Lorrin delivered many sermons during his 40 years of ministry. Never one to simply repeat a message, he devoted a great deal of effort to researching, preparing and presenting the words God put in his heart to share.

Letters In A Jar, A Series in Five Parts

This series of five Lenten sermons was first delivered at the Worthington Presbyterian Church, Worthington, OH, by the Rev. Dr. Lorrin Kreider Scrolls were purportedly found in an old jar that had washed ashore on a Bahamian shore and were the basis of the sermons.

In Dr. Kreider’s words: My purpose is to give a voice to the little, unheralded people in Jesus' life. Jesus honored some of these individuals for possessing exemplary faith. Others among them he recognized as struggling with faith and honest doubts. In the Gospel record, these men and women are walk on characters, like flashes of light, in the gospel stories about Jesus.

Some recent scholars however have observed that these people are the best models available for us to understand our own feelings about Christ. These "little people" should be given a voice. Their thoughts and feelings will enrich our faith.

I write with playful, ironic humor to reveal the discord between our ideals and our actions. I leave it to readers to feel their own spiritual tension and to decide what is correctable and what must be left to the grace of God.

 

A black object was floating on the ocean. Was it a child's body or just a small log? It seemed to struggle to come to me as it fell and rose to the rhythmic swell of the blue water. Entranced by its movement, I watched for a long time. When it reached the shallower, aqua colored region of the bay one could see that it was hard and barnacled with a dark brown, almost black appearance.

As my eyes followed the strange object's slow approach, time stopped and my mind wandered to other subjects. I was glad to be in Nassau where soft, warm breezes gently caressed my tired eyes. The rattle of palm branches overhead provided an orchestra for spots of sunlight and shadow to dance at my feet. March is cold in Ohio. What a delightful retreat the Bahamas provide!

"A jar! That’s what it is!" I exclaimed as the slimy, mahogany colored object alerted me to its arrival in the white water flowing up the sandy beach. I had seen such jars in museums in Jerusalem. They were containers used two thousand years ago to carry grain or water. As the jar tumbled about in the surf, it reminded me of first century pottery which I had seen in Upper Galilee.

Soon I stood ankle deep in sand with water swirling around my feet examining the visitor from long ago. If set upright, it would be over four feet tall. Its body curved out to a diameter of about two feet at its belly. Its crescent shaped handles were badly battered. Someone had wedged a ceramic lid into its neck so tightly, and sealed it so thoroughly, that nothing could penetrate the mysteries within.

A nearby rock offered the possibility of breaking the jar with a blow to its mid-section, but an auto repair shop down the road provided a better alternative. Armed with a long screw driver and a heavy hammer, I began to work on the jar's plugged throat. The borrowed tools and I struggled until I completed the surgery. Broken fragments of the lid lay at my feet. The jar exhaled ancient fumes and took in a breath of fresh air.

My eagerness to reach into the black chasm was restrained by an equal amount of fear. I dragged the pottery/ceramic container a dozen yards up the beach. There my curiosity conquered my apprehensions. I thrust my right hand into the darkness. My hand felt something. There was a rod. A clump of material was attached to the stick. "Could this be a scroll?" I asked. Yes, it must be a scroll. Then I could feel another one. I pushed my hand farther and farther into the jar until my right shoulder forced me to stop. There were four, five, maybe six or more scrolls of various sizes. I pulled one out. It was a roll of parchment and upon it were scribbles which reminded me of the Hebrew Sandy Sellers had tried to teach me in seminary.

Setting the scroll on a nearby ledge, I grabbed the lip of the heavy container, pulled it toward the setting sun, and hid it under the ruins of the deserted pier. Then I picked up the scroll and hurried up the hill to the little, native hotel where I had been staying. My heart pounded rapidly. I was anxious to open the roll I carried and to view its contents. "What have I discovered?" I wondered.

While climbing the stairs to my room, I became aware of an irrational sense of confidence which possessed me. Somehow I assumed that, since I was the chosen recipient of the gift in my hand, my eyes would be given the ability to read its contents.

