Jesus (64 page)

“Pssst,” I said to George. He wandered over. “Look who I found.”

George looked up, smiled, and said, “Finally.”

I let him sit for some time, to pray and perhaps think about the inmates with whom he worked. I've always admired my friend's work with inmates, whom many people think don't even deserve to be ministered to. At one point during my theology studies in Boston I ended up working for George as part of my ministry practicum. In the Suffolk County House of Corrections I watched him treat the inmates, both men and women, with great care. And on a recent trip to San Francisco, I visited him at San Quentin and watched him work in death row, where seven hundred men were incarcerated for some of the worst crimes imaginable.

As ever, his sense of humor does not desert him on the job, nor does his eye for the amusing fail him. One Friday an inmate wished him a good weekend by saying, “Don't do anything I wouldn't do!” George said to me, “Coming from a serial killer, that leaves me a lot of latitude.” Another man on death row said, “Father George, we like you so much, we wish you lived here with us!” George accepted that as a compliment.

After he finished his prayer, I asked if he wanted to walk up the hill to the Chapel of the Ascension as a way of completing our stay and paying tribute to St. Ignatius.

“Are you kidding?” he said. “I've had enough exercise for one pilgrimage.”

O
N THE AFTERNOON BEFORE
our return to the States, George and I decided to do some faith sharing, a practice we had both begun in the Jesuit novitiate. Every Sunday evening the novices would gather with the novitiate staff to discuss how God had been active in our prayer and our daily lives over the past week. Ever since then, I have participated in faith-sharing groups with my brother Jesuits. It's a fine way of not only sharing with friends God's activity in your life, but also seeing how God is at work in theirs. Often when your spiritual life feels sluggish, it helps to see God elsewhere.

Confidentiality is key to faith sharing, so I won't include what George shared about his spiritual experiences. But I can share my own.

The trip was one of the high points of my life. So I was filled with gratitude. To begin with, I was grateful to God that all went smoothly logistically—no small feat given how little I knew about our destinations. The flight worked out; we had marvelous accommodations at the Pontifical Biblical Institute, where Father Doan and Brother Tony couldn't have been more hospitable; we were able to rent a car in Jerusalem with relative ease and not get lost on the way to Galilee (well, not
very
lost); the Franciscan hostel in Galilee was comfortable beyond our wildest pilgrim dreams; neither of us got sick; the weather was sunny (if unbelievably hot); and we were able to see nearly all of the sites we had wanted to see.

Not to mention the smaller graces: comfortable beds at the PBI, a rental car within our limited budget, air-conditioned rooms that overlooked the Sea of Galilee. And this: The day before we left for the States thirty Jesuit students poured into the PBI for a weeklong course. We were delighted to meet them, although the formerly quiet hallways became noisy indeed. We were glad that we came during a slow time at the PBI, when the silence made for a more contemplative atmosphere.

I was grateful for George's companionship too. Apart from a few minutes at the Jordan River, we got along swimmingly for two weeks, at each other's sides at almost every waking moment—no small accomplishment even for close friends. His flexibility to go wherever I asked to go, his willingness to drive, and his ever-present sense of humor—whether commenting on the Gerasene pig's bacon, making funny asides about less-than-reliable places we visited, riffing on sites that Jesus clearly never visited (“Jerome Murphy-O'Connor says that this drugstore is built over a first-century store where Jesus bought his aspirin,” he said at a shop in Tiberias), or recounting his adventures in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre—made him a great travel partner.

Most of all, I was grateful for the spiritually profound moments I experienced. Seeing the Sea of Galilee for the first time and feeling almost speechless with joy. Standing on the shores and thinking,
Jesus saw this.
Being moved to tears when I spied Capernaum from my hotel room. Feeling astoundingly close to Jesus at the Pool of Bethesda. And, most of all, seeing, feeling, and experiencing Jesus rise up from the tomb at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which I still think should be renamed the Church of the Resurrection.

Of course it wasn't the perfect trip—we missed a few places I would have liked to have seen, got lost frequently, and nearly succumbed to heat stroke. And on the last day someone jostled me in the Old City and, apparently sensing I was a Christian, spat on the ground directly in front of me and said, contemptuously, “Jesus!”

