Paul Alexander Bartlett

“ Caiaphas asked.
“I am.”
A priest gestured; he seemed to tear his robe. Caiaphas smiled.
“You have heard this blasphemy,” he said. “We need no more witnesses. I condemn this man to death.” I knew nothing more could be said in my defense.
As I sit at my table, underneath the trees, at Peter’s home, I write as if I were writing about someone else, a friend perhaps. I write without prejudice. I am shaken by man’s corruption and yet my lack of faith in man does not influence my writing. ”

“ Here, in my room at Peter’s, I am discontented. The windows try to send me outdoors. They face cornfields and the corn is waist high, brown and roughly swaying. I wish I could stretch out in the middle of a field, lie there and watch the clouds and listen to the wind. I am happiest when outdoors.
The sun is down but I won’t light my candle; instead, I’ll watch the coming night and perhaps I can summon thoughts for tomorrow; perhaps something will talk to me in the cornfields, something I can impart. Friends and strangers will arrive tomorrow... ”

“ It required four days to free him, our Nazarene priests testifying...
Liberated from death I see life as a singular continuity, a continuity embody­ing my imperfections, many hopes. I find a new calm in all that I experience: as I project into tomorrow I sense this serenity. Simplicity itself wears an aura of riches.
Tonight, living in this composure, I write freely. Time, as a force, has dropped away. Pressures are comprehensible such as the stress at our last supper, the betrayal of Judas. ”

“ With Martha I walked away, listening to her happiness, her praise.
“We must have supper. What shall we eat? Will he be hungry, able to eat? Je­sus, you have saved him. I love you. It’s wonderful! He’s back...think of it, after four days. Then, then there is no death for us who believe...”
At supper Lazarus was unable to talk; he drank a little and soon had bread wet with olive oil. No one had much to say. Lazarus sat next to me. ”

“ Priests, soldiers, young and old crammed around me as I explained the life eternal, the image of redemption, eternal salvation and the price we must pay.
God is our Father...the world of nature proclaims His goodness...men must share His divine harmony...you reach God from within...reborn, you recognize the light. ”

“ Peter’s Home
Kislev 10
John is dead. Murdered.
He has been beheaded.
The world has lost a voice of reason. I have lost my best friend. He was be­headed at a drunken orgy—his head was displayed like a trophy at the palace. What desecration, abuse, folly, horror. I can barely write...sorrow...resentment... my mind whirls to the days we passed together in the desert, our wilderness comradeship. His faith was my faith. Our bonds were those of true brotherhood. ”

“ Haran was proud of two ancient scrolls—one of them on copper. The library at Qumran had greater rarities of course.
Haran said:
“Something lives in you...your mother has called my attention to it, an inner voice. When I heard you declaim in the synagogue I perceived it.”
So, it is my privilege to help, merge dream and fulfillment: I believe it is a privilege no other man has had: I am the husbandman.
Come unto me ye who labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest...suffer the little children to come...
Tonight I see the world shining in their eyes; I hear hope in their prattle. ”

“ I stand here without past and without future. I am a naked man, a man of the wilderness. This is the miracle of self. The mind owns itself. It does not ask. Acceptance blocks out intrusion. Each of us should experience the wilderness of mind. ”

“ When shall John and I meet again?
ÿ
Peter’s
Heshvan 19
I have preached in the synagogues at Cana and Capernaum during the last few days. I do not like preaching indoors. The sky is best and weeds and grass make the best floor. Old laws become new laws outdoors. I stress repentance and faith—the time is now at hand. I try to speak with authority and yet avoid rigid precepts.
Usually I walk alone. Being alone, from time to time, is essential: there is a peace in the company of one’s own shadow. ”

“ In Jerusalem I was annoyed by the bellowing of cattle, the bleating of sacrifi­cial sheep. An ox screamed. Dust rose from underfoot as I jostled turbaned men... A woman in a striped veil blocked my way.
Passing Herod’s temple I searched for sky. Men had worked for years to build that temple—was it for dust and smoke?
At the temple I stood among money exchange tables and listened to men haggle. A strange, dark, bestial man lorded over everyone. At an ivory-topped table men quarreled and spat. A sacrificial trumpet shrilled. I grabbed my taliss, the one Father gave me. ”