The first scroll, when it was unrolled, contained a stack of seven individual sheets of parchment. The writing on them was so faded that its lines could hardly be seen in places. I tried to read it once, twice, probably half a dozen times. Finally I laid the pages aside and tried to assuage my dejected spirit with reminders that I had never been good at ancient languages.

"You fool, you should be reading from right to left," came a voice which sounded strangely like Dr. Seller's. I started reading backwards and everything made sense. This was a letter to Jesus. It was signed by a person named Leah. The bundle consisted of seven letters from the same woman. There were other scrolls from friends of Jesus.

The books in the briefcase which I carried from home had captured my interest before my discovery of the jar. Each night for more than a week they had kept me awake until late in the evening. Then, sometime after midnight, my eyes would close, exhausted by the seventy-five watt, orange glow emanating from the flapper-era lamp teetering on the bed-side stand.

O. C. Edwards, David Rhoads and Donald Michie, Werner H. Kelber, Jack Dean Kingsbury and Theodore J. Weeden were opening my mind to a new way of understanding that portion of the Bible which is most familiar to me. Could the Gospels be "short stories" carefully created by expert craftsmen in the art of story-telling, as these New Testament scholars claimed?

Each morning I was tempted to pick up the book which had fallen from my hands the previous night. However, the idea that the Biblical books about Jesus' life are history's best selling tales designed to keep the readers' attention, while communicating a few mysterious but essential truths had to find a place in a cluttered mind. My brain was already crammed with competing theories about these canonical books (historical, linguistic, grammatical, sociological, psychological, eschatological, liturgical and theological) which I had studied over the past forty years.

Flinty ideas struck the steel of established ways of thinking and sent sparks flying in my mind and heart. So the opening hours of each day were exciting, producing pages of scribbled notes. By early afternoon, this work was interrupted by the sound of running water. The local utility system had found water with which to fill the pipes of local hotels. So I washed, shaved, went out to walk in the Bahamian sunshine, and relax.

My discovery of the jar with its scrolls had interrupted this routine and I now concentrated on trying to understand this unfamiliar language. Several familiar names jumped out from the text: Elijah, Sedan, Nazareth, Galilee, Sarah, Abraham, Mary. I recognized the word for God: and "Abba" was there. Before long I was reading the material with surprising ease. Nevertheless, progress was slow because of the faint print and unfamiliar syntax.

The next days passed quickly. I worked as fast as I could, translating the letters to pages of English, always afraid that I might lose the gift of understanding. After sunset the task was done. Time still remained for dinner. While I was out, I telephoned Ohio. Reluctantly, permission to extend my study leave was granted. "Only until the weekend," came the authorization, "remember there are important committee meetings you must attend starting on Monday before Holy Week."

I lived a frenzied schedule the next four days. Dawn, find breakfast in town. Morning, read the new author's letter to obtain a general sense of his or her writing style. Afternoon, prepare a translation of letters sent to Jesus by that friend. 8:00 p.m., find a quick supper down by the beach. Late night, review my work by reading the letters again and checking my manuscript.

Saturday morning I returned the fifth set of letters to the mahogany colored jar in its hiding place among the deserted pier's broken concrete boulders. I secured the jar firmly above the highest tide level and stuffed the mouth with a blanket which I had appropriated from the hotel. This holy vessel which had come to me from the Holy Lands still held scrolls which I had not read. I would return as soon as possible to continue the work I had begun.

The taxi came to take me to the airport early enough in the afternoon that I asked the driver to take me down to the bench under the palm trees, by the water-front, where I had been sitting in the afternoon nearly a week before. The place seemed to be calling me back for one last check on the prize hidden in the old pier. I got out of the cab and went to look.

The jar was gone. I was shocked. Frantically, I started looking everywhere. "How can I live without it?" I thought I must find it. I will cancel my flight and stay in Nassau until it is in my hands again, I reasoned. But in a few minutes I walked back to the taxi and said, "Drive on to the airport." Really, I had known all the time that it would be gone.

Please read the collection of letters to Jesus which is attached. They are in sets, written by five of his friends. He must have collected them during his three-year ministry, beginning after he left home to be baptized by John and ending with his death.

