The Light

By Melissa Freeman

John, the apostle, seemed to have some advantages the other eleven did not. For one, he was probably Jesus cousinin the flesh, that is. His mother, Salome, was probably the same Salome identified as Marys sister. Second, John seemed to have an inroad into the Jewish high priests compound. Did he know someone? In The Light, Johns advantage is his friendship with High Priest Caiaphass younger son, Amos Annas, the narrator of this novel. Amos, a Sadducee in good standing, spends a lifetime puzzling over events his brain says cannot be what they appear, while his best friend and his eyes say something quite different.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490891538

Melissa Freeman

Melissa Freeman had taught college freshman composition for many years when she started wondering if she could write, not just talk about writing. That question initiated a project the ended with The Light, a novel about Jesus Christ and how he appeared to those who hounded him to the cross, the family of the high priest. Why, when seeing “signs and wonders” at every turn, could they not accept Jesus as Messiah? Could they be like many people today? In addition to writing The Light, Freeman has worked as a freelance writer, a newspaper reporter, and a history writer for Arcadia Publishing. Completing The Light is the realization of a twenty-year dream.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

My name is Amos. My father, Caiaphas, high priest in the time of Jesus, the fake Messiah, must have been deep in his cups when he gave me that name since I am nothing like that mad prophet. My father often retreated into his wine bowl to escape my mother, the daughter of Annas, my other namesake.

I am Annas Amos Bar Caiaphas. But everyone called me Amos-a joke, I think. Amos the prophet used words like mule kicks to rebuke those haughty, self-serving priests of his day. Priests were the same in my day, but I appeased and flattered them-anything to keep their eyes off of me. I became as cynical as they were.

I am old now. I see little of the world through these rummy eyes. But I do see the pity on my servants’ faces as they support my tottering steps and wipe the water off my withered cheeks. I don’t know why they pity me. I never cared for them, except for one, long ago. Oh, I suppose I am kind enough. I feed them well, and I never had a slave whipped. I always let my wife handle the household discipline, while I attended to the trivialities of life as the younger son of a high priest.

I am endless trouble for these servants now. Every night, when I call out, they must rush to my bed, lift me up, and hold me over the pot so I can pass water. Their gentle hands push aside the bedclothes, revealing my shriveled, useless legs, the joints swollen and painful. Sometimes I do not call out in time. Then their job is more unpleasant. Poor Amos, they must think-nearly blind and lame-a small soul in a body wasted to fit.

Yes, my name is Amos. What irony! His prophecies stung like a pronged whip. Oh, how he lashed those sanctimonious holy men of his day: Woe to you who long for the day of the Lord! Why do you long for the day of the Lord? That day will be darkness, not light. It will be as though a man fled from a lion only to meet a bear, as though he entered his house and rested his hand on the wall only a have a snake bite him. How marvelous! I secretly appreciated those words in my youth; I was tempted to fling them at my father and brother a time or two. They would have been shocked. Amos was not on the list of Scripture to memorize. Sadducees, the Jewish sect that supported the high priesthood, limited their Hebrew studies to the law books, the Torah.

We Sadducees do not accept the prophets as holy writ. No wonder. Accepting them would be like accepting a red-hot iron rod through the bowels! So we moved them to the side. But why am I thinking this now? The Romans are at the outer gates, come to destroy us. Our food is gone. Soon my life will be a pile of rubble; my lifeless frame could be hanging from a cross.

Why, after all this time, am I forcing my rheumatic fingers to write these words? (I must wipe my runny eyes constantly to make out the letters.) I’m writing because something remarkable is happening to me. I don’t understand it.

As the eyes of my body fade and outer lights grow dim, the eyes of my mind are sharpening to wondrous keenness. Suddenly, I can see the events of my life with blazing brilliance. And I must write it all down, everything I see again but clearer. I must record it with my nose to parchment before it fades and is lost forever. My life that I made so dull by my own approach to it has become bathed in a celestial-dare I say that word? I never thought a thing was possible! Yes, it is a heavenly light like nothing I ever dreamed of. But why would He come to me? Why illuminate my path when I can no longer walk in it? I do not understand, but I must do what I can.

