  R.2.7/H.2.22  Simon Magus (1-5) |    (son of Julia daughter of Augustus) |
Revision 2/21/26
| R.2.7/H.2.22 Simon Magus (1-5) | (son of Julia daughter of Augustus) |
This book intends to show using the evidence from the Clementine Recognitions and Homilies: "Simon (Magus), the son of Antonius and Rachel"R.2.7; H2.22 that Simon Magus is the son of Iullus Antonius, the son of Mark Antony. Using the fact that Iullus committed suicide when he was implicated in an affair with Julia the Elder, the only daughter of Augustus, one needs to see if the timeframe fits a son of Julia the Elder. Such a son does exist of Julia the Elder and Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, the main lieutenant of Augustus who defeated Mark Antony and Cleopatra in the sea battle of Actium. This son was born after Marcus' death, he having returned very ill from the East. This son would be known as Agrippa Postumus where "posthumus" means 'born after the death of the father'. When one considers that Julia was banished to an island by Augustus for having illicit affairs, this son could quite probably be from Iullus Antonius.
So what are the difficulties:
1. Agrippa Postumus is supposedly killed by Tiberius when he took the throne: except that an "imposter" appears saying he is Postumus and is also killed by Tiberius. There never was a formal inquiry because Tiberius, being merely a stepson of Augustus, might be accused of treason for killing the natural grandson of Augustus.
2. There is the "Rachel" problem, but perhaps the writer of Clementines, who would soon be Pope Clement, the famous Pope after Peter, cannot mention Julia explicitly to avoid death but metaphorically as Rachel the mother of Israel with Julia the mother of the Julian Empire via her offspring: Caligula and Nero.
3. Another problem is that scholars call the Clementines a pseudo work that uses Christian characters in made-up stories. This is also true of "The Acts of Peter" and "The Acts of Peter and Paul" which tell of Simon falling from the sky. However, all three works talk of Simon the magician using magic to gain followers. Most importantly, the Clementines reveal many mysteries that theologians were never able to answer, for instance, the identity of Matthias who was chosen to replace Judas Iscariot: it says it is Barnabas. They also reveal the identity of the twins James and John as illegitimate relatives of Augustus: Niceta and Aquila (married to Priscilla).Acts 18:18-21
Considering that Agrippa Postumus was born in 12 BC just five years before Jesus' birth in 7 BC, his lifetime (if he was not killed by Tiberius) would have spanned Jesus' birth, mission, crucifixion, ascension, and the "Acts" of the apostles during the reigns of Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, and Nero. This book follows all these events as told from the point of view of Agrippa Postumus (pseudonym: Simon Magus).
With Simon Magus' reputation of being '666' from Revelation and with theologians going out of their way to discredit him, one must ask why is he so famous? Is it because his importance was so great that Nicean bishops had to discredit him to keep their power?
In the New Testament Simon Magus appears as a mere convert of Philip but clearly a powerful magician and the first Pope: And a certain man, by name Simon, was before in the city using magic, and amazing the nation of Samaria, saying himself to be a certain great one, to whom they were all giving heed, from small unto great, saying, 'This one is the great power of God;' and they were giving heed to him, because of his having for a long time amazed them with deeds of magic.Acts 8:9-11
By using the pesher it can be shown that Simon MagusActs 8:9–11 is the same Simon in the disciple list and the Simon who carried the crossMt 27:32-33, Mk 15:21-22, Lk 23:26,33 and the Simon in the house of Simon the leperMt 26:6-13, Mk 14:3-9 where an unknown woman (also discredited) anoints Jesus (who by simple logic has to be Mary Magdalene since she sees the 'Resurrected Jesus' and by the pesher can be shown to be his wife).
This 'pesher technique' is revealed by Dr. Barbara Thiering in her best-selling book "Jesus the Man" which inspired "The DaVinci Code" and in her website that I created for her (https://www.peshertechnique.infinitesoulutions.com/) and on mine (https://www.pesherofchrist.com/).
The method of the 'pesher' was found in the Dead Sea Scrolls (1946-1956 in the Qumran Caves on the northern shore of the Dead Sea) saying: 'the pesher is' after quoting a previous Biblical passage and expressing a belief that past events are being fulfilled in the present. The New Testament writers used a similar method that presents miracles as metaphors for changes that Jesus made to the early Church of 'the Way'. Thus when Jesus turns "water into wine", it is merely symbolic of a new rule that Gentiles, who previously could only be baptized in water, would now be allowed at the Holy Table where wine is served like the Last Supper. When Jesus raises Lazarus (Simon Magus) from the dead (merely excommunicated), this Lazarus lives in the House of Simonjn 12:1-8, thus Simon's Church, and it is Mary Magdalene who anoints Jesus to symbolize a 'son of David' is in her womb. Although more hidden, it can be shown that Jesus speaks to Mary Magdalene from the cross: perceiving the mother (Mary Magdalene) and the disciple standing by, whom Jesus loved (John Mark-Bartholomew: the stand-in for Magdalene at the males-only Last Supper), saying to the mother of him (the mother pregnant with his child), "Woman, Behold the son of you!" (his expected son inside Mary Magdalene's womb: turning out to be a daughter).jn 19:26
To show how all the pieces of the puzzle fit together, the Clementines can be used to uncover the identity of Martha as Joanna at the Resurrection caveLk 24:10 being the only female disciple of John the Baptist and, more importantly, as the Syro-Phoenician womanMk 7:24-26 who matches Postumus' sister: Julia the Younger whom he rescued. She was present with the famous poet Ovid when Augustus demolished her home and banished both to separate locations. Ovid claimed his exile was 'carmen et error' (a poem and an error). Then, by assuming that her daughter born on her exiled island was not smothered at birth as instructed by Augustus, she would be Mary Magdalene!
Also, it will be shown how St. Paul could be both a Roman and a Jew since his father was Herod Antipas, an honorary Jew, and his mother was the daughter of the Magi King of Petra at Jesus' birth, known for frankincense and myrrh. The alliance of Paul to Jesus was accomplished by the marriage of Jesus' daughter Phoebe to Paul yielding two granddaughters, the oldest named Paulina.
The most ground-breaking of all is the story's background which shows how Jesus survived the Crucifixion by using a three-hour time change (darkness), a poison to appear to be dead, and a Jewish rule that 'no man could be on the cross after sundown'. Jesus' survival conforms with the writings of two preeminent Fathers of the Early Church: Irenaeus (c.180 AD), and Eusebius (326 AD) who quotes from Papias of Hierapolis (c.60-135).
Thanks to the guidance and protection of Agrippa Postumus, aka Simon Magus (the Great 666), who could have been the true Emperor after Augustus, but instead became the Pope for Jesus, helping him to succeed in proclaiming the "Good News" of Christianity's agape love that would change the world forever. Jesus, never saying he was "the Son of God", but "the Son of Man", would live in seclusion to affirm his out-of-body 'Resurrection' and live to an old age and be married twice with one daughter and two sons by Mary Magdalene.
Finally, this book posits the question: what if Peter had not sabotaged Simon's famous flying act that prevented Simon Magus from convincing Nero of his heredity as his great uncle and from being in a perfect position to convert him to Christianity and thus to have saved thousands of Christians from being killed on crosses and torn apart by wild animals in the arenas?
To advance the approach that this book is more non-fiction than fiction, great effort has been spent to use carefully researched dates and sources whenever possible directly within the story's text (shown in italics with the reference footnote shown in red). Complete with illustrations.
“Simon, the son of Antonius and Rachel.”
A single line from the Clementines. Quiet. Unadorned. Almost dismissive. Merely a naming of parents.
Yet nothing in sacred history is ever merely a name.
Time travel is fantasy—the past cannot be altered. But meaning can be. A word misplaced, a sentence misunderstood, a symbol misread can overturn what generations believed settled. The past itself does not move, yet its interpretation does, and with that shift, the world reshapes itself.
Religious tradition resists such movement. Interpretation is sealed. Doctrine hardens into dogma. Accounts that disturb the sanctioned narrative are branded apocryphal. What cannot be absorbed is silenced; what contradicts authority is buried alive. Debate is not answered—it is excised, crushed, erased as if it had never breathed. Whole generations inherit a single, seamless story and mistake it for truth.
Yet this line will not remain buried.
The crowd watches, unaware, while history trembles at its own shadow. This Simon is Simon Magus—the Simon who confronts Peter before the people, disputing with a precision that slices through the still air and draws all eyes to the space between them. The Clementines do not hint; they declare it outright. Clement records it as if the revelation were etched into the light itself, visible only to those who dare to see, only to those who can bear the tremor of recognition.
And yet the Church presses down like a living weight. Minds drag into trance, recoiling from the tremor of possibility, as if acknowledging the truth might shatter everything it has long held sacred. In the shadows of cathedrals, in the quiet of scriptoriums, the story flinches under its own telling. History quivers beneath its hand, caught between what is spoken and what is forbidden, between revelation and silence.
Who, then, is Antonius?
If he is the blood of Mark Antony—Rome’s fallen half, the rival to Augustus, whose name once fractured the empire—then Christianity does not rise from the margins of power. It surges from its very veins. Augustus destroyed his rivals, even those bound to Cleopatra, sparing no one who might threaten his reign. If I am Antony’s son, then the story we have been told about Jesus and the Church may itself be fractured—haunted by a family secret it was never meant to know.
I did not know this at first. At the opening of my life, I carried only the name given to me, a shadow that would one day stretch across history, heavy with unspoken power. I would not learn the truth of my father until I was ten. I would not understand why I could be called Simon, nor why the world would call me a magician, nor yet feel the weight of the secret that would make history itself tremble and bend beneath its own possibility.
I was born Agrippa Postumus—the last living grandson of Augustus.
I was raised beneath edifices that proclaimed eternity: the Forum of Augustus, the Theater of Marcellus, the Mausoleum, the Ara Pacis. Rome surrounded me with marble assurances that history had reached its final form.
My father, Marcus Agrippa, shaped these monuments with his own hands, just as he shaped the empire itself—raising baths, porticoes, aqueducts, and civic order from the ambitions of Julius Caesar. Stone after stone declared the same truth: Rome ruled all things—its provinces, its peoples, its children, even me.
I was taught that my grandfather Octavian had brought peace to the world. Renamed Augustus, he claimed the Pax Romana as his eternal gift to history. Yet that peace was not born; it was inherited—seized from the conquests of Julius Caesar, his great-uncle by blood and father by adoption.
The civil wars unleashed by Caesar’s murder on the Ides of March ended only when my father shattered Mark Antony and Cleopatra, and the world was forced into silence.
This was called peace. I was told it would endure forever.
It did not.
For peace forged by the sword is not the peace of God. It is order without mercy, unity without truth—an empire disciplined into stillness, waiting for a reckoning it cannot prevent.
I had two fathers.
Agrippa was my legal father, the one whose name I carried. Another remained unnamed, unrevealed, spoken of only in silence. Postumus clung to me like a shadow—post humus, after the earth had claimed him. Thus I never knew the man I was said to descend from. My mother chose that name carefully.
Agrippa had returned shortly before my birth, already dying. The sickness he brought back from Pannonia hollowed him quickly. It was entirely possible—quietly probable—that he was not my begetter.
As a child, I vanished into the Ara Pacis, Rome’s altar to peace, finished when I was three. The marble walls breathed around me. The carved procession of my family circled like an ancient merry-go-round. I moved among them, matching my steps to stone hands clasped in ritual. Eyes unblinking, faces serene—the marble was alive beneath my palms, vibrating with the weight of centuries. I knew I belonged here.
I did not yet know the truth—that the man at the head of the northern procession was my father.
These silent witnesses leaned forward, listening. Time itself trembled beneath the boy I was. They saw that I carried a shadow that could topple dynasties. Beneath the settled peace, a truth older than Rome shivered and stretched. Patient, unyielding, unstoppable, it waited for the day it would speak. The world would know then that history had always been waiting for me.
Was my destiny meant to mirror that of Jesus?
We were both born of royal blood—he from David, I from Augustus. We were both dispossessed, stripped of inheritance, and declared dead. I by decree. He by the Cross.
Yet we survived.
And it was survival—not martyrdom—that shaped the path Isaiah called the Way: a road prepared not for empire, not for priests, but for Jews and Gentiles together. From that path, the Church would rise.
Was I meant to become Simon Magus—dismissed as a magician—walking among sowers and carpenters, tentmakers and fishermen who followed Jesus?
Was I to plant the Way into newborn hearts, to gather what had been scattered, to order churches by measure and memory, lifting them by song and binding them beneath the great tent of God’s love?
I did not know that such humility would be tested.
The laying on of hands is not a power to be seized or sold. It is guidance that submits even as it leads. If I was to walk through the valley of death, I would not go as a sheep. I would carry the rod and staff of the Twenty-Third Psalm—as a shepherd, as Jesus did.
I stood—stand—and will stand. I did not yet know what I would be required to stand against.
The so-called lost years of Jesus were spent among the Essenes at Qumran, a Jerusalem purified. There, within disciplined silence, he shaped his purpose: to open the Essene way to ordinary Jews and, in time, to Gentiles; to temper rigor with mercy; to reveal mysteries to those who listened with the heart. These changes would distinguish the Way from the Essenes and align it more closely with the Therapeuts of Egypt.
Jesus remained Essene throughout his life, departing only when duty required him to continue the Davidic line through marriage. During his withdrawals, I guided his followers according to the words he entrusted to me.
Redemption did not come from the Pharisees. Not from the Sadducees. Not from the Zealots, who knew only violence. It came from the Essenes. Jesus healed the sick, raised the dead, and endured the Cross. The world calls these miracles. Some compare them to my acts of magic. But illusion dissolves when the curtain lifts.
His works were not spectacles—they were instruction. Each act shaped doctrine, forming the Essene vision into the Church that would outlive him. God alone performs true miracles.
Every act of Jesus carried purpose. Every act of mine served its unfolding.
Jesus never spoke as one claiming divinity—but as one revealing it. He was not God, as he himself explained, but the Son of Man.
I was no god either—only a man.
But if you had looked into his eyes as I did, you would have seen God reflected there.
And so I ask the same of you: do not judge my deeds by rumor or accusation, but look for the God‑ness within them—with an open heart.
My grandfather, Augustus, crossed the boundary between BC and AD unaware that his empire was already yielding to Christ. If that empire is reckoned from the defeat of Antony and Cleopatra at Actium in 31 BC—a victory won by my father—then most of it already lay behind him. The child of Bethlehem had been born. In time, the world would attempt to diminish Christ by calling his era common. His millennium was forgotten, eclipsed by a beast numbered 666 and its expected return. This is the point where history became confused. There is no year zero. Time moves from 1 BC directly to 1 AD, and yet the calendar does not mark the Nativity. That error belongs to Dionysius Exiguus, who centuries later fixed time not to the birth of Jesus, but effectively to the birth of James his younger brother—the one historians called Christ.
Luke provides the correction. A decree went out from Caesar Augustus that the whole world should be enrolled—6 AD, the year Jesus came of age. Counting backward twelve years, and accounting for the missing year, places the Nativity in 7 BC, beneath the star seen by the Wise Men.
Within a single lifetime, the world was remade. The New Testament tells us that Jesus was born in 7 BC, emerged from monastic discipline around 29 AD to teach, and was crucified in 33 AD. Death did not end him. The Acts of the Apostles records the formation of the Church by 43 AD, and Revelation tells us that in 50 AD the Gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Thomas, and Philip—were set in order. It hints that Paul married Phoebe in 53 AD.
What remains to be shown is that Jesus lived to witness what his life had shaped—that he survived the crucifixion and died peacefully near the end of June in 72 AD, held by his granddaughter Paulina. Her mother, Phoebe—conceived in Mary Magdalene at the Cross—had been married to Paul, binding him to the faith. These were not distant events to me, nor matters learned secondhand. They unfolded within the span of my own life, and for a time I moved among them under another name—Simon Magus.
My life began earlier than his, and it ended sooner. I entered the world in 12 BC as Agrippa Postumus. Rome declared me murdered in 14 AD. It was mistaken. I remained present: beside Jesus at his betrothal in 20 AD; guiding his followers until Paul turned against me in 44 AD; speaking when the Gospels were set in order in 50 AD; and finally meeting my end in Rome in 58 AD, at Peter’s hand, before Nero. History attempted to set me aside. It did not succeed.
Within the span of my life fell Herod the Great; Mark Antony and Cleopatra; Augustus; Tiberius; Caligula; Claudius; and Herod Agrippa. After them came Nero, Galba, Otho, and Vitellius. Under Vespasian, Titus destroyed the Temple in 70 AD. Their names recede. Christ remains.
Human civilizations have always measured time in stone—Stonehenge, Göbekli Tepe—raising circles and pillars to track the heavens. Before empires counted years, they watched the sky.
Julius Caesar corrected the calendar and claimed a month. Augustus followed. As a child, I was told that Octavian once said, “I want a month named after me.” In time, he granted himself the wish.
When I stood beside the obelisks Rome had stolen from Egypt at the Circus Maximus and the Horologium Augusti, I understood Rome’s need to measure time, to press the present toward their own dominion.
The Jews counted backward, straining to hear the echo of what had already been spoken and promised. Their supremacy lay in the past—a punishment for turning from God—but God would restore their empire in His own time. Prophets hinted at these moments, turning measures of time into weeks. Each sect counted according to its own reckoning, each believing itself chosen. Time was power: calendars diverged along sectarian lines and required periodic correction.
To understand the Cross, one must see how two Jewish reckonings converged at Passover. Mark records the third hour; John, the sixth. The correction of calendars—of time itself—gave Jesus three hours less on the Cross. It is this subtle measure that Jesus hinted to Peter when he spoke of betrayal: the three crows of the cock—three hours for me as well.
Jesus was locked into the two prophesies of Enoch and Daniel. My time was of Rome, but when it discarded me, I also was locked into those of Jesus. These prophesies relentlusly pushed us forward.
| Week (sets of 490 years) | Start Date | Seventyths (1-7) | Jubilee | Event | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Age 1 Creation 0-490 Anno Mundi | |||||
| 1 | 3047 BC | Creation | Adam & Eve on the sixth day | ||
| 7 | Birth of Enoch | "I (Enoch) was born the seventh in the first week (Enoch), While judgement and righteousness still endured." (Bk5 Epistle of Enoch 93:3) | |||
| Age 2 Noah & the Flood 490-980 Anno Mundi | |||||
| 2 | 2557 BC | Noah & Flood | "And after me there shall arise in the second week (Enoch) great wickedness, And deceit shall have sprung up; And in it there shall be the first end. And in it a man shall be saved; And after it is ended unrighteousness shall grow up, And a law shall be made for the sinners." (Bk5 Epistle of Enoch 93:4) | ||
| Age 3 Abraham 980-1470 Anno Mundi | |||||
| 3 | 2067 BC | Abraham | "And after that in the third week (Enoch) at its close A man shall be elected as the plant of righteous judgement, And his posterity shall become the plant of righteousness for evermore." (Bk5 Epistle of Enoch 93:5) | ||
| Age 4 Moses & Exodus 1470-1960 Anno Mundi | |||||
| 4 | 1577 BC | Moses & Exodus | "And after that in the fourth week (Enoch), at its close, Visions of the holy and righteous shall be seen, And a law for all generations and an enclosure shall be made for them." (Bk5 Epistle of Enoch 93:6) | ||
| Age 5 First Temple Built 1960-2450 Anno Mundi | |||||
| 5 | 1087 BC | First Temple built | "And after that in the fifth week (Enoch), at its close, The house of glory and dominion shall be built for ever." (Bk5 Epistle of Enoch 93:7) 4Q247 "[And afterwards will co]me the fif[th]week ... four hundred [and ninety years (not 430) (after the exodus from Egypt)] Solo[mon] (built the Temple)" Solomon's reign 970 to 931 BC thus previous building from the time of Saul | ||
| Age 6 Fall of Jerusalem and Captivity 2450-2520 Anno Mundi (This span was only 70 years, not 7*70) Jeremiah 25:11 "This whole country will become a desolate wasteland, and these nations will serve the king of Babylon seventy years." | |||||
| 6 | 597 / 596 BC | Fall of the First Temple | "And after that in the sixth week (Enoch) all who live in it shall be blinded, And the hearts of all of them shall godlessly forsake wisdom. And in it a man shall ascend; And at its close the house of dominion shall be burnt with fire, And the whole race of the chosen root shall be dispersed." (Bk5 Epistle of Enoch 93:8) Wikipedia: "The deportation occurred prior to Nisan of 597 BC, and dates in the Book of Ezekiel are counted from that event." 4Q247 "(It was destroyed in the time) [of Zede]kiah king of Judah" (puppet king) | ||
The Jews divided history into ten Ages of 490 years, from Adam to the Last Judgment. At the eighth Age, time accelerated—the Restoration of the Temple. Herod believed that restoration would be his achievement. Instead, it marked the birth of the Anointed One. The Wise Men’s arrival filled him with terror.
The ninth Age appeared to collapse. John the Baptist was killed. Jesus was crucified. The Temple was shattered by Roman legions after Zealot defilement. Yet heaven judged otherwise. What seemed ruin to the Jews became a Christian eternity in God. The Holy City descended not in stone, but in Spirit.
| Prophecy of Daniel | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| God has appointed seventy 'weeks' for your people and your holy city from the issuing of the decree to restore and rebuild Jerusalem, there will be seven weeks and sixty-two weeks. After the full 62 weeks, the Messiah will be 'cut off' and seemingly have no legacy or power. Then, the people of a coming ruler will destroy the city and the sanctuaryDan 9:24–27 | |||
| Event | Weeks | 360 day-Years | Date |
| Decree to restore Jerusalem Ezra 7:11–26. | Start | March 14, 457 BC | |
| Rebuilding (troublesome times) | 7 | 48.27 | Autumn 408 BC |
| Messiah appears (John the Baptist) | 62 | 427.51 | Spring 27/28 AD |
| (Actual Mission start with Jesus) | Spring 29 AD | ||
| Crucifixion ("cut off") | 69 | 475.78 | Spring 33 AD |
| End of 70th week | 70 | 482.62 | 34/35 AD |
| Events not part of the prophecy: | |||
| Christian Church 2 weeks (14) from Mission | 2 | 14 | 43 AD |
| Destruction of the Temple by Titus | 70 AD | ||
Daniel’s prophecy gave the Essenes their reckoning, beginning in 457 BC with the decree to rebuild the Temple. It foretold not only the Messiah’s arrival, but also his death, fixed to 33 AD.
At the Last Supper, Jesus took bread, and blessed it and broke it and gave it to the disciples, saying, “Take, eat; this is my body.” And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, “Drink ye all of it: For this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins. But I say unto you, I will not drink henceforth of this fruit of the vine, until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.”
Jesus and his disciples fully understood the prophecy and submitted to it, even to accept death. Judas Iscariot, like Judas the Galilean before him, believed in the inalienable right of the Jews to liberty and God as their sole ruler, making martyrdom a violent choice. Yet Jesus taught that violence was contrary to God’s plan—an Essene principle despite the allegorical battle in the War Scroll. Violence was not God’s design.
Stones measured empires; prophecies measured souls. Between them, history, God, and man intersected in moments that could not be numbered—moments like the Cross, or my fall from the sky. In such moments, I felt the pull of all time—past, present, and eternal—drawn into a single, fragile life.
I will begin next with my failure: the sabotage of my attempt to fly, when I hoped to prevent my grandnephew Nero from crucifying Christians—smearing them with pitch and burning them to light his gardens by night. It should have been a hero’s return. Instead, it was my fall.
Christian memory records Peter’s triumph; history grants him the keys. Yet descent and ascent are not opposites. Christianity teaches that martyrdom is victory. If this is so, then my fall was not erasure but passage. My name was set aside, yet my witness endured. When I come to the gate entrusted to Peter, it will not be authority that is weighed, but conscience—where silence outweighs crowns, and recognition matters more than precedence.