To the letters I have added the Scriptural record of certain events which will help you to understand some of the reactions, opinions and advice offered by his friends. I have also added bits of geographic, historical and archeological information which may be illuminating. Finally, since each friendship ends unexpectedly and abruptly with Jesus' death, I have concluded each set of letters with my own thoughts of a possible end to the story.

I cannot answer intelligent people's questions about the origin and historic validity of these letters.

I cannot satisfy my own amazement, not to mention my seminary language professor's, over my ability to read these ancient documents. But of this I am absolutely certain: for one delightful week my life was ajar.

The purist will detect that in translating I did not always use the exact equivalent for a word or phrase. My priority was to convey the true meaning and flavor of the original communication.

return to top

These letters were written by an officer in the Roman Army. The Bible does not mention Claudius by name, but from his letters he must have been the centurion referred to in Luke’s gospel. ‘Centurion’ as the title for the commander of one hundred soldiers. His story begins as follows.

A centurion (living in Capernaum) had a slave whom he valued highly, and who was ill and close to death He sent some Jewish elders to Jesus, asking him to come and heal the slave. The elders appealed to Jesus earnestly, saying, "This man is worthy of having you do this for him He loves our people and he built our synagogue for us." Jesus went with them, but when he was not far from the house, the centurion sent friends to say to him, "Lord, do not trouble yourself. I am not worthy to have you come to my house; similarly, I did not dare to come to you. Just speak the word and let my servant be healed. I also am a man who lives under authority, with soldiers under me; and I say to one, 'go,' and he goes, and to another, 'come,' and he comes, and to my slave ‘do this,' and the slave does it." When Jesus heard this he was amazed, and turning to the crowd, he said, "Not even in Israel have I found such faith." When the friends whom he had sent to Jesus returned to the house, they found the slave in good health. (Luke 7:1-10 RSV abbr.)

 

Probably Claudius writes the first letter from his home in a suburb of Capernaum.

Dear Sir:

My Jewish friends were very kind to intercede with you on my behalf. Your generous action more than repaid my contribution to their synagogue. Your secret power healed my slave. That was a great blessing to my whole family, because the old man is dear to all of us, particularly our children. As I think about what you did, I wish I had not stopped you from coming to my villa after the event. I would like to know about your power: Where did you get it? Can you cure anyone who needs your help?

Before coming here I was stationed in Cyprus. When I was there I met a family who was known throughout the community for their kindness. While they cared for others, they had a great burden of their own. Their four year old daughter was seriously ill with an unknown disease. Her plight lies heavily on my heart. Could you cure her of this serious disease? I would pay whatever price you set.

Sincerely, Claudius

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Dear Sir:

In your recent letter to me you said that only faith has power over sickness and death, and that you realized I have faith. I find that strange. First, I do not believe you can know me without having seen me. Secondly, I do not understand faith nor trust its power. But, since faith is your line of work, you may know more about it than I do. I understand giving and taking orders. I command a hundred men. I'm responsible for them on and off the battlefield. They must obey my orders; and, in turn, 1 must obey orders given to me. Are you implying that God gives orders which you can hear, and that l should be able to hear such orders also?

I hardly expected the answer you gave in response to my question about the source of your power. Apparently baptism is some sort of cleansing ritual in your religion. Such rituals are difficult for me to comprehend. Even more, when you claim that during such a washing, you heard a voice call you the Son of God, you offend my appreciation for sound reasoning. My emperor claims to be the Son of God. I assure you, even though I obey his commands, I do not respect him.

Sincerely, Claudius

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Dear Sir:

Last Monday I attended one of your teach-ins on Capernaum's seashore. But, when you spoke about establishing a kingdom, I got angry and left. That is a direct threat to the peace we Romans have established all across the civilized world. It is a peace which we maintain here, for your peoples’ benefit at considerable cost to us.

You embarrass yourself when you claim to be a kingdom builder. You have no army and the band that follows you is a sorry bunch of fools. Kingdom building is ugly business. People need to he pushed around, even killed, to establish and maintain a kingdom. I get paid well for doing this work but at personal risk and sacrifice. 1 have a deep wound below my left rib and my left arm is almost useless. As one who knows about kingdoms, I say to you, "Stick to preaching”.