“ During the many years of research he devoted to a study of the lives and thoughts of Sappho, Jesus, Leo­nardo, Shakespeare, and Lincoln, he sought to base the journals on what is known and what can be surmised about the person behind each voice, and he wove into each journal passages from their writings and the substance of the testimony of others. Yet the five novels are fiction: They re-express in an author’s creation lives now buried by the passage of centuries.
I am deeply grateful to my wife, Karen Bartlett, for her faithful, patient, and perceptive help with this long project. ”

“ John urged me to leave Capernaum.
“You can’t go on preaching there. Antipas has men on the lookout for you. He’s as cruel as Herod, you know that! Go in hiding for a while, Jesus. There’s no good in it if both of us end up in chains. Our ministry will fail.”
I had concealed bread and fruit in my clothes but John would not eat while I was there. ”

“ Peter and James and Mark have had their say.
Late in the evening friends arrived, wanting to plan his burial. Permission has been granted: we are to be permitted to claim his body. It is best to have the sacred privilege of farewell. We tell each other that we must succeed for his sake, man of poverty, prison and death.
For his sake we can burn our lamps and candles and share late communion, get up early, walk many leagues and extol his faith. We will tell it on the hills and in the towns and in the villages. ”

“ As the sun slipped behind the city towers there were scores listening and we lingered on the terrace:
“There is light for you for a little while longer...walk while there is light... darkness will come...he who walks in darkness cannot tell where he is going... believe in the light...” ”

“ We know that love helps us forget pain; however I ask myself whether it is evil to forget evil. But I can think of resurrection as a form of love, a love be­yond supplication. I take that step and realize that immortality is another form of love.
Desert air pushed in as we finished our meal and we soon felt chilled. I wanted to shed my fatigue by reading but we discussed visiting the spring at Neby. I suggested we leave early if it did not rain during the night and bog the paths. At Neby I wanted to work out a plan for James, Peter and Matthew, if James joined us. ”

“ The journal form has been used only rarely in works of fiction. Bartlett be­lieved that as a form of literature the journal offers the most effective way to bring back to life the life-worlds of significant, unique, highly individual, and important creators. In each of the novels that make up Voices from the Past, his interest is to portray the inner experience of exceptional and special people, about whom there is scant knowledge on this level. ”

“ I said, “for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted...blessed are those who hunger after justice...blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy.” ”

“ Years ago I experienced the greatness of the Sinai desert, its crags and dunes, the heat and cold. I came to understand its desolation, its loneliness, its calm and fury. Now, during these troubled times, I long to return to the Sinai...have a lizard sit beside me, my straw-covered basket filled with golden dates.
In the Sinai I perfected my Greek to a greater extent and studied the classical Hebrew until it came easily. The history of man became an important part of my meditations. ”

“ Give this man life again!” I beseeched with pas­sion. I knew, as I prayed, that Lazarus would respond.
Swaying, wrapped in burial clothes, Lazarus appeared, a scarf across his face. He could not see or move his hands. I went to him and Martha uncovered his eyes. Mary ran to help. We unwrapped his legs and arms.
“Jesus has given you life,” Martha said. “You are going home with us...you are one of us again.”
Stumbling over rocks, Mary guiding him, Lazarus found a place to sit down. We unbound him and someone gave him a robe. Someone offered him a piece of bread. ”

“ Guards at the citadel refused to allow me to visit John.
Written requests go unanswered.
Peter, James and Matthew are no luckier than I.
ÿ
A finch is watching me as I write under the olives.
Rain is threatening.
Conception. Birth. Death. Each is a mystery.
In my father’s house I grew up among mysteries. I heard them talked, argued over, curtly dismissed. I have resented the unknowns, yet to plumb them is still beyond me. Each child is a mystery. The temple is a mystery. The shell that I pick up on the beach has its mystery. Some say I am a man of mysteries. Does the turtle have its mysteries? ”

“ Phillip, Andrew and I strolled along a white path, as white, in the moonlight, as if made of crushed shells. Galilee was flat and silvery. Andrew continued to comment about the “bread and fish” at almost every turn of the path. His youth­ful, enthusiastic face warned me, warned me that youth is irresponsible. What is the proper age for wisdom? As for miracles is there a miracle surpassing the miracle of faith?
ÿ
Peter has made me a tent. It is dark green, and big enough for two. The tent pole is an antique shepherd’s staff. ”