After my own reckoning—and by Peter’s, carried silently and alone—I return to myself at ten years old when my world turned upside own. Even then, power and prophecy were already drawing me toward a destiny not of my choosing, yet fully witnessed.
At the end of my book, I return once more to my fall from the sky. What lies between is the true wonder: to be tested even unto crucifixion beside Jesus—not merely as a disciple, but as one who stood near enough to see, to listen, and to remember.
Set against the star of Bethlehem, my death was only a meteor—caught in the world’s gravity, vanishing beneath the ordered heavens, my service complete.
By Nero’s reign, the Julio-Claudian story had been carefully sealed, its loose ends buried under executions and official silence. But the past has a way of resurfacing when least convenient. In 58 AD, a man long presumed erased stepped forward—alive, named, and dangerous.
An old man of 70 years, dressed in the garb of a Jew wearing a large striped tallit shawl over a long tunic with sandals on his feet, appeared at Nero’s palace. The Praetorian Guard had let him in because he claimed to be Nero’s great-uncle. After searching him for weapons, they asked Nero if he wanted to see him. Nero laughed and looked over to Poppaea, saying, “Shall we see him?” Poppaea replies, “That would be fun.”
When this stranger was seated, he proceeded to tell Nero that he was Agrippa Postumus, the grandson of Augustus and thus his great-uncle as the brother of his grandmother Agrippina the Elder.
Nero replies, “You see, Poppaea, he must be a ghost since ‘post-humus’ means dead.”
The stranger replies, “Not my death but the Honorary Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, my supposed father, who died before I was born. Your great-grandmother Julia deceived everyone, for my father was Iullus Antonius.”
“Ah,” says Nero, “This is getting interesting.”
Glancing over to his mother, he says, “You never told me this.”
His mother, Agrippina the Younger, struggled to answer as she was only fourteen when her mother, Agrippina the Elder, was exiled, so she was at a loss to offer a reply and knew very little about her uncle Postumus who was thought to have been killed by Tiberius.
Nero continues, “I see you come from a distinguished line of suicides: first Mark Antony with Cleopatra, then his son Iullus Antonius. And, you were supposedly murdered by accident.”
“That was Tiberius’ convenient lie when I disappeared”, says the stranger.
Poppaea says, “Clearly, he is a Jew and not Roman.”
Nero, agreeing, says, “Neither are Paul nor Peter, so I have not paid much attention to their Jewish babble even though Seneca tried to get me to read some of Paul’s epistles.”
The stranger replies, “Actually, Paul is Roman, for he is the son of Herod Antipas, and thus an honorary citizen.”
Nero says, I did not know that. I guess that is how he escapes capture in the cities he visits.”
The stranger replies, “Actually, neither Peter nor Paul founded Christianity. It is I!”
Nero bursts into laughter.
When Nero calmed down, he says, “Even I know that Chrestus was crucified by Pilate, so you cannot be him.”
The stranger explains, “Of course, Christ still lives in our hearts, but it is I who organized Christianity and defended it against the Pharisees, the false Messiah James, and Herod Agrippa, the grandson of Herod.”
Nero, becoming annoyed, says, “What you are saying seems too outrageous to be true. It sounds more likely that you murdered them.” He waves to the guard to show the stranger out.
The stranger replies, “Wait, I am not lying. I can prove it to you next week when I fly through the air like the prophet Elijah of the Jews. I invite you and Poppaea to this dramatic event on the Appian Way . It will prove not only the veracity of my true identity as Agrippa Postumus, but my prowess as Simon Magus and my power within Christianity.”
Nero says, “Well then, I will be there—Poppaea, will you join me for this spectacle?”
“I would not miss it for the world,” she smiles.
The promised spectacle occurred a week later. Its proof is etched into Francesca Romana Church, which shows the indentation of St. Peter’s knees as he prayed for Jesus to cause the evil Simon the Magician to fall from the sky. It is commemorated as the triumph of Christianity, but it would be just the opposite.
Word of my intended flight in the sky spread like wildfire through the streets of Rome. The Jewish residents of Rome wondered whether Simon Magus would truly perform Elijah’s miracle of ascending to heaven in a chariot of fire. Others murmured that Icarus had already died trying. Rumors swirled that a platform in the center of Rome, near the Forum had already been erected for Nero and Poppaea to witness it.
Some argued that Simon Magus was a petty magician who could not create such a powerful illusion, but others who had seen me perform believed I could succeed. Peter was immediately envious of my ability to draw such a huge crowd. He mentioned to his followers that he hoped I would fail. His followers, wishing to please him, schemed a way to sabotage me. One of the ropes supporting my gondola basket was secretly cut, intended to fail under pressure.
At dawn, the streets thronged with spectators. Nero and Poppaea were seated on their raised platform. I stepped into the basket, all grew silent in anticipation. I secured the large wicker frame to the cloth wings and lighted my horse-shaped cylinders. The crowd gasped as the flames filled the billowing cloth above with heated air. Slowly, my chariot began to rise above the rooftops, as the cloth took me higher. The morning sun lit up the cloth that looked like the gleaming wings of an angel. All of Rome held its breath as the world itself paused to witness my ascent to heaven.
Below, St. Peter knelt, fervently praying, calling upon Jesus to strike me down. With his grudge blinding him like the sun’s glare when he looked up, he failed to see what would befall him. Abruptly, he and the crowd were shaken by a loud snap! All of people screamed as one of the ropes had given way and the basket tipped.
Falling from the sky I subconsciously put out my legs to stop the fall as they struck the cobblestones with a sickening thud. A pain shot through my leg, broken in three places, as I fell over to the ground and passed out, but still alive.
When I woke up, I saw Peter staring down at me, triumph in his eyes. I knew he had done what Jesus would have never allowed. The crowd had quickly dissipated, murmuring to themselves.
I groaned, struggling upright. “Peter… was it worth it?” Then, I lashed out. “I had the favor of Nero, I could have proven the power of Christianity itself.” Calming down, I added, “You have turned my act into a farce.”
“Jesus has brought his justice on you,” he sneered. “Now the world will know you as a deceiver—a magician exploiting the faithful for your own gain.” I grimaced. “Without my magic, you will never wield the connections needed to persuade the masses. My art could have changed the world. Now… the Christians will face Nero’s wrath, and your vision will falter.”
Peter replies, “You are mistaken. I—and all of Christianity—have the son of King Herod Agrippa on my side as the rightful head of the Church. Once I tell him of your wickedness, he will persuade Nero against you.”
Laughing, I answer, “Agrippa II is a pale shadow of his father, Agrippa the Great, and even your late wife’s ties to the Herodian line will not save you now. It is Nero’s crosses that will prevail—over you and over every one of your deluded companions—as the lions in the Coliseum tear them limb from limb. Until you grasp the teaching of agapē love that Jesus tried to explain to you three times on the shore of the Sea of Tiberias, you will never be his equal. This is only a repeat of those three hours before the Crucifixion, when you denied him thrice. You can't even figure out the 153 fish.”(1)
Peter remained defiant. “Jesus made me the rock upon which He would build His Church.”
“How deluded you still are!” I spat. “Jesus changed your name from Simon because there could not be two. The rock Petra fits your stubborn mind.”
Peter snapped, “Do not forget how I excommunicated you as Ananias, and your sister Helena as Sapphira, for simony and you fell dead.”
I answered triumphantly , “Yet, I did not stay dead, did I! It was just excommunication. It was I whom Jesus relied on to convert Paul. He became your rival. Your jealousy continues to blind you.”
“Enough heresy!” Peter shouted as he turned away.
I watched him disappear; the words silently on my lips, “May God be with you, Peter.”
My friend Gemellus lifted me on to a stretcher, shaking his head. “If ‘the great power of God’ can fail, what good is your God? Surely Christ sides with Peter today.” Castor, another friend, tried to cheer me. “While you flew, you were magnificent—like an angel in the sunlight! Your leg will heal. You will rise again.” I sighed, feeling the pain of my mangled leg. “Alas, my days as a magician may be over. My legs were broken once before by Pilate, when I was taken off the cross so I could not escape. Jesus’ were not, because they believed him already dead. More importantly, I fear that Nero will see all Christians as deceivers, and that Christ’s agapē love may appear too weak to protect them.”
And so ended the life of Simon Magus, the Great Beast 666, at sixty-nine—forever remembered as the author of all heresy, a legend of Faust who bargained with the devil. Yet my story is yet to be told: how I, grandson of Augustus, did not remain in the material world of Rome but a heavenly one, guiding Jesus and the apostles to found the Christian Church—and become its first Pope.
As Peter walked from Simon, he felt the whole crowd staring at him. Every face seemed to accuse him. He began to walk faster to escape their eyes, then broke into a run. His mind was a storm of thoughts he could not control. He longed to speak with Jesus—but Jesus had already returned with Phoebe to Paul in Troas. The grief of burying his daughter, Petronilla, beside her mother in the Catacomb of Domitilla rose again in his heart. If only Jesus could be there at this secret hiding place. Fearing he might reveal this place, he turned into an abandoned building and hid from sight. Exhausted by the flood of fear and adrenaline, he sank to the ground and fell into uneasy sleep.
When he awoke, dusk had fallen. He continued toward the catacomb still believing against reality that Jesus would be there. Having entered the maze of tunnels, he lit the small oil lamp. The flickering flame cast trembling shadows along the clay walls. The air was thick and musky—damp with decay, weeping in silence. Panic crept through him. What if Jesus were truly there? What if he disapproved—as he always seemed to favor Simon?
Choosing the tunnel leading to the grave of Domitilla, he past the silent horizontal niches containing the bones of the dead, imagining the echo of Simon’s fall—the thud of his body striking the cobblestone street.
“My teacher,” he whispered, “I did this in your name.”
From the darkness came a quiet reply—not a voice from above, but one that seemed to rise from the very earth, from the tombs themselves. “And what name is that, Peter?”
He lifted his head. In the wavering light, he imagined the shadowy specter on the wall was actually Jesus.
“You have called me lord,” said the ghostly figure. “But tell me—what have you called yourself?”
Peter strained to see through the gloom. “Your servant, of course—the rock, Petra, upon which your Church is founded.”
“Your wife and daughter,” said the voice, “are they not your sisters?”
Peter nodded. “We are all brothers and sisters in Christ.”
“Is Simon not your brother also?”
Peter’s lips trembled, frozen in silence.
“Does a brother kill his brother?” the voice asked.
His hand shook as he touched his heart. “You speak of Cain.”
“I knew you knew the answer,” said the voice.
Peter trembled. “Am I to be cast out, then?”
“God forgives all,” came the reply, “but you must bear the mark.”
Peter fell to the ground, weeping. “I cannot live with that stain upon my life.”
“Have I not told you,” said the voice, “God forgives all? The mark is not your curse, but your Conscience—the sign that a man would never again kill without knowing he had killed.”
Peter lifted his head. “Then Cain was the first to know God!”
“To know God’s sorrow,” the voice answered, “is nearer to God than zeal.”
Peter reached down, taking a piece of soft clay, and drawing an X upon his forehead. The lamp flickered. The tombs seemed to breathe. When he rose and walked out into the lingering night, the sun was rising over the city. He felt born anew—marked like Cain, yet forgiven in Christ.
Peter never forgot that night—the mark burned into his heart.
Years later, in 57 AD, Paul’s prisoner ship was bound for his trial in Rome. Peter and Jesus had joined him—there would be no return trip for Peter or Paul.
During the long voyage, Peter expressed to Jesus his confusion about the writings of James Niceta that would become Chapter 13 of Revelation.
“Jesus, I understand that Simon Magus is the second beast but it says “it exercised all the authority of the first beast on its behalf, and made the earth and its inhabitants worship the first beast.” Simon seems not only to serve the first beast, but also increase its power. Did you not say, “You cannot serve God and mammon.” Jesus answered, “He only served me … you must pay attention to his horns.”
That night, Peter compared the two beasts to Daniel's 'little horn' in his mind:
| Theme | Little Horn (Daniel 7) | First Beast Rev 13:1–10 |
Second Beast / False Prophet Rev 13:11–18 |
|---|---|---|---|
| Origin | From the 4th Beast (Rome), among 10 horns | From the sea (chaotic nations), 10 horns, 7 heads | From the earth (possibly religious or local authority) |
| Nature | Blasphemous king, political ruler | Composite political empire and blasphemous ruler | Deceptive religious figure; lamb-like but dragon-voiced |
| Speech | Speaks “great things” and blasphemies (Dan 7:8, 25) | Speaks arrogant and blasphemous words (Rev 13:5–6) |
Speaks like a dragon (Rev 13:11) |
| Power | Rules for 3½ years (Dan 7:25), persecutes saints | Given authority for 42 months (3½ years) (Rev 13:5) | Exercises the first beast’s authority (Rev 13:12) |
| Worship | Exalts himself above God (Dan 11:36) | Demands worship from the world (Rev 13:4, 8) | Directs worship toward the first beast (Rev 13:12) |
| Persecution | Makes war on saints and prevails (Dan 7:21) | Overcomes the saints (Rev 13:7) |
Kills those who refuse to worship the image (Rev 13:15) |
| Signs / Miracles | Implied spiritual arrogance and deception | Deceives through false authority and power | Performs great signs, even fire from heaven (Rev 13:13) |
| Mark / Image | Not mentioned | Creates an image to be worshiped (Rev 13:14) | Enforces the mark of the beast (Rev 13:16–17) |
| End | Judged and destroyed by the Ancient of Days (Dan 7:26) |
Cast into the lake of fire (Rev 19:20) |
Cast into the lake of fire with the first beast (Rev 19:20) |
Suppose, he thought, that the second beast does not exercise the first beast’s authorityRev 13:12 as Tychicus implies, but rather the authority of the "beast" Christ the Lamb. Can "Christ the Lamb" be a beast? In Enoch's prediction of the "Coming of a Savior": And I saw that a white sheep was born with a large horn, and all the beasts of the field and all the birds of the air feared him and made petition to him continually.Enoch 90:6-7.
Reclining in his hammock and being lulled by the waves, Peter pondered the meanings of the first and second beasts and fell asleep. The first beast appeared to him in a dream, first as Eleazar ben Ananias, then shifting into Menahem ben Judah. He spoke to Peter with a sinister calm: “My excommunication is ended, my fatal wound has been healed. I have seized the Antonia Fortress, and now I rule over the Diaspora of Gentiles. These Gentiles are the uncircumcised horns, the ten lost tribes of Israel, whose seat rests in Rome atop seven hills. The time has come for the world to witness the fullness of my power. I have proclaimed myself the next priest of the Pharisees, guardians of the three and a half years of Daniel, having lost three hours at the Crucifixion.”
Peter’s head spun, his vision blurring. A cock appeared before him, crowing with sharp insistence: “Time to wake!” It crowed three times, each call striking against his mind like a pendulum—once, twice, three times—pausing—then repeating. Peter forced himself upright, his head pounding. Then the warning came, not in words but in spirit, as if Jeremiah himself voiced it through the air: “If you believe that God cannot protect you, you will succumb to the losses you fear. Whoever has ears, let them hear.”
The next night, Peter dreamed of a second beast, rising out of the earth. It had two horns like a lamb, but spoke like a dragon. It was not the Zealot leader from the night before, but the true first beast, having the horns of Jesus, the Lamb, whose fatal wound had been healed in the Resurrection.
The second beast was granted power to breathe life into the image of the Lamb, a true beast of Genesis creation. For the first time, Peter beheld Simon bearing the horns of the Lamb upon his head, a living symbol of Jesus—hidden— yet reflecting the resurrected Lamb, unseen by the world. He realized that he was Jesus’ Pope, laying down the rules of worship while wielding the sword of excommunication with quiet menace.
As Simon began to speak, his face glowed like Moses’ when he came down from Sinai, and on his head, the horns of the Lamb became radiant lights. Thus, speaking with the authority of Jesus, but resounding with the thunder of Moses, he said, “Know now that I hold the secret of 666 for it is the number of the Lamb; the sum of the letters of education: Taw—Resh—Samekh—Waw. (Their Gematria values: 400+200+60+6 equal to 666). That all people, great and small, rich and poor, free and slave, shall receive a mark on their right hands or foreheads for the privilege of belonging to the Church —to buy: to pay freely a tithe—to sell: convert to the faith.
Peter awoke and made the sign of the cross, for the vision of Simon Magus smiling knowingly pressed upon his spirit. And at last, he discerned the mystery of how 666 was the mark of Cain—was the Chi-Rho Cross itself—that Conscience is the seal upon the soul for in its fire, the Lamb and the Beast are reconciled.
Having chosen the name Aristarchus after being released from prison by The Angel of the Lord (me), Peter did not really start his transformation until he accepted the mark of Cain in the catacomb and now having reached the top step of Jacob’s Ladder, he was now 666.
When the ship reached Rome, Peter and Paul somehow knew they were marching toward death, yet also toward a life that would triumph even over the Last Judgment.
During Nero’s reign of terror against the Christians, Peter attempted to flee the city. But at the Church of Domine Quo Vadis, he turned back—as Simon had told him he would—to accept his martyrdom. Jesus kissed him on the forehead, and Peter replied, “I agapē love you, too.”
When he was taken, he pleaded with the executioners to crucify him upside down, to demonstrate that he was not worthy to die as Jesus had. Yet he was worthy—for he had passed the test of Conscience.
| | |||
| John Aquila | I, John, your brother and companion in tribulation...Rev 1:9 | Rev 1:1-8:5 | 1 AD to 44 AD |
| James Niceta | assumed twin brother of John: trumpets (tribulations) | Rev 8:6-14.5 | 44 AD to 51 AD |
| Tychicus | "I" assumed from Paul: Tychicus I have sent to Ephesus"2 Tim 4:12 | Rev 14:6-19:21 | 54 AD to 74 AD |
| John II, son of John Aquila and Pricilla | I, John, am the one who heard and saw these things... Rev 22.8 | Rev 20:1-22:21 | 100 AD to 114 AD |
Revelation Chapter 13 was written by James Niceta: James the brother of John executed with a sword by Agrippa I (excommunicated)Acts 12:1–2 because of his Zealot activities.
In it, James describes two beasts using the prophecy of Daniel 7 which describes four Beasts representing four empires: a Lion for Babylon, a Bear for Medo-Persia, a Leopard for Greece, and for Rome a beast with iron teeth and ten horns from which a 'little horn' replaces three of his teeth. The 'little horn' is believed to be the "anti-Christ" yet to come.
It is the first beast in Revelation 13 that possesses all these qualities in order to exalt the Zealot leader Eleazar who caused the destruction of the temple in 70 AD by using it as a fortress. The second beast in Revelation 13 is me: the Pope reporting to Jesus being unfairly compared to the first beast by James.
The criticism of me does not stop there as Tychicus, the apostle of Paul who hates me, kills us off equally: The beast Eleazar was taken, and with him the false prophet (me) that wrought miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshipped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone.Rev 19:20
And I beheld the second beast (Simon Magus the Pope) (All three stand for "The Mark of Cain": CONSCIENCE.) |
So, now, hopefullly, I have now corrected the mistake of history that claims me to be the personification of evil: '666' which is not the mark of Satan, but the ultimate grade at graduation in the Church of 'The Way': the "Mark of Conscience"!
The number '666' is arrived at by adding the important grade letters in Hebrew for each level of education using their Gematria values (labeled at the head of the column):
| Total | Gematria | Hebrew | Glyph | Pictograph | Title | Reference |
| 0 | +400 | Taw | X | Badge, Seal | Michael (Zadok) |
The top position of the hierarchy: Grade 0 |
| 400 | +200 | Resh | ר | Human Head | Sariel (Jairite) |
Top position that an initiate can reach: Grade 2 |
| 600 | +60 | Samekh | ס | Thorn | Initiate | Beginning level of an initiate: Grade 7 |
| 660 | +6 | Waw | ו | Hook | "The hook!" | |
| 666 | ||||||
The inner CONSCIENCE which is shown as the Mark of Cain in Judaism and Chi Rho (P+X) in Christianity is recognized in all religions. It is often represented in the concept of Heaven and Hell such as when the Egyptians believed that upon death one's soul is weighed by Anubis on a balance scale to determine if its soul can be resurrected or suffer eternal torment. In Buddhism, it is the concept of the Middle Path. In Islam, it is submission to the will of Allah, although Allah has been copied from the vengeful Jehovah of the Jews and thus wrongly condones violence against nonbelievers.
Such a determination of good or evil after death is of no use if it is not practiced while living. CONSCIENCE is the balance point between mind and emotion and is timeless. The possibility of CONSCIENCE is within all humans, regardless of religion or common law and it distinguishes man-woman from an animal or a plant. Without CONSCIENCE, there is no eternal SOUL for 'GOD IS CONSCIENCE'.
It was the year 2 BC. I was ten years old when I woke to the sound of shouting—boots thudding across marble floors, doors flung open, drawers overturned. Guards were searching the villa. My late father, Agrippa, had built this house at Boscotrecase, on the green slopes of Vesuvius above the Bay of Naples. I remember the shadow of Vesuvius traveling through the house once a day on a journey to the sunset. But today its shadow stood still as my mother seized my arm. The air was thick with dust stirred by the guards.
She pulled me into her bedchamber and shut the door.
“I must tell you a secret,” she said. “Do you promise not to tell anyone?”
I nodded quickly. “Of course!”
She turned toward the fresco on the far wall—Acis, Polyphemus, and Galatea, from Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
“Do you see this?” she whispered. “It has a hidden meaning for me. I have imagined the Cyclops—see him there—as Tiberius, brooding on his island of Rhodes. I am the sea-nymph Galatea—over there— and the mortal there is Acis—my dear Iullus Antonius.” She sat down next to me and whispered in my ear, “You are the child born of our embrace.”
“What?” I screamed out in surprise. Then realizing I should not shout, I say softly, “You mean Uncle Iullus—the one who used to sword-fight with me in the garden?”
“Shhh,” she said, glancing toward the door. “Yes. Iullus was always a comfort to me. I tell you this now because your grandfather Augustus is banishing me to the island of Pandateria and I may never see you again.”
I felt my throat tighten. “You’re going away? For how long?”
“You know how stubborn he is; maybe until he dies,” she said, sitting beside me. “But you must know how you came to be. In September of 11 BC, when your stepfather Marcus Agrippa returned ill from the East, he slept in another room to avoid spreading his sickness. Iullus came to me then. When Marcus died, Iullus stayed away—but by the time you were born, in March of the next year, I declared you Agrippa’s posthumous son. It spared us both from accusation.”
She took a deep breath. “All was well until your grandfather forced me to marry Tiberius. When he abandoned me for Rhodes, refusing me a divorce, I was left alone—and the gossip began. Iullus and other friends sometimes stayed overnight, and the poets stirred up Rome with sin.”
“You always sent me to bed early,” I murmured.
Julia smiled faintly. “Yes. The poet Ovid wrote The Art of Love—a foolish, dangerous book. Augustus banned it, blaming its verses for corrupting Rome. He thought women like me learned our immoral ways from poetry. He never understood that loneliness has its own language.”
Her face hardened. “Tiberius went away not out of duty but because he preferred his vices hidden from Rome. He is a dark man. I never trusted him near you. Iullus was my true love.”
I whispered, “Does Iullus know?”
“Yes,” she said, gripping my hand. “But you must never speak of it. If they knew your true father, they would kill him—and perhaps you too. Promise me, for his sake.”
“I promise, Mother,” I said, though my voice trembled. “I still do not know why grandfather is taking you from me.”
She kissed my forehead. “Augustus says I violated the laws of family and marriage—his own laws, made for Rome’s virtue. So I must be exiled, and the man I loved will fear to be discovered. I am sure your grandmother Scribonia will come with me. That would be a mercy.”
“But what will I do without you? Can’t I live with Iullus?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “No. If he came near, they might suspect the truth. His father, Mark Antony, once defied Augustus—and mercy is not given twice. If they accuse him, he will die.”
I clung to her, but the door burst open. Guards stood waiting.
Julia whispered, “Remember: keep the secret, and beware of Tiberius. He pretends not to want the throne, but he will do anything to seize it.”