I feel a great depth in you, as a religious leader. I understand why some of your fellow Jews say that you speak with a level of authority which is above the average rabbi’s. I still want to know more about your power. Is it a power which I can understand? Is it a power to which I can commit? I hope we will continue a dialogue about our respective powers.

Your admirer, Claudius

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

These letters are written in Jesus' language, Aramaic, rather than Latin. This is a considerable condescension for a Roman officer to make to a common Jew.

Dear Sir:

Thank you for writing to me again. You say that your kingdom is in this world but not of this world, and that only those who have eyes to see and ears to hear can see and hear it. Since I respect you as a teacher, I'll overlook the ambiguity of that answer. As I see it, your kingdom is based on living with God whereas my life is based on taking orders from Rome.

Please understand: I do not like all the orders I get, nor do I enjoy giving some of the orders I must give, but they are necessary. The subjugated populations under my control need to be disciplined just as my own children need to be taught to obey. My soldiers need to be led, even driven, into battle. My household slaves must be punished if they disobey. I must shout at my wife sometimes to remind her that she took vows of obedience. Such is the burden of power in my world.

It is difficult for people like me to understand you. You call yourself a king but are not viewed as strong or decisive. You claim to be building a divine kingdom, but many of its new citizens are of questionable moral background. You claim absolute power, but often seem almost powerless.

Why do you not answer my appeal to help the daughter of my friends in Cyprus? They are good Jews, I assure you. They are at least as qualified for help as was my slave and probably more deserving than some others whose ailments you are curing.

Trusting in you, Claudius

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Some months probably passed between the previous letter and the next one.

Dear Sir:

My company has just returned from a patrol through most of the regions of Galilee. We found that your fame is spreading. When we traveled through the ten cities in the north, we found that a madman from the region of the Gerasenes had been through that area, calling you the Son of God, and telling everyone that you had healed him. In central Galilee, west of the sea, the crowds are saying that you have healed many demon-possessed persons, and all of them have called you God's Son. One of our intelligence officers says that word has leaked out of your inner circle that your disciples are calling you, "Son of God." Everywhere we went, the common people praised you for your spirit of peace, love and forgiveness.

If you are God's Son, your God is a very different God from Caesar`s. I must travel to Cyprus now. Beatrice, the girl I mentioned in former letters, is very ill. Please remember my request. Check with the synagogue there. They will tell you that I was just as helpful to them as I have been to the Jews of Capernaum, although I have never been an adherent of your religion.

Your admirer, Claudius

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Written on different parchment

Dear Sir:

You may have noticed that it has been a full year since our last exchange of letters.. While I was in Cyprus, Beatrice died. The day after we buried her your letter came. In it you told me to think the things of God rather than the things most people think of and to see eternal things rather than the things of this world. You also said, in defense of your ragamuffin band, that you are gathering God's lost and needy people into God's Kingdom. And you claimed that the only access to your power was through faith in you as the Son of God. None of that mattered to me then. My only thought about you was this: "The one with God's power has let me down.” I asked him to heal Beatrice and he refused. Either he has no power, and so is a fraud, or he is unwilling to help an innocent little girl, and so, must he uncaring.

But I cannot cast you out of my life because I know you care. 1 reread your letters many times and thought about what you said. Now, I come to you as one of the lost and needy, asking you to help me to think the things of God and to see the eternal.

Your friend, Claudius

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Based on references Claudius has made to specific events as well as the probable time lapse between letters, I surmise that we have reached Jesus' last few months in Galilee before heading south to Jerusalem.

Dear Friend!

I hope that ‘friend’ is not too familiar a salutation for me to use in greeting one who thinks of himself as a king and, even a Son of God. Although we have never met face-to-face, I feel by your letters that you want to be my friend.