“ Camels are hobbled behind the tent town. We can make out men in half armor, men wearing helmets, men at work shoveling, men erecting a large striped tent.
Is this always glory, power and death?
ÿ
Peter’s—early morning
Sivan 8
Shall we be like trees planted by rivers of water? Shall we mature slowly like the olive? Shall we endure two hundred years? Shall these men replant? They are humble men. Are humble men more or less successful with their lives? These men know ambition and is ambition the safe route? ”

“ Herod’s men continued to haunt them; then they learned that he was dead.
“Despicable men do despicable things,” Father said. “Rome is the great insti­gator of crimes. The Kittim! Political schemes are hatched in the Forum with the wild beasts. Rome appoints a governor for Jerusalem; the man is in exile so he devours us, his subjects.”
Last night I lay awake most of the night, haunted by these ghosts. The past can be a simoom. Maybe it is a good thing when today’s problems wipe out yes­terday’s problems. When the oil in the lamp burned out I tried to find oil in the storage shed. ”

“ At Matthew’s home we talked of John’s betrayal.
Perhaps we should be somewhat mad to combat man’s madness: we must chop up the two thousand crucifixes, chop them into pieces for firewood and with that firewood we shall bake our bread—our pita. Crucified bread is the bread of the poor, the waiting, waiting poor. God must help them; we must help them; we must help them as we must help God. Heal. Lift up our eyes.
ÿ
Nazareth—home
Kislev 20
When I picked corn in a field with my disciples I was reproved because it was Sunday. ”

“ Verily, I say unto you, he that believeth in me hath everlasting life. I am that bread of life. Your fathers ate manna in the wilderness, and are dead. I am living bread. If any man eat of this bread he shall live forever.
In keeping with my promise I passed out bread and fish in baskets. I blessed the food and there was an abundance for everyone, many of them hungry chil­dren.
Mark and James and Phillip passed the baskets till each was fed, the fish and bread always sufficient. At parting I reminded the people of the deeper meaning but some were overwhelmed by the miracle. ”

“ There will be no more Festivals of Light.
ÿ
At Nazareth I used to have a pet goat.
Memories... I can not tolerate juvenile memories any longer. I am not an old man. Memories must not impede my ministry.
There must be beauty. Life must have beauty.
ÿ
Jerusalem
Shevat 29
Thy rod and Thy staff will comfort me...yeah, though I walk through the valley of death yet will I be with Thee.
As I walked into Jerusalem I heard those words. It was dusk. An immense caravan choked the air, camels, drivers, gapers. Again I thought of Herod and the innocents: city life brings Herod to mind. ”

“ There...there, he became one of us...or so it seems. Luke wants to help me look after you. You can’t go on without any thought for yourself!”
Peter’s voice expresses sincerity, warmth, education. Speech is man’s finest quality. More than the eyes, the smile. Its powers are almost limitless. Its tender­ness, the child, the babe. My mother consoles with a word perhaps. Out of the past it goes on and on with its revelations, its mirages. ”

“ Thoughts flow.
Going from place to place I see the same heads. The sun streams over us at the benediction. The passion of living is obvious, touching each of us, offering kinship and peace.
Salt of the earth...
ÿ
John is the salt of the earth and yet he writes me that he has been beaten by his guards. Several times I have returned to Capernaum to visit Joseph, the young officer. He has promised to use his influence to free John. How wary he is of becoming involved with the prison authorities. In Jerusalem my intercessions are ridiculed: John is branded treasonous. ”

“ Sivan 2
eter is a descendant of a nomadic tribe. Euodia, his mother, is a gnarled woman, dark, serious. She and Peter built this house after her husband died. She had had enough of desert privation. Last night she spread a special table for my homecoming: pomegranate juice, melon, cheese, bread, nuts, chromis and another fish, clarias, my favorite. Euodia is an expert with olive oil—perhaps some are nomad recipes. At supper time she accepted me easily; Matthew and Peter were wary, afraid, shy. ”