They led her away. That was the last time I saw my mother before Augustus’ death.
Pandateria was barely half a mile wide, a windswept rock in the Tyrrhenian Sea. Augustus had once built a villa there for his summer ease; now it was a prison for his daughter. Yet my mother endured. With her went Grandmother Scribonia, who had once been Augustus’ wife, understanding too well the Emperor’s cruelty.
Augustus, blaming drunkenness for Julia’s sins, forbade her even a drop of wine.
Years later, I learned that when Tiberius heard of her banishment and the decree of divorce written in his name, he wrote letters pretending sorrow—asking that she at least be allowed to keep the gifts he had given her. Augustus ignored him. Even in exile, the Cyclops still watched from afar.
As for me, I found refuge with my older sister Julilla and her husband, Lucius Aemilius Paullus, who were building a great house at Herculaneum. Yet the memory of that fresco at Boscotrecase stayed with me: Galatea turning from the Cyclops, her eyes fixed upon the mortal she loved. I knew then that I, too, was part of her secret. I rescued this painting to hang in my own house one day.
When Tiberius learned of his wife Julia's banishment for adultery and immoral behavior, and that a bill of divorce had been issued in his name, on Augustus' authority, he sent letters pretending to try to effect reconciliation between father and daughter. He also asked that, whatever punishment she merited, she be allowed to keep any gifts he may have given her. This did not change Augustus' anger at Tiberius' departure from Rome, which embarrassed his family. When Tiberius asked to return, he rejected his plea.
As for me, I found comfort with my older sister Julia the Younger and her husband Lucius Aemilius Paullus. They were building a large mansion at Herculaneum in Campania for their home.
(6-2) 
When I was older I learned of my mother’s life from my sisters. I could never grasp his cruetly to my grandmother. In late 39 BC, my mother Julia was born to Scribonia.
I could never grasp his cruetly to my grandmother. On tha same day, Octavian—not yet Augustus—divorced her, citing her shrewest disposition. He had previously rejected a politically arranged union with Claudia, a stepdaughter of Mark Antony, but had broken the engagement, trading her for Scribonia, the daughter of Antony’s brother. With the alliance with Antony collapsing, within weeks of Julia’s birth, he set his sights on Livia Drusilla, then married to Tiberius Claudius Nero and pregnant with her second child. Persuading Nero, or coercing him, to divorce her, he married Livia just three days after she gave birth to Drusus. In scarcely four months, the emperor who would later espouse family values had severed his ties to Antony’s family and repositioned himself with the old Republican aristocracy—all the while showing little regard for human decency.
Thus, Julia entered a household dominated by her stepmother Livia, whose discipline was iron-clad. Daughters-in-law and stepdaughters were taught spinning and weaving, forbidden visits from suitors, and every word and action was recorded in meticulous daybooks. Augustus personally instructed his grandsons, teaching them reading, swimming, and the arts of leadership. My mother’s lesson was simpler, yet no less demanding: obedience. Her life was not her own; her marriage would be chosen for her.
At fourteen, she married her first cousin Marcellus, Augustus’ chosen heir. Two years later, he was dead, leaving her alone and childless. Augustus then arranged her marriage to Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, his trusted right-hand man. Julia, at the age of eighteen having grown up with Agrippa’s daughter Vipsania, was now required to marry her father, decades her senior. First, Agrippa had to divorce the wife Claudia whom he loved dearly, but he faithfully complied, though not without tears. I marvel at my mother’s courage—the quiet, iron resolve to fulfill her duty and provide heirs for the throne. Since Livia later had a miscarriage and was unable to produce an heir to Augustus, the burden was placed on my mother to ensure my grandfather’s legacy.
Across the Empire, she traveled with Agrippa, observing governors, soldiers, and foreign princes with a careful, amused eye. She bore him two sons, Gaius and Lucius, and two daughters, Julia the Younger, her first daughter and Agrippina the Elder, her last. Yet she endured. Witty, calculating, resilient, she passed on these traits to her children, surviving in the Empire’s shadows.
It was lonely for me in the shadow of my two older brothers, but I remember the delight of being a part of some of the large spectacles that my brothers organized such as a mock naval battle between “Persians” and “Athenians” in the Circus Flaminius.
   |
Her two daughters were Julia the Younger (19 BC-29? AD) and Agrippina the Elder (14 BC-AD 33). Agrippina the Elder would give birth the Emperor Caligula and her daughter Agrippina the Younger (15 AD - 59 AD) would give birth to Nero and schemed to make him Emperor by marrying the Emperor Claudius.
In the winter of 13-12 BC in his last military effort in Pannonia, Marcus Agrippa, contracted an illness abroad and died in March of 12 BC at his home in Campania at the age of 51. Julia gave birth five months later to me and I was named Agrippa Postumus, a name chosen to cover up the truth.
In 11 BC, my mother, having now reached the age of 28—a year after Agrippa’s death—was forced to marry Tiberius, a union meant to produce an heir that would join Augustus’ natural grandchildren to Livia’s step-child.
My true father, Iullus, was the son of Mark Antony and Fulvia, saved from Augustus’ wrath by Octavia, Augustus’ sister and Mark Antony’s second wife. As praetor in 13 BC, a year after my father’s death, Iullus staged lavish games and beast hunts in Augustus’ honor.
I imagine my mother teasing that Iullus should schedule his events around her availability. Her rules were precise: no passengers aboard until the hold was full. Even her stillborn child with Tiberius served its purpose to play into the cruel choreography of palace intrigue.
When the rumors became too great about his affair with my mother, he like his father took his own life rather than face torture—and to protect me. Rome forgot him, save for his face carved on the Ara Pacis and being mentioned in the Clementines as my father.
Tiberius and Julia hated each other and the consummation of their marriage was brief, producing a sickly child that died. This sham marriage would ignite rumors of my mother’s infidelity—whispers that would haunt her until the end. Tiberius departed for Rhodes, abandoning Julia and his son Drusus the Younger in Rome. He left only a perfunctory kiss, barely acknowledging the eyes that saw him, leaving her to rumors, scandal, and endless machinations of the palace.
When my mother wrote from her island of exile: "No wine to dull the endless hours, and no servants clever enough to amuse me." Even then, in Julia’s complaint, I sensed the wit—the sharp humor masking the cruel toll of a her gilded cage. She had done her job to produce heirs now she was forced to be a mere spectator in the perilous battle of power and fate.
Julia’s exile left her children unprotected into a world of ambition, scandal, and unseen danger. Fifteen years later, her son Lucius Caesar would die of a sudden illness in Massilia. Eighteen years after her exile, Gaius Caesar—Augustus’s intended heir—fell on a distant mission to Gaul three years later.
Julia the Younger, my eldest sister, “Julilla”, was seventeen at her mother’s exile and newly married to Lucius Aemilius Paullus. She was, in many ways, her mother but more gentle. She loved literature, scholarship, and humane pursuits, lacking the ruthless cunning that had secured my mother favor.
Agrippina the Elder, barely twelve at her mother’s exile took the emptiness of loss and turned it into a fierce and relentless will to shape the next generation of rulers—only to end on an island of exile like her mother—but not before giving birth to Caligula and Agrippina the Younger.
After that, Agrippina the Younger, having carefully observed her mother, would escape her island of exile, in which her son Caligula had placed her, and scheme to put her son Nero on the throne by marrying her paternal uncle Claudius.
I, Agrippa Postumus, was ten when my mother vanished from my life. Only after the deaths of Gaius and Lucius, did Rome look to me seriously as an heir. In 4 BC, Augustus adopted me officially, yet Germanicus, married to my younger sister, Agripppins already held the favor of the people.
Since I was the joint heir with Tiberius, I knew even then, I had not chance against the macinations of my step-mother Livia. The throne was never meant for my hands. Within nine years of my mother’s banishment, I too was sent away—a young man of seventeen—cast onto the barren island of Planasia, the same fate as my mother.
It was the middle of June of the year 2 AD. Joseph and his wife Mary stepped off the ship at the port of Ostia in Rome after a long voyage from Jerusalem. With them were Jesus, now eight years old, and James, one year. As the first blush of dawn lit the mouth of the Tiber River, a small boat, rowed by a sleepy ferryman, carried them northward. They passed silently under the Pons Sublicius, marveling at the stone construction of the bridge as the water lapped its side.
The boat landed a little farther upstream, near the shrine of a Sabine god that the Christian theologian Justin Martyr would ironically mistake for me—Simoni Deo Sancto: Simon the Holy God. From the landing, they would need to cross the bridge they had passed under—walking east to Trastevere, where Herod Antipas’ home was located.
I, Agrippa Postumus, had not slept. Yesterday my talea at thirteen was marked by a small ceremony, but by evening the house belonged to my brother Lucius and his eighteenth birthday. When the wine came out, I was sent away, though I lingered a little too long behind a statue of Bacchus. I only just roused myself in time to escape unseen. I was still wearing my tunic of fine linen dyed Tyrian purple, now smudged a bit. Three years had passed with my mother still banished from my life. I could no longer bear it. I was old enough now, I thought, to prove to my mother that I could stand up for her to my grandfather. I was on my way to protest my inferior position to Augustus.
Halfway across the bridge, I encountered a small family approaching from the opposite side—a man in the long robes of Judea, a woman carrying a child, and a rambunctious boy running ahead. Their garments were plain, yet there was a quiet radiance about them, as though they moved within a light unseen by others.
“I see by your dress that you have come from Judea,” I said.
“You have spoken rightly,” the man replied. “We are staying across the Tiber in Trastevere. Antipas has taken a house there among our people while he waits upon Augustus concerning Herod’s will. We will remain only for a season.”
“I had heard that Herod’s sons had come to Rome to dispute the inheritance,” I said. “The Herodian house has long been friendly with ours. My mother once told me that Herod the Great twice chased down my father, Marcus Agrippa, upon the open sea—lavishing him with gifts and professions of friendship.”
The man’s eyes brightened. “Then fortune has favored our meeting. I am Joseph; this is my wife, Mary, and our sons—Jesus and the younger, James. We are followers of the Way, sent by our father Heli and the elder Simeon the Essene to proselytize to the Jewish families of Rome. And you, I am guessing, are Agrippa Postumus, grandson of Augustus.”
I bowed slightly. “Yes—born five months after my father’s death. They call me Postumus, meaning ‘after death.’”
Mary’s gaze softened. “Then you are a son parted from his father.”
Her words touched something unguarded within me. “Perhaps I am like the well-known proverb of the Prodigal Son. In every house there is one who excels—and one who stumbles.”
The boy Jesus stepped closer, his face alight, beginning to recite. “There was a man who had two sons—and the younger of them said, Father, give me the share of property that falls to me.”
Joseph chuckled. “Yes, Jesus loves to recite this allegory—especially because it annoyingly mirrors my life too well.” Seeing my interest, he gestured toward a stone bench overlooking the now-golden water. “Come, sit. I have some dates from the market—the road from Ostia was long.”
I hesitated. “I was on my way to see my granfather, but no hurry.” I offered my hand to Mary as she settled with the baby on her lap.
“Tell me more of this story,” I said to Jesus, eager to encourage him. He continued brightly, “Not many days later, the younger son gathered all he had and journeyed into a far country—”
Joseph finished in a sterner tone: “and there he squandered his inheritance in reckless living.”
I smiled. “You speak as one who has experienced such things.”
Joseph’s eyes dimmed. “Yes. My brother Theudas turned away from our house. Our father divided the tithes between us, but Theudas joined the followers of Judas the Galilean—men who call themselves Zealots and stir the people to ruin.”
Mary laid a gentle hand upon Joseph’s arm, warning him not to go too far in his bitterness.
Joseph, recovering his composure, said, “Yes, that parable is universal, but its message teaches an important lesson of forgiveness that we as members of the Way must follow.”
But I was already lost in my own sorrow, thinking of my mother and the slanders that had torn our family apart.
Mary saw my sadness and sought to comfort me, “That far country,” she said softly, “it must be your mother’s place of exile.”
I could not hold back the tears that rose. “It is I who am exiled, not she.”
Jesus went on quietly, unwilling to leave his story unfinished: “So he went and joined himself to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him into his fields to feed swine.”
Joseph sighed. “My brother has done likewise—feeding on that which defiles. He takes refuge with Archelaus, though he will soon fall from Caesar’s favor.”
Still Jesus persisted, “I will arise and go to my father, and will say, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you.”
Joseph, completing the next line in tone conveying a level of annoyance, “And the father received him with open arms.”
Caught up with the same feeling, I say, “Yes, the unfairness angers me, as I see it does you—that my brothers and nephews are always treated better than me.”
Mary smiled through a mother’s knowing sadness. “Always, it is forgiveness that prevails in the presence of God. I, too, forgave Joseph—for the shame others cast upon me when they called Jesus illegitimate.”
Joseph frowned slightly. “This talk grows too personal,” he murmured, and young James began to fidget in Mary’s arms.
Sensing I had unwittingly stirred up a personal problem, said, “Forgive me. I did not mean to stir painful memories.”
But Jesus could not let the tale end in shadow. “Bring quickly the best robe,” he said proudly, “and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet. Bring the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and make merry!”
Joseph laughed then, his spirit lightened. “Thank you, Jesus. Your joyous energy and compassion will make you a Therapeut yet—dancing and singing your way to God.”
Mary added, “the Way to God lies within ourselves. It is the heart that tranforms—with joy and love.”
Her words lingered inside me. “Then perhaps your Way has already begun its work; I was ready to shout at my father, but now I feel peace.”
I rose and bowed to them. “I should not keep you any longer as you must be tired. I am glad we met. I will tell my sister Julilla and her husband to visit you—they would be open to the details of your Way.”
“Yes,” said Joseph, smiling again. “We would love to see them.”
We waved as I turned toward the city. The Tiber still gleamed beneath the bridge, carrying its golden light into the heart of Rome. I had come ready to accuse, but as I walked, I was no longer a boy of anger—I was a son returning home.
When I stepped through the Palatine gates, I was no longer feeling myself to be merely a Roman. Perhaps the Way was a road that I would one day walk. I turned back and went home; my anger toward my grandfather subsided—maybe one day he would welcome me back.
| Hierarchy of 'The Way' Lk 14:16-18; 21-24 |
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| "A man once gave a GREAT BANQUET, and invited many (the strict Essenes: classed 0-9). At the time for the banquet, he sent his servant to say to those who had been invited, 'Come; for all is now ready.' But they all alike began to make excuses. Then the householder in anger said to his servant, 'Go out quickly to the streets and lanes of the city, and bring in
For I tell you, none of those men (the strict Essenes) who were invited shall taste my banquet." |
A month after Postumus met Joseph on the Tiber Island bridge, my sister Julia the Younger arrived with her husband, Lucius Aemilius Paullus, and their daughter, Aemilia Lepida, to visit Joseph and Mary at the house of Herod Antipas. Antipas, having returned to Perea, graciously welcomed them. My sister later described the meeting to me.
The reception room was adorned with paintings of satyrs and nymphs—the rage of the day, inspired by Horace and Ovid. Lucius paused, taking in the artwork. “Now, this is a humorous setting for the Way!”
Joseph smiled. “It is not the inner self that matters.”
Mary offered some unfermented grape juice. “I apologize for not offering wine. We are only permitted unfermented juice.”
Julia nodded. “That is fine. My grandmother Scribonia believed overindulgence in wine led to my mother Julia the Elder’s exile on Pandateria.”
Lucius added, “Did not Augustus forbid her wine entirely on the island?”
“Yes,” Julia confirmed.
Mary asked gently, “And how do you manage without your mother?”
Julia sighed. “Worse than the absence is the malicious gossip.”
Nearby, Jesus and Aemilia played quietly. Joseph, turning to Lucius, said, “I am puzzled… you are Julia’s husband and also her brother-in-law?”
Lucius nodded. “Rome’s generations are tangled. Through Scribonia’s elder daughter, I am both brother-in-law and cousin. I also recently served as consul with Julia’s brother, Gaius.”
Joseph smiled. “Our lineages are complicated as well. As descendants of King David, our family traces through Nathan, though some claim Solomon. Heli is my father’s name, and Jacob is a title—two lines that meet at the same place.”
Mary interjected, “Even now, the Western and Eastern factions debate whether my son Jesus or James will lead the faithful. My husband can explain…” She walked away to nurse James, leaving Joseph with a slight frown.
Julia joined Mary, whispering, “I thought I heard Joseph considered sending you away?”
Mary’s eyes glistened. “Not for unfaithfulness, but for embarrassment—conceiving so soon, before the customary period.”
Lucius muttered, “Jesus is the firstborn; it would seem obvious he should inherit…”
Joseph replied carefully, “Conception is forbidden by the Essenes. Our sons are exceptions due to dynastic necessity, yet we remain bound by strict rules of engagement, purity, and timing. On this last point, I failed, competing with Zechariah after his inability to speak revealed John’s conception. These customs will evolve, but for now, they guide us—and I now see how such rules, meant to protect the line, can be turned into a tool for inheritance disputes—vicious and uncaring toward those they displace.”
“I have heard,” Lucius said, “that the Pharisees and Sadducees in Jerusalem ridicule the Essene version of the Way, for prescribing fixed hours even for their latrine activity beyond the walls.”
Joseph answered evenly, “That is as it should be. It is on these walks that they seek out common folk, and some return with them. Thus the road itself becomes the Way.”
Lucius smiled. “Yes—for those blessed with strong bladders.”
Joseph replied quietly, “That is the difference with our version of the Way.”
Mary returned, laughing softly. “Literal, as always,” she said. “The higher path is exacting; the lower levels remain open to all, requiring only love and devotion—the very qualities the Essenes seek to emulate.”
After they discussed more of the Way, Julia looked to her husband. “Perhaps we could offer the basement of our Herculaneum mansion as a place of worship. The walls lack provocative imagery, and there is ample room.”
Lucius hesitated. “We must consider Augustus’ views. Gentile participation without circumcision may appear to deny the exemption of Jewish semi-independence.”
Joseph reassured them, “The higher levels do require it, but the lower levels can be exempted, at least in our practice. All that is asked is compassion and service.”
Julia laughed softly. “Women seem to have an advantage if circumcision is optional.”
Mary replied thoughtfully, “For now, men still advance higher than women, but equality is a principle we hope will grow. Virginity rules are symbolic for dynastic heirs—three years for daughters, six for sons.”
Julia frowned. “It seems that men should be worth half, since women endure the burdens of birth.”
Mary smiled. “It follows a long history among the Jews, where Abraham adopted the Canaanite God El while discarding his consort Asherah, because he believed in one God.”
Joseph nodded. “Thus, when God revealed himself to Moses, saying, ‘When I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, I was El Shaddai, but my name YHWH was not known to them.’”
Mary continued, “Equality takes time. Yet the acceptance of Gentiles into the Way will remove the circumcision requirement and, in time, promote equality between the sexes.”
Joseph added, “Do not be concerned with rules. Jacob-Heli, my father, is already reforming them for ‘all are Way-farers invited to the Great Banquet—Essenes, Therapeuts, Nazarites, Jews, and Gentiles. For this, we need support.’”
“Certainly!” Julia and Lucius said in unison. “We have plenty of room.”
Joseph and Mary shouted together, “Praise be to God!”
Mary laughed softly and added, “This could become the first Church of the Way in Rome!”
Joseph offered baptism. Lucius declined, citing Sabine tradition.
But Julia, quietly determined, began fasting in preparation.
Lucius said, “Tomorrow, we can travel together by chariot and journey to our estate in Herculaneum. There you can complete the baptism and consecrate our basement for the Way.”
Mary and Joseph said together, “That would be wonderful!”
Lucius added with a grin, “Our chariots will be ready at dawn to found the first Church of the Way in Rome, even if the chariots of Augustus try to pursue us.”
Two days later, after Julia’s baptism, the two families traveled in separate chariots to Herculaneum.
When they arrived, Mary exclaimed, “Your home is beautiful.”
Julia smiled, “Much more impressive than my grandfather’s palace. I still do not understand why Augustus’ tastes are so austere.”
When they descended into the mansion’s hidden underground chamber, after consecrating the space, Julia was baptized. The space would be ideal for gathering, teaching, and proselytizing.
To their surprise, the hidden chamber quickly attracted followers. Many Romans, dissatisfied with the anthropomorphic cruelty of the gods, found ethical guidance in the Way. Circumcision, ritual hair coverings, and other prohibitions of the stricter Jewish sects deterred some, but the majority of the Diaspora saw the Way as a fulfillment of their Jewish heritage, especially the welcoming of women and children alike. By 7 AD, the congregation numbered nearly five hundred.
Upstairs in the lavish dining room, Julia and Lucius had invited some close friends. I was invited but did not attend. The special guest—the poet Ovid, now 49—was there secretly, avoiding the displeasure of Augustus who had banned his poems. His presence brought an electric charge to the room, and a quiet ensued as he read parts of his Ars Amatoria. Julia had prepared the dinner carefully, arranging the seating, the flow of wine, and the gestures to follow the spirit of his poetry—held to be a manual of love-making perfection—hoping to demonstrate her understanding of his work.
She reclined elegantly near Lucius, tilting her head and twirling her ring at intervals, passing the cup to Ovid on her right with subtle emphasis. He responded with raised eyebrows and slight movements of his hands, acknowledging her wit and charm. Conversation flowed in poetry, myth, and playful mimicry, each line a quiet performance of intellect and elegance. Lucius, mostly unaware, focused on his meal.
The storytelling reached its height when Julia recited letters of mythological heroines, and Ovid responded in kind, matching her gestures with clever allusions and smiles. The tension was subtle but palpable, a sophisticated interplay of wit, beauty, and literary skill that captivated the room.
By the evening’s end, Julia had impressed Ovid deeply with her intelligence and charm. There was a brief time when Julia and Ovid disappeared to her bedroom, unnoticed by Lucius, who was entertaining the others in drunken laughter. The next day, Ovid, reflecting on the events of the previous night, began to question his own judgment, having been swept away by Julia’s adulation. With Julia being the granddaughter of Augustus and the daughter of her mother, already punished for her indiscretions, unforeseen consequences could arise. Though outwardly the household remained peaceful, the seeds of rumor and intrigue had been sown.
Outside the mansion walls, curious neighbors whispered of the unusual gatherings. The secret parties of the well-to-do and the gatherings of many not-so-well-off gave rise to the earliest murmurs of what Rome would later call the Circle of Julia.
In Rome, I had once stood beside Tiberius as one of Augustus’s chosen heirs. His wife Livia—ambitious and merciless—sought to sever every tie between my grandfather and me. Headstrong, reckless, and too proud for my own safety, I was soon banished to a remote manor in Surrentum. I left Rome convinced that the world had forsaken me; yet the divine spark that had been kindled in my meeting with Joseph and Mary would not be quenched. I refused to let exile define who I truly was.
Even in that isolation, purpose found me. Before Joseph returned to Judea after his mission to Rome, he had baptized me and trained me in the sacred teachings. My exile now situated me closer to my sister Julilla’s fellowship of the Way. I took up my duties as a deacon, baptizing new initiates in the salt waters of the Bay of Naples. There, in the rhythm of the waves and the quiet devotion of those who came to be baptized, I discovered a freedom Rome could not take—a power that exile had revealed in me.
The sea had become my temple, the waves my congregation. In my own way, it was my Bar Mitzvah—mirroring that of Jesus, a boy who was about to celebrate his own Bar Mitzvah far across the sea.
In Jerusalem, that same year, 6 AD—a year they would call the “Age of Wrath”—the people rejoiced that Augustus had exiled the ethnarch Archelaus, the so-called “fatted calf,” yet they groaned under the census and taxation decreed by Governor Cyrenius.
Earlier, in 4 BC, Augustus had divided Herod’s kingdom into three tetrarchies, making Herod Antipas Tetrarch of Galilee and Perea. His kingdom of Galilee included the Sea of Galilee, while Perea was bounded on the east by the Jordan River and on the west by the Dead Sea, including Qumran. These two regions would become the primary locations of the missions of John the Baptist and Jesus.
