Healer and Rebel: Life of Historical Jesus

By Flemming O. Fischer

Already a young adult, Jesus devoted himself to the task of easing the health problems of his fellow men in Galilee, probably influenced by the Essenes. He was taught about the healing effects of plants and herbs, and thus the easing of the sufferings of people in the villages became his first mission, often accompanied by preaching on right and wrong, on the end of the world, and on how to prepare for the new kingdom. Gradually he earned for himself the name of prophetone among many.
He was born into a country occupied by the Roman Empire, a country whose Jewish population lived in degradation and poverty. In Galilee, where Jesus was born and where he lived most of his life, the occupation and the oppression, also by rich landowners in Jerusalem, caused social unrest and deep anger. More and more farmers lost their land, became homeless, or were forced to work as slaves on their own land.
Rebellion smouldered. From time to time, rebellion leaders attacked the Romans, but they always ended up on the cross, a punishment reserved for political criminals. But the spirit of rebellion spread in Galilee.
He too became a leader, Jesus, but his weapon was the word rather than the sworda weapon often far superior to sharp metal. And as the preaching became ever more aggressive, and even political, Rome listened.
His life was formed by the circumstances of his birth and by the social and political situation in the land of Galilee. Though basically unknown during his lifetime, by curious circumstances he became the spiritual focus of millions long after his death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481788014

Flemming O. Fischer

Flemming Fischer was born in Denmark in 1938. After a long career in international business, Flemming Fischer devoted himself to writing. This is his first book written in English. As a young man he went to sea as a ship’s boy, worked his way across the oceans, visited ports in Mexico, South America, The West Indies, Europe and Australia. He went ashore, finished his commercial education, and entered the life of business, and eventually became the CEO of international corporations. He has lived in India, Pakistan, California and Sweden. Previous books, all published in Danish: • Pagten fra Ararat • Drømmen bag fjerne bjerge • En ærlig krigsmand • Den førstefødte Contact: [e-mail]

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© 2013 by Flemming O. Fischer. All rights reserved.

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Image: Marco Escobedo

Published by AuthorHouse 03/23/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8800-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8801-4 (e)

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Contents

Preface

1. Year 8 to 6 BCE

2. Year 6-5 BCE

3. Year 4 BCE

4. Year 1-10 CE

5. Year 14-18

6. Year 18-23 CE

7. Year 26-28

8. Year 28-29 CE

9. Year 30 CE

10. Year 31 CE

11. Year 31-32 CE

12. Year 33 CE

Explanations

Preface

If, for a moment, you would put aside myth and clerical dogma in an attempt to obtain a picture of Jesus, the man who roamed the paths of Galilee 2000 years ago, what kind of man would emerge in that picture? What kind of man would he be, Jesus, seen through the eyes of his contemporaries? How would they have seen him, his family, friends, enemies and others who knew the child, the youth and the man?

In this book I will attempt to draw a picture of the historical Jesus with inputs from a great many historians, researchers and exegetes. I will take the reader back to Judea and Galilee of year zero to find out what kind of life he would have lived, the man who long after his death was made the icon of a new religion meant to replace Judaism. The fact that Jesus, an orthodox Jew, should be worshipped in a new religion which was fundamentally anti-Semitic, may seem a bit surprising.

To describe the time of Jesus one has to bear in mind that he was born into turbulent times with his country under occupation by the Roman empire, with the country marked by considerable social unrest and disturbance. Power and wealth were privileges of the few, the elite, with lower classes suffering from poverty and degradation. The military oppression and the social degradation must have severely influenced a thoughtful man like Jesus.

Influenced in which direction? The churches have offered their explanation—I am offering a different suggestion. I have no wish to question anybody’s faith, far from it, but organized religion is a different matter, and clerical dogma and historical scrutiny don’t always work in harmony. By the way—are faith and dogma necessarily compatible?

Joseph Ratzinger alias Pope Benedict XXI recently published a book called Jesus of Nazareth, and he stated that it is a fact that scriptural exegesis can become a tool of the Antichrist. Such clerical arrogance has not deterred the many historians who have attempted to draw a sober picture of historical Jesus.