I remember a statement that I scoffed at, a statement made by a man I knew very well but could hardly call a friend, Saul of Tarsus. He reported seeing a light that actually blinded him for a time. He asked us how he could refuse the urgings of such a brilliant manifestation. Of course, we commented that the light was the exploding of his brain as he descended into insanity. Now, I think I may be experiencing something like Saul’s light, and I must hold on to it so I won’t lose it again. But Saul said its source was the pretender-that boy, so long ago. Perhaps if I write it all, I can hold it long enough to make sense of it. But with the Romans camped on the Mount of Olives, my time may be very short indeed.

I see my only friend’s face clearly, as if it were yesterday! But it was sixty years ago. I had never seen such passion on a human countenance. It blazed with anger and fierce hatred one second, then flushed with hysterical joy the next.

My brother, Caiaphas Alexander, the oldest son of the high priest (though our father was not the high priest yet) was walking to the temple with my cousin during the feast of the Passover, our most holy and profitable season. My cousin was a hothead with a reputation for imprudent actions. As they walked, he was busily engaged in a diatribe against all our fellow human beings. My brother, the chosen, assented at intervals with the slightest of nods. At thirteen, he was full of his new manhood. He walked with a dignity befitting a son of Aaron. The ingrained arrogance of our kind fit him as naturally as did his richly tasseled silk robes. I was walking behind them, wearied of my cousin’s endless disparaging remarks. I was sure he would turn to my inadequacies when I was out of earshot, or maybe sooner.

This town if full of Galileans, he said with a snort. I almost hate to see these holy days come! They all swarm in like insects-insects that smell like dead fish! They lounge all over the place, eating those coarse barley loaves. You can’t walk down the street without being battered with bags of rock-hard bread. And how they talk! Their words sound like barley mush, like they are too lazy to enunciate clearly! They aren’t much different than those Samaritan dogs they sleep next to, he said, with a sneer.

You mean they both get up with the same fleas? replied my brother, a hint of a smile on his haughty face.

Excuse me, said a well-dressed boy whose vigorous walk had brought him up to my brother’s elbow. Though no barley and dried fish bag hung from his shoulder, his words were spoken with a Galilean slur-like Escoos me.

Excuse me! said the boy again, more forcefully. I gave him my full attention, something I rarely did. I liked to keep my life as muted as possible. I saw a short, sturdy boy, about my age, ten, his cheeks rosy with sun and something else. Then I saw his eyes, beaming with a passion I had never seen in my coolly civil household. They blazed into my brother’s cold, distant ones. The challenge was unmistakable.

Next, I saw a flicker of fear move my brother’s thin, pressed lips. Yes, it was fear I saw, even though my brother was a foot taller and several pounds heavier than the Galilean.

The boy continued. The dogs wear the fleas in my family, and we don’t lie down with them. Only you filthy Judean shepherds cuddle your animals at night.

In a flash, my cousin leaped in front of my brother, his face very close to the boy’s. I guess the faint fishy smell coming from the boy’s plain but good clothes didn’t bother him. How dare you talk to the grandson of the high priest like that, you mangy Galilean whelp! You had better learn to respect your betters, you filth-eating maggot! He punctuated his statement with a slap across the boy’s defiant mouth.

Apparently, the boy wasn’t ready for an education. He flung his muscular little body into my cousin’s stomach with the ferocity of a mad dog, beating and kicking him with wild abandon. I forgot to mention that my cousin was fourteen, and, though not very athletic, big. Like most Sadducees who called Romans pagan vermin, he had spent some time wrestling in their baths. So, with some fairly well executed maneuvers, he finally managed to throw his leg into the boy’s churning ones, toppling him. But the boy scrambled to his feet in an instant and charged again, this time artlessly flinging his fists into my cousin’s nose, which began to bleed.