In your last letter you pointed out that no one can serve two masters. Are you trying to tell me that I must stop serving Rome in order to serve your kingdom? Please understand: the Empire is my job, it provides me and my family with food, shelter and clothing; without it we could not live. It is true that you have made my soul see another kind of life. l am developing visions of a life which may have little to do with food and clothing, having a job and controlling territories.

Good teacher, why can't I have both - a home for my body in the Empire, doing my job and a home for my soul in a world without material concerns? I am a responsible person who can live in two realms at the same time.

Your friend, Claudius

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The last letter appears to have been written on the second day of Passover week; and continued on the third day. It must have been delivered to Mary and Martha's home.

Dear Friend,

Two months ago l was moved from my post in Capernaum and sent here, to Jerusalem 1 was getting too sympathetic with the Galileans, they said. I am now stationed at the Antonio Fortress.

You should not have come to Jerusalem. Even more, you should not have come in Passover Week. Surely you know that the religious leaders, who are gathered here for a week of patriotic and religious frenzy, want to destroy you. Certainly you should not have entered the city as you did yesterday. You should be afraid for your life. I don't ask you to be a coward; just be reasonable.

A day has gone by and I have found a courier to take this letter to Bethany where I have been told you are staying. Today I was outside the Temple Gate, at the back of the crowd which had gathered around you. I heard you predict that the Temple will be destroyed. I asked one of your disciples about this prophecy. He expanded upon it, saying that you are forecasting a great war with earthquakes, famine and suffering of all kinds. Clearly, you are trying to start a rebellion. I tried to tell my superiors not to be afraid of you. They respond with the argument that, if the national leaders side with you, a revolution is certain.

I warn you, as a friend, we may be forced to arrest you. I don't want our first face-to-face meeting to be in the dungeon of this fortress. I am not ready to choose between you and Caesar. I do not respect Caesar, but I don't know who you really are. Every time I have asked you who you are, you have written hack: "Who do you think I am?"

Is it my choice to make you whatever 1 want you to be? If so, I ask you: “Please calm your rhetoric, don't anger any more people, and stay out of trouble."

Your friend, Claudius

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

This story ends with Mark's account of Jesus' death. As he watches the crucifixion, Mark pays particular attention to the centurion who commands the soldiers who are performing the execution. Suppose this centurion was the author of these letters. Claudius looks into Jesus' face. Feelings of friendship, even love, fill him. His stomach knots up, he feels sick. He sees the sign, "King of the Jews," over Jesus' head. He thinks: “Is he King? Whose king? My king?”. His heart wants to believe, trust and have faith. But his mind freezes up, refuses to decide. He hears Jesus final cry of agony. Tears fill his eyes. All inhibitions leave him. And he speaks his last line. Here is Mark's account of those words.

With a loud cry, Jesus died. The curtain hanging in the Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The centurion who was standing there in front of the cross saw how Jesus had died. "Truly, this man was the Son of God!" he said. (Mark 15:37-39)

return to top

I have letters that were retrieved from the jar which washed up on Nassau’s shore, and are part of my personal archeological discovery. As opposed to other such discoveries, these are products of my imagination. This set was written by a school friend of Jesus.

To set the stage, I read Luke 4:16-30

These letters are on old, lined, browning parchment. No doubt the pages are the remains of a pad saved from school days. The writer, Leah, may have been too poor to buy fancy stationery.

Dear Jesus:

I have not been sleeping or eating. I am haunted by terrifying sights and sounds: the shouts of an angry, crowd; the people with arms raised and stones in their hands; your hack moving closer to the cliff from which others have fallen to their death. My legs tremble; they want to run to you but they will not move.

At other times I tingle with wonderful memories of last Sabbath. I wanted to break the solemnity of the synagogue meeting with cheers when you told us that God had given your spirit power to raise up the poor and oppressed. All of us in this little, hungry, forsaken town should join you in overthrowing the powers of this world.

Why did so many of our neighbors get angry at you? I felt your sympathy for your mother, mine, and all mothers without husbands when you praised Elijah for helping a hungry widow in Sidon. I shared your compassion for the sick when you reminded us that Elisha healed Naamon the Syrian. These stories illustrated your theme of saving people by healing them, lifting them up and setting them free.