Jesus had reached twelve—the age of his Bar Mitzvah. Mary, feeling a pang of sorrow at letting him step into manhood, mused how quickly those twelve years had passed. It seemed only yesterday she had brought her firstborn into the world. The joy of his birth at Bethlehem flooded back.
In her thoughts, she distinguished carefully between the two Jerusalems: how, during the time of King Herod, the Magi from the East had come to Jerusalem (plural = Qumran), and how, upon hearing this, King Herod had been disturbed, and all Jerusalem (singular) had been troubled with him.
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Her child’s bright eyes had gazed at the Magi, King Aretas of the nearby Nabataean kingdom, who brought precious gifts of frankincense and myrrh—the golden wealth of Petra’s trade—believing that this Davidic son would one day rule all Judea.
Thus Qumran had been established as the true holy city, purer than Jerusalem itself. Mary had given birth in a stable south of that settlement, where the ceremonial donkey was kept. That humble site would one day be called the Queen’s House.
Mary fondly recalled, with a smile, how Jesus would say: “Mama was queen of the oxen and donkeys, and the donkey lent me my crib.”
Now she would have to give her precious boy to manhood. Yet, even in the shadow of High Priest Boethus, the rejection of his legitimacy still lingered, a painful memory.
When the time came for the purification rites required by the Law of Moses, Joseph and Mary took Jesus to Jerusalem (plural = Qumran). A small stage had been set up on the donkey’s manger at the Queen’s House—once Jesus’ crib, now the platform for him to step into manhood.
Mary symbolically brought forth her firstborn, wrapping him in swaddling cloths (now a simple loincloth) and placing him on the manger. There was no room for them in the inn, for he was still considered illegitimate by Essene rules.
Then war broke out in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon and its angels. But the dragon was not strong enough and lost its place in heaven. The great dragon was hurled down.
Ananus was elected High Priest—the Sadducees now in power, while High Priest Boethus and his Pharisees had lost theirs.
Unaware of this cosmic event, the simple ceremony was about to begin when a stir passed through the crowd. Dignitaries arrived unexpectedly. Joseph looked to Mary in confusion—would even their simple ceremony be canceled?
“Don’t you know?” a shepherd shouted. “The governor has removed Boethus and appointed Ananus! Your child is now legitimate!” This shepherd was one of the Therapeuts, lodging in the fields and keeping night watches over the flocks.
Above them, an angel of the Lord appeared, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, inspiring great fear. High Priest Ananus ascended the stage, saying, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy for all people. For today, in the city of David, a Savior is born to you—Christ the Lord.”
A great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, the moon beneath her feet, and a crown of twelve stars upon her head. Mary, the true Davidic queen, took her son’s hand and guided him to the platform. Her twelve jewels represented the tribes of Israel; the moon symbolized the thirtieth seat of the Council of Thirty.
Jesus briefly met his mother’s gaze toward Boethus—the dragon, now defeated, but still waiting to devour her child. Mary trembled at the memory of the man who had once held her reputation in his hands.
Ananus stood firm beside Joseph—shown leniency for his sin—and Mary drew strength from both as she gently pushed Jesus forward. Silence fell.
Jesus began:
“I will explain the parable of the Sower and the Weeds: the kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field…”
When he finished, Ananus laid his hands upon Jesus’ shoulders and declared, “You are now a son of the commandment.”
A multitude of the heavenly host appeared alongside the angel, praising God:
“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and goodwill toward all.”
Mary, having felt her son’s hand slip from hers, knew she must let him go. She was given two wings of a great eagle (the female equivalent of Sariel) so that she might fly to the wilderness, where she would be protected for a time, times, and half a time, while Daniel’s prophecy unfolded.
At opposite ends of the Mediterranean, two distant swells began to rise—quiet, unseen forces gathering strength for what we hoped would become the great tsunami of Christianity’s ascent. One was my own: a Roman prince marooned on an island of exile, shaping faith in solitude. The other was Glaphyra’s: a Herodian princess cast out from her world, yet stirred by the same divine undercurrent. Small in themselves, these two swells were nonetheless essential—the first awakenings of a movement that would one day shake empires.
(10-2)In 7 AD, Augustus accused me of possessing an illiberal nature and banished me to the island of Planasia. I never doubted whose hand guided the charge. Livia had long cultivated his unease where I was concerned, and having just passed my eighteenth year, I had become a living threat to her son Tiberius—an obstacle to the succession she so carefully engineered.
With imperial sarcasm, Augustus mocked my love of the sea and dubbed me Neptune of the waves. The jest reached back to 31 BC, when the world had hailed my father, Marcus Agrippa, as Neptune after Actium.
The title pleased me nonetheless. To play King Neptune was a tolerable mask, easing the loneliness of exile.
My villa on Planasia was modest, its black-and-white mosaics patterned with marine life and mythic scenes. The surrounding waters were abundant—pipefish twisting like silver threads, lobsters clattering over rock, groupers lurking in the sea grass. My father once rebuked me for spending my days fishing, but the labor calmed my temper. In exile, I discovered that I had become more than a fisherman: I was a fisher of men. As I once cast nets, so now I plunged seekers beneath the water and raised them again—not to the shore, but to faith. My island became a retreat for Jewish converts of means who were drawn to the Way.
This was possible only after I befriended Clemens, captain of the supply ship that ran between Planasia and Elba. A freedman of the Arrecinian family, he would later be linked to Clement, bishop of Rome. Clemens smuggled initiates among his cargo and bribed the guards with illicit goods. Through his loyalty, a community took shape beyond law and empire.
Alone, yet not solitary, I learned that exile was formative: authority could arise without palace or Temple, and teaching could flow from obscurity. Each day I cast my nets and guided my charges, I saw a quiet truth: leadership could be exercised without crown or court, teaching could flourish without decree. I was Abbot not by sanction, but by necessity, patience, and vision.
Far across the Mediterranean, Glaphyra, the Cappadocian princess once married to Herod the Great’s son Alexander, had seen her life shattered when Herod executed her husband for treason. She returned to her father, remarried, and was widowed again—only to wed Archelaus, her former brother-in-law, a union condemned as sinful.
Forty days after Jesus’ birth, the rite of purification and dedication was performed by Simeon at the Temple. Anna, daughter of Phanuel of Asher, witnessed the child and spoke to all who were waiting for redemption. She did not act as priest or judge; she only recognized fulfillment. Anna’s authority was quiet, singular, absolute—sufficient to legitimize what followed.
(9-3)The synoptic Gospels recount a first healing: leaving the synagogue, Jesus went with James and John to the house of Simon Peter and Andrew. There, Simon Peter’s mother-in-law lay sick with fever. Jesus took her hand, the fever left her, and she arose to minister.
In retrospect, this event was never merely a cure of illness—excommunication disguised as death. It was Glaphyra’s restoration—the quiet moment when her exclusion ended. She rose not from fever, but from shame. Her hands, once trembling with remorse, now reached outward to serve. In that moment, she became the Abbess of Nazareth: spiritual mother to Peter and Andrew, to James and John, to Mary and Martha. Her absolution came through mercy, not merit; her tears became the first drops of a baptismal font from which she would minister to others.
Though the synoptic Gospels place this incident at the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry in 30 AD, Luke’s perspective allows us to see that Glaphyra’s restoration had already occurred in shadowed time—before any public recognition, before any formal discipleship. The miracle’s meaning was always retrospective: it legitimized mercy and inclusion as the foundation of authority, long before the disciples’ formation made it manifest.
Significant clues about these first disciples lie in the shadows of Glaphyra’s household. Peter and Andrew were not born into the Jewish fold as commonly assumed—they were freedmen of her family, tied to her father, Archelaus Sisines XVI, King of Cappadocia. Peter was married to Glaphyra’s daughter, making her his mother-in-law, while Andrew, long thought to be Peter’s brother, was in fact a freedman shaped by her household, where mercy and inclusion were daily practice. James and John, too, were Gentiles, their origins not yet revealed, but their loyalty was already forged as if among family. None had yet undergone the symbolic purification—the washing with water and wine that would later mark the miracles of the Way—but their formation had begun under her guidance.
Peter would later address his first Epistle to Cappadocia, quietly acknowledging the bonds first formed in Glaphyra’s house. The network of Gentile disciples was already taking shape, their devotion grounded not in birthright or Temple authority, but in mercy, service, and recognition—echoes of the authority exercised silently both in her household and on Planasia.
In that light, Planasia and Nazareth were mirror worlds. On the island, I cast nets and taught in silence; across the sea, Glaphyra rose from shame to guide those who would become the core of Jesus’ movement. Abbesses restored; Abbots formed. Women authorized inclusion; men preserved teaching. Neither claimed the Temple. Neither contested Rome. Authority flowed from exile, widowhood, and discernment.
As I reflected on the currents and tides around my villa, I realized that our separate acts of formation were not isolated. The quiet labor of teaching, the gentle restoration of the excluded—these were convergent swells, gathering strength beneath the surface. What appeared later as miracles, ordinations, and baptisms had already been tested in obscurity, shaped by mercy and recognition.
What rose from Planasia and Nazareth did not announce itself as revolution. It appeared as retreat, as obscurity, as marginal piety. Yet these forces, patiently gathered, were already moving toward one another, gathering force. When they met, they would no longer be containable.
Christianity did not ascend from the center. It emerged from those the center had cast aside.
In 8 AD, Augustus’ trusted informants requested a private audience at the palace.
“We come to speak to you about Julia,” they began.
Augustus sighed. “Julia, Julia. Would that I had never married, and had died childless.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Everyone wishes me to pardon her. Send them away.”
“Caesar,” one replied carefully, “it is the younger Julia.”
Augustus frowned. “What new trouble has the goddess Venus brought upon me?”
“It appears,” another said, “that Julia and her husband, Lucius Aemilius Paullus, are plotting against you.”
“What evidence have you?” Augustus asked.
“At their country estate, visitors come and go at all hours—some poor, some influential. There is singing into the night, wine flowing freely, and what resembles Bacchanalian revelry. The poet Ovid is often present.”
Another added, “We have heard the gatherings concern something called the Way.”
“The way to what?” Augustus asked sharply.
“They appear connected with Jews associated with Qumran,” the first replied. “And, as Your Excellency knows, there is also a so‑called Fourth Sect—the Zealots—founded by Judas the Galilean, who once preached the overthrow of Rome.”
“That traitor is dead,” Augustus snapped. “I have already deposed Archelaus and sent him to Vienne in Gaul. Quirinus now governs Judea. This sounds far more like Julia behaving as her mother once did—encouraged by the licentious verses of Ovid.”
He paused, then added, “Still, I will see this for myself. Tomorrow, I go.”
Quietly, the second informant said, “There is also talk of treason—what some call the Circle of Julia.”
When word of Augustus’ reaction reached him, Lucius Aemilius Paullus hurried to Julia’s estate at Herculaneum.
“Your grandfather may be coming,” he said breathlessly. “If he discovers our private assemblies, rumor will turn them into treason. They claim we have conspired—with Asinius Gallus—to rescue your mother and Agrippa Postumus from exile, even to raise rebellion against Augustus.”
Julia answered sharply, “Why would I rebel against my grandfather? I long to see my mother and my brother again, yes—but that would violate his decrees.”
“The story grows more distorted by the day,” Lucius replied. “Now they say Ovid himself has been charged with retrieving Agrippa Postumus.”
Julia laughed despite herself. “Then perhaps they imagine Ovid will transform into Daedalus and fly, with wax and feathers, to my brother’s island.”
Their laughter eased their fear—only briefly.
At dawn the next morning, a cohort struck once upon the door. Augustus did not wait for an answer. He entered the house unannounced.
He found Ovid seated beside Julia, reciting from his verses. They rose at once, startled.
When Augustus saw Julia’s swollen belly, suspicion hardened into rage.
“I knew your Ars Amatoria would corrupt the city,” he shouted at Ovid, “but I never imagined it would taint the blood of the Julii!”
He ordered the house ransacked. Scrolls were thrown to the floor. “This place shall be razed,” he declared. “Julia will be sent to the furthest island, and the child exposed.”
“You are mistaken, Father,” Julia pleaded. “I am no adulteress. Lucius can attest to this.”
Lucius swore it by the gods, but Augustus—haunted by the scandal of his elder daughter—would not be moved.
When Augustus returned home, Livia asked, “Why have you destroyed Julia’s estate and gardens?”
Too ashamed to speak plainly, he muttered, “I have no taste for extravagant country houses.”
“Then why force her to live with such austerity?” Livia pressed. “Barely suitable for a private citizen.”
“It was said to be a Jewish assembly,” Augustus replied. “Yet I saw no synagogue—only books. Still, my decision stands. Julia is too much like her namesake.” “As for Ovid,” he added, “he will be sent to the edge of the world, where his verses can no longer poison Rome.”
Feigning compassion, Livia later sent Julia money and gifts in secret, unaware of the truth of the child. Augustus, believing the infant exposed, considered the matter closed.
The official charge against Julia was adultery with Decimus Junius Silanus—a convenient accusation that aligned neatly with rumors of conspiracy. She was sent to the island of Tremiti, off the Adriatic coast, where she gave birth to a daughter.
Though the child was ordered exposed, the guard took pity and spared her. Augustus refused to acknowledge a child born after the decree of exile.
Lucius Aemilius Paullus was charged with sedition—perhaps for abandoning the Arval Brotherhood while participating in the Way—yet he was not executed. Arval records continue to list him among their members. Silanus withdrew into voluntary exile.
Thus Julia the Younger’s punishment almost repeated history. Her mother, recalled from exile only two years earlier, still lived confined at Rhegium. Augustus granted her property and income, but never forgiveness. Neither Julia would be permitted to return to Rome, nor would either be buried in his tomb.
Julia the Younger would endure nearly twenty years of exile, ignored and forgotten. I knew then that I would have to rescue her.
Ovid was banished at fifty years of age to Tomis, on the Black Sea. There he wrote, “What I suffer here surpasses the worst fate could send—war at the gates, and not a single friend.”
Augustus avoided bringing the matter before the Senate, fearing embarrassment should the truth emerge. Ovid spoke only of carmen et error—a poem and a mistake—but the emperor would not listen.
In exile Ovid sent his Tristia back to Rome, pleading for recall. Near the end of his life he wrote, “My daughter was far away on the Cyrene shore, and could not be informed of my fate.” In this he unwittingly confirmed his paternity—for Julia and her child were with me in Cyrene.
Before Julia was taken to Tremiti, rumor held that she wrote secretly to Ovid and entrusted the letter to her maid, Phoebe.
Dearest Ovid,
It grieves me that I could not kiss you farewell. The rumors that destroyed us were cruel, yet I accept my fate as my mother once did. I acted knowingly, not in ignorance, and I do not excuse myself by your poetry—though you remain the greatest poet of our age. Continue to write, even in exile.
Farewell, Julia
When Augustus learned of the letter, Phoebe was questioned under torture. She admitted only that she followed the Way. Refusing to betray her mistress, she revealed nothing more and hanged herself.
Thus Phoebe became one of the earliest martyrs of the Way. Many years later, Jesus’ daughter Tamar would take the name Phoebe at baptism, in honor of her courage.
In the spring of 14 AD, Augustus—sensing his strength failing—began to doubt the wisdom of leaving the empire to Tiberius. As his infirmities worsened, he sailed to Planasia to see me, accompanied only by Paullus Fabius Maximus and a small circle of trusted companions.
To the astonishment of my guards, Augustus himself appeared in the harbor. When he disembarked, he embraced me. After years of bitterness, I returned the gesture. At twenty-five, soon to turn twenty-six, my former temper had cooled; exile and the precepts of the Way had reshaped me.
“Your visit is joy enough,” I said.
He studied me closely. “How I wish your father Marcus were here. As we approached the island, I imagined him beside me—sailing once more against Antony and Cleopatra. And now, seeing you… in your eyes I glimpse Antony. I do not know why I have come.”
Fabius Maximus and I helped him up the terrace overlooking the sea. Wine and broiled fish were brought, the breeze carrying the scent of grapes from the shore. Augustus sat there in silence.
At last Augustus spoke, “I fear I have wronged my own blood. Livia was ever pressing Tiberius forward. I hoped distance might free my judgment, yet age has made me weak.”
I listened in silence. Then I asked, “And Julia?”
He sighed. “She defied me. I arranged her marriages, dreamed of heirs, and failed her all the same. Forcing her upon Tiberius was my greatest mistake. I ignored her heart—and she never forgave me.”
“Not all blame is hers,” I said carefully. “Tiberius’ nature is well known.”
I smiled faintly. “Your control over my mother only bound her more tightly to resentment. She once wished she had married Iullus.”
Augustus laughed quietly. “Then Rome might have known an Antonius Caesar instead of a Tiberian heir. That would have roused many ghosts.”
I ventured, “Or another possibility still—Agrippa Postumus Antonius.”
He stared at me, unsettled. “Did Julia deceive me? I… I see the likeness. Could it truly be?”
“God works in ways hidden from princes,” I said. “But I am Postumus. Your blood runs in me—not Tiberius’.”
“And the younger Julia?” I asked.
Augustus looked away. “Ovid… his verses stirred too many hearts. I sent him far from Rome. Yet I sometimes wonder whether severity served justice.”
Paullus Maximus interjected carefully, his voice low and deliberate. “I hope Your Excellency does not object that I have remained in correspondence with him—sending funds from time to time. He still begs me to intercede on his behalf, blaming a poem for his error. Much of his Ex Ponto is spent entreating me to persuade you to permit his return.”
Augustus hardened. “I ordered her child smothered,” he said flatly, “because I could not bear what it implied.”
Maximus motioned me closer, his gesture slow and deliberate. “If you were wondering—her daughter is well,” he whispered.
I concealed my surprise. I had met Maximus before and knew him to be a patron of poets—but never as a keeper of such secrets.
To shift the weight of the conversation, I turned again to my grandfather. “Did you know,” I asked, “that Julia’s house sheltered gatherings of the Way?”
He stiffened. “Jews? In my daughter’s house?”
“They teach peace,” I replied, “and acknowledge Herod Antipas only nominally.”
“For a moment,” he said darkly, “I thought such things sedition.” Then his voice softened. “We built the Ara Pacis to honor peace—yet betrayal followed. By both my Julias. By Iullus Antonius, who praised me even as he dishonored your mother.”
“You touch upon the reason for my journey,” Augustus said slowly. “I fear that Livia will prevail. Tiberius will rule, and I dread what follows. Rome might fare better under another hand.”
He lowered his voice. “I regret that I bring no promise of your recall. Worse—I fear for your life. If Tiberius gains power, you will not be safe.”
“I understand,” I said. “Germanicus himself is not secure. The future may yet belong to Agrippina’s sons.”
As he rose to leave, Augustus whispered, “If word reaches you of my death—vanish.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, he pressed a ring into my hand. “The sphinx. I once gave it to your father when I despaired of recovery. Keep it. It will remind you that I did not forget.”
A month later, Livia summoned Tiberius urgently from Illyria. Whether he found Augustus alive or already dead was never made clear. What is certain is that she suspected reconciliation between the princeps and his grandson—and feared its consequences.
Fabius Maximus revealed the visit to his wife Marcia, speaking of tears and renewed affection. She, unwisely, repeated it. Soon after, Maximus died. Some called it suicide; others knew better, when funeral wails were heard from Marcia as she reproached herself for having caused her husband’s death.
Rumor claimed that Livia hastened Augustus’ end with poisoned figs. It would not be the last time imperial succession was settled by a wife.
History remains convinced that I was murdered—despite Tiberius’ silence before the Senate, where he claimed only that it had been his father’s final instruction that the tribune lose no time in disposing of his prisoner.
On his deathbed, Augustus asked for a mirror. “Have I played life’s farce well?” he said. “If so, applaud as I leave the stage.”
He knew the truth.
My father’s warnings were real.
I had already made my plans.
After Augustus’ warning earlier in 14 AD, I ensured that Clemens kept his ship anchored off Elba, ready to aid my escape from Planasia. Clemens, who carried initiates from Julilla’s fellowship of the Way, was my devoted servant—loyal beyond question.
When Augustus died on August 19, AD 14, Tiberius issued a written order to Gaius Sallustius Crispus commanding the murder of Postumus. Gaius, long entrusted with imperial secrets, hesitated. Knowing that both truth and falsehood could destroy him, he nevertheless sailed for Planasia.
When his ship docked at Elba, Clemens greeted him and invited him aboard for wine. Upon learning of Augustus’ death, Clemens quietly ordered provisions loaded and sail prepared. Gaius soon confessed that he bore secret orders from Tiberius. Knowing their purpose, Clemens said, “I am a friend of Postumus and will not permit this deed. Remain here three days and report it done—or be confined below deck.”
Relieved, Gaius waited three days, returned to Rome, and reported that Postumus had been slain by a resolute centurion. He advised Livia not to publicize the matter nor consult the senate.
Clemens reached Planasia, where we overpowered the two drowsy centurions. With my old identity now declared dead, I left the island unseen to carry out my plan: to rescue my two Julias—my mother and my sister—before sailing south across the Mediterranean to Cyrene.
My mother, Julia the Elder, was confined at Rhegium, near Italy’s toe, which seems to kick Sicily. Since the guards had not yet heard of my supposed death, they were easily bribed.
At first my mother did not recognize me in my priestly vestments, but when I said, “Mother,” she burst into tears. “Postumus, it is you! I was sure Tiberius had murdered you the moment Augustus was dead—no doubt poisoned by Livia.”
We embraced. I said, “Surely Tiberius must be gloating that I am dead, yet here I stand—the posthumous Postumus.”
She laughed through tears. “That you are! But how will you avoid discovery?”
“I will be known as Simon, the son of Antonius and Rachel.”
Julia pondered. “That is wise. Do not contest Tiberius’ succession—he would hunt you down if he knew.”
I smiled. “Good sometimes triumphs over evil. How do you like my new disguise and name?”
“It will fool many—and reveal your true father, which pleases me.” Then she whispered, “But why am I now to be Rachel?”
| Genealogy of Jesus | |
|---|---|
| David son of Nathan (2 Sam.5.14)Lk 3:23-38 | David son of Solomon(king line) Mt 1:7-17 |
| (And Jesus himself) being, as was supposed, son of Joseph, which is the son of Heli.Lk 3:23b ('supposed son' resolved by Simeon the Essene in Lk 1:35 with Joseph = Holy Spirit) | And 'Jacob' begat Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom was born Jesus, who was called the Christ.Mt 1:16 |
“As for my name, I choose Simon—Jacob’s second son by Leah, whose name means unloved. It suits my life and places me under Jacob-Heli, Jesus’ grandfather.” “You were not unloved by me,” Julia protested.
Postumus kissed her on the cheek. “I know.”
“If I were called ‘son of Julia,’ it would expose us—the world knows too well the great Julia. To the people of Troy, you were worth a hundred thousand silver pieces.”
Julia’s eyes lit. “Yes—I remember arriving by night, and the river nearly swept me away. Agrippa was furious and fined them. It took Herod’s friendship to convince him to relent.”
I smiled. “Herod Philip even named a city Julias—Bethsaida, on the Lake of Gennesaret. Your name stands in Athens and Ephesus as well.”
Julia laughed. “Almost as famous as Cleopatra.”
“More courageous,” I added. “You endured Tiberius’ venom. Your daughters may yet give birth to the Julian empire after he is gone.”
Her voice softened. “I never made it easy for Livia to secure her son’s succession. I deserted Iullus—but worse, I was forced to abandon you, my favorite son.”
I held her. “You never deserted me. By concealing my true father, you saved me. Iullus died a hero’s death, like his father.”
Tears filled her eyes. “My poor, dear Iullus.”
I said softly, “You still have me. Tiberius failed to kill me, and I will remain a thorn in his side.”
Julia brightened. “Yes—my true joy is to see you alive!”
I urged, “Come with me. I must rescue Julilla.”
She shook her head. “No. I am too frail. Let me die here, and keep your father’s secret. But rescue my daughter if you can. Exile is cruel.”