Finally, my cousin recovered enough to use his weight. He started to beat the boy back. Clenching his fists, he pounded the smaller boy’s face, landing blow after blow until the blood flowed freely from cuts in his lips and over his eyes. When I saw the boy’s face again, it was thoroughly battered, but, if anything, more jubilant than ever, as if this were the fight he had always looked for.

As his eyes swelled to narrow slits, the boy moved in steadily, taking the blows with that wild grin on his face. Then he leaped again, this time knocking my cousin, who was becoming entangled in his long, flowing robes, off balance.

Soon they were both rolling on the ground in uncontrolled fury-grunting, punching, kicking, biting-until finally, using his Greek training, my cousin pinned the boy to the ground, crushing him with his considerable weight. It should have been over at that point, but the boy seemed to focus all his power in his neck for a resounding head butt. I can still hear that sound,like a hard rap on a firm melon.

Groaning in agony and holding his head tenderly, my cousin rolled off him. The boy, his legs now free and quickly upright, was a about to execute a well-placed kick to the groin when another boy stepped up from behind him and grabbed his shoulder with a grip to steady a bucking horse. How clearly I see that hand now, and that voice! It resonates in my brain sixty years later. It was deep for a boy’s, and so assured.

John, said the older boy, in a quiet but unmistakably commanding and full voice for one his age, it’s time to leave now. But first, you must ask this man’s forgiveness.

My cousin looked as if he planned to take advantage of the situation and strike John again, but the voice, despite the Galilean accent, stopped him just as he swung back his arm. John turned (a difficult maneuver since his foot was still poised to land the kick). Slowly, very slowly, his body relaxed and the raging fire in his eyes mellowed to a warm flame. He smiled at the older boy, who was dressed in the rough clothes of a laborer. He did have a bag on his back. The older boy waited for John to turn back to my cousin. With blood flowing from several wounds, he bowed deeply.

Please forgive me, brothers; I did not wish to harm a son of Abraham. Then, he turned and obediently followed, though I suspect he would have preferred to finish the job he had begun.

My eyes followed them as they walked away. Then I turned to my brother whose eyes were also fixed on the retreating figures. I quickly wiped the admiration out of mine.

Galilean scum; filthy, louse-eaten beggars. Those stupid, coarse, ignorant barbarians (he sounded like a Greek now) should not be allowed to put a foot inside this holy city, much less enter the temple courts.

He must have been terrified, I thought, with barely concealed glee. The great untouchable one had been touched, even though his cousin took the punishment for him. Too bad, I thought. I would have loved seeing the exalted one, our mother’s favorite, moaning and crying the dirt out of his eyes. My brother had not lifted a hand to help his loyal cousin-not then or any time since. He would not soil his hands with his defender’s blood.

And as for this holy city and these temple courts, both smelled more and more like livestock dung and blood the closer we got to the temple. If the wind suddenly shifted, the stench would become unbearable. Some holy smell!

After several moments of relishing my brother’s terror, I came out of my delighted reverie to help my cousin. I offered him a corner of my robe to clean his eyes and face. Every inch of his was too dirty or bloodied to serve. He took more than a small corner. My brother’s silk garments were still perfectly in place.

I savored my cousin’s humiliation and my brother’s terror for the rest of the day. But that evening, life returned to normal.

Amos (my mother’s voice held her typical scorn for me), you dirty little beast, come here. My feet seemed to cling to the floor as I approached her, each one begging to be allowed to stay where it was.

What is on your robe? Have you been rolling with the little beggars in the market place? Her scornful eyes appraised me. Even though I stood only a foot away from her, her eyes seemed leagues away.