Angry neighbors say that you claimed to be a prophet who would not help any of us because we did not like you. That is preposterous! The Jesus with whom I went to school could not have said such an unloving thing.

I must warn you that you are not welcome in Nazareth now, regardless of what you said or meant to say. You will not be able to visit your family, me or others of your friends, for a while. Our stupid synagogue leaders claim that you are a blasphemer who has defiled our whole town.

I long for you to return. Nazareth is not the same without you. I remember walking past your home and feeling my spirit lifted as if I had passed a holy place. Once you spoke to me about God with such warmth that I wanted to call God, "Abba," just as you did. Surely the powerful and self-righteous will realize that Nazareth has hurt itself. My prayer is that you will be with us again, bringing your quiet peace and the strength of your faith..

Your friend, Leah

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Dear Jesus,

Stale rumors are the only news about you which is delivered to us these days, so I was surprised when a friend from Cana brought me your letter. I have worried about you. What are you eating? How are you sleeping? Where are you staying?

You write that you will not return to live in Nazareth even if the village fathers send a delegation asking you to come home. This word creates an emptiness in me which nothing will fill. I accept your explanation: if God has called you to fulfill the blessings which Isaac foretold, you cannot limit your presence to a little village hidden in the outskirts of Lower Galilee. But I wonder, if you are not here, what chance do we have of sharing in the salvation you are bringing? Are the poor, the blind and the oppressed in Nazareth to be denied new life?

Recently mother told me of convictions Mary held when they carried us in their arms. She believed she was an instrument with which God would bring down the powerful from their thrones and lift up the lowly; fill the hungry with good things, send the rich away empty handed; scatter the proud and help common folks to obtain the good life promised to the descendants of Sarah and Abraham.

I cannot picture our parents as Messianic radicals. But a revolutionary spirit has started to build its home in the empty space created by your absence. It is your spirit, isn't it? It has shown me that your mission is to establish the Israel of Shalom in which each of us lives under our own vine and fig tree and none of us is afraid. I shall begin that uprising here in Nazareth. My contributions may be small and my accomplishments, little. But, as I do your work, the feeling that you are here with me will be restored.

Your mother may feel that you are fulfilling her dream; even so, she must miss you. You are her favorite. Write to her. Do not get so busy that you forget her. Whenever possible, send me advice to help me in the commitment I have made.

Please take care of yourself, Leah

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Nazareth was a small, poor, rural village of 150 - 200 residents. Cana, within easy walking distance, was much the same. They were a full day's journey away from the busy, more culturally dynamic towns by the Sea of Galilee where Jesus spent most of his three-year ministry.

Dear Jesus,

I have found a little more parchment so I can write to you. They say that you have many disciples and large crowds are following you. Is it true that some women travel with you? I want to come to you but mother scares me with stories about single women who have gone to the cities around the Sea of Galilee. Tending to your needs would be much more rewarding than trying to fight for justice here. This town is run by conservatives who would stone me if I stood up and said that Joseph's son, our carpenter, is the Messiah.

Jesus, the new order for which we fight cannot come until women are lifted up. Surely they are the lowliest among the weak and oppressed. They deserve justice now. Mother and I could not survive without a protector since father's death. Uncle Jacob, who provides for us, is respected in Nazareth but he cannot save us from the things men in the streets say as we walk by. Jacob permits us to sell his baskets and pots in Sepphoris. We feel like beggars, peddling his things on the sidewalks in front of its fancy shops. People walk by in expensive clothes, strutting from their big houses to the public baths or to lavish parties. They snub us, saying, "Nothing good comes out of Nazareth." Jacob would not go there himself.

I want to fight for justice but what can one woman do? I cannot gather an army. I cannot work miracles. Many say, "Women are born to suffer; this is your God given lot." I will not bow to such bigotry. Under my breath I say, "When Jesus rules, we who are last will be first and you will learn the pain of being last." Such promises from you increase my courage but still, I do not advance the revolution as I should. I feel guilty. What shall I do?