“Mother, come and see—your grandson!” she called.
My grandmother Scribonia waddled towards me. “Postumus—you live! Tell me, is it true Augustus intended to make you emperor?” “Prevented,” I answered, “by Livia’s poisoned figs. My grandfather’s warning saved me.”
Scribonia sighed. “I have heard she smeared poison on them while they still hung upon the tree. Augustus called me shrewish—but what his marriage brought him was Tiberius, a poor excuse for a ruler.”
“There is still hope,” Julia said. “Germanicus may yet reign.”
“And do not count out Postumus,” Scribonia added. “He may yet return in triumph.”
“No,” Julia said firmly. “Better that he begin anew as Simon, seeking the spiritual leadership of the Way—not the dangerous path of earthly power.”
“During exile I baptized followers of the Way, continuing Julilla’s mission,” said Postumus. “I should baptize you both.”
“If heaven will guard my granddaughter and grandson, I will be baptized,” Scribonia said.
“So will I,” Julia said.
At dawn by the sea, I baptized them, saying, “You are washed clean.”
Just then Clemens called from the ship, “Another sail on the horizon—we must go!”
Julia clasped my hand. “Promise me you’ll free my daughter Julilla and her child, if she lives. Kiss them for me.”
“I will,” I vowed. “She shall be my Helen of Troy—and perhaps her daughter may wed Jesus, son of Mary, continuing the Davidic line.”
My mother smiled. “You will succeed. You were born for greatness.”
I embraced my mother and grandmother, took my sword and shield, and said, “May we meet again in heaven.”
As I boarded the ship, their voices followed me over the waves:
“Farewell, Simon.”
(14-2)As we sailed from Italy’s boot northeast toward the Tremiti Islands, Clemens and I plotted the rescue of my sister Julilla. Her stone prison, built like a fortress atop a steep incline, would not yield easily. Though we could overpower the guards, we needed a ruse to enter unseen.
Clemens proposed a bold plan: he would impersonate me and return openly, creating confusion. I hesitated, fearing for his life. Yet the thought of driving Tiberius frantic—unsure whether Postumus lived or died—was irresistible.
Clemens then shared his extraordinary secret. “I would not fear death for so righteous a cause against Rome—I am the grandson of Spartacus.”
I stared at him. “No wonder your strength is legendary. You told me you were a freedman of Marcus Areccinus Clemens and Plautilla—but not this.”
He smiled. “Plautilla’s mother, Tertulla the Younger, was the daughter of Marcus Licinius Crassus and Tertulla the Elder.”
“Crassus?” I asked. “The man of the First Triumvirate—who defeated Spartacus?”
Clemens nodded. “Crassus spared his son. I became a freedman of Tertulla, adopting the name Clemens. I intend to continue my father’s struggle against Rome’s injustices.”
I was awed. “An incredible story. Now you must kneel and be consecrated a deacon of the Way.”
As my hands rested on his shoulders, I placed Augustus’ signet ring upon his finger. “You are now the true heir of Augustus. Hail, son of Spartacus.”
Sailing around Italy’s spur, we entered the channel between San Domino and San Nicola, anchoring near the only beach.
(14-4)Rowing ashore, we began the steep ascent to the fortress.
(14-5)Two guards barred our path, swords drawn.
“What business have you here?” one demanded.
Clemens declared, “I am Postumus, the new emperor. I have come to pardon Julia the Younger and return her to the mainland.”
The guards exchanged incredulous glances. “We heard Postumus was killed by Tiberius’ tribune. You must speak with the centurion.”
We were escorted to the central chamber, where a cistern glimmered in the dim light. The centurion arrived, and Julia—watching from the corridor—hid her astonishment, instantly grasping the ruse and playing her part.
“What proof have you of such an outrageous claim?” the centurion demanded.
Clemens calmly extended his hand. The centurion obeyed and instantly recognized Augustus’ mark. Kneeling, he murmured, “Forgive my doubt, great Emperor.” “I am here to pardon Julia and return her to the mainland,” Clemens repeated.
Before the centurion could respond, Julia slipped inside and returned with her daughter.
The centurion hesitated. “No—not the child. Augustus’ decree orders her exposure and death. Out of compassion, we let her live, but we cannot release her.” Feigning anger, Clemens declared, “I rescind the order.”
The centurion froze. I seized Julia and her daughter and descended the incline, with Clemens close behind, enforcing obedience.
At the beach, as I helped them into the rowboat, the centurion—regaining his composure—shouted, “Stop! You are not the true Emperor!”
Clemens seized him and pressed a knife to his throat. “Then we have a problem.”
I drew my sword toward the guards. “Lie down if you wish to live.” They obeyed.
We boarded the ship, and I ordered sail raised.
“Farewell, dear friend,” I called.
“Godspeed,” Clemens replied. Then, lowering the knife—his arm still holding the centurion—he said, “No purpose remains in resistance. Keep silent. The Senate may yet act against me or Tiberius. I will reward your discretion.”
The centurion and guards swore secrecy.
On board, Julia embraced me. “I prayed you would come. And here you are, my brother. How is Mother?”
“She is well—now off Pandateria. Grandmother too.”
Julia’s eyes clouded with sorrow. “Mother’s island was paradise compared to this prison. The stone walls were cold and damp; the wind whistled through the cracks like a chorus of mourning. There were days without sunlight—or a kind word. I often fled to my grotto, screaming into the shadows just to hear my own voice, to know I still lived.”
I took her hands. “Your screams were not madness—they were survival.”
She shuddered. “They used my daughter against me. Knowing they had spared her despite Augustus’ decree, the guards taunted me that they could take her at any moment. Some nights, drunk and cruel, they banged on my door shouting, ‘Give us your daughter!’ Their laughter echoed down the stone steps as they left.” I drew her close. “You survived. Nothing can bind you again.”
As the island faded, Julia cried, “Good riddance to that place. Let its cold and silence remain behind us forever.”
I knelt beside her daughter. “I am your uncle Simon. What is your name?”
“Mary,” she whispered.
“A beautiful name—after the mother of Jesus.”
“Who is Jesus?”
“You will meet him one day,” I said. “A gentle man. They say he is the Son of God.”
“Like you—the grandson of Augustus?” Mary teased.
“Certainly not,” Julilla answered. “The God in heaven.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Six,” she said.
I thought how Jesus—now twenty—might one day be a fitting match.
“Who do you think she resembles?” Julia asked softly.
I studied the child’s eyes and nose. Julia whispered Ovid’s name. The resemblance was undeniable.
“Let us make clear our new names,” I said. “Clemens now bears mine, and I take the name Simon. And you, Julia—take the name Helena, the beauty who launched a thousand ships.”
She smiled. “I see only one ship.”
“You will embody Sophia—the divine feminine,” I replied.
“Yes, brother. I will be your Helena. Remaining chaste, Sophia will suit me.”
I lifted Mary to the prow. “Would you like to call your mother Helena, Queen of Troy?”
“Yes!” she cried.
“Where to now, Simon?” Julilla asked.
“To Cyrene.”
“Could we rescue Ovid?”
“He is far to the east, with autumn storms coming. Besides, the Essenes would disapprove of his poetry.”
She met my eyes. “I trust your judgment. Cyrene is a good choice. There are many followers of the Way there who migrated from Alexandria.”
(15-1)
(15-2) Tacitus would later write: In September 14 AD, Clemens, the servant of Agrippa Postumus, dared to threaten the ruin of the State by discord and civil war before he was checked. Thus, for nearly three years, Clemens, guiding followers, would evade capture, spreading the story of Agrippa’s survival. Through emissaries who shared his secret, rumors began to circulate, first in whispers, then in vague gossip reaching the ears of the credulous and the restless. He moved through towns at dusk, careful never to linger in one place, knowing the paradox of fame and secrecy, that truth gains strength with time while falsehood collapses quickly.
During one of his brief periods of secrecy, Clemens visited his foster family. Knocking at the door, a small boy opened it, then ran back calling:
“There is a giant at the door!”
Clement, the seven-year-old son of Marcus and Plautilla Clemens, returned to gaze at this imposing visitor.
“Tell your father that Clemens, son of Spartacus, is here,” said the visitor with a wry smile.
Marcus appeared, recognizing him.
“Come in quickly! So, you are the Faux-Postumus! We wondered if we would ever see you. I knew it had to be you.”
They embraced. Plautilla and her mother Tertulla the Elder, daughter of Crassus, joined them.
“It seems everyone is talking about you and this religion called the Way,” Marcus said. “You must tell us more.”
Plautilla pressed, “And the real Postumus—is he alive?”
Clemens’ eyes flickered. “Yes. But it is a secret. He is now a bishop and has a new name.”
Marcus nodded. “You must stay awhile—Plautilla, prepare a meal and a bed.”
The household hung on every word as Clemens prepared to recount the tale that would define his legacy.
By the fire, Clemens spoke his story as Tacitus would tell it while he corrected Tacitus’ mistake that he was unable to rescue Postumus in time: “After Augustus’ death, I conceived a scheme few could imagine: sail to Planasia and rescue Agrippa Postumus. Having ascertained that Augustus was dead, I had formed a design beyond a slave’s conception: to go to the island of Planasia and whisk Agrippa away by craft or force, bringing him to safety. The slowness of my merchant vessel could have thwarted this bold venture—(but my ship was one of the fastest). Meanwhile, with the murder of Agrippa assumed, I set my thoughts on a greater and more hazardous enterprise: by taking on the identity of the deceased—since in age and build I resembled my master—I would sail to Cosa, a coastal town of Etruria (Tuscany), and hide myself in obscure places until my hair and beard had grown long.”
The boy Clement listened in awe, unaware that Clemens’ courage would one day shape his destiny.
Clemens spoke of the importance of baptism in entering into fellowship with the Way. By month’s end, all of Marcus’ household sought baptism. At dusk, Clemens led them to the ocean, immersing them beneath the fading light.
A few days later, Clemens bid farewell. The rumors of Agrippa’s divine escape were rapidly spreading across Italy to Rome itself—threatening Tiberius’ throne and gaining followers to the Way.
In Rome, Tiberius, curious and uneasy, vacillated between action and inaction. He assigned Sallustius Crispus to capture this Agrippa imposter. It was not until March of 17 AD that his agents disguised as followers were able to entrap him.
Brought before Tiberius, he was asked how he had become Agrippa. With calm audacity, he replied: “As you became Caesar.” He divulged nothing more.
Tiberius dared not execute him publicly, so Clemens was slain in secret. Many senators and knights had aided him, yet no inquiry was made.
Thus ended Clemens’ mission.
Decades later, the boy he had baptized—the young Clement—would inherit Peter’s chair. Peter, sensing his final hour, took Clement’s hand and addressed the brethren:
"Hear me, brethren and fellow-servants. Since, as I have been taught by the Lord and Teacher Jesus Christ, whose apostle I am, this day I lay hands upon this Clement as your bishop and to him I entrust my chair of discourse. To the one who has journeyed with me from the beginning to the end, and thus has heard all my homilies; who, in a word, having had a share in all my trials, has been found steadfast in the faith.”
As Pope, Clement would always be inspired by the audacity of Clemens—the towering freedman who had appeared at his door—the man who dared to sow the seeds of a spiritual empire no earthly power could touch. Clement lived to 99 AD.
Having sailed to Cyrene, we landed at Ora (modern Tripoli), where Helena and I sought out the large community of Therapeut Essenes who befriended us. By the spring of 15 AD, we had been received as full members of their sect.
Before settling permanently, Helena and I went down to the port—she with Mary beside her, I to sell Clemens’ ship. Together we inquired of newly arrived passengers whether they had heard any news of either of us.
Of Julia the Younger, few knew of her exile to the Tremiti Islands, and none had heard of her escape, for her guards had kept their promise of silence.
As for me, rumors swirled with conflicting tales about Agrippa Postumus—some claiming he was dead, others whispering that he had escaped and was hiding near Rome. Clemens had accomplished his goal: no one knew the truth. Thinking of his courage, my heart warmed with gratitude. I sent my love to him across the opposite shore of the Mediterranean.
At the docks, Helena paused before an auction of captives taken by the pirates who had haunted that coast for generations.
Mary tugged at her mother’s sleeve and cried, “Look at those two half-naked boys in dirty loincloths! They look alike!”
Helena nodded. “Yes, they do—twins, I think, and better-mannered than the rest. Perhaps they are Romans like us. Let’s find out.”
As she approached, the smell of salt, sweat, and blood made her falter for a moment. Holding Mary’s hand tightly, she drew a breath and stepped forward. “Sir,” she said to the auctioneer, “I might be interested in those two boys.”
He motioned for the handler to bring them closer. “These two claim to be of Roman aristocratic stock,” he said. “That could fetch a tidy sum—perhaps even a reward. What is your name, boy?”
One of them spoke boldly. “I am Niceta, and this is Aquila. We are the twin sons of Domitia Lepida the Elder. Has there been any word of her being rescued?”
The auctioneer glanced at his handler. “Was any older woman taken with this group?”
The man shook his head. “Shame it is. Her ransom would be greater.”
Helena, feigning indifference, replied, “Lepidus was a triumvir with Octavian and Mark Antony. His name would be well known here. I would guess these two are lying—but I might still buy them.”
“That will cost you,” the auctioneer warned. “Two thousand denarii each.”
Helena said evenly, “That seems high. Still, I will pay three thousand for both.”
He grinned. “Sold!”
Seeing her bargain concluded, I came nearer. Helena whispered, “Do you have three thousand denarii?”
Huddling close, I murmured, “That is what I just received for my ship. But perhaps it is more than we can afford, since we need to buy a house.”
“To be true Therapeutae,” she said softly, “we are to give up the luxuries we once had and offer our money to the poor. Is not a human life worth more than gold?”
“You speak truly,” I sighed. “Gladly would I surrender all I have to redeem two souls.”
I emptied my purse into the auctioneer’s hands. He grinned broadly. “You are too kind.”
We departed quickly with the twins, who thanked us again and again.
Once we were out of earshot, Helena said quietly, “I recognized your mother’s name immediately, for we are of the same age. She was part of our fellowship of the Way.
She once told me of the incest that Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus had committed against her, and how he was to be brought to trial. She confided that, if the scandal came to light, it would touch her family at the highest level. She considered fleeing with her twins. God help Agrippina if she has a daughter who marries him… How old are you now?”
Niceta answered, “We are twelve.”
Helena bent close. “Promise to keep a secret—I am Julia the Younger.”
Aquila asked, “Didn’t Tiberius exile you to an island?”
“Tiberius still thinks I am there,” Helena replied.
Smiling, I said, “I rescued her. A brother must always rescue his sister. Now I am known as Simon.”
Niceta exclaimed, “Julia had only one brother left alive—then you must be Postumus! But he is dead!”
Helena said quickly, “As you can see, he lives. But no more talk of Julia or Postumus. Our names are Simon and Helena, and this is my daughter, Mary. She is seven years old.”
The boys bowed to Mary, clasped hands, and danced in a circle, crying, “We are saved! We are saved!”
When they had calmed, Niceta said, “We were sure Providence was against us, and now it has brought us together.”
Back at our lodging, Helena prepared for them ‘posca’, a drink of vinegar and herbs. “This will calm you while I prepare a meal,” she said.
I asked, “Tell me how you came to be in the slave market—and how you survived your ordeal.”
Niceta began, “On that night, when the ship was broken up and we were tossed upon the sea, we clung to fragments of the wreck. Certain men, whose business it was to rob by sea, found us, lifted us into their boat, and by sheer strength brought us here.”
Aquila added, “They starved us, beat us, terrified us, and changed our names. Our mother was caught in a wave and disappeared.”
Helena said gently, “That is very sad. Your mother, Domitia Lepida Major, was born the same year as I—19 BC—the eldest daughter of Antonia Major.”
I exclaimed, “Then you are descendants of Mark Antony! My mother was Fulvia, and your grandmother is Octavia the Younger!”
Aquila said, “Is not Marcus Agrippa your father?”
“No,” I replied. “Iullus Antonius is my father.”
The boys gasped.
“Enough of this excitement over Antony,” Helena said firmly. “This is a tragedy. Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus is a monster. God help us if he marries my sister Agrippina’s daughter.”
Niceta said quietly, “Of what use is heredity if we were born without a father and have now lost our mother?”
Helena replied, “Do not fear. I will adopt you both until she is found.”
“Thank you so much!” the boys cried.
Mary, who had been listening, suddenly said, “I do not have a father either.” The twins looked at Helena in confusion. Niceta asked, “I thought you were married to Lucius Paulus?” Helena smiled sadly. “What a tangled web our passions have made. Perhaps one day I will reveal Mary’s father; then you will understand the perils of love when poetry is involved. For now, I remain celibate for the sake of my daughter. It is also an Essene requirement.” I said, “I will treat you as my sons in the learning of all things—with attention to philosophic studies, that we might support the doctrines of the divine religion by philosophic disputations, and be educated also in the learning of the Greeks—especially in their atheistic doctrines—so that, once acquainted with them, you will be better able to refute the detractors of the Way.” The twins replied in unison, “Yes, we would like that.” Helena asked, “Since Providence has guided you to us, do you wish to be baptized?” They answered together, “Yes, of course!” Aquila said, “I only wish our mother could be baptized also.” Helena comforted them. “I believe she will be saved, and that you will have a mother and father again. Even if she is stranded on a deserted island, God will guide us to her—and she too shall be baptized.”
At the water’s edge, Helena laid her hands upon them and spoke their new names. Niceta she called James, and Aquila John—their destinies would be bound to Jesus. Many years later, they would be called the sons of Zebedee, reckoning them mine—not by blood, but by instruction and discipline. When Zacchaeus, the younger brother of Jonathan Annas, cautioned them not to be led astray by my teaching, Jesus named them Boanerges, the Sons of Thunder. The name did not confer my authority but recognized their zeal. As psalm 29 teaches, lightning inspires while thunder commands. Their fervor was mine, yet their authority with Jonathan.
John, known in the Roman world as Aquila, would later travel west to the Gentiles. When Paul departed from Athens and arrived at Corinth, he found John there with his wife, Priscilla, newly arrived from Italy after Claudius had expelled the Jews from Rome. Paul stayed and worked with them, for they were tentmakers, preserving in their labor the discipline they had first learned among us.
James remained a leader among the unmarried followers. In his writings for Revelation, he expressed the conviction that the ascetic organization of the Way was more than the memory of the crucifixion. His association with eastern factions opposing Herod Agrippa led to his excommunication: spiritual martyrdom by the sword.
It was John who, in his old age, set down the vision of the woman and the dragon—how the dragon sought to devour the child, and when it failed, turned in fury against the rest of her offspring. He ended that vision with the words: And I stood upon the sand of the sea. Many took this for prophecy alone, but I knew it for memory. It was his remembrance of the day Helena ransomed him and his brother from the pirates, when they stood barefoot upon the shore, counted among the sea—uncircumcised, without father or mother, and yet preserved.
From two boys of noble birth, reduced to slavery and ransomed for three thousand denarii, they would emerge as leaders who would gather four thousand and five thousand in the feeding of the multitudes and sit at the right and left of Jesus in influence, shaping the future of the Way.
Helena, Mary, James Niceta, John Aquila, and I surrendered ourselves entirely to the path of the Therapeuts, a life of devotion where every breath and movement served the Divine. In our community, the practice of medicine was no mere craft; it was a sacred art, surpassing even the skill of city physicians, for our healing flowed from God Himself. Central to our understanding was the symbol of the staff entwined by a serpent. The rod, a guide for the disciplined and ascetic, represented the steadfastness of the soul; the serpent, ever shedding its skin, embodied the renewal of spirit and body, teaching that one must cast off the outer self to awaken fully to life and grace. This symbol was not decoration but a living principle, a constant reminder of our calling. Each day was offered wholly to His service.
We renounced wealth, living simply on plain bread, sometimes seasoned with hyssop, and water, never wine. Every seven weeks, the men sat on the right, the women on the left, and together we shared our communal meal in quiet reverence, hearts attuned to the sacred rhythm of healing, service, and renewal—a rhythm that would one day echo in the world as the emblem of medicine itself.
Once a year, a nocturnal festival celebrated God’s wondrous works at the crossing of the Red Sea. Two choruses were formed—men and women—led by the most honorable among us as Moses and Miriam. Hands moved in harmony; songs of praise and poems in alternating stanzas echoed through the night. Like Bacchic revelers drinking the pure wine of God’s love, the two choruses became one, celebrating creation and deliverance.
Though I embraced the simplicity of Therapeutic life, my mind was restless. I longed to prepare for the expansion of the Way under Jesus, the Chosen One of David’s line.
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I studied the great philosophers—Socrates, Plato, Pythagoras, Chrysippos, Epikouros, Antisthenes, and Hillel—and began developing my own philosophy, which I intended to use in future ecclesiastical debates.
I explored the nature of God as threefold: Passive, Active, and Neutral. Later, it was I who helped Jesus to craft the beginning of the Gospel of John:
“In the beginning was the Word (Passive), and the Word was with God (Active), and the Word was God (Neutral).”
My words for this: He who stood, stands, and will stand.
Thus, I became known among my companions as “The Standing One.”
Paul would later echo this truth also: Now I know in part, but then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.
My education did not stop with philosophy. Apsethos the Libyan taught me the practical uses of magic. He trained parrots to cry, “Apsethos is a god!” and when released, the people believed. Thus, I observed that even simple acts, carefully performed, could sway the minds of men. I also scrutinized scripture. Moses’ words, “For the Lord your God is a consuming fire”, troubled me; he misread fire as merely elemental, distorting God’s nature. Since many attributed Genesis to him, I dared to rearrange the days. Day six should belong solely to mankind, and the animals would precede them. Though humans may resemble apes, our conscience sets us apart, allowing us to emulate God.
I saw in the seven days of Creation,, Genesis Chapter One a Cosmic Octave, mirrored in music: do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do. God’s so-called rest on the seventh day was a clever restraint, preventing us from becoming gods ourselves. Genesis 2:1-3 misleads, for God did not rest on the seventh day because an octave would complete on the eighth day.
The true seventh day begins with Genesis 2:4, with the serpent and the tree of knowledge of good and evil, revealing sexual creation: Adam and his wife were both naked, and they felt no shame.
God is hiding this seventh day because He knows that when you eat from the tree your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God. For it is through sexual creation, that mankind fulfills a god-like role: birthing new life, mirroring God’s creative power at the higher do becomes a reflection of God with man the creator.
| God is threefold: (Passive, Active, and Neutral) | ||
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| Simon Magus: | ||
| "He who stood, | stands, | and will stand" |
| Jn 1:1 | ||
| "In the beginning was the Word, | and the Word was with God, | and the Word was God;" |
| St. Paul: 1Cor 13:12 | ||
| "Now I know in part, | but then I will know fully, | even as I have been fully known." |
Visualize this as a circle representing the octave: do at the top, re and mi clockwise, leaving a space, then fa and sol, another space, then la and ti, ending in a higher do. Clockwise represents increasing energy, anti-clockwise decreasing. Lines connecting the spaces form an equilateral triangle: Active at the top, Passive on the right, Neutral on the left. This is three forces of God acting in the universe.
Around the circle are the days of Creation: The top of the triangle is at do: this is the Word God—He who Stood.
The right point of the triangle is between mi and fa: the Word was with God—Stands
The left point of the triangle is between sol and la: the Word was God—will Stand
This implies that Creation continues into Genesis Chapter Two, which shows that the completion of God’s Octave is in Eden with man now as the creator. The mystery of two creations is not a mystery because the first is God and the second is Man—divided by a rib: male and female. Here are the days with my own names: Mind, Intelligence, Voice, Name, Reasoning, and Intuition.
Day 1: Active (do) Let there be light—First triangle point—He stood
Day 2: Mind (re) Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.