Rest assured we will never call you by my father’s name. You bring shame to it with every breath. Her words stung like they always did. But they hurt more because they were so dispassionate and bloodless. Then her hand with its long, thin, fingers, weighty with jewels, dismissed me with a flick.

Go to bed. I do not wish to see you again tonight. If you see your brother, tell him to come to us. We have need of his delightful company. I am quite certain he has not been wallowing in the dirt.

I backed away from her couch. Though I could not look up, I took in the rich blue silk of her robe, her skin-as cold and smooth as marble, and her typically down-turned lips. Drusilla, a distant cousin and friend of hers, reclined on the next couch. She seemed amused by the scene as she picked another fig from the bowl. At least you have one son of promise, my dear Esther. My mother did not fit her name, though she was a rather handsome woman, if a woman with a long, thin, hooked nose could be handsome.

Actually, she had no son of promise. The high priesthood would never go to a son of Caiaphas. It returned to the house of Annas as each of my mother’s brothers took a turn, then slipped into Boethus family hands—a family of priests even more detestable that my own who were originally tapped for power by Herod the Builder and about as moral as their benefactor. Since Romans choose the high priest, they typically choose men they felt more comfortable with.

Still, I loved my mother.

CHAPTER 2

The next day I made my daily trek to the temple to worship. I cared nothing for worship. I was the grandson of High Priest Annas, but I cared nothing for God. In fact, it had been a long time since I had allowed myself to care for anything very much.

Hey, you, rich Judean boy-wanna to fight me today?

I looked up and saw the rosy, swollen, black and blue face of the Galilean boy, not one bit less alive and passionate.

No, Galilean boy, I replied. I have new respect for you fisherman after yesterday.

And well you should, he replied with a laugh, sidling up to me like a long lost friend. We fishermen are a tough, hard-working lot-not like you soft Judean school boys.

So I see, John the fisherman, I smiled at his open, disarming face despite myself.

He started, How do you know my name? I don’t remember introducing myself yesterday.

No, I don’t believe you had time. The other boy who took you away called you ‘John’.

Well, yes, I suppose he did-for, truly, that is my name. I am John, son of Zebedee, fisherman of the sea of Galilee. And who are you, oh fine one?

My name is Amos, I replied.

Oh, what a marvelous name! `Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!’ he rhapsodized, quoting the prophet.

Very good! You know the prophets. Your synagogue school teacher must be very proud of you.

Actually, my teacher is not very proud of me at all. I know those verses because I like them. I also like, `Woe to you, you cows of Bashan on Mount Samaria, you women who oppress the poor and crush the needy.’ I use that one to taunt my sisters. They are pretty tired of me too, just like my teacher, he said impishly. Amos is such a useful prophet. I have stolen his words on many occasions. Those are words with a sword in them. He began to thrust and parry, like a Roman soldier.

So, when you are not antagonizing your teacher or sisters, you are out fishing?

Oh yes. My father has several boats. It takes all of us-my father, my older brother, James, the hired men and my humble self-to keep all the boats out.

I’ve heard your sea can become very turbulent. You must be very brave and skilled to tame it, I said, with the admiration of a sedentary boy for an athlete.

John looked a little sheepish. To tell the truth, James and I repair the nets more than we sail. Sometimes we cast them from the shore and pull in a few fish when we are through mending. The lake is treacherous, as you say. Storms come up very quickly. My father doesn’t let us go out with him very often-especially not me. He says it’s too dangerous for a rapscallion, and my mother would not hear of it! James gets to slip off more than I do-he is almost twelve. But oh, how I love it! His eyes became rapturous again. I love the sea and waves and the winds that sweep down from the mountains and whip the waters into a fury! And John whirled around in a mad dance. Then, as I had the day before and as I would many times in the future, I envied him.

And what do you love to do, Amos? Is your father a rich merchant? Do you handle goods from foreign lands?

No, I don’t do anything much. I go to school. I learn the Holy Scriptures, and I discuss them with other boys. Sometimes that gets interesting. I could tell John didn’t think so.

