Reluctant Messiah

Reluctant

Messiah

by

Trevor Steele

Published by Mondial at Smashwords.

Copyright © Mondial and Trevor Steele, 2011

Published by Mondial at Smashwords.

All rights reserved.

The cover image shows an old road in Galilee.

Photograph by Mark A. Wilson (2009).

ISBN (This Electronic Edition): 9781595691972

ISBN (Paperback Edition): 9781595691736

www.mondialbooks.com

For David, Katja, and Libby

CONTENTS

Cardinal Legrand goes for a drive

Introduction

The first years

The boy

A catastrophe and a decision

Years of obscurity

Learning and hesitating

Life as a monk

The Jewish Scriptures: a cry for help

Among the people

The wandering preacher

Triumph of a glorious illusion

What followed

Afterword from the publisher

Cardinal Legrand goes for a drive

Chester Legrand put on non-ecclesiastical clothing and set off in his car. He just had to get away from Rome for a while. His new job had been easy enough until that horrible book appeared. What was the title? A Reluctant Messiah? The Reluctant Messiah? No, he recalled, it had no article, just Reluctant Messiah.

It was a long, nerve-tingling drive before he escaped from the city. Driving in Rome might be an interesting way of dicing with death, but lately he had had enough hassles, especially with that book.

Yes, I really do love the Church, mused the cardinal. The love affair started way back when I was a poverty-stricken black boy in Georgia, where most of the blacks are Baptists. My own folk were, fortunately, Catholic, and the parish priest got me a scholarship to attend a Catholic boarding school. I was in high school when the Roncalli pope, John XXIII, started blowing away the cobwebs of two thousand years. While other young blacks were marching behind Martin Luther King, I was studying to be a priest, then was sent to Rome to further my work on Church history while they were protesting against the war in Vietnam. At the time it amused some colleagues in Rome that a man with a black face could speak fluent Latin, Church Latin, of course, not that complex Ciceronian version. I became an honorary member of ELC, European Latinised Catholics, our answer to the WASPs.

Yes, the Church took care of all my material needs, gave me a career as a teacher in my old seminary, and above all a cause to fight for. How many books have I written on Church history? Eight, nine? And they have sold well, thanks to my elegant style. I have paid back my debts, I have been a good team man. Outsiders have little idea how hard it can be to present the Church’s case in many historical settings. But I managed to present orthodoxy as sanity against all the early heresies. The crusades are hard to present as idealistic endeavours to a modern readership, but I think I did a good job of stressing the benefits that came despite the beastly behaviour of most of the people involved. I admitted that Luther was right on a whole range of things, but I think I convincingly proved that he made a drastic error in not reforming but abolishing the supreme spiritual authority – look at the thousands of churches and churchlets that resulted, had to result, from his campaign. I succeeded, I think, in making the conduct of the Church that condemned Galileo look quite reasonable, and Galileo comes across as cantankerous and unreasonable. The declaration of papal infallibility, which so annoys many Protestants, appeared in my presentation as the logical answer to the question of ultimate authority. I even did a good job of making Pius XII’s silence on the Holocaust intelligible, if not exactly heroic.

Of course, he thought, it’s just as well nobody has asked too many questions about those two periods of Church history where my sympathies are against the official line. The Cathars were exterminated not because of their anti-human, suicidal beliefs, but because the exemplary lives of their holy men were such a contrast to those of the corrupt politicians then parading as the hierarchy of the True Church – yes, Rome really was under threat, but not for the stated reasons. And in the previous century there was the extremely regrettable business of the Syllabus of Errors; my sympathies are all with Tyrell and Loisy and the other sincere men thrown out because they aspired to acquaint the feudal, pre-democratic and pre-industrial Church with the facts of modern life.

His thoughts returned to the present. Biblical exegesis has never played much of a role in my thoughts, but I am of course a closet liberal in matters of biblical interpretation. Even the counterwinds of the Wojtyła-Ratzinger era can no longer completely suppress scholarship in that area. But obviously Reluctant Messiah goes beyond the pale, even if I haven’t read it.