Day 3: Intelligence (mi): herb yielding seed after his kind
second triangle point—He stands
Day 4: Voice (fa): divide the light from the darkness
And they heard the Voice of the Lord God walking in the garden
Day 5: Name (sol): the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life
Adam gave Names to all the cattle and to the fowl of the air.
third triangle point—He will stand
Day 6: Reasoning (la) Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind
Day 7: Intuition (ti)—to know each other through procreation—the serpent convinces Eve to take the apple of knowledge
(Completed Octave at the higher do) And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.
We had spent five years in Cyrene and I was twenty-seven. It had been an important interlude for all of us. A time to separate from the vicious struggle for power that could lead to death at any turn. The next world was going to be similar, but instead of seeking for power we would be serving God. Having found our true selves, we could rely on our conscience to guide us—not our egos. For myself, armed with philosophy, magic, and a deep understanding of scripture, I was ready to go forward to fight dragons with the strength of an ox, the courage of a lion, and the wings of an eagle.
We departed Cyrene in 17 AD. Helena, Mary, James Niceta, John Aquila, and I sailed to Phoenicia in northern Judea to establish our new home.
There we founded a branch of the Way, modeled on the Cyrene community. Membership grew quickly. Helena, admired for her education and poise, attracted women eager to rise above the second-class status imposed by Jewish custom. I established study groups in philosophy and magic, drawing students from across Judea.
Mary was now nine, living in the convent under Glaphyra in Upper Dan, with the wife of Peter, James Niceta, and John Aquila lived. They attended the synagogue school nearby, whose headmaster was Judas Iscariot. Judas was a close associate of Jesus’ uncle Theudas—having a harsh disposition, being at heart a Zealot.
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Ancient geometry divides a circle into nine points representing the musical octave:  The inner triangle represents the Three Forces of the Universe.
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And the evening and the morning were the first day.Genesis 1:1-5 |
 Day 2 ('re') |
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And the evening and the morning were the second day. Genesis 1:6-8 |
 Day 3 ('mi') |
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And the evening and the morning were the third day.Genesis 1:9-13 (And every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb of the field before it grew: for the LORD God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and there was not a man to till the ground.Genesis 2:5) |
 Day 4 ('fa') |
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(And they heard the Voice of the Lord God walking in the garden)Genesis 3:8 |
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And the evening and the morning were the fourth day."Genesis 1:14-19
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 Day 5 ('sol') |
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(And Adam gave Names to all the cattle and to the fowl of the air.)Genesis 2:20 The man called his wife's name Eve because she was the mother of All Living.)Genesis 3:20 |
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And God blessed them, saying, Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the seas, and let fowl multiply in the earth. And the evening and the morning were the fifth day. Genesis 1:23 (And out of the ground the LORD God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof. Genesis 2:19) |
 Day 6 ('la') | |
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(then the LORD God formed man of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and Man (having Gnosis) became a living being." Genesis 2:7) |
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And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. Genesis 1:26
So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day. Genesis 1:27-31 (But there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground. And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul. Genesis 2:6,7) |
 Day 7 ('ti') |
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(Then the man said, "This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called Woman (Sophia), because she was taken out of Man. Genesis 02:23) And the LORD God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it. And the LORD God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat: But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die. And the LORD God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helpmate for him. And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof; And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man. Genesis 2:16-18,21,22) Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden? And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden: But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die. And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die: For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil. And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat. And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked;Genesis 3:1-7) |
 Day 8 ('do') |
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In AD 15, Jesus was twenty-one, calculated from Luke’s reference to his “twelfth year,” here understood as reckoned from the Age of Wrath beginning in 6 AD rather than as a statement of biological age.
By AD 20, at twenty-six, Jesus had advanced to the rank of deacon and received permission to leave the monastery to choose a wife. Joseph and Mary traveled north from Mird to the convent at Magdala in the northern territory of Dan to attend the Bat Mitzvah of Mary Magdalene, now twelve. The tribe of Dan had long been divided between southern lands near Joppa and northern lands near Caesarea Philippi, giving rise to her surname, Mary of Mega-Dan, or Magdalene.
Joseph and Mary had learned the guarded secret of her ancestry: she was the daughter of Helena (formerly Julia the Younger) and the great-granddaughter of Augustus, conceived three months before her mother’s exile. Recognizing the significance of her lineage—Caesar’s house meeting David’s—they offered to serve as her godparents and quietly entertained the hope of a future alliance between her and their son Jesus once he completed his Essene studies.
When they arrived, a crowd pressed around Jesus, who had been seen outside the monastery. Among them was Helena, who had remained a virgin since her daughter’s birth. Observing him, she recognized an opportunity to test whether his followers would accept her daughter’s Gentile inheritance.
Quietly, Helena approached and touched the fringe of Jesus’ garment. The crowd gasped; for it was widely believed that a woman suffering ritual blood impurity should not touch a teacher, Trembling, she fell at his feet: “Lord, I am not defiled, though for twelve years I have borne the reproach of blood.”
Jesus smiled. “Your faith has made you whole; go in peace.” Then, lowering his voice, he added, “And blessed are you for keeping your virginity these twelve years.” The crowd murmured in confusion, unaware that monthly blood could signify chastity rather than sin.
Still at his feet, Helena pleaded, “Have mercy on me, thou Son of David; for my young daughter is being opposed by the ruler of her convent.”
Jesus replied, “It is true that I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel.”
She persisted: “True, Lord. Yet even the dogs eat of the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”
Taking her hand, Jesus lifted her up. “Woman, great is your faith. Your daughter is now free.” With this, he publicly affirmed that Gentile blood could be accepted in his Way. Those in John the Baptist’s circle would later call him “the seeker of smooth things.”
That evening, Joseph and Mary congratulated Helena on her courage and her plea for her daughter’s acceptance. They then turned to Jesus and Mary Magdalene, asking whether they would consent to a future betrothal.
Jesus said, “Mary, I am honored that you would wait for me to complete my studies and reach my thirty-fifth year. As the eldest heir of David’s line, Essene law allows me to take a wife, but I must follow their rules to receive full blessing. Our union will signify more than lineage: it will declare that before God, Gentiles are equal with Jews. You will be reviled, called impure, even threatened with stoning. Still, I will protect you.”
Magdalene answered softly, “I am honored to be chosen. My royal blood is Gentile, yet my heart longs to share in the heritage of Israel. Let our union fulfill the prophecy of Isaiah—that my race, nurtured by wolves, shall lie down with yours, the shepherd of the lambs.”
Jesus smiled. “Your intelligence and faith will bond us in my heart, always.”
“And in my heart, always,” she replied.
Joseph and Mary embraced them both. “Your union has our blessing,” they said, eyes glistening.
The next day, Jairus, the leader of the convent—the forever adversary Judas Iscariot— opposed the girl’s initiation. “My daughter lies at the point of death,” he declared. “She is unworthy to be confirmed. Whoever is not entered into the Covenant shall be cut off and counted among those who go down to Hades.”
But Jesus entered the synagogue, saying, “The child is not dead, but sleeping.” He dismissed the crowd, allowing only her godparents—Mary and Joseph—her mother Helena, and the disciples Peter, James, John, and likely Andrew—to remain.
Then Jesus asked, “Do you, Joseph and Mary, agree to be the godparents of Mary Magdalene?” “Yes,” they answered.
“Then you shall be counted within Israel.”
Jesus anointed Mary’s head with sacred water and placed the consecrated wafer in her hands, saying, “Little girl, arise! You are raised up as a woman in your Bat Mitzvah!”
Immediately she rose and walked. All marveled; this miracle was more than a resurrection of flesh to spirit. It marked her passage from childhood to womanhood, from Gentile to the Way, and affirmed her future betrothal. Tears of joy flowed freely, revealing not only Mary’s coming of age but also the destiny of Jesus: through her, the bloodlines of the world would be made one.
Three years later, in 23 AD, tragedy struck. Word came that Jesus’ father was among the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices—eighteen souls crushed when the tower in Siloam fell. This message implied that Mary a widow in the eighteenth year after Jesus’ birth, “a woman bowed with a spirit of infirmity for eighteen years.”
Judas, still ruling the synagogue, mocked her when Jesus obtained a widow’s allowance—the widow’s mite—on the Sabbath. Jesus’ frustration with her father’s zealotry echoed his later cursing of the fig tree, a symbol of a party that bore no fruit in three years.
In March 31 AD, at the start of Jesus’ mission, Mary Magdalene and the other virgins of the convent were freed from Judas’ control. Luke records: “And certain women, who had been cured of spirits of weakness and impediment, Mary called Magdalene, from whom “seven demons” are said to have gone out. And Joanna… and Susanna… these women served as deacons from the beginning.”
There is amongst us one Justa, a Syro-Phoenician, by race a Canaanite, whose daughter was oppressed with a grievous disease. And she came to our Lord, crying out, and entreating that He would heal her daughter. But He, being asked also by us, said, "It is not lawful to heal the Gentiles, who are like to dogs on account of their using various assemblies and rituals, while the table in the kingdom has been given to the sons of Israel."
But she, hearing this, and begging to partake like a dog of the crumbs that fall from this table, having changed what she was, by living like the sons of the kingdom, she obtained healing for her daughter, as she asked.
For she being a Gentile and remaining in the same course of life, Jesus would not have healed had she remained a Gentile, on account of it not being lawful to heal her as a Gentile."
Homilies 2.30 -- Divorced for the Faith.She, therefore, having taken up a manner of life according to the law, was, with the daughter who had been healed was driven out of her home by her husband whose sentiments were opposed to ours. But she, being faithful to her engagements, and being in affluent circumstances, remained a widow herself but gave her daughter in marriage to a certain man who was attached to the true faith and who was poor!
And, abstaining from marriage for the sake of her daughter, she bought two boys and educated them, and had them in place of sons. And they, being educated from their boyhood with Simon Magus, learned all that concerned him. For such was their friendship that they were associated with him in all things in which he wished to teach them.
| Homilies 2.19 Justa (Helena), a Proselyte. | Mt 15:21-28; Mk 7:24-30 |
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| There is amongst us one Justa, a Syro-Phoenician, by race a Canaanite, whose daughter was oppressed with a grievous disease. And she came to our Lord, crying out, and entreating that He would heal her daughter. But He, being asked also by us, said, "It is not lawful to heal the Gentiles, who are like to dogs on account of their using various assemblies and rituals, while the table in the kingdom has been given to the sons of Israel." |
And Jesus went away from there and withdrew to the district of Tyre and Sidon. And behold, a Canaanite woman from that region came out (Mk 07:26 woman was a Greek, a Syro-Phoenician by nation) and cried, "Have mercy on me, O Lord, Son of David; my daughter is severely possessed by a demon (under the authority of Judas Iscariot)." But he did not answer her a word. And his disciples came and begged him, saying, "Send her away, for she is crying after us." Jesus answered, "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel." |
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But she, hearing this, and begging to partake like a dog of the crumbs that fall from this table, having changed what she was, by living like the sons of the kingdom, she obtained healing for her daughter, as she asked. For she being a Gentile and remaining in the same course of life, Jesus would not have healed had she remained a Gentile, on account of it not being lawful to heal her as a Gentile." |
But she came and knelt before him, saying, "Lord, help me." And he answered, "It is not fair to take the children's bread and throw it to the dogs." She said, "Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table." Then Jesus answered her, "O woman, great is your faith! Be it done for you as you desire." And her daughter was healed instantly. |
| Homilies 2.20 -- Divorced for the Faith. | Mt 9:20-25; Mk 5:25-43 |
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She, therefore, having taken up a manner of life according to the law, was, with the daughter who had been healed (saved from being exposed at birth), driven out from her home by her husband (actually her grandfather Augustus), whose sentiments were opposed to ours. But she, being faithful to her engagements, and being in affluent circumstances, remained a widow herself (12 years a virgin), but gave her daughter (Mary Magdalene) in marriage to a certain man who was attached to the true faith (Jesus!!), and who was poor (being a member of the Essene monastery who refer to themselves as 'the poor'). And, abstaining from marriage for the sake of her daughter, she bought two boys [Niceta (James) & Aquila (John)] and educated them, and had them in place of sons. And they, being educated from their boyhood with Simon Magus, have learned all that concerned him. For such was their friendship that they were associated with him in all things in which he wished to teach them. |
And lo, a woman having an issue of blood twelve years, having come to him behind, did touch the fringe of his garments, for she said within herself, "If only I may touch his garment, I shall be saved." And Jesus having turned about, and having seen her, said, "Be of good courage, daughter, your faith has saved you," and the woman was saved from that hour. (12-year issue of blood = 12-year virginity thus her daughter, Mary Magdalene, was twelve at her Bat Mitzvah. |
Through these events, Mary Magdalene’s coming of age, betrothal, and the liberation of the virgins emerge not as isolated miracles but as a coherent pattern preserved across parallel traditions. Read alongside the Clementine Homilies, the Gospel narratives disclose a continuous familial history that conforms to religious law, by which Gentile blood is lawfully brought into the covenant through a life ordered in true faith. In this convergence, the Gospel of Mary Magdalene is no longer marginal but vindicated as a domestic witness—attesting to an inherited memory sustained within Essene–Therapeut circles.
King David divided the priesthood into twenty-four rotations, beginning on 1 Nisan, marked by the sighting of the crescent moon. John’s father, Zechariah, belonged to the priestly division of Abijah, and his wife, Elizabeth, was a descendant of Aaron. For many years, Elizabeth had not conceived, and her hope seemed all but lost.
Zechariah’s first eighth week of service at the Temple effectively began in the ninth week, because the preceding week was Passover, when all priests served. During his assigned week, an extra day had been added to the Mishmarot calendar—a feminine day to align the sun and moon. On that day, the angel Gabriel appeared to Zechariah at the right side of the altar of incense and announced that Elizabeth would conceive a son shortly after his service; the child’s name would be John. After completing his course in the division of Abijah, Zechariah became unable to speak, marking the end of his celibacy. He returned to Elizabeth, and they conceived John in early June.
Priestly and Qumranic circles debated whether the age might bring forth more than one anointed figure, distinguished by lineage: one priestly, of Aaron, and one royal, of David. When Joseph learned that Elizabeth had conceived, he was concerned that precedence might be claimed by the firstborn, and therefore he foolishly decided to forego the customary engagement period.
In late autumn, Mary went into the hill country of Judah to visit Elizabeth at Zechariah’s house in Ein Feshkha, south of Qumran. Elizabeth was about six months pregnant, and at Mary’s greeting, the baby leapt in her womb. Filled with discernment, Elizabeth recognized that Mary too was with child. Mary, already aware of Gabriel’s message, was troubled, for the customary engagement period had not been observed and she feared her pregnancy might be judged improper. Joseph, hoping his absence would prevent attention, only increased her distress.
Elizabeth comforted Mary, recalling the story of Samuel: how Eli discerned Hannah’s grief after long barrenness and comforted her. “I have been comforted,” she said, “and you have been comforted by Gabriel.” Mary understood, and in that understanding she lifted her voice and sang the Magnificat.
(4-4)Mary and Elizabeth shared the Queen’s House from November until March. In early March, John was born, followed by Jesus in late September, said to coincide with Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement—a date foreshadowing Jesus’ later role in atonement.
Coming from the priestly line, John recognized that Jesus represented the royal line of David. For this reason, he would later say, “I am not the Messiah, but am sent ahead of him.” Yet their missions were inevitably destined to intersect—and collide.
When Zechariah perished between the altar and the Temple in 6 AD, John was too young to assume his father’s week of service among the twenty-four priestly divisions. Instead, he was appointed over the Council of Thirty, which governed the monthly reckoning of the moon. John assumed responsibility for thirty-day lunar months, a role that later inspired his epithet as a day-baptist, just as Jesus would later gather twelve apostles representing the twelve solar months. The thirtieth member was the one female position, titled Luna. Initially, Mother Mary held this office, with Joseph serving beside her.
John took the name Dositheus, meaning “God’s gift,” having been filled with the Holy Spirit even from his mother’s womb. He went forth in the spirit and power of Elijah with his mission to turn the children of Israel to the Lord their God.
Upon Joseph’s death in March 23 AD, his position among the twenty-nine men became vacant, and I was chosen to replace him. Since Mother Mary had resigned, Helena applied to John for her position.
John gladly accepted her, knowing her true identity, and explained: “As you know, both the synodic moon cycle and the sun cycle are one-half days longer, thus the need for a woman who is equal to half a man.”
Helena nodded, aware that Essene rules were not to be debated. Quietly, she considered this an injustice to women—who, after all, bear the burden of pregnancy and childbirth.
John continued, “In the Mishmarot Calendar, the twenty-four priestly courses each serve a week, rotating twice a year for 336 days. But the year holds 365, leaving twenty-nine extra days. Some of these are holy days served by all priests, except for the one extra day each quarter—in deference to the moon. Do you understand?”
Helena answered, “Yes, I understand. Of these, I, as the only female, contribute one day each quarter to balance the solar and lunar calendars.”
“You are perceptive,” John said. “You shall be called Luna—for the moon. Some will call you Joanna, as my subordinate.”
When I was newly seated among the Thirty, I began—perhaps too boldly—to criticize Dositheus. I meant no offense; I only found his teaching imperfect. Yet he perceived it as rivalry.
During one meeting, Dositheus angrily swung his staff at me, but I slipped behind the lectern as smoke curled through the chamber and shadows flickered across the mirrors. The staff struck only empty air, and Dositheus stumbled. In a blink, I seemed to rise above the floor, shimmering in the reflections. The council gasped, but Helena smiled—his miracle was never in my body, only in how I bent the attention of those who watched.
Dositheus’ hand trembled—no longer “God’s gift” but a frightened man.
“It passes through him,” someone whispered. “Through flesh!”
The moment broke him. He dropped the rod, its tip clattering against the stone floor, and walked out, questioning, “Has God rejected me over Simon?”
(4-5)By the next day, Dositheus was no more. He had become John the Baptist—rejecting his priestly role and retreating to the desert, wearing clothing of camel’s hair with a leather belt and eating locusts and wild honey.
I was elected leader of the Council by unanimous vote. With our high status, Helena and I built a Therapeut community in Cana. Helena played Miriam, sister of Moses, in ritual reenactments of the Exodus that drew throngs of followers.
In the afternoons, I lectured on philosophy, teaching that Sophia, the feminine Logos, had descended into the world and become trapped there—the virgin mother of angels, as Mary Magdalene was the companion of Jesus.
To illustrate this mystery, I placed Helena in an upper room and, by a system of mirrors, caused her image to appear in every window at once. Thus I came to be called “Simon the Magus.”
My arts gained more believers than any sermon. I could make statues seem to walk, roll upon fire unharmed, turn stones into loaves, take the shape of a serpent or a goat, open barred gates, melt iron, or cause dishes to glide through the air to waiting guests. Once, by hidden wires, I even appeared to fly—a feat that would one day undo me. Crowds murmured; witnesses swore they had seen it. My reputation outshone all others.
Even Jesus, at first cautious, came to see that signs spoke more powerfully than instruction alone. When he healed, the people marveled, “Is this not the son of David?” Yet the Pharisees, wary of my influence, muttered, “It is by Beelzebub that he casts out demons.”
Each work Jesus performed functioned as an enacted parable—an outward sign pointing to inward transformation. The New Testament was not intended merely as words to be recited, but as a text to be interpreted. Its meaning unfolds through what may be called the Pesher of Christ: a mode of reading that discloses the hidden, spiritual sense beneath the narrative surface.
In the fifteenth year of Tiberius (29 AD), John, having renewed himself with the word of God, began preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.
Hearing of John’s mission, many traveled to the Jordan River to be baptized. Now that Jesus had come out of the monastery, he too was expected to be baptized.
Jesus had left the monastery to prepare for his marriage to Mary Magdalene. He indicated to me that he wished to be baptized by John as a gesture of goodwill. I warned him to have a backup plan, for John was likely to refuse him.
As Jesus came to the Jordan, John sneered, “I have need to be baptized by you; why come to me?” and refused him.
Jonathan, third in John’s Fig-Tree Party and styled as the Holy Spirit, assisted at the river. Seeing him approach, Jesus said, “Behold, an Israelite in whom there is no deceit.”
“How do you know me?” asked Jonathan
. “I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you,” Jesus replied.
Jonathan answered, “You claim to be the Son of God—the King of Israel.”
Jesus said, “Because I told you I saw you under the fig tree, you believe that? You shall see heaven opened, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.”
Jesus corrected his use of Son of God, subtly changing it to Son of Man, indicating his desire to give Jonathan that title instead. Jonathan then showed his willingness to leave John by calling himself Nathanael.
To understand this, recall that the Essenes ranked their leaders using angelic titles. Even within Hebrew tradition, three principal leadership roles were recognized as God, Son of God, and Son of Man. In earlier generations, these roles corresponded to Moses, Aaron, and Joshua. In Jesus’ time there were again three: God—the High Priest standing in for God on earth; the Son of God—the intermediary; and the Son of Man—the commissioned servant. For Jesus, Jonathan would occupy the role of Son of God, while Jesus himself assumed the role of Son of Man, reporting to Jonathan. Jesus was never the Son of God. This structure later became the Christian concept of the Trinity after the resurrection, with Christ absorbing all three roles.
Caiaphas was that High Priest, having secured the position by marrying the daughter of Ananus, the former High Priest who accepted Jesus as legitimate. Ananus is significant because his second son was Jonathan, later corrupted in the disciple lists as James son of Alphaeus, which should read James son of Ananus. Securing Jonathan’s allegiance was essential for Jesus’ mission.
Jonathan had been assisting John in the third position of the triadic structure, identified as the Holy Spirit. At the river, Jonathan took Jesus by the hand and led him to another section, accepting the intermediary role offered to him. Jesus was baptized despite John’s refusal by Jonathan—the Holy Spirit. The heavens opened; the Spirit descended as a dove; and a voice said, “You are my Son.”—the Son of Man.
The schism was complete. Jesus’ peaceful Vineyard Party stood in stark contrast to John’s militant Fig-Tree Party, which condoned war. Later, when a barren fig tree met his gaze, Jesus said, “May you bear no fruit forever,” and the tree withered.
Like the figs destined to fall in the Zealot cause, John the Baptist would be sacrificed, while Jesus turned his attention to assembling his followers.
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After his baptism, Jesus set about assembling his disciples. Following the pattern of sectarian councils ordered by the lunar cycle, commonly reckoned in units of thirty, Jesus resolved to appoint twelve, corresponding to the twelve months of the year. These he divided into two groups: the Sons of Abraham and the Sons of the Covenant.
The Sons of Abraham were fishermen and villagers—men without institutional standing. Jesus had warned that descent alone did not secure Abraham’s inheritance, for God could raise children for Abraham even from stones. Their calling was therefore by vocation and vow, not lineage. The Sons of the Covenant, by contrast, were men of institutional formation—drawn from Temple, sectarian, or scribal backgrounds—trained in discipline, record-keeping, and instruction.
Four of the disciples—Peter, Andrew, James, and John—had attended his engagement with Mary Magdalene in 20 AD and had vowed to wait for his return. Present at Jesus’ baptism at the Jordan were Andrew and another disciple, unnamed in the Gospel of John that would later form the basis of the other accounts. This was John Mark whose name would not be publicly disclosed until his later meeting with Rhoda, after I secured Peter’s release from Herod Agrippa’s prison. He is also known as Bartholomew.
The following morning, Peter was waiting outside Qumran, having heard from Andrew the news that Jesus had been released from the monastery and permitted to consummate his marriage. Together they walked the three hours to Ein Feshkha, where they collected Philip.
From there they took a boat south to Mazin, where they joined the twins James and John, preparing boats and nets for baptisms. These were Niceta and Aquila, whom Helena and I—now known as Zebedee—had previously rescued.
