The Nazarene -Tthe Story of the Becoming of Christ

By Sal Owen

Few years ago, I got out of bed, one morning, filled with a forceful idea urging me to write a novel on the life of the Nazarene. I never before had the faintest desire to write such a novel. Strangely enough, the time span of the novel was clearly marked in my mind. The book should fill a historic gap in the life-story of The Nazarene, about which we know next to nothing. This period starts with the return of his family from their refuge in Egypt to settle in Nazareth, and ends on the day when The Nazarene spoke out to a gathering by the Jordan River after he had just been baptized. At the age of five the loss of a beloved uncle, threw me into a crisis, and forced me to think of death, justice and the meaning of life at such an early age. My interest in existential questions has remained alive in me ever since. About the age of seventeen, a school-friend and I, decided to study philosophy together, starting with the Greeks. As Socrates had taught us, philosophy should always be discussed and not studied alone, we decided to alternate in the role of presenting and defending the ideas of each Greek philosopher whom we studied, as if they were ones own; while the other one of us should argue against these ideas as best as he could.
Later on, I have always tried to understand the different systems of thinking and beliefs that I had encountered, from within their own framework, including besides the most widespread ones, Krishnamurti, Gurdjieff, Sufism and Zen.
Still, on that morning I wondered, am I the right person to accomplish such a novel in the language that I loved when I read Macbeth and Hamlet in high school. But still English is not my mother tongue, and with the exception of a few poems and academic thesis, I have no experience of writing long narrative let alone a novel in it. All kinds of questions then burst in my head. Would the writing of this novel give me a chance to regain my beloved language and make amends with it? Would it shed a new light on my own life experience and possibly be the venture that I had to undertake to weave the threads of my own life into a kind of tapestry? These questions remained buzzing in my head, when I reached for a notebook and scribbled down the first lines of the prelude. The ending chapter “And he spoke” was outlined in a day or two. It portrayed the moment when Izha decided to speak out to a gathering by the River of Jordan, after he had just been baptised: “A moment of eternal silence reigned, then Izha fanned his glowing eyes into the expectant crowd and spoke.” The first and last pages had found their wording. Fine! I said to myself. But how was I to portray the story of the child who “grew and waxed strong in spirit, was filled with wisdom, and grace was upon him.” I braced myself, and decided to get on with the arduous work. After finishing one chapter, I had no clue about the next one. Yet, the story-line opened itself in vivid visions as if they were cut of a film and all it needed was to be formulated on paper. The first chapter, “Arrival in Nazareth” was followed by “The children played their games”, “School days”, “Birds of clay” and followed by the edifying experience together with the reclusive “Sons of light”.
The mirroring of the vision on paper was a difficult task. The creative image was not easily and readily transcribed into words. Still, page by page, one chapter after another, the story took in due time its shape and found its tone. Questioning is akin to our being, and whenever our knowledge comes short, creativity leaps forth to fill the gaps. I can only hope that the novel as it stands has succeeded in bridging this pivotal gap in the life-story of The Nazarene. Sal Owen

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sal Owen
• Release date: Feb 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9789163350818

Sal Owen

I am an established Swedish author and translator, psychologist, born 1947 in the Galilee in Palestine, since many years living in Stockholm, Sweden.My anthology “The Blue Fire of Alchemy” (Alkemins Blå Eld) was named the Swedish Publishers Book of the year 1991.More recently my interpretations of the great Swedish poet Gunnar Ekelöf in 2011 received a grant from the Swedish Nobel Academy.

Book preview

PRELUDE

The earth had never been so ripe

And the world had never seen such a night

When the stars from near and far

Were unusually pregnant with light

Aligned their forces and joined their rays

Across the skies

To light up a particular place in Galilee

That soon would know the birth of

An elected child

The labour took its time

As being the youthful mother’s first born

Then, the child was delivered with a cry

Washed by the midwife, his wide open eyes

In the glowing face

Seemed to look deep into his mother’s eyes

To still all worries there

Relieved of her anxiety, she took a deep breath

Felt good and warm inside, thankful

For the deliverance of her first healthy child,

She soon fell asleep -

A tired and relived smile writ on her face

I- THE ARRIVAL IN NAZARETH

Almost a year after King Herod’s death, Izha’s family returned from their refuge in Egypt to settle in Nazareth. The heinous Herod had massacred hundreds of children due to a dream foreboding the end his reign by a boy who would be born in Galilee. Countless families expecting a child were forced to seek refuge in the mountainous inaccessible villages of Galilee or other remote places beyond the butcher`s reach.

Few months earlier my family returned from their hiding to our house in the eastern part of Nazareth, a neighbourhood with some hundred houses leaning on the southern tip of Carmel Mountain.

I was playing outdoors with my peers on the day of Izha arrival. The father led the mule on which Izha and his mother perched. When Izha jumped down on the dusty ground, I thought that he could have been about five years old, like me, or maybe few months younger.

We immediately broke up our game and thronged around the newcomers. Most of the children had their eyes set on the toys that Izha’s family brought with them from Egypt; tablets with engraved figures, strings of colourful bright stones, silver sticks and a bamboo-flute; exotic things that none of us had ever seen the like of.

While Izha’s parents were unloading their belongings from the mule and laying them on the ground, some of the boys dared grab one object or another and ran off. I was amazed then, to see how Izha remained calm, not lifting a finger to stop any one of the boys who snatched his belonings.

I too had suffered the loss of my homemade wooden horse and drums upon my family’s return. I was furious then about losing my toys. Later on I had to wrestle them back, one object at the time. The recovering of my playthings made other children in our neighbourhood look up to me.