Yes, I reaped the rewards of being a good team player. The first black rector of a seminary, a monsignor’s cassock, and the title of an eminent author. Whenever I lust after a woman – and how can a normal man not do that sometimes? – I am able to tell myself that life is good as it is.

At last there was not very much traffic, and Chester switched on the radio. Ah, a beautiful piece of Vivaldi and, for a change, not The Four Seasons. A road sign told him he was approaching Palestrina. He tried to recall its name in the days of Ancient Rome, but could not. As soon as he stopped trying, the name came of itself: Praeneste. He had an abiding interest in names of people and places, and in language in general. His own name was a historical curiosity. An American whose ancestors were all from Africa bore a typical Anglo-Norman name. Some monstrous whip-wielding plantation owner had doubtless bestowed it on his slaves.

Incidentally, he mused, English names and words are spreading across the globe at an unprecedented rate. Even in the upper echelons of the Catholic Church, French cardinals, who were once accustomed to thinking they owned the last bastion of French linguistic imperialism, are now falling over themselves to mispronounce English. How things have changed! Once English speakers accused the French, quite correctly, of linguistic arrogance. Now the arrogance of English speakers is probably unique in history. Damn it – oh no, even in my internal monologues I should avoid that word – but why had that book appeared in English instead of Lithuanian or Hungarian or Slovak? Now it is sure to be translated into every possible language in a matter of months.

While Vivaldi was about to reach a deliciously gentle climax, Chester recalled a snippet from yesterday’s TV report on His Holiness’s visit to Africa, where he had told those AIDS-ravaged people they must not use condoms. Just about every literate cleric in Rome had cringed at the exquisite inappropriateness, but then again, His Holiness had shown several times he was very good at saying the wrong thing. However, that was not the detail that stuck in Chester’s memory. He saw again the photo of a huge gang of cardinals and bishops with black faces who had welcomed Benedict. Chester knew he was a token black cardinal in his own country, and that was a spin-off of Obama’s election. CNN had said he was a distinguished professor of church history, a monsignor, catapulted from an obscure seminary post to the highest rank and shipped off to Rome.

Of course, he really had little power behind the façade of the red hat. His predecessor as head of the Office of Holy Doctrine, that charming chubby little Englishman Cardinal Langley, had described the institution as Breeze in the Willows. There was something of that revered old book about it: quaint, rather old-fashioned, gentlemanly. Most of the time he was dealing with well-mannered leftwing Catholic intellectuals politely suggesting it was time the Pope woke up and blessed the pill, or condoms, or women priests, or renounced the patently absurd pretense to infallibility or some egregious teaching on the role of the Blessed Virgin. It was easy enough to formulate a similarly polite reply, even hinting at a certain agreement with the questioner, but hedged by words like tradition, precedent, or strictly confined to matters of faith and morals.

Things had been going smoothly – until that wretched book appeared. Langley’s gentle breeze had turned into a crazy tornado that kept on coming back from any direction at all. One desperate questioner said it all: The whole structure of 2,000 years is collapsing – what is the Church doing about it?

Vivaldi had been replaced by jazz. No, not my taste, thought Chester Legrand. They keep telling me jazz is Black America’s gift to the world, but I just don’t like it except for dancing. And when did I last dance? He switched to the BBC. The Beeb is so much more interesting than radio back in the States. Why? Perhaps because it’s not run by commercial interests, at least not openly?

The BBC announcer summed up the main items of the news broadcast. Every item was gloomy. Global warming much faster than even the worst predictions of five years ago. A new war and starvation in Africa. A new major Wall Street scandal. The English cricket team beaten by Kenya, for God’s sake. Cold and fog over the British Isles for the next week.

Hm, could things get any grimmer? Suddenly Chester’s ears pricked. What? Even the Beeb was going to persecute him with a panel discussion of Reluctant Messiah? He was about to change the station when the idea came to him to record the program and go through it later. After all, it had been a major part of his job over the last weeks to answer anguished questions about that book, and he knew next to nothing about it, had refused to know about it, had hoped it would fade away. He slid a cassette into the slot and pressed record.

