Open Writing

The Galilee
Israel, 4 B.C.

Jonathan Edge, Rabbi Johannan, soon to be known throughout the length and breadth of the Holy Land as John the Baptist, walked with steady and measured stride from the village in which he had spent half his life without a backward glance. He didn’t need to tell the villagers what had occurred; others would come who would fulfill that purpose, and he was in a hurry.

Briefly, he wondered if he would cross the paths of the three wise men, the fabled “Kings of Orient”, who reputedly came bearing gifts for the baby Jesus, thereby creating the celebration of Christmas, then decided not. He wasn’t even sure if that event had ever actually occurred; more likely, it was one of the myths that had grown up around the story of the coming of the Messiah.

But one thing he knew for certain, knew as sure as he knew the sun would rise the next day, the Messiah had come indeed; Immaculate Conception had borne its holy fruit and, for better or worse, Jesus of Nazareth was in the world.

The journey south was unremarkable, save that Jonathan arrived at Bethlehem three days later, having covered a distance of approximately 120 kilometers from his hillside home on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. He anticipated his meeting with the holy child all the way, and so on arrival his disappointment was great.

Hearing of Herod’s edict regarding firstborn sons, Mary and Joseph had fled already, and Jonathan knew it would now be many years before he would actually meet his Lord. So he contented himself with spreading the word, knowing that he, like everyone else involved in the drama, had his part to play. Even Jesus, he reflected, must follow the script, and even He would experience his moment of doubt at Gethsemane. Because the longer Jonathan lived in this place, met the people and saw the reality of biblical times, the more he was convinced that there was indeed an agenda to follow, a drama to be played out, and it had to be done just so.

This did not mean that his faith was any less strong, nor that he was any less of a believer. On the contrary, he believed more now than ever, and while he knew that there was a script; he also knew exactly Who wrote it. In the beginning, the idea that they were all being directed wasn’t an acceptable concept for him, but over the years he had come to see a little of God’s plan, as much as he was allowed to see. The fact that he was the only one with fore-knowledge, and his inability to communicate that knowledge to anyone, didn’t make the knowledge easier to bear. But he was not alone; since he had found God, he had never been alone, nor would he ever be.

The scriptures say John wandered the wilderness for many years, preaching the coming of the Messiah, but the facts got overstated over the centuries. In fact, it was seldom that Jonathan was in the wilderness. Most of the time he plied his old trade, teaching and healing, traveling up and down the length of what would become the Holy Land, and while he may have eaten plenty of wild honey, a locust never passed his lips.

Thirty years Jonathan spent traveling the land, spreading his good news, and dunking people in water to wash away their sins symbolically. And always he waited for the day when he would at last come face to face with The One.

* * * *

Southern Israel
26 A.D.

The crowd thronged the riverbank, jostling for position. With increasing regularity, one or more would separate from the mass and move down to the water’s edge. There, they would stand patiently in line, waiting their turn to meet the man they had all come to see.

The line moved forward slowly as one by one the people waded out to the figure standing 20 meters from the river bank. Jonathan Edge stood waist-deep in the muddy water, and smiled as he greeted each person.

“Are you come to wash away your sins?” he would ask, to which the person would answer, in varying degrees of enthusiasm, in the affirmative. Then he would place one hand behind their heads, and the other in the small of their backs.

Bending them backwards into the water swiftly, he submerged them for just a second or so, intoning, “I baptize thee in the name of Almighty God, and of His Messiah, who has come.”

Then he stood them up and, after a few words of encouragement, send them on their way and make ready to greet the next person. Jonathan had been at the river for three days, snatching a few hours’ sleep only in the darkest parts of the night, and the crowd showed no signs of diminishing.

As he waited for the next believer, Jonathan heard the irreverent, cynical voice of Bill O’Rourke sounding in his mind.

You oughta sell tickets, Prof. You’d make a fortune.

Jonathan smiled wanly at the memories this thought evoked. Bill, such a complex man, had been haunted and hurt, hero and loyal friend. At once jovial and melancholy, were he here now, he would have no need of this ritual. All of his sins had surely been washed away by the single selfless act of self-sacrifice by which he had saved the lives of his friends and comrades. No greater love….

As he baptized, Jonathan thought again of the friends he had left behind. Even though they would not be born for another 2000 years, he always thought of them in this way, as though he had been the one who had gone on ahead. He hoped the scheme they had devised with the cryo-capsules on board the Hermes had worked. His scientific mind told him it should have, there was no reason why it shouldn’t; still, as with anything, there were always things that could have gone wrong. But there was no point in fretting about that now. Either it was successful, or it wasn’t.

Karma. He smiled again as the word came into his mind. Over the last 20-odd years, Jonathan had moved away from strict denominational Christianity. He still worshipped God, but he had come to recognize that others who did the same, albeit in a different way, were no less devout than the most dedicated Catholic, Anglican, Protestant or whatever.

In fact, Jonathan thought, the man in history who was probably the closest to Jesus’ original teachings wasn’t even a Christian. Mohandas K. Gandhi, a Hindu, had practiced the principle of turning the other cheek with his policy of passive resistance against the oppressive British rule of India in the early to middle parts of the 20th century.

He sighed when he remembered what had happened to Gandhi, countless saints, even reformers like Martin Luther King, was the same as had happened to Jesus. It seemed that they had to be sacrificed in order to make their most indelible mark on history.

You only have to die, he thought, silently quoting Andrew Lloyd Webber’s lyricist, Tim Rice. For a person like himself, with some ‘inside knowledge’, such a thing was hard enough, but what about the ones who had nothing but their faith? He tried to remember back to the days in Oxford, when his faith was all he had. This brought to mind his friend, Sean Driscoll, and immediately he wished he hadn’t started down that road. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to put all such thoughts out of his mind.

