The Memoir of a Nazarene: Jay Levi

By Edward J Murray

No one would disagree with the contention that the central figure in this semi-fictional work has been written about continuously for two millenniums. A continued interest in his life and commentary on it does seem timeless. It is the unanimous opinion in the Christian world that he is both true God and true man. Once they say it in good faith, they forget about his humanity and the frailties that come with it. They stay singularly preoccupied with his extra-terrestrial connection. This novel flips the preoccupation. It is a study of the real man. It is done so without diminishing the extraordinary events surrounding his life. The novel appears to be unique in that it allows the extraordinary man to talk for himself. It is unique in many ways. To name a few: there are weather reports, a calendar of events, his farm work, hours and mileage for his trips, his sport competitions, his high school days, and a man with a good sense of humor. A list of the fresh ways of looking at the man is long.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477101742

Edward J Murray

The author is a native of the Philadelphia area, born in the shadow of the city’s majestic Art Museum and Boathouse Row. He is now living in the shadow of that heroic encampment, Valley Forge. He has been writing all his adult life, including four novels published in the last ten years. Having published four novels in the last ten years bespeaks of the author’s commanding set of credentials. This is his first non-fiction work. The spread of the author’s interest is vast, ranging from ancient thought to modern astronomy. Lighter but, he thinks, healthier avocations include swimming, golf, hometown football, and dropping a fly in a trout stream.

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Contents

Preface

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

A Rough Sketch of Named Places

114595-MURR-layout-low.pdf

A note on travel: In this story much traveling takes place from village to town to city. They are mostly short trips. The towns and villages surrounding Jerusalem are within 12 miles of each other. In the north, a trip through all the villages around Lake Galilee was not time consuming. The perimeter of the lake is about 13 miles and a donkey walks about 4 miles an hour.

For

Marc + David

Susan

Cara + Sean

Preface

A     certain person who we have no need to identify made a recent visit to Jerusalem. While there, he visited one of the ancient caves. While in the cave, he stumbled over something on the dirt floor. When the dust cleared the cover of a manuscript appeared. It was entitled: The Memoir of a Nazarene by Jay Levi. It is translated here from the Aramaic for the entertainment of the curious observer.

1

My Early Childhood

I     have a strong suspicion that future writers down through the years will have a lot to say about me. Because of that suspicion, I thought it worthwhile to tell my own story. There is merit to getting a story right from the horse’s mouth. I don’t want to get ahead of myself. The beginning of my story predates my own memory. It belongs to my mother’s memory. The last time I heard it was during a visit to friends in Bethany where we attended a wedding. To be sure, as for most mothers, it was her favorite story. I haven’t heard it for a few years, but would hate to count the number of times I did. Even now, it would annoy her if anyone would show signs of weariness while she was telling it. My mother was not always a stolid woman, and no one should take the passion she had in telling it lightly. I never tired of it myself, for in every telling there seemed to sneak in something new. Mom had a good imagination, and some of the new elements bordered on pure fantasy. Each new telling seemed to contain new bites into something vague, indefinite, and ponderous. Her mind seemed to be toying with hints suggestive of an auspicious promise dangling in my future. Her story contained the seminal of my own story. The story of my life, a story in which one fiction after another kept turning into one reality after another. Sometimes I thought that my fictions of the day would become the realities of tomorrow. The fictions of the art of my life became all too real, not centuries later, but in the 33 rd year of my life.

Let me give you the details of my early childhood. I was born in Nazareth, a small village inside the Roman district called Galilee. It was in lower Galilee located midway between the Mediterranean Sea to the west and the Sea of Galilee on the east. Because it was situated on a mountain ridge, we had a nice view of the Sea. It’s more descriptive to call the sea a lake. It is a fresh water lake which stretches about 13 miles around and about seven miles across at its widest point. Good swimmers could cross it easily at its widest point. Races were conducted often across the lake. Its main water source is the Jordan River in the north at Mount Hermon, and then several miles to the south it dumps into the Dead Sea. On the western coast stood Capernaum where I spent much time in my later years. It’s hard to call Capernaum a village. It was more like a commune of like minded people. It was an isolated community only about thirteen acres in size with a population of about fifteen hundred residents.

The villages on the west side of the lake were predominantly Jewish. On the east side of the lake was predominantly Gentiles. Gentile is a vague word. It just means ethnic groups other than Jewish. There were plenty of interactions between both peoples. From a larger geographic perspective, the western side of the Jordan was considered the Israeli side, and the eastern side was called the Gentile side. Both sides collective were called Palestine. King Herod ruled over the western side called Judea, and he was considered King of the Jews. He did build a gorgeous temple to win favor with the local natives.

He died about when I was four years old. After his death, his kingdom was divided between three of his family members who all of them included the name Herod in their names: Herod Archelaus, Herod Antipas, and Herod Agrippa. They were all called tetrarchs, which was just a political title for administration over an area lower than that of a king. Jerusalem and its surrounds was one of the subdivisions. Herod Antipas, a young man, ruled over the Jerusalem area. I forget who ruled over Galilee. When the later died, Rome sent for his replacement a new tetrarch by the name of Pontius Pilate. Pilate became a big player in my later life, a big tragic player. There will be much more about that later. And this will be enough for the politics of the time.