What about your father? What work do you two do? John continued to look for something to build a conversation on.

We don’t work together. My father is a priest. John thought about that for a moment. He looked at my garments which were a little like those my brother had worn the day before, but, in my case, robes for a boy rather than for a man. His eyes grew round with amazement.

Were you with those two yesterday? I saw you behind them, but I didn’t think you were with them. I noticed you a time or two and I felt like you were with me somehow, he said.

The boy you gave that beating to was my cousin. The other fellow was my brother.

So, you are the grandson of the high priest, he said, in utter amazement.

I am the younger grandson of the high priest, I replied, with grim emphasis on the word younger.

But you could be a great man someday, child of Aaron. You will sit on the ruling counsel! How foolish I was to think you were the son of a merchant. Please forgive me! This time, I ask it truly, he said.

You mean you did not ask it truly yesterday? This time I spoke with a little of my family’s smirk.

He laughed. Well, I was sorry that I called your honorable brother a Judean shepherd. I did not realize that the one I insulted, though he is a tall, cold fish of a boy, might one day be the ruler of our people. I am glad I did not spill his blood. That I might have regretted for sure! And I did enjoy the contest your cousin gave me. I appreciate a worthy opponent.

I looked at his honest, open, puffy face with wonder. His eyes, or what I could see of them through those swollen slits, danced into my dull ones. I could not help but like him for himself, not just for the pleasure he had given me the day before.

So, I guess you are only here for the Feast and then it is back to your nets, I said.

Yes, but I wish I could stay one more week. This is such an exciting place!

Exciting? It’s a dirty, smelly place. It smells like thousands of lambs all perfuming the air together. And all these priestly rituals are not very exciting when you know priests. They care more about cheating people out of their lambs and money changing than worshiping the Almighty! And all the blood! The whole city reeks of it. It turns my stomach.

Well, I find it all rather grand, said John, looking a little deflated for the first time in our short acquaintance.

We had arrived at the temple by then, and I was feeling my usual nausea. Perhaps I am more sensitive to smells than others.

When we were climbing the steps to the first courtyard, I could see what he saw for a moment. The temple was magnificent: Herod had seen to it. The massive columns covered with gold reflected the sun with dazzling brilliance. The enormous, fine-cut stones of the temple itself seemed to say that our Blessed One is the Almighty and worthy of our praise and adoration. For a moment, I shut my nose, and I forgot Herod and my relatives. My soul leaped in admiration, and, immediately, I felt uncomfortable. I had no use for such feelings. They did me no good.

The next day was the Sabbath, the seventh and the final day of the Feast of Unleavened Bread. I doubted I would see John that day. But I desperately wanted to meet him again.

How soon will you leave after the Feast? I asked as we were leaving the temple some time later.

Oh, not so soon. There are so many of us. It takes a long time to get everyone together, and then we have to buy more provisions since we will not be able to get them on the Sabbath. We won’t leave until mid-day at the earliest. Why, we could have all kinds of fun before my family leaves!

And where would you like to have this fun? I asked, trying not to sound too eager. I didn’t expose my feelings if I could help it.

The Pool of Bethesda! he said, the rapture returning.

Near the Sheep Gate? I replied, my nose wrinkling again.

Yes, that’s the one! John plunged on, ignoring my nose. I MUST see the angel stir the waters before I go!

Very well, I said, not wishing to risk his friendship with my skepticism just yet. I will see you at the pool soon after the sun comes up.

And I will be there Amos. I will be there!

CHAPTER 3

As ready I was to see John, I was not eager to see the Pool of Bethesda. It was and is a disgusting place. Legend has it that an angel comes down to stir the waters on occasion, and the one who gets into the water first is healed of his infirmities.