Izha who had just arrived had naturally no friends there, and I felt obliged to help him recover his stolen toys and spare him the trouble that I had previously met. His playthings were easy to recognise, and the respect that I had earned among my peers, enabled me to retrieve all of them in no time.

Later on, and to my great amazement, I found that Izha had returned all the objects that I recovered for him, to each of the boys had stolen them. When I wondered why, Izha replied:

I have played a long time with these things, Linus. And If I wish I could always make new ones, unlike these poor boys.

This is how my friendship with Izha started.

II- SCHOOL DAYS

A year or so after Izha’s arrival our families decided to send us to school. Not all children of school age in Nazareth were that lucky. Some never went, others left school when their families needed their tiny hands’ help in the fields or in the workshops that some families had at home.

It was my habit to pass by Izha’s home in the morning on my way to school. Izha’s mother would often rush to the gate to hand him a bundle with some olives, bread and cheese, dried figs, dates or something else that she had prepared for him saying: Take this Izha, it will sweeten your day; or Take this, it will give you strength for your studies today.

Once or twice I heard his mother whispering and urging him not to be different. Be like your friends Izha, refrain from doing what your friends would not or could not do. Acting differently than your peers, can only bring you trouble, my dear; and she gave him a hug.

Izha and I would take the winding dusty path up the hill leading to our teacher’s home on the outskirts of town. Our teacher’s name was Theophilus, but we called him Theo. He was a tall and lean old man with fiery eyes, a silver-grey moustache and a beard that reached down to his chest. In spite of his age Theo was still vigilant and alert.

Whenever any of our classmates became sleepy and nodded during the classroom, Theo was never late to awaken that boy with a lash on the shoulder from his sharp twig of pomegranate. Theo was stern, but Izha and I revered and loved him. How much we owe that man!

Theo taught us a bit of everything; Greek, Aramaic and arithmetic. To make us children more interested in calculation, he used to say: Numbers is money and livelihood. We seldom had money in our hands, but we understood what he meant.

We were also drilled to read and write Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Omega. Theo, who was of Greek origin, awakened our curiosity about Hellas by telling us stories about Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. He also used to tell us stories about the gods on the mount of the Olymp who lived and loved like human beings.

Aramaic was easy for us since it was spoken daily in Nazareth. Cananian and Greek were also frequently heard in and around Nazareth. Beside the native Cananians, there were a few Egyptians, Greeks, Hebrews and Syrians among the residents of our town. Nazareth was a vibrant amalgam of life; a kind of a small mosaic of the world.

Both Izha and I had a good head for numbers. I was one of the best in arithmetic, but I was punished twice for wrong conjugations in Greek. Izha was excellent at all subjects. Except once, he had never been punished by Theo. It happened one day that Theo asked Izha to recite a phrase from his Greek notebook, which Izha had forgotten at home. When I stealthily tried to pass over my own notebook to Izha, the sharp eyes of Theo caught me. Both Izha and I were scolded, lashed with the Theo’s pomegranate twig and turned out of the class for the rest of the day.

III- AT THE ROMAN DAM

About an hour walk from Nazareth the Romans had built a dam on a small nearby river. It was a place where young people would go to enjoy themselves on a leisure day. It was not yet noon when Theo decided to send Izha and I home as punishment; going straight home so early would raise a lot of questions. The sun was blazing sharply then, so we decided to go to the Roman dam to have lunch, swim, enjoy ourselves and spend the rest of our school-day there.

The dam, which the Nazarenes called The Shagour, was built in a deep ravine, at a point where the river curves slowly between narrow mountainous slopes. The dam had built in water-shafts that regulated the overflow of water. Above a certain level the accumulated water behind the dam would flow through the shafts, creating a refreshing waterfall that splashed on a smooth rock on the other side of the dam and glided down forming some kind of wide and deep pool before it ran down its course.

Izha and I enjoyed swimming in that pool. We especially liked to glide on one huge mossy slippery rock, screaming with joy while plunging into the deep. One of the games we sometimes played there was Who could stay longer under water. When Izha dived, I used to cheat by counting slowly when he was under.

Shall we play who can stay longer under water? I asked Izha that day. All right, he said.

I dived first, and Izha counted to fifty, before I had to pull my head out of the water. When it was Izha’s turn, he took a deep breath and dived. I started to count slowly; one, fifty, sixty, seventy, while he was still beneath the water. What, a long dive! Then, I got worried.

What if he had got stuck at the bottom? I did not like the game anymore. Shivering at the thought that Izha might have drowned I dived after him, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out.

Are you looking for your death? I yelled at him.

No, not death, I was looking at life. Izha calmly responded.

Life! What life? Still angry, I shouted.

My life, he answered, in a calm and self assured manner and said:.

"Well, while I was under the water, I saw images of myself; not only images from my past, but also images of myself as an adult.

When you pulled me out of the water, I saw me as a teacher, talking to a crowd of people ..."

I am sorry, if I had cut short your teaching. Maybe I should have left you being bogged down under water and let you risk your life there; I said. But, I immediately felt regretful as well as curious; then trying to correct myself, I added quickly: Could you tell me, what more did you see?

"I saw old men coming from different parts of the world to just to congratulate my mother upon my birth, and bend their aged beaming faces over my cradle.

I saw myself upon my birth wiping the anxiety from my mother’s face, and I saw her glow with joy.

I saw myself growing and learning. I saw our teacher Theo sharing joyfully his knowledge with us.

Then, I saw myself talking to some gathering in a great monument, that could have been a temple; and I saw them listen attentively to me stunned by my words.

I saw me travelling to remote places