Jonathan became aware of a commotion on the riverbank, and looked up to see a small crowd of people descending the slope to the water’s edge. There were about a dozen of them; dressed in ragged robes and sandals, with unkempt hair and beards, typical of the people there. They reached the river and stopped, then parted like a wave, and one figure emerged and walked through them and into the water. Jonathan felt his knees go weak, and his heart flutter. Oh God, he thought, He is among us!

John the Baptist watched as the One for whom he had waited for almost 30 years waded out into the water towards him. As he drew closer, Jonathan saw that the man was even smaller than he, only about five foot three or four. But he had a magnetism that he felt even before he reached him.
Jonathan Edge looked into the eyes of the man before him and felt his incredible power. The man smiled tentatively.

“I am told you are the one for whom we wait,” the man said.

Jonathan stared for a moment, then smiled back. “No, Jesus of Nazareth, I am but the messenger who goes before, spreading the word. You are the One, the one for whom we have waited since the time of Moses.”

Jesus looked at Jonathan, puzzled.

“You know me?”

Jonathan smiled. “Soon, all the world will know you, son of Joseph.”

He placed Jesus in the baptism position. “I baptize thee in the name of Almighty God,” he said. As he lowered him into the water, he added, silently, “Son of God.”

Then it was over. Jesus stood in the river, blinking as water streamed from his hair and beard, and looked into Jonathan’s eyes, then he nodded, turned, and waded back to shore. Jonathan watched him go; there was so much he wanted to say, to ask, but he was distracted as another of the faithful presented himself for baptism. When this ritual was completed, Jonathan looked again towards the river’s edge, but Jesus and his small band of followers had already climbing the river bank, and soon was out of sight.

Two days later, the crowd at the river had abated enough for Jonathan to leave, after delegating a few of his followers to take over the ritual of baptism. He left anonymously, the hood of his robe over his head. Ever since Jesus’ baptism, he had been troubled by thoughts that had been threatening to overwhelm him, and he needed to get to somewhere private where he could think without interruption.

He had been conducting his baptisms near the small village of Ben Goshen, close to where the River Jordan empties into the Dead Sea. Jonathan knew where he had to go; it was a long way, a place he had not seen in 30 years, some 70 miles to the north. Finding it would be no problem, he knew. All he had to do was follow the river; that would bring him to the Sea of Galilee, and from there it was but a short climb to the Golan Heights.

He was going home, if that hillside cave where he spent so many years could be called home, returning to the place where he had had his original revelation. There he had witnessed the death of the 10th planet, and his friend ’tau, and his people, and where he had received the word of God commanding him to the course he had followed all these years. Now, it seemed, he was being summoned back; for what reason, he didn’t know yet.

Jonathan walked alone, retracing the steps he took when he had left his hillside home 30 thirty years before and had traveled south to Bethlehem, only to be disappointed at the news that Joseph and Mary had already left with the baby Jesus, fleeing before Herod’s genocidal decree.

He found the going easier than he remembered. A trail had been tramped into the dusty ground by the passage of many feet, hooves, and carts wheels, and it wound off into the hazy distance, ever northwards. Jonathan estimated that it would take him about three days to reach the Sea of Galilee; from there, another day should see him back in his cave.

He knew he would have to be careful. The people of the village had known him as an old man when he had lived among them, 30 years before. What would they think now, if he returned not looking much older? People had been stoned to death for less. But then again, he was John the Baptist, blessed of God. That could explain away all manner of things.

Leaning on his staff, Jonathan walked on.

* * * *

Ruddy dust swirled around Jonathan as he put one foot in front of the other along the trail. To his right, he saw the river and the low mountains that separated Israel from what would one day be the sovereign nation of Jordan; to his left, the arid holy land.

As he walked, Jonathan tried to make sense of the messages he had been receiving ever since the encounter with Jesus at the river. History tells a different tale, he reasoned. John the Baptist died at the order of Herod Antipas, who, at the request of Salome, had delivered to her his head on a silver platter. I should be in Jerusalem, not here. I’m going the wrong way.

This is what his organized, practical mind told him, but there was no denying the messages he was receiving. Go home, the voices in his head were saying. Not in so many words, but the meaning was clear. Go home.

But which home? The illogical thought was in his mind before he could suppress it, but he quickly discarded it. There was only one home to which he could possibly go, the small cave he had once called home, and had occupied for 30 years. His other home, what he still occasionally thought of as his real home, was 2000 miles and the same number of years away, forever beyond his reach.

No regrets, he had been thinking that night when the 10th planet had flared into destruction and its true destiny was revealed. No regrets, but that had not been entirely true. Jonathan did not actually regret his decision to remain in the holy land while Cal and Karen had returned, he hoped, to their own time. But over the years he’d had time to think, to wonder at why God would strand him here if it was only to baptize Jesus. Surely anyone could have done that. Why did it have to be him? And then there was the message he was getting now, loud and clear. What was that all about?

Go home?

Why? What was he doing here, anyway?

Only one possible answer came to mind. In baptizing Jesus, he had set in motion the chain of events that would lead, ultimately, to the crucifixion and the birth of Christianity. Now, there was nothing more for John the Baptist to do but die, and it looked like God may have decided that that was no longer necessary.

Kick-starting Christianity: One heck of a responsibility for a simple professor of astrophysics.
If John the Baptist was not to die, then history was going to be changed. How much would that affect the future? True, Jonathan thought wryly, God knew a lot more about the space/time continuum than he did, but still…there were bound to be repercussions. Just what they would be remained to be seen.