Your trusting follower, Leah

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Sepphoris was the third community in that region. It was at the other end of the socioeconomic scale from its two neighbors. Located on the main trade route, it was a rich, modern city.

Dear Jesus,

Two days ago I found Nathaniel in Cana where he was visiting his family. He says that he is one of the twelve you have chosen to lead the New Israel. I questioned him about the revolution and the New Order.

Nathaniel seemed to be surprised, even frightened, by my attitude. He told me that you have said, "Wherever I am the New World has come." He pictured you taking children in your arms and announcing that they are citizens of God's Kingdom. He claimed that you attend banquets in the homes of rich tax collectors and offer salvation to all sinners who repent. He said that any Shalom you were creating must be a gathering of lepers, paralytics, the blind, the deaf, prostitutes and foreigners because those are the people to whom you go with the promise, "God loves you."

"What about the war which will be fought to establish justice, turning the rich and poor upside down?" I asked him. He recalled a time you warned that we will be persecuted, as were the prophets of old, before we receive our reward. Nathaniel insisted, however, that you are not building an army.

I do not understand what is happening. How can justice come to mother and myself, as well as to the other poor people of this world, unless a champion arises who will fight for us against the powers which oppress us? The revolution to which I pledged myself must be fought to destroy greed and selfishness so that an era of love and caring can come to our world. Are you capable of being the leader of a revolution?

Perhaps I should blot out my last paragraph. Two sleepless nights have followed its writing. I have contemplated running to the Zealots in the hill country, as several of our young people have done, but I know that they have disappeared and are probably dead. Furthermore, I dislike their revolution which fights Rome but ignores the wealthy, powerful Hebrews who oppress me. Mostly, I guess, I am afraid of myself. My head harbors the convictions of a rebel but my heart is not comfortable with killing.

Nathaniel's description of your current work reminds me of the person I knew and loved here in Nazareth. My heart tells me that you are the savior I must follow. Caring for people, showing them love and offering them forgiveness are things God created me to do.

In making this decision I feel that 1 am admitting weakness. I hang my head. I fear that all the oppressed, including women, are destined to suffer forever. Speak to me of hope, Jesus. I am sure that, if you were here, you would describe a future in which I could believe.

Trusting you always, Leah

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Leah has picked up some particularly bad second-hand parchment. Also, comparing events which Leah mentions with the Gospel record, I conclude that Jesus is nearing the end of his Galilean ministry.

Dear Jesus,

Thank you for the letter which Nathaniel's brother delivered. Your words were like Moses' rod striking a stone and producing water for a thirsty Israelite as she travels across the desert trying to find the promised land. Even though I may not understand all that you have written, I feel refreshed.

Hope is reborn in me when you promise that you love Nazareth and that it will have a special place in the new work God is about to begin. I pray that God will allow you to return and dwell with us once again.

So, you have Zealots among your chosen twelve. That surprises me. I wonder whether they will enlist you in their cause. But, knowing your spirit’s power to change people, I am confident that they will never return to their comrades.

Yes, I remember the wedding feast in Cana shortly before you visited Nazareth. I had not thought that when you turned water into wine you were signaling that Shalom was present in that place at that time. I simply recall the special feeling I had that happy night, was the same as the one I often enjoyed in your home in Nazareth.

You confuse me by saying that God gives some ears to hear and eyes to see the presence of the new age among us but others are unable to see or hear these signs. It is the condition I see, but had hoped for something more from God. It seems unfair to deny many of such an essential blessing.

And you should not flatter me as one who has eyes to see and ears to hear. You know my questions, doubts, fears and rebelliousness. I am not what you claim I am, but I hope to be worthy of that honor. If some day God graces me with such spiritual perception, I will be fulfilled.

With great admiration, Leah

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Dear Jesus,

Good news! Some friends in Nazareth and Cana, including Nathaniel's parents, are meeting secretly to talk about what you are saying and doing.

One day when I was at the well getting the days water, a woman began praising you for giving her daughter new life. Rachel had run away to the cities of Upper Galilee hoping to find freedom and fortune, but she had fallen to prostitution and then descended to living with lepers in Nail. One day she saw you heal a leper and, as she followed you, she witnessed your love for women and children, and saw you return a widow's dead son to his mother.