As Cardinal Legrand’s car was heading north-east, the panel director, Geoffrey Smiley, was introducing the participants. There was Bishop Southerby, a distinguished Anglican historian. Next was William Herbert, the ex-Jesuit who had become a dangerously well-informed enemy, had in fact built a career on anti-clericalism. A plague on him, thought Chester, he’s a clever man who just loves to embarrass us! There was also Ezekiel Manning, an American televangelist. Curiously enough, there was also Rabbi Löwengrab, a historian known for his attempts to build bridges between Christians and Jews. Last but not least, there was Donald Widebones, the translator into English of Reluctant Messiah.

Geoffrey Smiley began by saying that before he invited the panelists to speak he would sum up the background to the controversial book. He added that as far as he knew, all experts were agreed on the following: that the author, Claudius Aurelius Maro, was for a time an officer of the Roman army of occupation in Palestine, presumably in the years 42 to 44 AD. Aurelius could not be traced in any historical record, but his father Marcus Fulvius Maro was a well-known philosopher in Rome at that time. The document was written in Greek, which was then used by most educated Romans, especially in dealing with the East. Greek specialists consulted at several different universities in a dozen different countries regarded Aurelius’s style of writing as consistent with first century usage. Examination of the paper and ink indicated that the extant copy was made in the twelfth century in Constantinople; that the text was presumably among those rescued by Greek scholars escaping from the Muslim conquest of Constantinople in 1453. The text, presumably already in its protective cylinder, had been taken to Rome and, for reasons now difficult to establish, buried under the Church of Santa Anna in Rome and unearthed only in 2006, when excavators demolished the decrepit old church to build a skyscraper.

Geoffrey Smiley asked the panelists if they agreed with his summary. All did, except televangelist Ezekiel Manning, a man with the build of a former football player, who roared that he would have his say on the matter later, when the other gentlemen have finished wasting their words on the subject.

"Mr. Herbert, I turn to you first as the only non-ecclesiastic on the panel. What do you think is the significance of the extraordinary interest generated by Reluctant Messiah?"

"Thank you, Mr. Smiley. Cardinal Legrand could almost hear Herbert’s sardonic leer, what others described as his winning smile. This book really is unique. You see, ever since German scholars started nearly two centuries ago to examine and pull apart the collection of true stories and fables known as the New Testament …"

"Do not blaspheme, sir!" warned Ezekiel Manning, and the walls shook.

"Please, Mr. Manning, let him finish," begged Geoffrey Smiley.

"Finish? I haven’t started! Well, as I was about to say, since the middle of the nineteenth century honest scholars have known that what has become known as church tradition is a confused bundle of distorted historical events, theological musings, and nice bits about loving your neighbour, as well as advice to slaves to obey their masters, and to women to be obedient to their husbands."

Ezekiel Manning made rumbling noises, but checked himself.

"Have you finished now, Mr. Herbert?"

"Gosh no! I’ll have to cut it rather short. You see, what we have served up as Christian doctrine is largely the work of the man known as St. Paul. He must have been a powerful, charismatic figure, who put his stamp on the Church as no other has done."

"Excuse me, broke in Bishop Southerby, are you saying it was St. Paul rather than Jesus who …?"

"Exactly, Bishop. St. Paul grafted a theological structure with partly Greek

features, but with his very own messianic interpretation, onto the life of a Jew, who would have been puzzled by what Paul did."

Ezekiel Manning could barely remain seated, but he was trying to be polite in BBC style. On the pulpit he usually ran the program without interference from anybody.

Rabbi Löwengrab saw his chance to add something. "I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Herbert. We Jews find the theology of Christianity, that is to say, the system propagated by Paul, if we can believe Mr. Herbert, foreign to our own tradition. Yes, we had the concept of the Messiah, but not that sort of Messiah!"

Geoffrey Smiley said, "Gentlemen, I think we are losing the thread. Mr. Herbert, can you briefly say how that relates to Reluctant Messiah?"