My early child was for the most part typical of the children of Judea for that time. I liked school and sports. On school: I liked the courses in music, math, and the Torah. In math I like especially Euclidian Geometry. It is a discipline that shows the power to grasp some truths with pure thinking. A simple example would be the truth contained in the assertion: All right triangles are equal. That’s a truth that is of, by, and for the mind. It’s not out there with goats, grass, and olive trees.

The marriage of my parents was anything but typical. At the time they coupled, Mom was about fifteen and Dad was about seventy. There were arranged marriages at the time, but their arrangement was later. Mom would not enter marriage unless her lifelong vow of chastity was honored. Dad being seventy and a lifelong celibate found no difficulty honoring her request. Not only was their marriage a mystery, it was my mirth that was the greatest mystery of them all. The only thing not mysterious about it: I came into the world seven pounds, three ounces, a pointed nose, and dimple on my chin. Dad was an excellent carpenter, and it was not difficult for him to find work. We were never without food and the other of life’s necessities. I remember the time, when after repairing his oxen cart; he built for me a tree house in the back yard of his shop. I loved that tree house. I’d go there and feel the beauty of being alone with nature. I imagined being deep into nature with just me and the nests of chirping birds. A year later he bought me a small tent. Well, it was barter. He got me the tent from Sam, the tent maker, for rebuilding Sam’s workbench. I loved that tent, made of goatskins. Sitting in it alone during a rainstorm made me feel safe and serene with the environment. I gave up playing marbles in the sand before I was twelve years old. Joey, Sam the tentmaker’s son, was my best friend at the time and he had a bow and arrow. He liked to shoot at the birds, sparrows and swallows. I never got into archery. I did invite Joey into my tent and house tree once in a while. He found this form of play as serene as I did. During the teenage years there was occasional bullying in the schoolyard. I did get into a fist fight once. I won, giving the other kid a black eye and a broken tooth. I deeply regretted that, but was satisfied when, thereafter, we became friends. Teenage children can be cruel with one another. For some of them, it’s easier to tame goats.

Mom was a very avid reader, and she had a great passion to pass that skill on to me. She would give me a lesson virtually every day from the time I was five years old. I was a quick learner, and by the time I was twelve I could recite many passages from the Torah. I did so at neighborhood gatherings. As a result, I was described as a very precocious child. Mom was proud of her accomplishments with me in that regard. The people of the villages where I lived saw me as a rising star, destined to become a world class rabbi, maybe even a high priest. During studies of the Torah, I liked particularly the singing of the Psalms.

Psalm 19 was my favorite. It read in part: The heavens are telling of the glory of his craftsmanship. Day and night they keep telling about God. Without a sound or word, silent in the skies, their message reaches out to the entire world. The sun lives in the heavens where God placed it, and moves out across the sky in radiance, as a bridegroom going to his wedding, as joyous as an athlete looking forward to his next race. The sun crosses the heavens from end to end, and nothing can hide from its warmth.

Yes, that was my favorite. The psalms had to be sung in order for their beauty to sink in. A priest (Levite) who ignores art and music was said to be is a bad priest. We often sang the psalms at home to the accompaniment of the lyre. Mom was an excellent lyrist. She gave me some lessons, but I never became as good as her. Dad was a terrible singer, but he did his best. He could never become a cantor. I did accompany mom occasionally with the drum and the harp. While I never became a true master I did all right.

Mom’s favorite psalm was psalm 81. It reads: The Lord makes us strong. Sing and sing with the accompaniment of drums. Pluck the sweet lyre and harp and play the trumpet. Come to the joyous celebrations of the full moon, the new moon, and all the other holidays. For God has given us these times of joy. They are scheduled in the laws of Israel. He gave us them to us as reminders of his war against Egypt where we were slaves on foreign soil.

I hard an unknown voice that said, Now I will relieve your shoulder of its burden. I will relieve your hands from their heavy burden. He added, You cried to me in trouble and I saved you. I answered you from Mount Sinai where thunder hides. Listen to me, O my people, while I give you stern warnings. O Israel, if you would only listen. You must never worship any other like gold or money, worldly kings, or big league politicians. Never have an idol in your head, your heart, or your home. It was I, the one and only God who brought you out of Egypt. Believe in me and you will receive every blessing you could use. But I am troubled by so many Israelites. They want to go their own way and follow their own desires. I can’t prevent that because they have been endowed with free will. For many, their ways are blind and stubborn.

O if my people would just listen. If they were only to walk my path, they would see quickly how that path would crush their enemies. The path once taken would reveal it is a path full of honey for the taken.

When Dad wasn’t singing, he would play the trumpet, and he wasn’t bad at it. His favorite psalm was psalm 84. It reads: How lovely is your Temple, O Lord of the armies of heaven. I faint with longing to enter your courtyard. And come near to the living God even the sparrows and the swallows are welcome to come and nest among your altars and there have there have their young. How happy are those who can live in your Temple singing your praises.