Our neighbor, a quiet woman of Nazareth, lost all control of herself as she described her daughter washing your feet with ointment mixed with tears and then drying them with her hair. Right there in the Pharisees home, said Rachel's mother, you forgave her daughters sins. Now, she believes a new Rachel belongs to a colony of your followers in that area.

A colony, the beginning of a new world, living within the old world, comrades trying to understand a way of living no one has experienced before, friends with whom to give and receive support. This had so much appeal to Rachel's mother and me that we started a group that night. Love among us grows stronger every week.

As I finished this letter, Nathaniel came to see me. The news he brought disturbs me. He is waiting for me to add a few lines and then he will bring it to you.

Nathaniel says that you get very serious these days, discussing persecution and people carrying crosses. He admits he is confused, but claims you talk about fighting the powers of sin and death, about religious people who are blind to their godlessness and about the Son of God giving up his life.

Do you no longer foresee the victory of good over evil which you have preached. Is it a hope in which we could trust? What has happened to the strength of the gentle, loving God you called "Abba", the God in whose hands I have put my life?

I feel angry. I am angry at God if God told you that you must die. I'm angry at people, at the world, at myself, if our sins make you think that you must die as an offering for us.

I trust this is a passing mood. Probably you are tired and depressed. You work too hard. You need to come back to your home. I hope you will be in a better mood when this letter reaches you.

May Abba be with you, Leah

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The next letter appears to have been written in a hurry.

Dear Jesus,

Your mother is making plans to go to Jerusalem for the Passover. We hear that you are turning your face south, toward the Holy City. I am frightened. All of us worry about what will happen if you go to Jerusalem. Remember the anger in Nazareth, Jesus. You will run into at least as much hate in Jerusalem if you tell them that you are God's chosen one through whom the poor will inherit the earth.

Was Nathaniel right? Is your Passover pilgrimage not so much to the Temple as to the infamous Golgotha?

If you do not fear dying, please think about what it will mean to those you leave behind. You have given new hope to many, and shown us God's love and forgiveness. If you leave us, all Israel will be like Nazareth; a place where anger and hate triumph. Who will give us hope? Who will assure us of God's presence and love? If God needs a death, or Satan or the world needs a death, let me be the one who dies instead of you.

My pleading will not change your mind. You are too strong willed. I suppose I must wait for another Messiah, one not sent to die as a martyr but to rule the world. Or will all that now lives die when you die? If so, I am ready, as a bride is ready to receive her groom on their wedding night. Whatever happens, I will love you. I will follow you wherever and however I can. I will try to feel Abba present with me, even without you. But I am afraid. I am weak in faith and do not understand. Do not leave us.

Your loving and devoted friend, Leah

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Mark's crucifixion and resurrection story ends in this way: When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so they might go and anoint Jesus' body As they entered the tomb they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed. But he said to them, "Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. Go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him." (Mark 16:1- 7 NRS V)

He is going ahead of you to Galilee. Is it not likely that Jesus' first stop in Galilee was a visit to Leah? Then, when she saw the Risen Christ, she understood all which had been hard to understand and her faith became strong and sure.

Some years ago I stood in a room which archaeologists had just discovered. It was under a very old church which was under a Catholic school in Nazareth. Perhaps it is still open only to researchers. Many experts believe that it is a first century Christian meeting place in the home where Jesus lived before he left to engage in the mission which claimed his life.

Would it be strange to start a church where the carpenter of Nazareth had dwelt? Tradition long held that Mary left the crucifixion with John and never returned to her home in Galilee. What has become of that house? I like to believe that the wish Leah cherished through the years came true. The comforting but incomprehensible spirit which lifted her to ‘Life’ returned to the home in which it had been reared. The Spirit of Life dwelt there, guiding and strengthening a little colony of “Jesus people”. It was, as Leah had always felt, a mysterious and holy place.

Remember friends, we are descendants of that faith-based tradition. Let us be thankful and proud, individually and corporately, to continue what people such as Leah and her friends began.

return to top