D
URING THE TRIP
I knew that I would be writing a book about Jesus. “Oh,” I would say to George if something funny happened, “this is definitely going in the book!” If he did something embarrassing, he would say, “That's
not
for the book!” On the other hand, if
I
did something embarrassing he would say, “Well, I'll bet you'll leave
that
one out.”
¹
And I made careful notes every night so as to get things right.

When I began this book a few years ago, in my hubris I planned to comment on every Gospel passage. That's right—every Gospel passage. But as soon as I started writing, I realized how absurd a goal that was. Better to focus on the passages that were more meaningful to me and that occurred in the places we visited on pilgrimage.

Looking back, I can see how many chapters focus on Jesus's miracles. I can offer a few reasons for that. First, more of the sites we visited commemorated his deeds—the Multiplication of the Loaves and Fishes, the Healing of the Paralytic at the Pool of Bethesda—than they did his words. Second, the miracle stories seem more difficult for people to accept today. As I said in the introduction, Jesus's humanity is a problem for people, but his divinity is even more so. Some accept him as a wise teacher, but not as the Son of God—the one who can still the sea, heal the sick, and raise the dead. So it made sense to give the miracles pride of place.

But mostly, my inclination to his “signs and wonders” reflects the centrality of those Gospel stories in my own life. They are stories to which I return almost every day. That is not to say that I don't find Jesus's preaching compelling! There were many times when I wanted to write about particular phrases: “My yoke is easy, and my burden is light,” “I will be with you until the end of time,” “Consider the lilies.” But his miracles, and the great miracle of the Resurrection, captivate me.

This book has been an invitation for you to meet the Jesus I have studied, the Jesus I follow, and the Jesus I met in the Holy Land. As I was writing I realized that one can never encompass the man, never fully explain him. You cannot capture any individual even if you speak to every person who knew him or her, read all of his or her letters, read dozens of biographies, and even visit the places where he or she lived. To slightly alter a philosophical distinction, people are not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be lived. For Jesus this saying is more apt than for anyone who ever lived. Intellectually I knew this, but not until I started writing did I realize that the book would be incapable of containing Jesus or conveying all I felt about him.

I pray that this book, limited as it is, will prompt you to explore more about Jesus. Maybe you'll read the Gospels again. Or for the first time. Maybe you'll pick up a Bible commentary or read one of the books I've mentioned along the way. Maybe you'll join a Bible study group at your church. Maybe you'll take a course in the New Testament at a nearby college or university. Maybe you'll make a retreat and have time to pray about certain passages in the Gospels. Maybe you'll even visit the Holy Land one day.

What I want most for you is to meet Jesus. You've met my Jesus. Now meet your own.

B
Y WAY OF CONCLUSION
, here is a story about an out-of-the-way place in the Holy Land. On the afternoon of our last day, after I had finished packing and had checked my airline tickets, George and I stumbled upon a small church that I hadn't before noticed, the Church of St. Mark, the center of the Syrian Orthodox community in Jerusalem. The church stands on the site of a fourth-century church in the Armenian Quarter of the city and is a fascinating repository of traditions.

When we ducked into the entrance, we found ourselves in a small, ornate space. The altar stood before a wall decorated with gold filigree and colorful icons and lit by elaborate chandeliers. Upon our entrance an enthusiastic woman, probably in her sixties, dressed entirely in black, with a black kerchief tied firmly around her cheerful face, greeted us. “This is a Syrian Orthodox Church,” she said with evident pride. “Do you want to know about this church?” We did.

She pointed to a small sign, recovered in the 1940s and dating back to the sixth century, that declares the church to have been the house of the mother of St. Mark, the writer of the first Gospel. Also, she said, there is a painting in the church of the Virgin Mary reputed to have been painted by St. Luke. We stared at the obscure image, painted on leather. Most scholars believe it comes from the later Byzantine period.

“This is also where the Last Supper took place,” she said.

I thought,
You're kidding, right?

“I know what you are thinking,” she said good-naturedly. “But listen, the ground level was much lower in the first century. Twelve feet lower!” (Later research into archaeological texts proved her correct.) “So any room for the Last Supper, even if it was called the Upper Room, would be below ground today. And this is a very old tradition. They came to the place where St. Mark's mother lived.”