The boats were used to lower initiates into the salt water and lift them out again with nets, while Jesus stood on the jetty to bless them. Before long, stories spread of Jesus walking upon the water on foggy mornings, and of the time Peter lost his footing and fell in. All six Sons of Abraham had waited patiently for this day, and that night, by the fire, they laughed and spoke together as brothers.
| Sons of Abraham | |
|---|---|
| Peter (his wife was the daughter of the Glaphyra, a Herodian princess)Mk 1:29-31, Mt 8:14,15, Lk 4:38,39 |
John Mark-Bartholomew (freedman of Herod Agrippa)
(adopted by Susanna, daughter of Jesus' uncle Theudas) ('Bartholomew' being a play on the family name Sabbas in this case: Bar-Sabbas to relay the fact that his adoptive grandfather is Theudas connected with the Therapeuts of Egypt (Ptolemy) centurion's (Agrippa) servant/Nobleman's son/ Healing from a Distance Mt 8:5-13,Lk 7:1-10, Jn 4:43-54 'the disciple Jesus' loved' Jn 13:23, Jn 21:7, Jn 20:2 As Eutychus Agrippa's freedman and a charioteer Josephus Ant 18.6.5,6; 19.4.4 and welcomed back by Paul Acts 20:9 |
| Philip (Protos) (freedman of Herod Agrippa's mother Bernice: Ant 18.6.3 (known by the Gospel of Philip and for 'the daughters of Philip'.) | Andrew (freedman of Glaphyra's father, the King of Cappadocia) |
| James Niceta (Faustinus) (illegitimate relation of Augustus)R.7.31 | John Aquila (his twin brother Faustus )R.7.31 |
Jonathan (James son of Alphaeus) had pledged his support at the baptism, and his brother Matthew soon joined him. My brother Theudas, also known as Thaddeus, remained unconvinced.
Judas Iscariot, who held Zealot sympathies, served as the male superior of the convent ssociated with Mary Magdalene. Thomas, the deposed Herodian—whose account will be taken up in the next chapter—sought restoration of honor. And there was also me—Simon, who preferred to be called the Canaanite.
| Sons of the Covenant |
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* nicknames: Jonathan (thunder) and Simon (Lightning) (Isaiah 29:6 "you will be visited by the LORD of Hosts with
and loud noise, with windstorm and tempest and consuming flame of fire (lightning) Theudas (earthquake) Mt 28:2 "There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone." Thomas ('the Twin'), compared to Esau who lost his inheritance to Jacob |
In 28 AD, when Herod Antipas visited Rome, he fell in love with Herodias, daughter of Aristobulus, son of Herod’s wife Mariamme of Hyrcanus. (Aristobulus and his brother Alexander had been murdered by Herod in 7BC for allegedly conspiring against him.) Both were already married, complicating their union.
Antipas faced the problem of divorcing his current wife, the daughter of King Aretas IV, whom he had married to secure peace with Nabatea. Herodias, meanwhile, was married to Herod II, son of Mariamme II and grandson of High Priest Simon, who had traded his daughter for influence in the priesthood—similar to the alliances between Annas and Caiaphas during Jesus’ mission. Interestingly, Herod II agreed to this. Thomas Didymus the Twin—having lost his inheritance like Esau—had already accepted a position among Jesus’ disciples.
Antipas reasoned he could divorce his wife since she was not Jewish. Phasaelis had fled when she discovered his plans, and he judged her father, Aretas IV, might protest—but Rome would back him. John the Baptist, newly embarked on his mission and defiant of Rome’s puppets, stood before Antipas and invoked Jewish law: no man may marry his brother’s wife. His words struck like a challenge, placing the Tetrarch in a perilous position. Since Herod II and Antipas were technically brothers, and Herodias already had a daughter, Salome, aged twelve, John’s opposition placed him in grave danger.
Recognizing that John had misjudged the moment, Helena and I watched for an opening that might draw Antipas closer and shift the balance against him. Salome, under Helena’s guidance at the Asher convent, was preparing for her Bat Mitzvah. Herodias and Antipas combined the celebration with their own wedding, inviting many prominent guests.
Salome approached her new stepfather and mother:
“May I have Helena, my Mother Superior, dance at this celebration? She is an excellent dancer.”
“Of course,” they said. “Anything you desire!”
“May her companion Simon Magus also perform magic acts?” she asked.
Antipas frowned. “Do we know this magician?”
“I am surprised you have not heard of him. He is acclaimed everywhere,” Salome replied.
Herodias added, “The audience will love it!”
Apprehensive about being unmasked, Helena and I entered the hall. I began my magic act: standing within a circle of saltpeter flame, the air thick with smoke, I disappeared before their eyes. When it cleared, I stood rigid like a pillar, shouting, “I am Moses. I am the Standing One. I am the Pillar of Fire that blocks all evil.” The audience felt a hush, as if the air itself had grown heavy with awe.
Then Helena began to dance. She moved gracefully to the music of the oud and flute, tracing a circle on the floor. At twelve points along the circle, she paused, forming an enneagram; each pause aligned with a phrase from the Beatitudes. The patterns of her movements symbolized the path of spiritual ascent: each point a step toward righteousness, each twirl a reflection of divine harmony. Though most could not comprehend the symbolism fully, they sensed the beauty, order, and hidden meaning—an invisible bridge between the earthly and the divine.
Herodias whispered to Antipas, “I am beginning to see a connection… this dancer looks like Julia the Younger. How is that possible?”
Antipas murmured, “This is suspicious… they are both supposed to be dead!”
He summoned us closer, curiosity and recognition sparking in his eyes.
“You claim to lead the Way, yet I see a resemblance to Augustus,” he said.
I replied, “Honored Tetrarch, you are perceptive. Yes, we are the siblings of Julia the Elder.”
“I thought so. Then you must be Postumus and Julia the Younger. I remembered you from Rome,” Antipas said.
“Sorry to deceive you,” I said. “We hope to remain anonymous, if that is acceptable.”
“Of course. Your secret is safe. Welcome to my kingdom,” Antipas reassured us. “And now your presence could help remove John the Baptist from his position.” The audience remained captivated, sensing that Helena’s dance was more than entertainment—it was a silent revelation, a display of spiritual discipline and hidden authority.
Helena smiled, as did Herodias. Antipas rose, raising his hand for silence.
“Today, Herodias and I mark our marriage and the coming of age of Herodias’ daughter Salome. As patron and protector of the Way , I will not allow its gatherings to become a cause of unrest. For this reason, John—whose voice has grown dangerous to himself—will be withdrawn from public leadership and kept in custody for his own safety.”
He turned to the crowd. “Until order is restored, oversight of the teaching will pass to Simon, the magician, who already presides over the Council of Thirty by my appointment.”
With that decree, Simon gained what John had never sought: sanctioned authority over the assemblies, their councils, and the means by which the Way could continue to gather.
Among the patrons and courtiers there was only a hushed response. But among those more politically astute, a murmur of dread spread as they questioned whether Antipas still understood himself through Daniel’s prophecy—or whether Galilee was about to receive another Pilate.
Salome whispered to Helena, “Did I do right? It feels like I ordered John’s head on a platter.”
Helena consoled her. “John chose a moment of celebration to provoke division. That was ill-timed and unwise. The Zealots who speak through Zadokite forms have turned the locusts that once sustained him in the wilderness into menacing scorpions. Those who flirt with violence must learn that it carries its own sting, for violence destroys itself. John will be kept at Machaerus, secure and alive—and in time, perhaps within months, this will be forgotten.”
Many believed that divine vengeance answered on John’s behalf when King Aretas IV went to war with Antipas over the divorce of his daughter. Antipas would have been defeated outright had Rome not intervened, and years later he would lose his tetrarchy to Herod Agrippa. Thus the scorpion’s sting ran its course—not in a single blow, but through the slow unraveling of a ruler who had silenced a prophet.
As foretold, John came to his own, but his own did not receive him. While imprisoned at Machaerus, he composed hymns in his cell, steadfast in faith:
“I thank thee, O Lord,
For Thou art as a fortified wall to me,
As an iron bar against all destroyers.
Thou hast set my feet upon stone that I may walk in the Way of eternity
And in the paths which Thou hast chosen.”
*** This chapter begins the account of Jesus’ ministry according to John’s Gospel, which delineates three Passovers over the course of his public ministry, in contrast to the Synoptics, which present a shorter, roughly one-year ministry. These Passovers are designated #1, #2, and #3. As the narrative moves from one Passover season to the next, approximate years are provided below the verses as modern chronological markers. ***
Mary Magdalene had faithfully waited for Jesus, as she had agreed in 20 AD, with the approval of Jesus’ parents, at the convent at Cana. The six disciples, Mary Magdalene, and Mother Mary were already at the convent in Cana, southwest of Tyre. Mother Mary had moved there following Joseph’s death, seeking a quiet place for reflection and support. All were invited, and I would act as overseer.
Before this, Jesus had been required to take a Nazarite retreat to the wilderness of Mar Saba for forty days and nights, where he fasted under the auspices of the official “tester,” Judas Iscariot, acting as Satan.
Judas tested him three times:
• To become Moses and turn stones into bread
• To become Elijah and take his chariot to heaven
• To swear allegiance to the Fourth Philosophy of Judas the Galilean and conquer Rome
Jesus refused all three and was released from Judas’ control.
When he returned, his hair was long and disheveled, and his hand was shriveled (a Sabbath joke). When his sister Helena saw him, she laughed and said, “You need to be shorn like a sheep.”
Simon Magus took the hands of Jesus and Mary Magdalene, binding their wrists with his stole. “According to Essene custom, Jesus, having fulfilled his Nazarite vow in the wilderness, and Mary Magdalene her virginity, I declare this marriage to conform with Essene law and be blessed by God. To prove that your union is oriented toward succession, not pleasure, with the deliberate attempt to conceive a Davidic heir, you must still wait three months, until the beginning of June. This is to prove your commitment to virginity, which guards against, as they say, ‘the wantonness of women.’
Would you both like to say a few words?”
Then Jesus spoke: “My virgin wife, Magdalene, will become the mother of an angel. And though I will kiss her often, do not think I love her more than you, my disciples. As a perfected teacher, I will also kiss you, my disciples, to feed you with the word of God that brings us to perfection.”
Mary spoke: “When we kiss, we share the grace within us.”
I spoke next and said, “To show your commitment to each other, you may kiss each other.”
They kissed, and all cheered.
The six sons of Abraham were seated at a long table, Jesus at the head. Peter sat on his right, John Mark on his left, representing Mary Magdalene. Philip, Andrew, James, and John alternated along the sides. I, Simon, acting as wedding overseer, was busy attending to the waterpots, secretly adjusting them.
When the servants, instructed by Jesus to serve wine, realized they had none, Mother Mary overheard their dilemma. She came to Jesus and said, “There is no wine.” Jesus replied, “Certainly, you know that Sons of the Covenant are not allowed wine at the Holy Table, and women are not allowed at the sacred table. Today is not that day.”
Mother Mary, puzzled by his words, turned to the servants and instructed them, “Whatsoever he says unto you, do it.” The servants, shrugging, continued to fill the six large waterpots—usually reserved for baptism—with water.
Seeing the pots filled, Jesus said, “Fill the seven goblets from the waterpots and serve them around the table.”
The disciples stared at their goblets, waiting for Jesus to give the blessing. The liquid smelled faintly of freshly mashed grapes. Jesus raised his goblet, holding it aloft. “Today, our Lord God has invited all men to His Holy Table.”
The disciples hesitated, then took a sip. Could it really be wine?
I, Simon, tasted it and walked to the table, smiling. “Is it not customary to serve good wine first and then the worst?” I said. “Yet here—this is the finest I have ever tasted.”
The servants tasted from the waterpots—it was still water. They shouted, “It is a miracle!”
Peter whispered to John Mark, “I am confused. Why were the baptismal waterpots turned into wine? Would that not be unkosher?”
John Mark replied, “That is the beauty of this miracle. When we were accepted as Sons of the Covenant into ‘the Way,’ we were baptized with water. Now we have been elevated to a semi-Jewish status, allowed to drink wine at the Holy Table.”
Jesus, smiling quietly, added, “I have modified the Essene rule that forbids Sons of the Covenant to be served wine at the Holy Table.”
***“While the king was at his table, my spikenard sent forth its fragrance.”***
Three months later, on June 30 AD, Jesus and Mary Magdalene began the conception ritual. First, the dowry was forgiven, and then Mary, in accordance with the bridal imagery of the Song of Solomon, anointed Jesus’ feet with her hair.
When the Gospel chronology is examined, Jesus and Mary Magdalene are together on two occasions in September—first in 30 AD, and again in 32 AD—with Jesus absent from the monastery during 31 AD. The first union is reflected in Luke; the second (not shown in the accompanying chart) corresponds to Mark; and the third and successful conception is attested in Matthew, Mark, and John.
The success of the third union is marked symbolically by the anointing with nard, poured upon Jesus’ head rather than his feet, signifying—like Solomon—the continuation of his generation and the establishment of lineage. Its theological importance is underscored by its appearance in three Gospels, and by the fact that I, Simon—here acting under the disguise of Lazarus the leper (as will be explained later)—served as witness. The longstanding mischaracterization of Mary Magdalene as a sinful woman is corrected in John, where her name is explicitly revealed in the context of Martha, disentangling her identity from the anonymous sinner of earlier tradition. The accompanying chart sets out these correlations in detail.
| Wedding of Jesus and Mary when sexual relations are allowed. "While the king was on his couch, my nard gave forth its fragrance." Song of Solomon 1:12 (Third time is disguised as before his 'burial' since before the Crucifixion) Essene rule: betrothal six months prior to sexual relations, only three tries before infertility is declared War 2.8) By simply equating Simon with Simon the Leper, Simon as Lazarus, it can be seen as his Church as bishop. | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
| first try | second try | third and last try allowed, succeeds before the Crucifixion | ||
| Sept 30 AD | Sept 31 AD | (married 2 days before Good Friday) 1:12 | ||
| Lk 7:36-50 | Mk 6:6-13 | Mt 26:6-13 | Mk 14:3-9 | Jn 12:1-8 |
| the Pharisee's house (a slur against Simon) (Jesus answered him, "Simon, I have something to tell you.") | The meeting is not shown | "in the house of Simon the Leper" ("the Leper" = "Lazarus": unclean) | "in the house of Simon the Leper" ("the Leper" = "Lazarus": unclean) | "where Lazarus lived, whom Jesus had raised from the dead." Martha is serving. Lazarus was among those reclining at the table with Jesus) |
| w/perfume poured on feet | Jesus out of monastery disciples sent out on their own | Woman w/Alabaster jar poured on head | Woman w/Alabaster jar poured on head | Mary w/large amount of nard poured on feet |
| dowry excused (Simon complains) | --- | dowry excused (disciples complain) | dowry excused (some complain) | dowry excused (Judas Iscariot complains) |
| no conception | no conception | conception | conception | conception |
In my early association with Jesus, I was the one who convinced him to use miracles as teaching. I told him that common people could not be reached through philosophy or theology, but only through parables and symbolic healings. It is magic that touches that spiritual wish in all of us—to step beyond the dangers and trivialities of daily life into a heaven imagined with harps and angels.
Jesus, who had once been a student of my magic, soon surpassed me in his miracles—some thirty-seven of them. Yet he always warned his followers not to see only the surface event, but to seek the essence of the teaching. He said, “Those who have ears—let them hear.”
And when he was alone with the Twelve, they asked him about the parables, and he said to them:
“To you it has been given to know the secret of the kingdom of heaven,
but to those outside, all things come in parables,
so that they may look but not perceive,
and hear but not understand—
lest they turn away and be cleansed of their sins.”
Even Paul would later paraphrase this, saying, “I could not speak to you as spiritual, but as babes in Christ.”
It became clear that only through the Pesher of Christ—the interpretive key—could the true meaning of Jesus’ healings and miracles be deciphered.
Peter once came to me bewildered by Jesus’ strange command to catch a fish and find in its mouth a coin with which to pay the tax collector (). He asked me what to do, and I laughed—it sounded like a fairytale.
After thinking for a while, I explained that the “fish” was Marsyas, of the Order of Ham (Fish 2), and that the coin—a didrachma—showed he was a freedman of Herod Agrippa. As Agrippa’s treasurer, he would pay the tax. Hardly a miracle at all.
The concept of Fish 2 referred to the twin organizations established by James and John. During our youth in Cyrene, I had insisted that they study mathematics and geometry. They later designed their two communities according to the Pythagorean Triangle—3-4-5—multiplied by a thousand. Thus arose two groups: four thousand under James, and five thousand under John. They met on numerically significant days, and their tithes were set by the geometry of the system.
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When I later heard of Jesus feeding 5000 and 4000, I smiled. It was not simply a miracle that fed the people—it was a parable in numbers, a blueprint for the Way and its dues. All the loaves represented members, and the “two fishes” symbolized the dual Order of Fish 2.
There are two versions of this “feeding” miracle, differing only between five thousand and four thousand participants. It soon became clear that these represented the two sides of the Pythagorean triangle: the five-thousand-member group of John Aquila and his wife Priscilla (Ac 18:26), and the four-thousand under James Niceta.
John’s order, being married, consisted of Gentiles; James’s, of the celibate. To complete the triangle, there must be three thousand monastics—those devoted wholly to contemplation.
A right triangle: 3,000 monks at the base, 4,000 celibates rising as the height, and 5,000 married Gentiles spanning the hypotenuse—a structure of perfect balance and harmony.
Some healings were even humorous. Take Jonathan (James of Alpheus), Jesus’ superior and the one who had baptized him. Like Jesus’ brother James, his piety required that he be carried in a palanquin so as not to touch the ground defiled by sinners.
Jesus wanted none of that in his Church. To humble him, he staged a lesson.
Early churches were often built with an upper level where priests stood, sunlight entering through a roof trapdoor to form halos on the floor below.
I helped lift Jonathan—who refused to walk among the people—up through that roof, and we lowered him down as if he were paralyzed. To the crowd it appeared a miracle; to us, it was irony. Jesus said, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”
Some scribes whispered blasphemy—how could Jesus forgive sins in the presence of the priest himself? Ashamed, Jonathan abandoned his palanquin and began to walk among the common people, later honored on St. Stephen’s Day for his humility.
Thus was the proud made humble, and the house of God leveled—roof and floor alike.
The most troublesome disciple was Jesus’ uncle, Theudas-Thaddeus—even more unpredictable than Judas Iscariot. He was a man of many names and shifting loyalties. He had fought beside Judas the Galilean as Saddok. At times he was the celebrated Barabbas or the Prodigal Son cavorting with Roman “pigs,” and at others, Nicodemus, an honored member of the Council.
Jesus finally persuaded him to be baptized, though like Herod II—the “Doubting Thomas”—he took every saying too literally.
When Jesus and I crossed to the other side, into the region of the Gadarenes, two demon-possessed men—Theudas and Judas Iscariot—came raging from the tombs, too violent for anyone to pass.
We had come to dissuade Theudas from consorting with Romans—whom our people called “pigs.” He was torn between his Zealot past and his place among the Council as Nicodemus.
The story that followed was later told as miracle:
“What do you want with us, Son of God?” they cried.
“If you drive us out, send us into the herd of pigs.”
Jesus said, “Go!”
The demons fled into the swine, and the herd rushed down the slope into the lake and drowned.
In truth, it was Theudas casting off his zealotry, purging his Roman ties, and seeking rebirth in baptism.
That night, Nicodemus came quietly to Jesus and said:
“Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher come from God,
for no one can do these signs unless God is with him.”
And Jesus answered:
“Unless one is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God…
That which is born of the flesh is flesh,
and that which is born of the Spirit is Spirit.”
Theudas, once possessed by his own anger, was finally born again.
I marveled at how deeply Jesus loved his brother. Even at the Crucifixion, he accepted his fate knowing that Barabbas—his blood would not be shed. But these miracles would pale before the next two that would turn everything upside down.
On the day of Atonement, Jesus led Peter, James, and John up to the upper level of the Temple precincts, a space usually reserved for ritual oversight and functionaries. From this elevated position, he could be seen by the crowds below without violating the inner sancta. Decades later, Paul dared to go beyond this level and was immediately arrested, showing how quickly the Temple authorities reacted to anyone who crossed sacred boundaries.
Below them, the Court of the Gentiles thronged with pilgrims and merchants preparing for the Feast of Atonement. Jesus moved through the crowd, passing tables piled with coins and animals, until he reached the central aisle—visible to all yet still within the permitted outer space. Here, he could display his authority boldly without violating ritual law.
On the upper level, Jonathan and Theudas were in position, just as it would have been done in the sanctuary: Jonathan on stage left as Elijah, Theudas on stage right as Moses. Peter, James, and John took seats on the lower steps, close enough to witness but removed from the center of ritual authority. Jesus quickly donned the white vestments of the High Priest, the linen catching the sunlight and glimmering like snow, then stepped confidently between them. Jonathan and Theudas warned him that impersonating the High Priest was blasphemous, but he ignored them, visible to the crowd below.
Standing in the heart of the Court of the Gentiles, Jesus lifted his voice:
“If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink.”
The words carried the resonance of the festival waters and purification rites. Though he could not perform the High Priest’s rituals in the inner courts, every pilgrim and merchant present sensed the atonement-like authority of his proclamation, as if the Spirit itself flowed freely for all who would receive it. Murmurs spread through the throng: “This is truly the Prophet!” … “This is the Christ!” … “Can the Christ come from Galilee?”
Division arose among them, yet no one dared lay hands on him.
Sensing that Jesus was on the brink of arrest, I released a cloud of incense and smoke, which spread rapidly and formed a hazy veil over the court. From within it rang a voice:
“This is My Son, the Beloved—hear him.”
The people gasped, certain the voice had come from heaven. When the smoke cleared, the moment had passed. Jonathan and Theudas had vanished, and only Jesus remained standing before them.
Seeing Jesus radiate in priestly white, Peter blurted:
“Master, shall we put up three booths for Sukkot—one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah?”
His words echoed festival ritual, a naïve attempt to contain holiness in temporary shelters. Yet it was already clear that Jesus’ presence had stirred the guards and the Pharisees; this was no safe demonstration. Jesus had already removed the white vestments and beckoned for them to leave. He knew that remaining for the festival would ensure their arrest.
The Temple guards, shaken and uncertain, withdrew to report to the chief priests and Pharisees.
“Why did you not bring him?” they demanded.
“No one ever spoke the way this man does,” the guards replied.
“You mean he has deceived you also?” the Pharisees snapped. “Have any of the rulers or of the Pharisees believed in him? No! But this crowd, which knows nothing of the Law, is under a curse.”
Unnoticed in the confusion, Theudas was now among them, known as Nicodemus. He spoke calmly into the rising anger:
“Does our law condemn a man without first hearing him, to learn what he has done?”
They answered him, “Are you from Galilee too? Search and see that no prophet arises from Galilee.”
The Synoptics describe a meeting with the spirits of Moses and Elijah, yet these were in fact living men holding those titles within the Temple hierarchy. John’s Gospel omits their names entirely but preserves the uproar that followed Jesus’ appearance.
The High Priest’s wrath was ignited, and the scroll-keepers of Qumran condemned him as “the Man of a Lie.”
“The traitors with the Man of a Lie did not believe the words of the Teacher of Righteousness. Woe to him who makes his neighbors drink, that he may gaze on their feasts and nakedness.”
In this context, Jesus’ assumed priestly authority and public teaching were not merely provocative—they directly challenged both ritual hierarchy and the Qumranic understanding of holiness. To the Essene scribes, he had violated sacred law while masquerading as one with divine sanction, hence the label of deception.
Soon after, I committed my own folly. Pilate, ever provocative, diverted sacred temple funds to build an aqueduct. Outrage swept Jerusalem, and I joined the protest with Judas and Theudas. Pilate’s men mingled among us in plain clothes; at his signal they drew clubs and struck down the crowd. Amid the chaos I was recognized. Pilate complained to Caiaphas, who—eager to keep his post—declared me excommunicated. Among the Essenes, excommunication meant symbolic death. Ordinarily the offender spent a short confinement in a burial cave; but at Pilate’s insistence I was sealed inside without food or water.
To hide myself after being recognized at the protest, I took the name Lazarus—Eleazar, a name that means God is my help. It suited me well, for I was sick, not of body but of spirit, placed under excommunication. The weight of that exile pressed down, as if the world itself had narrowed and closed in.
