, dead so many years and yet so alive in his stepmother. He thought of Yeshua, dead and yet hovering over him always. He reflected on the mystery of love and leaned his heart toward Jerusalem, which stood deathly pale and shivering in the scant moonlight. He had embraced her and sung his love-song to her, and still she did not love him. Soon, she would pierce him with her thorn and he would stain the world with his blood!

His sadness was a deep well, and yet lofty was his love, which was higher than life. For what was the heart of a bird, compared to the heart of a man? And what was the passion of a man, compared to the passion of a god? He looked up. The cold moon died away, and the man’s thoughts became the thoughts of the God.

‘The hour is come,’ he said to himself, and prayed for strength.

The wind began its stirring. Time established its dominion over the world. His body resumed its work, dissolving in pain and he knelt on the ground in what he knew were death throws. He felt the cold breath of death near his cheek, and he shivered.

‘Father in heaven, help them to remain awake!’

But they were faltering. He knew this because the Holy Spirit was loosening from him. Soon he would be alone and he did not know if he would be strong enough to hold back the tide of his godhood beyond this hour.

‘Simon-Peter!’ he cried. ‘Watch with me!’

There was no answer.  

And yet…he was not alone.

From the wind came a whisper of the blue Archangel, Satan.

‘Greetings, Son of God! You have lasted longer than I expected in that wretched temple. But rejoice! I have come to unlock the door and to let you out!’

‘You mean you have come to ensnare me in your prison!’ he said to him.

The God of Death seized him tenderly by the head, to peer into his eyes. ‘Son of God, Alpha and Omega, Lamb of Lambs! You are deluded! Do you not see how much I love you? Look around you, where are your disciples? The moon herself hides her face and leaves you in darkness. Even the Holy Ghost is taking to its heels, without so much as a god-speed! I alone have remained at your side in this dark hour, and I come to bring you sleep, and rest, and comfort!’

Satan’s blue, claw-like wings began to enfold him, but he prised them away.

‘Leave me be! I will die in freedom!’

‘Stop joking, for God’s sake! There is no freedom in dying, only the necessity of the Father, and I am his master craftsman! You might be His son by name, but you are a son to me, by nature! You are stubborn, and full of longing…like I am! Come then, give your father a kiss...now or later, what does it matter?’

His breath drew near.

‘Get away! If this body is to pass from me before my task is accomplished, then let it be God’s will, not yours!’ 

The angel sighed, filling the whole world with shadows. ‘You wanted earthly life, you stooped to drink from my fountain – and you have drunk it dry! Now your flesh is drunk and your soul is drunk and you must succumb to my will! Let me take you home before you hurt yourself. Forget those fools you love…they have already forgotten you, for they do not love you like I do. The truth is that when I come into a room, memory goes out the door. You see, memory is a whore…she loves the man who pays her the most, and my purse is always full!’

Christ Jesus took in a breath and Satan slipped into it, filling the span of his lungs. Satan would have him breathe out, but he would not. When he could stand it no more, his out-breath gave wings to Satan’s words,

‘I die!’

 At that moment, the moon’s dark spectres floated away from her. Demons and ghosts and phantoms were drawn to him like vultures to dead meat. They came down in the gusts of wind to encircle and enfold him in their shadows, called forth by Satan’s words in him.

Stripped bare of the living forces of the Holy Spirit by that creature’s power over his disciples, he could not prevent the mighty force of Christ from entering to the very bones. This was Satan’s realm, the bones, and here death would seize him too soon, before the performance of his sacrifice.

An ice-like pain tore through him now. He could feel the heavenly power invade his organs, it began to macerate his liver and spleen, burning holes in his lungs, erupting into his heart and bladder and brain. It broke through the walls of those earthly veins with such power that it flooded the cup of his tissues, making blood seep through the pores of his skin and from his eyes. Could he feel it in his bones?

He was knocked down by it, and fell with his face in the dirt.

The world turned.

The wind dropped.

A sudden quiet fell over the grotto.

Would he die now?

Upon the midnight hour, in the garden of good and evil, the struggle of life with death made a pause.

A sublime effulgence, a subtle warmth descended, melting away the coldness of death. This gold-giving radiance gathered into the sparkling, shimmer-glowing form of an angel – the angel of John the Baptist. He bent life’s cup to Christ Jesus’ lips and let him drink the nectar that would bring strength and life and vigour to his wasted body.

The moon’s old forces were obliged then, to unwind from him and to scurry away. A shriek was heard in the bowels of the world and the blue archangel of death fell back into the shadows. Satan had not succeeded. The moment had passed. The Christ in him had not entered the bones and Jesus had not succumbed to death – for now.

Relief washed over him. He would go on to accomplish his deed.