Well, we have lots of infirmities in Jerusalem, and many of them are on loathsome display at the pool. It’s also a prime spot for begging. I avoided it like the plague; indeed, it looked like one of plagues of Egypt had struck there. My fine clothes and my young face make me a target for beggars. They cried out to me, their pus-swollen hands grabbing at my robe. I had only been there once-quite by accident. I had decided never to go there again.

But very early on the morning of the first day, I walked quickly and quietly out the door of our house and into the still-darkened street. If no one caught me on the way out, I was free. No one would miss me. Certainly not my mother. No one caught me.

The pool was a long way off, but I walked quickly to ward off the early morning chill, and soon I saw the Sheep Gate, enormous double doors made of huge wooden planks swung open to allow travelers to pass through Nehemiah’s great wall. The wall, which towered over the sleeping city, seemed to grow taller and more threatening in the dim light of early morning.

You’re here at last! exclaimed a voice in an excited whisper. I turned to my right. You came just in time, too. Nothing has happened yet, but I feel something is about to. The angel will come, and we will see a mighty work of the Lord! John’s certainty was not shared by a few permanent residents of the pool who groaned and cursed him for awakening them from their slumber. Most were wrapped in coarse blankets and lying under crude tents. As the sun’s rays pierced through the morning dimness, I could make out little tents dotting the court. Under that great looming wall, the pool with its two porticos looked peaceful, even lovely. But I knew that in full light, the tents would be thrown back, and the ugliness would be revealed: empty eye sockets, festering stumps, bodies covered with running sores. Though I was glad to see John, I sighed before I greeted him.

And how long have you been here? I asked.

Oh, a long time. I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to see this sight for years, but this is the first time I have slipped away. How long before the angel comes?

I don’t know. But I think some of these people have been here for many years. Maybe the angel doesn’t come very often. Maybe we won’t see it today. I was quite sure we would see nothing but a bunch of professional beggars, but I hated to disappoint him. We Sadducees all knew that if angels existed at all, they certainly had nothing to do with us lesser beings. Most of our fellow countrymen expected angels to pop up at any moment; we had nothing but disdain for such superstitious ignorance. We only served the Almighty because it was to our political advantage to do so, not because we believed He had much to do with us. We hoped if He did exist, He would stay out of our business.

Look, said John, his eyes enthralled by the motionless water in the pool. We will see something.

And indeed we did! But I was never sure what. The dawn, as bright and fresh as any dawn I had ever seen, soon turned the pool into a bowl of molten gold. Even the poor, sick beggars seemed touched by the sight, those who could see. After several choruses of moans, groans and entreaties-Fine young children of Abraham, take pity on us, have compassion for us-which John did not notice at all and I deliberately ignored, the din died down and we all looked in the direction of the pool. John’s expectancy was catching.

Suddenly, a shaft of light pierced the pool’s golden surface, and the water started to bubble, a little at first, but then furiously, like water in a big pot, boiling over a roaring fire. The permanent residents were so startled they stared in shocked silence. I had heard that the ones who typically made it into the pool had friends or relatives to help them. But no assistant was there so early, and probably none of the permanents had friends left in the real world anyway. They had been here too long. Then one lying close to us, a cripple from the looks of his shriveled legs, came to his senses and screamed out, Help me young sirs! Help me into the water! I want to be healed! Help me, please!

I felt paralyzed myself, too stunned to move, but John suddenly awoke like one shaking off a witch’s spell and grabbed hold of the helpless man, pulling, then pushing him into the raging pool. The wild, churning water sucked the man under, then tossed him skyward, throwing his useless body about as if it were one of the rag dolls little girls throw about when no one is around to scold them. Gasping, John realized that in his urgency to save the man, he might have caused his death. He started to jump into the water to rescue the cripple when I came to and grabbed his arm. Stop! Don’t do it! I screamed.

John looked at me in shocked disbelief. Then he looked at the waters again. All right, then, he yelled, I’ll be the net, and you can be the fisherman. Hold on to me! He threw himself on the ground and gestured toward