"Simply put: we would love to know who the real Jesus was and what he thought and did, before Paul dressed him in foreign garb. Claudius Aurelius Maro was on the scene, he interviewed many contemporaries of Jesus before the ideas of Paul twisted the facts. This is so far our only account of the life of Jesus before Paul."

"Now now, Mr. Herbert, objected Bishop Southerby. That is idle speculation. Paul was the first writer on Jesus …"

"The first till now, Bishop! interjected William Herbert. Aurelius is a far more reliable source than Paul. You’re a historian. You must admit that Paul was not the slightest bit interested in the real life of Jesus. He was writing in the 50’s AD and could have interviewed people the way Aurelius had done before him, but his writings contain not one biographical detail!"

Ezekiel Manning had played along with this dreadful show too long. He had to make people see the truth. Let me make a short statement, Mr. Smiley!

Everyone listened. Manning’s statements were rarely short. It would be interesting to hear him try to confine himself to the courteous conventions of the Beeb.

"In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries – and still today – Satan has been trying to drag souls down to Hell by means of the heinous doctrine of Evolution. He’s retreating from that position, and today almost nobody in the US of A believes in Evo-damned-lution. So Satan has been casting about for a new devilish trap. Now he’s trying to use pseudo-history. That is the meaning of that diabolical book!"

Well, it was short, if frightfully loud, and Ezekiel Manning was clearly ready to leave the studio. He had said all that was necessary.

Bishop Southerby felt he had to change direction. "I’m not too sure that you gentlemen have actually read Reluctant Messiah. I admit I had to struggle with it. The translation seems to me anachronistic in the sense that a man writing in Ancient Greek could not have known much of our modern jargon – and yet, there it is, in the book, in the language of the twenty-first century."

Geoffrey Smiley turned to the translator Donald Widebones, who seemed rather bored by the doctrinal discussion, but was noted for his firm views on translation. Without waiting for an introduction, Mr. Widebones challenged the Bishop, "Name any words that are, as you assert, anachronistic."

"Well … the Bishop had not expected that. Ah, off the cuff, there are words like ‘biological miracles’ … and ‘hysteria’ and … ah … ‘psychology’. A man like Aurelius – assuming he wrote the text – would not have had such words at his disposal."

"Ha, your Honour or your Excellency, or whatever you are called, you know very little about translation! A man of our time must speak to people of our time, in the language of our time. He must also understand the thoughts of the original authors – the thoughts, your Worship, not just the words. I am absolutely convinced that when Aurelius wrote τεθαυματουργημενα σωματος – marvels of the body – he was expressing just what we mean when we say ‘biological miracles’. When he wrote φρενισμος, that is, frenzy, delirium, he was saying exactly what we mean by ‘hysteria’. His expression φρενες

– mental character – is the same as our ‘psychology’."

Geoffrey Smiley had to interrupt, Thank you for that, Mr. Widebones. I’m sure you know your Ancient Greek, but not many of our listeners do!

"Ah, Mr. Smiley, that’s one of the troubles of the modern world. So many experts, so-called, who know nothing of our ancient heritage. And is it not remarkable that all of those modern words the man in the bishop’s robes objected to are from Greek? Oh yes, one or two are from Latin, but the contribution of Latin is very meagre compared with that of Greek."

"Well, Mr. Widebones, thank you very much for your contribution. Now, if the Rabbi would like to …"

"Mr. Smiley, Mr. Widebones continued, you did not let me finish. You see, we live in this age and must use the linguistic treasures won for us by so many generations. So I do not apologise one little bit for using so-called modern words in translating an ancient text!"

Geoffrey Smiley let just enough time pass for his irony to become obvious. "Is that all, Mr. Widebones? It’s good we know your point of view.

"Now, gentlemen, we’ll have to finish soon, but I would like all of you to make a few final comments. Just before that, though, a point raised by the bishop: how many of you have actually read Reluctant Messiah?"

"I struggled, but finished it, said Bishop Southerby. But there is one more thing I really must say about it. Aurelius – assuming of course that there really was such a person – leaves us in a quandary. At times he regrets that he has no information on long periods of Jesus’ life. Now that would be quite understandable and acceptable by the standards of historians. But at other times he regales us with intimate conversations that hardly anybody could have been privy to. He has the omniscience of God. That’s not history!"