This is not history. So little fact is known about the life of Jesus that no book can claim to know his history, but it is an attempt to describe his life based upon the history of Judea and Galilee, based upon the descriptions by contemporary historians, and based upon research by historians, archaeologists and many others. I would still have to call this book a novel, but hopefully a novel offering a reasonably realistic picture of the land, its people and of a man who became a prophet—one out of many—and who, after his death, became the spiritual focus of millions.

My mother tongue is Danish, not English, and that is bound to be linguistically reflected. I hope my readers will bear with my shortcomings in that regard.

March 2013

Flemming O. Fischer

1.

Year 8 to 6 BCE

The midday sun scorched the desolate mountain road, and the two men drove their horses along the roadside to enjoy the little shade they could find under the grey-green leaves of the olive trees. Still a way to go, the elder sighed, he dismounted and sat down on a rock, he mopped his forehead with a white handkerchief, looking down the road. Still a way to go before we reach Anna’s place. He gripped his goatskin bag, removed the cork and drank, the water still cool. Drink Yossuf, he said, offering the bag to his son, you had better look your best when we reach Shiloh. His voice was mildly teasing, for the younger man was evidently impatient, eager to continue the journey.

They had left Yakov Heli’s house in Jerusalem at sunrise to get as far as possible before the heat would set in, and when they had reached the stone-cobbled road connecting Jerusalem with Samaria and Galilee they had seen the first sunrays reflected in the gold-plating of the temple, and they had seen the flowers of the broom-bushes open up to greet the new day, the heavy scents of cypress blending with the warm dew vaporized by the sun. Before long the heat felt like a blanket covering the valleys, but up here in the mountains the temperature was tolerable. Yakov Heli got on his feet again and mounted. Well, well, he said, let’s get on. In spite of his sixtytwo years he was an impressing figure, not tall, slightly stoutish but poised, legs still strong. Yakov Heli was a handsome man, the women at the Gate of the Essenes in Jerusalem would claim.

They continued north following the broad mountain road. The leaves of the olive trees rustled as a westerly breeze cooled the air. A gift from heaven, the old man said, perhaps a blessing on our mission? Never forget, Yossuf, that you are the twenty-seventh generation after King David, never forget your inheritance! And should that inheritance pass you by too, then perhaps your first born will resume his inherited role as king of the Jews.

The dream, the old dream, the young man sighed, the dream of regained greatness and a return to the rule of the past when David ruled Israel, for the blood of David still ran in their veins, his father had claimed. If the younger man had any doubts concerning a possible ousting of the Herod family from the throne, he didn’t show.

From behind the crest ahead a weak sound of boots hitting the stony pavement was heard. The sound rose to noise, boots, hooves of horses, metal against metal. The Romans, Yossuf cried, let’s get off the road. They dismounted and pulled the horses into the scrubby vegetation to let the soldiers pass. A Roman officer spurred his horse and rode up to them. Stay where you are, Judeans, and let the centurion pass. A moment later the troops passed by, led by the centurion dressed in a scarlet uniform with silvery breastplates and a shiny helmet with a half-moon shaped adornment of horsehair. Without a glance toward the two men on the roadside he passed, followed by two officers, and behind them the troops and the non-combatants who would be dealing with the practical chores of cooking, washing, tending to the horses and other such chores.

They watched the Romans disappear behind a curve. It was here, right on this road, that Abraham walked when he came to us from Paddan Aram, the land of our fathers, Yakov Heli said in a shaking voice. This is where he walked, our forefather, and now the Romans… There were tears in his eyes. Yossuf stared at his father, and anger paled his face. The Roman soldiers are marching here today, because we haven’t yet cut their throats! He pulled himself together before entirely losing his temper. It was the same old story, and he and his father would never see eye to eye. An alliance with the Romans will enslave us forever, he said, and we can forget about our inheritance, for from Herod we can expect nothing good! He stopped, realizing that this was hardly the time to blame his father, the day was too important for that, and probably too late too. The indulgence of Yakov Heli towards Rome and the Romans had brought them nothing good, but it had to wait. He helped his father remount, and they continued their journey up through the Aijalon-valley.

