Philip Pullman: The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ

‘But please, master!’ she said. ‘My daughter is tormented by a demon, and I’ve got no one else to ask!’ And she threw herself to her knees in front of him and said, ‘Lord, help me!’

‘Should I take food meant for the children, and throw it to the dogs?’ Jesus said.

But this woman was clever enough to find an answer, and she said, ‘Even the dogs can eat the crumbs that fall from the master’s table.’

That answer pleased him, and he said, ‘Woman, your faith has saved your daughter. Go home and find her well.’

The disciple reported this, and Christ wrote it down.

Shortly afterwards Jesus had another encounter with a woman, and the disciple reported this as well. It happened in Magdala at a private dinner in the house of a Pharisee called Simon. A woman of the city heard he was there, and came bringing Jesus a gift of ointment in an alabaster jar. The host let her in and she knelt before Jesus and wept, bathing his feet with her tears, drying them with her hair, and anointing them with the precious unguent.

The host said quietly to the disciple who was Christ’s informant, ‘If this master of yours were really a prophet, he’d know what kind of woman this is – she’s a notorious sinner.’

But Jesus overheard, and said, ‘Simon, come here. I want to ask you a question.’

‘Certainly,’ said the Pharisee.

‘Suppose there’s a man who’s owed money by two others. One owes him five hundred denarii, and the other owes him fifty. Now, suppose they can’t pay, and he forgives them and wipes off their debts. Which of them will be more grateful?’

‘I suppose the one who owed five hundred,’ said Simon.

‘Exactly,’ said Jesus. ‘Now, you see this woman? You see what she’s doing? When I came into your house you offered me no water to wash my feet, but here she is bathing them with her tears. You didn’t greet me with a kiss, but from the moment she’s come in she hasn’t stopped kissing my feet. You gave me no oil, but she’s lavished this precious ointment on me. There’s a reason for that: she has committed great sins, but they’ve been forgiven, and that’s why she loves so deeply. You haven’t committed many sins, so it means little to you to know that they’ve been forgiven. And you love me so much the less as a result.’

The others at the dinner were astonished at his words, but the disciple took care to remember them, and reported them faithfully to Christ, who wrote everything down. As for the woman, she became a follower of Jesus, and one of the most faithful.

Christ never knew when the stranger would come to him. The next time he appeared it was late at night, and the stranger’s voice spoke quietly through his window:

‘Christ, come and tell me what has been happening.’

Christ gathered his scrolls together and left the house on tiptoe. The stranger beckoned him away from the town and up on to the dark hillside where they could talk without being overheard.

The stranger listened without interrupting while Christ told him everything Jesus had done since the sermon on the mountain.

‘Well done,’ said the stranger. ‘This is excellent work. How did you hear about the events in Tyre and Sidon? You did not go there, I think.’

‘I asked one of his disciples to keep me informed,’ said Christ. ‘Without letting Jesus know, of course. I hope that was permitted?’

‘You have a real talent for this task.’

‘Thank you, sir. There is one thing that would help me do it better, though. If I knew the reason for your enquiries I could look more purposefully. Are you from the Sanhedrin?’

‘Is that what you think? And what do you understand of the function of the Sanhedrin?’

‘Why, it’s the body that determines great matters of law and doctrine. And of course it deals with taxes and administrative business, and – and so on. Naturally I don’t mean to imply that it’s a mere bureaucracy, although such things are, of course, necessary in human affairs… ’

‘What did you tell the disciple who is your informant?’

‘I told him that I was writing the history of the Kingdom of God, and that he would be helping in that great task.’

‘A very good answer. You could do worse than apply it to your own question. In helping me, you are helping to write that history. But there is more, and this is not for everyone to know: in writing about what has gone past, we help to shape what will come. There are dark days approaching, turbulent times; if the way to the Kingdom of God is to be opened, we who know must be prepared to make history the handmaid of posterity and not its governor. What should have been is a better servant of the Kingdom than what was. I am sure you understand me.’

‘I do,’ said Christ. ‘And, sir, if you read my scrolls-’

‘I shall read them with close attention, and with gratitude for your unselfish and courageous work.’

The stranger took the bundle of scrolls under his cloak, and stood up to leave.

‘Remember what I told you when we first met,’ he said. ‘There is time, and there is what is beyond time. History belongs to time, but truth belongs to what is beyond time. In writing of things as they should have been, you are letting truth into history. You are the word of God.’

‘When will you come again?’ said Christ.

‘I shall come when I am needed. And when I come again, we shall talk about your brother.’

A moment later, the stranger had disappeared in the darkness of the hillside. Christ sat for a long time in the cold wind, pondering on what the stranger had said. The words ‘we who know’ were some of the most thrilling he had ever heard. And he began to wonder if he had been right to think that the stranger came from the Sanhedrin; the man hadn’t exactly denied it, but he seemed to have a range of knowledge and a point of view that was quite unlike those of any lawyer or rabbi Christ had ever heard.

In fact, now that he thought about it, Christ realised that the stranger was unlike anyone he had ever come across. What he said was so strikingly different from anything Christ had read in the Torah, or heard in the synagogue, that he began to wonder whether the stranger was a Jew at all. He spoke Aramaic perfectly, but it was much more likely, given all the circumstances, that he was a Gentile, perhaps a Greek philosopher from Athens or Alexandria.

And Christ went home to his bed, full of humble joy at his own prescience; for hadn’t he spoken to Jesus in the wilderness about the need to include the Gentiles in the great organisation that would embody the Kingdom of God?

Around that time, King Herod began to hear rumours of this man who was going about the country healing the sick and speaking words of prophecy. He was alarmed, because some people were saying that John the Baptist had been raised from the dead. Herod knew full well that John was dead, for hadn’t he himself ordered the man’s execution, and offered his head on a platter to Salome? But then other rumours began to circulate: this new preacher was Elijah himself, returned to Israel after hundreds of years; or he was this prophet or that one, come back to chastise the Jews and foretell catastrophe.

Naturally, all this concerned Herod deeply, and he sent out word that he would be glad to see the preacher in person. He was unsuccessful in this attempt to meet Jesus, but Christ noted it down as evidence of how well known his brother was becoming.

To go by what his informant told him, though, it was clear to Christ that Jesus was not happy about this increasing fame. On one occasion, in the region of the Decapolis, he cured a deaf man who had a speech impediment, and ordered the man’s friends to say nothing about it, but they went and told everyone they knew. Another time, in Bethsaida, he restored the sight of a blind man, and when the man could see again Jesus told him to go straight home and not even go into the village; but word got out about that too. Then there was an occasion in Caesarea Philippi when Jesus was walking along with his disciples, and they were talking about the public following he was gathering.