"Yes, I must say I noticed that too as I skimmed through the book, said Rabbi Löwengrab. There are dialogues between Jesus and a hermit in a cave, dialogues between Jesus and the head of the monastery, and so on. How could Aurelius have known about that?"

"Aha! broke in the irrepressible William Herbert. Bishop, and you too, Rabbi, we don’t know just how much Jesus’ brother Simeon and his beloved Miryam of Magdala told Aurelius. Surely the great man felt the need to confide at times in those he loved most. And Aurelius interviewed those confidants, and maybe he was a novelist before his time, allowing himself some licence, you know, the Eye of God viewpoint. The question is whether he is credible. I say a clear yes!"

"So, Mr. Herbert, we can assume then that you have read the entire text?" asked Geoffrey Smiley.

"I read every word with pleasure, said William Herbert. I found it a beautiful, even a loving portrait of its subject, with no theological waffle but a genuine effort at understanding. If Aurelius is reliable, the Pauline church, the one we have, is dead."

"I have read the opening pages and flicked through the rest. I admit I have still to do my homework, grinned the Rabbi. But I’m looking forward to a few interesting evenings with Aurelius."

Smiley must have nodded in the direction of Ezekiel Manning. As for me, came the stentorian voice, "I do not need to wallow in filth to know it is filth!"

Rather superfluously Geoffrey Smiley added, So you haven’t read it and … ah … don’t intend to read it?

William Herbert interposed, I feel rather sorry for you, Mr. Manning. You fundamentalists find it hard to cope with … ah … new data, don’t you?

"Gentlemen, said the televangelist, with a much milder tone, not really looking at Herbert, I sincerely feel sorry for you all. You see, I have no hesitation in calling myself a fundamentalist, because Jesus and His Holy Word are the fundament, the foundation, of our faith. We possess the eternal truth, and no five-minute sensation from this or any other century is going to upset us. This … this … piece of literature we are discussing is not worth the time we have given it."

There was a brief silence, then Smiley must have looked at Donald Widebones.

"Are you asking me if I’ve read it?" said the translator, and for a change his tone was one of almost-amusement.

Just then Chester Legrand realised he had concentrated so much on the broadcast that he had not paid enough attention to the traffic. He had reached a new town, and was stopped at a green light on a narrow road. A line of drivers behind him were blaring their horns and saying uncomplimentary things. One yell sounded like cornuto. He had learned enough Italian to understand he must get a move on. But thank goodness the Italians let off their aggression with rude signs and words, he thought. Back in my home town the red-blooded men go straight to fisticuffs. Perhaps the result of too many Hollywood films and primitive comic books …

By the time the cardinal had let the line of impatient drivers noisily overtake him, Geoffrey Smiley had finished an attempt at summing up the discussion, then music heralded the start of another program.

But Cardinal Legrand felt obliged to read the book which, if he could believe the Cassandras, foretold the downfall of the Church.

That evening he drove back to the Holy City. En route he made a detour to buy Reluctant Messiah. That evening he started reading. He did not finish until well into the next day, but he had read without a pause.

Introduction

My name is Claudius Aurelius Maro, son of Marcus Fulvius Maro, the head teacher at The Academy of Philosophy in Rome. For two years I have been working in the tax collecting section of our army base in Caesarea, Palestine.

My main reason for accepting the post was that I wished to become famous as a man of letters, and I thought that a history of this province would be an excellent way to start. However, I soon decided that the topic was too depressing, a series of rebellions and factional squabbles and wars and slaughters and betrayals and crucifixions.

I did nevertheless find something I wanted to write about, or more correctly I was steered to the subject by Seth, an Egyptian of large physique and even larger in his enjoyment of life, my drinking partner in Caesarea. Seth is an admirer of a Jewish teacher and healer named Yeshu bar Yosef, who was crucified in the time of the prefect Pontius Pilatus.