Happy are those who are strong in the Lord, who want above all else to follow your steps. When they walk through the Valley of Weeping it will become a place of springs where pools blessings and refreshments collect after the rains. They will grow constantly in strength and each of them is invited to meet with the Lord of Zion. O God, hear my prayer. O God, our shield and defender have mercy on the anointed one who will be your emissary.

A single day in your Temple is better than a thousand days spent elsewhere. I’d rather be a doorman of the Temple than live in the palaces of the error. You being there is our Light and Protector. He gives us grace and glory. No good thing will he withhold from those who walk along his paths. O Lord, bless those who trust you.

Yes, psalm 84 is a nice psalm. They are better appreciated when seen as poems designed to be set to music. I guess we could call Dad a portable carpenter. We moved around a bit from village to village to village wherever carpentry was in demand. Dad’s specialty was furniture. I don’t remember the time we moved to Alexandria in Egypt. I was only two years old at the time, but I remember my parents recalling the treacherous, storm laden trip across the Mediterranean. Another story shrouded in mystery. As with Alexandria, Dad would set up shop on the edge of forest or farmland where he could easily get the lumber to do his work. We were quite with farming and trees. Dad was also skilled at trimming bark off the eucalyptus tree. He always had a bark press that could make the inside of the bark suitable for a writing surface that he could sell to the printing companies. He could find buyers as far away as Greece.

I remember a farmer in one of the villages where Dad set up shop would allow me to milk his goats. He would for wages allow me to take a half a gallon home. Another farmer would let me pick grain in his field. For wages he allowed me to take home a bushel for every ten I reaped. Life in the home was somewhat a bit routine. On the Sabbath Dinner were always slices of lamb with varied vegetables, and always plenty of bread. Mom was great at the fireplace cooking. She seemed very much a peace with herself rolling dough and mixing it with yeast. Wednesday the meat was lox. For breakfast we typically have eggs from our own hens and slices of bread. For the mourning bread, Mom would always put slices on an iron plate and let it sit in the fireplace for a few minutes. When served they were always nice and warm and toasty.

About every Thursday my parents would invite neighbors over to play cards. The game was called Judea and there were four suits, namely, Jerusalem, Galilee, Jericho, and Tower of David. Each suit had nine numbered cards, one to nine. Nine was the highest. The cards were made of 2 by 3 slices of bark from the eucalyptus tree. Dad mad the cards himself. The numbers were in read and formed by the blood of goats. The game was designed four for players. Scores were kept, but no betting was made. While no betting was done, a courteous loaf of bread was offered by the losers to the winners.

There was something in the game called blending. If, for example, one player had two nines from the same suit that would get a higher score than two nines from different suits. There was also something called a straight, which occurred when the numbers were in sequence with one another. There was also something called a flush. It occurred when all the cards in a hand were from the same suit. And then there was the straight flush which occurred when all the cards in a hand had the numbers in sequence and all from the same suit. The highest hand was the straight flush from card nine down to card five. There were only five cards to the hand. There were only seven hands that received scores. They were with their scores from highest to lowest: 1. Straight flush (70); 2.A straight (60); 3. A full blend, all five cards in same suit (50); 4.The highest sequence of numbers (40); 5.Same number cards, pairs, triples, etc. (30); 6. The highest number (20); 7.The ties would split the score. The cards could be played at night because our oil lanterns were sufficient to provide enough light. Dad was good. He was more times a winner that a loser. He was also good at something else. He was a very heat sensitive man. During the hot summer nights he would go up and sleep on the roof to obtain the air conditioning that was up there. Laying there often under the clear skies, he was very adept at naming the constellations. I think he named a few by himself.

There was another card game we played, but the suits were different, namely, Caesar, Belligerent, Useless, and Charity. There was also a wild card called Satan. When Satan beat Caesar, everyone cheered and laughed. There was no bitterness. It was all about having fun.

I graduated from biblical school at the age of eighteen. Although it was a bible school, other things were taught such as the basics in math, grammar, Aramaic, and music. There was a gym period, which was basically training skills for sports competition. I like especially the foot races and the swimming competitions in the local river. I have random memories about a lot of things. I often remember as a ten year old falling can cutting my knee and crying loud enough for the world to hear. Mom’s hugs and kisses were enough to silence my tears. While at school I acquired a friend who introduced me to his sister, Rebecca. I while after the introduction Rebecca started to meet regularly, flirted with one another, and fell in love. Call it puppy love if you like, but the feelings toward one another were genuine. Maybe it was just teenage genuine. Rebecca was a pretty young girl, who was a trim, shapely girl with beautiful blond hair rolling nicely off her back, 5 foot, three inches. Like me a nice dimple on her jaw. Our regular visits to one another, after a while faded. I suffered from her absence, but enjoyed the emotions of a first love. Time and circumstance put some distance between us. It caused me to write her a love letter. When I put it in the mail, it made me feel superior to my shyness. At the same time, I tensed at the embarrassment if she laughed at me. She did reply and said that while she had warm feelings for me, she didn’t want to take it too far. I was happy with her response, but I never saw her again. The rest of my childhood could be described as typical of many boys of my time, place and circumstance.

Yes, they were turbulent years to some extent. I wasn’t born grown up. And then there came