The village of Gibeon was situated on a hilltop, surrounded by palm trees. This is not at all the Gibeon that King Solomon visited, Yakov Heli explained. It was up there on the hill that he prayed to the Lord for wisdom, and his prayer was heard. It was a real town then, befitting its name, the town on the hill. Yossuf eagerly looked at the ruins, he saw the new village situated away from the remains of the old town, and they passed the circular water cistern with a stairway cut into the rocks.

They were fortunate being able to ride the long way from Jerusalem and up to Shiloh. As a high ranking officer at the court of King Herod, Yakov Heli had the privilege of using the horses of the royal stables. Without that privilege, the old man sighed, this engagement between his son and his bride to be would have been more complicated. Walking through such mountainous terrains would not have been an option for him. He watched his son sitting erect on the horse. He was tall, Yossuf, tall and lean, the body marked by manual labor. Would Yossuf be able to manage the inheritance, he wondered, or should the future hopes be put on his firstborn? She was not at all a bad choice, this Miriam, he thought, the hopes for the future were still alive.

Yossuf was born in Jerusalem, and brought up in comfortable circumstances in the house of his father, but after his mother’s death he had withdrawn from the elite life, increasingly influenced by the Essenes, and his association with the Essene community in Jerusalem has led him to the Essene community in Qumran by the Dead Sea, dedicating time partly to the community, and partly to the small Essene monastery on the Carmel mountain. When he was not active in the monastery, he lived his life in the small village of Nazareth, in the house inherited from his mother, but to be close to Carmel, and to find a better location for his bride he was now building a house in the larger village of Beth Lehem located only a few hours walk from Carmel, and that house had to be finished before the wedding. In Beth Lehem he could work as a carpenter, and still spend time in the monastery, living as an Essene who, as it was common, shifted between the monastic and the worldly life.

The village of Shiloh was quite small with less than thirty houses, most of them built in mud. A sad relic of a grand past, Yakov Heli thought, as they rode along the dusty track leading to the village square. Here, in the middle of the Ephraim mountains, the once so proud town of Shiloh was located, home of the Ark of the Covenant, until that most holy relic had been abducted by the Philistines. The Shiloh of olden days used to be the rallying ground for the people of Israel. Who would now, he thought sadly, unite the people?

In the square they saw children collecting water from the well, a small flock of goats was driven across the square towards the hilly fields, and now, at the edge of the village, they stopped outside a small house built in sundried bricks with a roof of rush, the small garden well trimmed. He was quiet now, Yossuf, as they prepared to meet Miriam and her mother Anna. Although all had been arranged in advance it was different now, seeing her face to face.

Yakov Heli looked around. The house was poor but nicely kept, and very orderly. Anna the widow knows how to run a house, he mumbled approvingly. The sundried bricks stood out brownish against the green leaves of the trees, and the dry dirt around the house had been swept. A few olive trees offered amble shade.

They tied the horses to a tree, but remained standing outside the house, and a moment later a fragile elderly woman appeared. She was in her late 50’s, Anna, small and slim, dressed in black. You are looking at a very pious lady, the old man whispered, you could not have found a better family. With arms raised she came closer. Welcome, Yakov Heli, she said, welcome to my house. Please come closer, and let me offer you cold water. She led them to a bench under an olive tree. You have travelled far, she said, and you need to rest. We shall soon take care of your horses.

With his back to the house he did not notice the young woman until she stood right in front of them. He jumped to his feet, clumsily and shy, as she welcomed his father and him. She was carrying a clay dish with water, and knelt before Yakov Heli who held his hands over the water. As she washed the hands of his father, Yossuf glanced at her. She was tall and slim, surprisingly tall, dressed in white, a headscarf loosely folded over her black hair. As she moved over to him, she did not look up, not until she had offered him a towel to dry his hands. She got up, and gave him a brief smile before she disappeared into the house.

This is my daughter Miriam, the mother explained, the great joy of my late husband Joachim, and my own comfort and help. But step into the house, please, and do not reject our simple food. They stepped inside to sit down at the table, where bread, cheese and wine were served. Yossuf still had not uttered a word, but this was a matter for parents, and in spite of his thirtyfive years, his father would do the talking. The Romans have just passed through, Anna explained. They almost emptied the well, but this time they seemed too much in a hurry to rob us of our food. Yakov Heli nodded. Ah yes, nothing is like it used to be, but let us hope that the young will know other and better circumstances. He cleared his throat—well, Anna, you know that Simon Boethus has given his blessing. Not that the High Priest is particularly friendly towards our family, but who could possibly have any objections to this alliance? You know, of course, that my son Yossuf like me is of the house of David, and that he and his wife are destined to carry the inheritance, and should be prepared for the day when the dynasty of David shall rule again.