What originally caught my attention was the number of people (presented to me by Seth) who swore with obvious sincerity that the man who died such a miserable death had healed them of serious illnesses. Gradually I found myself highly impressed by many of the ideas of Yeshu bar Yosef too. I was brought up by my father to doubt all faiths, and until recently I definitely called myself an atheist.

Seth conducted me to many different parts of the province to interview dozens of people who had known the dead man. As a wandering merchant Seth knows much of the Empire and is an excellent guide, and I could use my position as an inspector of tax collectors as a reason for doing a lot of travelling. Often accounts given by interviewees differed, and I abandoned the idea of trying to reconcile the many versions. I took upon myself the risk of writing a narrative, though I have at times revealed the source of my information.

Yeshu bar Yosef certainly had enemies, as you will read later, but it seems to me that few people were ever so loved by others, or deserved to be so loved. And his ideas went very close to realising that noble goal of philosophic universalism, which my father has always seen as the goal of thought. Yeshu taught that all human beings have the same dignity, not just the members of his own tribe or sect.

I am aware that Yeshu now has a cult following that sees him as more than a man. I doubt very much that he would approve of most of the myths now being told about him. My judgment of Yeshu is that he too had his limitations. He too remained trapped by one element of the tribal religion he was brought up in. He paid for that with a ghastly death.

My friend Seth, a lover of good stories and wine and laughter, was indeed very persistent in pushing me to write this biography, though at first I was reluctant because I knew that writing about Yeshu would involve trying to understand the Jewish holy books, something so foreign to me. When finally I agreed, Seth became uncharacteristically serious and revealed his reasons for recruiting me. May those words serve as my justification:

Because, dear Aurelius, I myself would love to write about Yeshu, but I can’t. I babble ten languages and write none of them. At our very first meeting I had the impression that you were the right man for the job. You’re open-minded and not tied down by religious chains. Your atheism is a valuable starting point for a philosophy with content. I know your literary ambitions, and I hope you’ll realise them.

But most important: somebody has to write the truth about Yeshu. Unfortunately there are many people now, even most of his family members, who want to make of his life something that it was not. Yeshu was the most wonderful person I ever met. He lived and died for a magnificent illusion, and he was honest in everything he did.

You, dear Aurelius, have the task of honouring him with the truth.

Truly a man of such nobility deserves to be remembered. Though I doubt that anyone will recall him in fifty years, my writing is an attempt to save his name from utter oblivion. And my own.

* * * * *

Well, thought Chester Legrand, so far so good. Aurelius sees Jesus as a miracle worker, or at least a successful healer. And what is that so-called element of the tribal religion that brought about his ghastly death?

Incidentally, I’m relieved that that cantankerous old translator – Largebones, no ... Widebones – delivers quite a readable text despite his tendency to lay down the law in a very pedantic way.

Cardinal Legrand pushed the book aside. He had to go to the toilet.

Having returned, he made himself comfortable on his armchair, crossed his legs, and picked up the book again. He was keen to read on.

The first years

The birth of Yeshu bar Yosef was miraculous and mysterious. Just as is every birth of a new human being. A man and a woman fulfil their love for each other, or some other emotion, by a physical act. Then, after an unvarying series of biological miracles the result is a baby, which in its turn will continue the existence of the human race. Miraculous, yes: but no heavenly phenomena or fanfare of trumpets heralded the arrival of that baby in an obscure corner of our vast Empire.

Yeshu was born in the twenty-third year of the reign of Emperor Octavianus, called Augustus, in the month of September. The place was Nazara, a village in southern Galilee close to the capital city Sepphoris. His father was the highly respected carpenter Yosef bar Heli. The family asserts patrilineal descent from the line of David, which would be an important feature of the life of Yeshu. But that claim is not extraordinary in itself, because many thousands of Jews similarly assert that David was the father of their line. The mother was Miryam from the tribe of Levi. After giving birth she was impure for seven days (it would have been fourteen had Yeshu been a girl), and for another thirty-three days she was not allowed to enter the synagogue.

Nazara is situated on a slope in the hilly region of southern Galilee and draws its