She pointed us to the stairwell that led down to what her tradition believed was the location of the Last Supper. It was a small room, ten by twenty feet, with a stone floor, and in fact it seemed a more likely place than the Cenacle we had seen a few days before.
²

The room typified the manifold paradoxes of the Holy Land. Some sites are clearly authentic—Capernaum, the Pool of Bethesda, Golgotha, Gethsemane, and many more. Others could have been accurate but one couldn't be sure, though they were most likely near where the event had occurred—the Mount of Beatitudes, for example. Other sites seemed probably inauthentic—the Via Dolorosa, for example, at least in terms of the specific stations. And some things were almost certainly legendary. And now the Upper Room was a Lower Room. It symbolized the mix of authentic and legendary that typified the Holy Land. But again, who knows? The Last Supper may have taken place precisely where we were standing.

When we came upstairs, she asked us how we had liked our pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

“Very much,” I said.

She asked us what places we liked best. George said Kursi, where the Gerasene demoniac had been healed. I said the Sea of Galilee and the Pool of Bethesda. She nodded approvingly.

George told her that I was writing a book about Jesus, and she said, “Well, you know that Jesus spoke Aramaic, don't you?” I did.

“So now,” she said, “I wish to sing for you the Our Father—in Jesus's own language. Would you like that?”

I said that I would, very much. I told her that I had always wanted to hear Aramaic and found it incredible that people still spoke the language of Jesus, but that I had never heard it spoken.

She opened her mouth and in a strong, clear voice began singing. Our new friend wasn't an opera singer, but it was probably one of the most beautiful songs I'd ever heard—because it was in Jesus's language. She sang in the lilting cadences of Aramaic, more and more strongly as she went on, and her prayer echoed throughout the ancient church that we had found by accident on our last day of our pilgrimage.

Then she turned to us, smiled, and said, “Amen.”

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

M
Y LOVE OF THE
Gospels owes much to Daniel J. Harrington, SJ, my professor of New Testament during graduate studies at the Weston Jesuit School of Theology in Cambridge, Massachusetts (now the Boston College School of Theology and Ministry). Father Harrington's Introduction to the New Testament was one of the most popular courses in the school, primarily because Father Harrington is a man whose vast learning seemed to know no bounds. In addition to being a teacher and a prolific author on the Gospels, he is also the longtime editor of the journal
New Testament Abstracts
, which means that he read almost everything published on the topic. His approach—sensible, balanced, cautious, grounded in scholarship, yet enlivened by faith—is the one I hope to use for the rest of my life. Father Harrington has also been a friend and mentor and has, for the last fifteen years, reviewed all of my books for any errors in Scripture. This book is dedicated to a superb scholar, a great priest, and one of the holiest men I know.

As for the writing of this book, I would like to extend special thanks to a generous group of scholars and friends who agreed to read this book in manuscript form, at various stages, and offer their insights, suggestions, and corrections. Many are Scripture scholars who generously spent time poring over the manuscript with an eye to reviewing particular sections or themes. I cannot express how grateful I am that these men and women took the time to review my writing. So I am exceedingly grateful to: Daniel J. Harrington, SJ, for his overall and typically careful review of the entire manuscript; to Thomas D. Stegman, SJ, Robert F. O'Toole, SJ, and John Martens, for their overall review and especially their help in my use of New Testament Greek; to John R. Donahue, SJ, for his overall help and specifically with my discussions of the parables and Jesus's self-consciousness; to Drew Christiansen, SJ, and David Neuhaus, SJ, for their attention to the details of the Holy Land and also for helping me better explain some of the political and sociological realities of the region; to Amy-Jill Levine for her expert attention to the entire manuscript, especially to my presentation of first-century Judaism; to Michael Peppard for his overall review and for special attention to questions of texts in the first and second century; to Elizabeth Johnson, CSJ, for her attention to the topic of Jesus's two natures; to Donald Hinfey, SJ, for his attention to theological and specifically Christological questions; to William A. Barry, SJ, for his insights on my spiritual reflections as well as on other theological matters; to Paula Fitzgerald, who read the book from the vantage point of a pastoral minister (and also as a student of theology, a wife, and a mother); and finally, to Anthony SooHoo, SJ, a scholar of ancient languages, for answering some obscure questions about transliterating
koinē
Greek and settling an endless debate about the
iota
subscript.