Yossuf sat with his head bent, trying to get a glance at Miriam in the kitchen. Only a brief glance so far, but did he need more? Her face was lovely, and her hands so tender and fine.

Surely, Yakov Heli, Anna said, Miriam and I know what has been prophesized and what is expected. She asked Miriam to join them, and with her eyes at the floor Miriam stood behind her mother’s chair. She was eighteen, with a body of a mature woman. The dark brown eyes were alive and her lips slightly apart as she breathed intensely. She put her hands on her mothers shoulder to dampen her excitement. For weeks she had endured the good natured teasing from the other girls, but now he was here, her husband, and soon her new life would begin. With a quiet smile her mother patted her hand. Your time has come, Miriam.

They continued the conversation for a while. Miriam will be expected for instructions in Mird, Yakov Heli said, and Anna nodded. We know, and after that Ain Feschka. Formalities completed Yakov Heli rose, and they all walked out into the garden. He seized Anna’s hands. Till Ain Feschka, then!

*

Nobody would call Shimon Boethus a handsome man, and the overly decorated costume did little to alleviate the impression. The gold embroidered robe was ankle-long, and he had to lift it up not to tumble as he climbed the stairs up to the royal reception rooms. He was forced to rest midway, for age was surely afflicting his lungs. In spite of the sunny climate in Jerusalem his skin was pale, and his sufferings had marked the face below the embroidered cap with brocaded gold and silver thread, the cap that only the High Priest was allowed to wear.

Although known by every officer in the royal court, the High Priest had to endure the routines of the officer on duty, and he was forced to wait as his appointment with the king was confirmed. He continued his climb unto the reception rooms where the royal adjudant greeted him. I am expected, Boethus hissed, slightly annoyed by the unceremonial welcome. There was a time, he thought, when the High Priest was not asked to wait in the ante chamber, and when the king would be on his toes in the company of the High Priest, but all that had changed under Herod, there was little respect, and woe to the High Priest who had not grasped that Herod accounted to nobody, the Roman emperor excepted, of course. He surely was in power, Herod, but was he anything but a peasant come to power, not even a real Jew but rather a semi-Semitic bastard? The High Priest suppressed his anger, as the adjudant gave him the signal. The king is on the balcony, he said briefly.

The sun was setting over the hills out west, and the Hinom Valley was bathed in a soft golden light. The evening silence was almost total, for the royal palace was well shielded from the noise of the town, particularly on the western side where only the sounds from bleating sheep were heard. Boethus stepped out onto the white marble tiles of the balcony, as he carefully chose a facial expression suitable for a meeting with the feared ruler of Israel. One bad mistake, and he could lose his head—a fact that no one knew better than members of the royal family, where several close relatives to the king had been executed by royal command.

With a lazy arms movement the king signaled him to come closer, and the High Priest approached. He was taken aback by the sight of the king, almost seventy years now, as the king leaned against the balcony wall, for the face of Herod was bloated, his eyes seemed to disappear behind the fatty furrows, and the color of the face morbid. Sick in the body, and even sicker in the head, Boethus thought, and thus more dangerous than ever.

Look here, High Priest, the king mumbled in a weak voice and pointed across the valley towards the south-west. Boethus saw the royal burial chambers, white marble walls reflecting the evening sun. There they are, the family, the king said, and when might it be my turn? Boethus stared at the king in amazement, for he had never seen him in a sentimental mood. Intoxicated and sentimental, perhaps, but never sober and sentimental. Herod turned around and looked into the eyes of the old priest, his mood changed abruptly as he noticed how feeble the priest seemed. Ah well, he said with a satanic grin, you first, don’t you think, High Priest? There was another change of mood—come on, priest, let’s have a glass of wine.

The wine was on the table, and the king lied down on the upholstered deck chair—Boethus followed his example. Sipping wine they lay there, silently, for a while as darkness slowly