Mary Magdalene and Helena—whom some called Martha—were staying in Bethany, not the one fifteen stadia from Jerusalem later known as al-ʿAzariya—fictitiously named after me—but Ein Feshkha, the settlement south of Qumran. This was where the unsanctified followers of our Jerusalem lived: a village set apart for the afflicted, a place where the spiritually dead awaited restoration.
The sun crawled down the slopes toward the Sea of the Dead, each passing hour marking isolation more faithfully than any measure of distance.
Not long before, Mary had poured perfume on Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair. That first attempt at union had failed. Hope had flickered briefly, then faded into a quiet ache. Jesus, at the time, was in hiding beyond Judea.
When word came that I was “sick,” they said, “Lord, the one you love is ill.”
He replied, “This sickness will not end in death—it is for God’s glory, that the Son may be glorified through it.”
Two more days passed. Waiting stretched time like water over stone. Love tests the soul in ways only the patient can endure.
At last he said, “Let us go back to Judea.”
The disciples protested, “Rabbi, only a short while ago they tried to stone you. Do you truly wish to return?”
Fear and relief mingled within me. He would face danger, yes—but whether he would abandon me, I could not know.
As we approached Qumran, he said, “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going to awaken him.”
The disciples misunderstood. “Lord, if he sleeps, he will recover,” they said.
Jesus explained that in the Way, “sleep” meant one not yet awakened—spiritually uninitiated.
“Are there not twelve hours in a day?” he asked. “Whoever walks in daylight will not stumble, for he sees by this world’s light. But whoever walks in the night stumbles, for he has no light within.”
Disbelief and confusion crossed the disciples’ faces. Faith is sometimes seeing without seeing, hearing without hearing. A faint spark of hope stirred in me, fragile as a candle in a tomb.
Finally he said plainly, “Lazarus is dead—excommunicated. And for your sake, I am glad I was not there, that you may believe. But let us go to him.”
By the time we arrived, four days had passed. Everyone was certain I was dead. No one could survive four days in a sealed tomb without air, food, or water. Shadows pressed against my mind, stillness echoing in my chest.
Helena came first. “Lord,” she said, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But I know that even now God will give you whatever you ask.”
Jesus said, “Your brother will rise again.”
She replied, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.”
Jesus told her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me will live, even though he dies. And whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?”
“Yes, Lord,” she said, “I believe you are the Messiah, the Son of God who was to come into the world.”
Hearing that Jesus had arrived, Mary Magdalene rushed to meet her husband at Cave 4 in Qumran, where I lay entombed. That cave was the tomb for the elect of Qumran, a place signaling my standing among them. Anticipation hung in the air—was it possible to raise the dead? Not even Jesus could do that!
Mary fell at his feet, weeping. “Lord,” she said, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Witnessing her grief and that of the disciples, Jesus wept too. Those nearby whispered, “See how he loved him.”
Judas, bitter though escaping punishment himself, muttered, “If he loved him so, could he not have come sooner? The one who opened the eyes of the blind could have kept this man from dying.”
Jesus’ delay seemed harsh, yet he knew Cave 4 had three openings—one looking across to the tombs of Caves 7 and 8, the Tombs of Resurrection. He had waited not only hoping Jonathan might intervene, but because our faith taught that the soul lingered until the fourth day. Only then would all believe that I had truly been raised.
Cold anticipation weighed on me during those four days, pressing against every breath, every heartbeat. Yet within, hope flickered quietly, patient and unwavering.
The smells of the cold, damp stones brought back memories of my exile from Rome. Grandfather had tried to entomb me on that island, yet, as then, my spirit would not be entombed.
Hearing faint sounds outside, I cried aloud, “It’s about time you came!” Some thought they heard me voicing it with a great sound.
Jesus said to the crowd, “Did I not tell you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God? Take away the stone.”
They rolled the stone aside. Jesus looked up and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I know you always hear me, but I speak for those standing here, that they may believe you sent me.”
Then he cried out, “Lazarus, come forth!”
And I emerged—hands and feet bound in linen, a cloth pulled away from my face. Helena stepped forward to embrace me, then drew back. “You need a bath,” she said. Mary brought me water to drink, but it would take more than water from Jacob’s well to cleanse the stain of excommunication. I was no higher in rank than a leper. Jesus would need to baptize me as an initiate. With the slow, patient work of restoration, each breath of my body needed to be filled with the Holy Spirit again.
At Gethsemane, it was falsely claimed that I ran as “the young man naked,” but this was merely my spiritual restoration in progress.
Jesus embraced me. “In defying Caiaphas, we are forever joined,” he said.
I replied, “I am sorry, my friend, to have drawn you into my troubles. But I praise God that I have you as my brother.”
Meanwhile, the chief priests and scribes plotted in Caiaphas’ court to seize Jesus by guile and kill him—but not during the feast, for fear of the crowds.
For a moment, we had survived what few could imagine—Jesus, enduring the rejection of his birthright; I, tasting the forsakenness of entombment. Still, the world beyond the cave felt as precarious as walking the narrow trail along the cliffs of Qumran. One misstep, and everything could be lost. Life—and faith—remained at once fragile and unshakable. Yet, against our fate, we still would endure.
(23-4)Rumors spread that Caiaphas and Pilate were conspiring to remove us both. Judas Iscariot offered himself as informer, bargaining for my seat within the Council of Thirty. His “thirty silver coins” symbolized the thirty rays of the moon—the thirty seats of the lunar calendar. Thus, the tale of the “bag of coins” concealed his true role as treasurer for the poor. In truth, it was payment for treachery—a bargain meant to persuade Pilate to ride with his soldiers to Qumran. But he, too, would be deceived.
“Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus was, whom he had raised from the dead.”
While Jesus was in Bethany in the home of Simon the Leper, a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume.
Then Mary Magdalene took about a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume, and poured a little on Jesus’ feet, wiping his feet with her hair. Then she poured it on his head as he was reclining at the table.(Anointing his head indicated that now he was the David king since she was pregnant this time with his assumed son.) And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.
Here a dinner was given in Jesus’ honor. Martha served, while Lazarus was among those reclining at the table with him.
But one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, who was later to betray him, objected, “Why was not this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? It was worth a year’s wages.” Other's also complained and rebuking her harshly.
(Judas did not complain about this because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; as keeper of the money bag, he used to help himself to what was put into it.)
Aware of this, Jesus said to them, “Why are you bothering this woman? She has done a beautiful thing for me. When she poured this perfume on my body, she did it to (not to prepare for my burial) but to reenact the Song of Solomon. Truly I tell you, wherever this gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.”
Mary Magdalene, ignoring their criticism, stands up with her belly in front of Jesus' head, and says, “My dearest husband, you may kiss your son”
Jesus kisses her belly and says, “Greetings, my son—long expected after three years. It was intended that you should save this perfume for the day of my burial, but far better to be used on this joyous day. May we all live until the day of our Resurrection.
Simon Magus says, “Amen.” and the rest chime in.
The next day Jesus rode a donkey from the Queen’s house up to Qumran, fulfilling Zechariah’s prophecy: “Behold, your king comes to you, humble and riding on a colt.” People spread cloaks and palm branches before him, crying, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”
Remembering the words of King David: "Take your lord’s servants with you and have Solomon my son mount my own mule and take him down to Gihon. There have Zadok the priest and Nathan the prophet anoint him king over Israel"), Jesus hoped one day to do the same for his expected son.
Being elated with the reception, Jesus entered the temple courts at Qumran and overturned the tables of the money changers, driving out all who were buying and selling doves for indulgences to the visiting pilgrims.
That evening, as the dust of the Temple still clung to our garments, Jesus paced back and forth, his blood still racing. I took his arm and urged him to sit, to breathe. When he had calmed, he admitted that the donkey ride and the overturning of the money changers’ tables had probably been excessive. I was taken aback by this sudden tremor of doubt in one so certain of his purpose. Sitting beside him, I said quietly, “Do not worry. Magdalene’s pregnancy has already confirmed your role as king. It is proof that God is fulfilling His promise through youthe Messiah of David.”
Jesus looked up and smiled. “Yes,” he said softly, “God is with me.”
Yet the calm could not erase what had already been set in motion. His public defiance and the display of power before the people had marked him as a threat. Herod Agrippa feared his rising influence, and the High Priest Caiaphas feared his authority in the Temple. They had begun to assemble the chief priests and the elders of the people to plot how to put Lazarus to death and to arrest Jesus. They wished both of us dead.
And so, with danger pressing from every side, we approached the days that would lead to the Passover, to the gathering of his disciples, and to the Last Supper—the final circle in which his purpose would be revealed to those closest to him. Within that circle, the pale gleam of thirty silver coins, like the thirty rays of the moon, would signal betrayal from within, while beyond the city walls, Pilate’s gaze and the machinery of Rome were already turning toward us. Each step drew us closer to a night in which the weight of destiny would press upon us all—the lamb’s blood of the Passover—poured into the wine of the Last Supper.
Little did Jesus know that “the man carrying the water jar,” whom Peter and John Mark were told to meet, was part of a covert scheme to detain him at Qumran until Pilate could arrive in the early morning hours. He claimed that the head of the monastery had extended an invitation for Jesus and his disciples to use the vestry room for their Passover Supper.
Normally, the disciples were not permitted beyond the outer guest chamber—the press-house court used for visitors—which the brethren informally called Gethsemane, not as a location but as a likeness, after the olive-press garden on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem. It was Thursday, April 2, 33 AD. That evening they were led beyond it and found a large upper room, already arranged and made ready. Access was by seven stone steps on the north side, a detail that bore a suggestive resemblance to a description preserved in the Copper Scroll : “At the ruin that is in the Valley of Achor, under the steps that go up on the east, forty cubits: a chest of silver, seventeen talents.”
The room smelled faintly of olive oil and the smoke of lamps.
After the ritual cleansing, and once the sun had slipped below the horizon, they rose for the blessing and stood until the words were finished, the bread untouched and the cups still. Three couches were arranged around the long table—one at the head and two below—each wide enough for four, two reclining side by side. When the blessing was complete, Jesus assigned the places, and no one presumed to alter what he set.
Jesus gestured first to Bartholomew, Judas Iscariot, and Joses to share his couch, nearest the light. Bartholomew—also called John Mark—served as the proxy for Mary Magdalene in the male-only gatherings; reclining on the right of Jesus with his left elbow supporting him, his head rested at Jesus’ bosom, the position later remembered as that of the Beloved Disciple. Judas reclined opposite him in my place as my deputy, while Joses, Jesus’ younger brother, completed the couch.
Opposite Jesus was the couch of priestly authority. There reclined Jonathan Annas, Matthew his deputy, and James Niceta, who bore the stricter rule and oversight of the advanced discipline. James thus occupied the place to Jesus’ right in authority, though not in glory, answering in part the request once made by his mother Helena. Peter lay at the outer end of that couch, present but without precedence, close enough to hear yet no longer placed to direct.
On the lower couch were Theudas, John Aquila, Philip, Thomas, and I, set farthest from the master and oriented outward. John Aquila, twin to James, was thus held to Jesus’ left at a distance, his place answering the other half of Helena’s petition without fulfilling it. Aligned with the Gentile mission, he remained removed from the priestly order. Theudas anchored the group as elder kin; Philip’s placement preserved the separation of disciplines; Thomas occupied the testing place opposite me. Andrew reclined beside Thomas, aligned with him and looking toward the eastern recruits, ready to guide and observe. We settled together at the guest end, hands folded, eyes fixed on Jesus, measuring the distance without protest.
The places of right and left were thus marked but withheld, and the order held as the evening moved toward its hour.
At this point, before any food was taken, the first cup was poured. The krater was set near Jesus, and the goblet was filled and handed to him as presider. He gave thanks over the day and the wine, sanctifying the feast.
Jesus drank first and then directed that the cup be divided among them, passed down the right-hand side and returned along the left, each drinking in turn. The bread remained untouched. This cup marked the beginning of the feast, sealing the order he had just set.
There were six loaves of bread left after the cleansing at the earlier meal. These loaves were distributed down the right-hand side of the table after being blessed by Jesus. Each of the six members was to divide their loaf in half and give to their counterparts on the left as if given directly by Jesus.
As the bread was prepared and the bitter portion approached, the second cup was poured but not yet consumed. This was the cup of proclamation, held while the meaning of the night was spoken.
Jesus had begun the sacrament by declaring that the bread was symbolic of his body: “Take, eat; this is my body”—thus paradidōmi of me (not “to me”). Here the verb retains its literal sense of “to give across” or “hand over beside,” describing the ritual passing of the bread rather than an act of treachery; only later did the term acquire its dominant narrative association with betrayal.
Since fermented wine was used, to accommodate members like Judas who did not drink it, the deputies Joses and Matthew distributed a small bowl of holy water to each. The goblet of wine blessed by Jesus was passed down the right side and back up the left. Each member sipped and dipped a fragment of their half-loaf into the goblet. Those who did not drink fermented wine kissed the goblet and dipped a fragment in water instead.
Although remaining serene, Jesus was troubled in spirit. Rumors suggested he, Theudas, and I might be arrested, and Pilate could be coming to Qumran. Judas had convinced Jesus to leave early to find out if Pilate was in Jerusalem, but Jesus preferred to wait until all had dipped their fragments so he would not miss the sacred part. Little did Jesus know that Judas now intended betrayal. He had opposed him many times, yet until this moment his loyalty had been impeccable—a devotion shaped by his Zealot convictions.
With the meal completed and the bread fully distributed, the third cup was poured. This was the cup taken after supper, reserved for blessing.
With the bread distributed, the ceremony proceeded with the wine. Jesus took the goblet and gave thanks: “This is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many. Verily I say unto you, I will drink no more of the fruit of the vine, until that day that I drink it new in the kingdom of God.” They all drank in anticipation of the promised Restoration of God’s kingdom.
The hymns were sung, but the final cup was not taken. The Passover remained deliberately unfinished, its completion deferred beyond the room, beyond the night, beyond the city itself.
Jesus announced that one of them should leave now. The disciples looked at one another—doubting whom he spoke of. Since John Mark was seated closer to Jesus, Peter beckoned him to ask Jesus who he meant. John Mark asked: “Lord, who is it?” Jesus answered: “It is he to whom I have given the dipping bowl.” Then Judas replied: “Master, is it not me?” Jesus said: “Thou hast said.” Having received the sop, Judas left abruptly. No one at the table understood the full intent. Some thought Jesus meant that Judas should buy necessary items for the second part of the feast, or distribute alms to the poor.
With the formal ceremony concluded and the wine passed around, Judas’ departure into the night left the circle unsettled. The sacred portion of the service had been quiet, almost automatic, while a restless tension lingered. Lanterns cast flickering shadows on the vestry walls; the smell of burning oil rose toward the darkening sky. A change was coming. Jesus sensed the tension and, with a faint smile, joked that he had now been “glorified.” Using the Power–Glory–Kingdom law, he explained that the vacated seat of Judas on the eastern Power (Zadok) side had increased his Glory—his initiates—on the western side, thereby expanding his Kingdom (David).
Theudas moved up to fill Judas’ seat (later, Judas—not Iscariot—said to him). Naturally, this sparked a squabble among the others about who was most important. Having been relegated to the bottom, I watched the quarrel unfold like children jostling for seats at a royal banquet. Jesus’ calm presence hovered above it all, patient yet sorrowful, as though he saw in our ambition the seeds of every kingdom’s fall.
Then Jesus raised his hand for silence. In the hush that followed, he began to teach—not as a master rebuking his pupils, but as a servant revealing the true measure of greatness. “The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them,” he said, “and those who exercise authority over them call themselves enablers. But you are not to be like that. Instead, the greatest among you should be as the neophyte, and the one who rules—the one who serves.”
Peter, never one to linger in stillness, rose and said, “See, Lord, here are two swords.” Jesus smiled faintly: “That is sufficient.” Their meaning was not of iron or battle, but of spirit and service—the twin edges of the same divine blade. Peter would wield the sword of action, fierce and impetuous; John Mark the sword of witness, quiet yet enduring. Together they would guard what remained of the Faith once the world turned against us.
Jesus’ eyes fixed on Peter. “Simon, Simon,” he said, “Satan has asked to sift all of you like wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.”
Peter interjected, “Lord, I am ready to go with you to prison and to death.”
But Jesus was not speaking of courage, he was speaking about clocks. Peter’s role was to count the cock-crowing—the measurement of hours that by decree were to move the clocks forward three hours—now three hours slow according to solar time. The issue was not the change of day, but the precise timing. Peter’s time would change at midnight, but the Pharisee time would change at noon.
Thus Jesus met him with a sad, knowing smile: “Before the cock crows, you will deny me three times.” The others shifted uneasily, uncertain whether he spoke to Peter alone or to all of us. I realized that the denial would come not from fear or betrayal, but through time itself—testing whether faith could survive the hours of darkness. I realized that this subtle timing would become an essential part of the escape plan I was forming in my mind.
At 10 PM, the service concluded. We rose together and left the vestry, its lamps flickering low, stepping carefully down the seven stone steps on the north side. The night air felt charged with expectation as we walked beside the aqueduct known as the brook Kedron. The full moon reflected silently on the moving water as it flowed past us. The service had exhausted us.
Jesus, Peter, James, John, and I crossed the brook and entered the garden of Gethsemane to pray. Judas said he would meet us there with whatever news he could find. The rest of the disciples bid us goodnight, except for Jonathan, who said he was going to visit his father—the elderly High Priest Ananus. We sat down and waited for Judas, unaware that the nearby monastery had been cleared in preparation for a tribunal under Pilate.
Judas did not appear as Jesus prayed. Instead, Jonathan came running, breathless, and revealed the truth.
“Qumran will soon be surrounded by Roman soldiers,” he said. “By leaving the Last Supper early, Judas went to Pilate to secure permission to depart Jerusalem with a cohort. They left at midnight, riding hard by moonlight, a three-hour journey under the full moon.”
Jesus shuddered and whispered, “That is what I feared.”
Jonathan continued, “Theudas has already been arrested for the insurrection. But his capture created a problem for Caiaphas. He knows Theudas’s double life—that he is Nicodemus, a trusted official, and also Theudas, whom many still know as Sadok, the war hero who fought beside Judas the Galilean. Caiaphas lured Pilate here by promising to deliver both Theudas and Simon Magus, the two insurrectionists Pilate most wants. But now he intends something more devious—something made possible by holding the trial here.”
Jesus sighed. “I can imagine he does.” “He plans to tell Pilate that Theudas is ‘Barabbas,’” Jonathan said, “‘son of Sabbas’—like your brother Jude, called Judas, surnamed Barsabbas. He will present it as a customary release, using the language of the Jubilee though it is Passover. In a single exchange, Nicodemus is spared and you are condemned.”
Jesus grew pale. “Pilate will not accept this unless he has a substitute.”
Jonathan answered what we both were thinking. “It will be you—the King of the Jews.”
“They already hold me responsible for the beheading of John the Baptist,” Jesus said quietly, “and for my disruption of the money changers.”
Jonathan—whom Jesus addressed as Father, for he was a Sadducean priest—offered to persuade his own father, Ananus, to intervene, since his daughter was married to Caiaphas.
Jesus’ human impulse was to escape. Advancing a little, he fell on his face in prayer.
“Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as God wills.”
While Peter, James, and John slept, Jesus wrestled with the choice set before him: to flee. and doom Theudas, or to submit himself to the will of God.
As I watched Peter, James, and John sleeping, my thoughts traced the invisible lines of an emergency plan. I imagined Peter, even in his dreaming, puzzling over what Jesus had said about denial—how his own counting of hours, marked by the cock-crowing, might itself become a form of betrayal.
This Passover, by decree, the Essene and Pharisee calendars were to be realigned, their luni-solar reckoning three days and three hours ahead of true solar time—a discrepancy corrected only at Passover. The Essene day would reset at midnight; the Pharisee day at noon. It was not the day itself that mattered, but the three-hour discrepancy that would govern the unfolding sequence. If Peter followed the Pharisee crier blindly, he would “deny” Jesus—not in words, but in time—robbing him of three critical hours when he would need them most.
Jesus’ concern for his uncle Theudas recalled for me the knowledge he had acquired about poisons—how a precisely measured dose could render a man apparently dead without taking his life. In that moment, escape from capture was not cowardice but prudence, a matter of preservation rather than fear.
Then, as I watched James and John sleeping beside him, my thoughts turned to the other James—Jesus’ younger brother—learned in the lesser-known corners of the Law, including the command that a hanged man must not remain upon the tree after sunset.
Here, then, were the three instruments of salvation, long taught but seldom seen so clearly aligned: Faith in the correct reckoning of time, Hope that concealment could preserve life without destroying it, and Love for the hanged man, enacted through mercy before nightfall. Each was essential. Each depended upon the others. And all would succeed—or fail—by the precision with which they were carried out.
Before he could think further, soldiers entered the garden. Judas, putting on a show to secure his place as the new leader of John the Baptist’s Council of Thirty, greeted Jesus with a kiss. The betrayal was complete.
Jesus’ brother James, gloating at having regained the title of David’s heir—Melek—challenged Peter’s role as Jesus’ spokesman, “the ear.” Peter, having earlier been entrusted with one of the two swords of leadership, reacted impulsively and was arrested.
In the scuffle, I managed to escape, but I did not get far before I was apprehended by a guard. To malign me, it was claimed that I was the one in a linen garment who fled naked.
Jesus was taken into the High Priest’s courtyard for two preliminary hearings—first before the elder Ananus, then before his son-in-law Caiaphas. Even Ananus, once sympathetic to Jesus’ Davidic claim, deferred to Caiaphas. Still, a faint hope remained that Pilate might reject the prisoner exchange, since Jesus had committed no capital crime.
Simon Peter, having been arrested for his attack on James, was rescued by Jonathan and brought to his father, the former High Priest Ananus. Peter was forced to wait outside by the fire pit, thus disappearing from the ensuing events.
At dawn, Pilate ascended the temporary platform of the praetorium and sat upon the judgment seat. Caiaphas remained below, vested in his priestly robes, while Theudas and I were brought in chains to stand before them.
Caiaphas spoke first. “These two men are guilty of insurrection.”
Witnesses were produced, recounting our part in the disturbance in Jerusalem. Pilate, impatient and eager to conclude the matter, raised his hand. “The penalty for insurrection is crucifixion,” he said. The crowd murmured in assent.
As Pilate turned to leave, Caiaphas interrupted him. “Wait, Excellency. This man called Theudas is also known as Barabbas. He fought in the earlier rising with Judas the Galilean. Since it is your custom to release one prisoner at the feast, let the people decide whether Barabbas should be released—and whether Jesus, who calls himself King of the Jews, should take his place.”
Jesus was then brought forward in chains. Pilate regarded him briefly. “I have been informed,” he said, “that it is your custom that one prisoner be released to you at the feast.”
A low murmur passed through the crowd—recognition without protest. This was not the year of release, not the reckoning of debts, yet the practice was familiar enough to proceed without challenge.
Pilate turned to Jesus. “Are you the King of the Jews?”
Jesus answered, “Is that your own question, or did others tell you about me?”
Pilate replied, “Am I a Jew? Your own people and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?”
Jesus said, “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight to prevent my arrest. But my kingdom is from another place.”
“So you are a king?” Pilate pressed.
“You say that I am,” Jesus replied. “For this reason I was born, and for this I came into the world: to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”
Satisfied that Jesus posed no immediate threat to Rome, Pilate turned again to the crowd. “There is one already held for insurrection—Barabbas,” he said. The name moved through the assembly with dull familiarity. Some had heard it whispered weeks earlier, before the arrest had been made quietly and without summons.
No charge had yet been read, no sentence pronounced, yet none were required. In such cases, imprisonment itself spoke clearly enough. Men taken in this way were not expected to return.
“Or do you want me to release Jesus, who is called the King of the Jews?” Pilate asked
. At first the crowd hesitated. Jesus was known to them—too known. He had eaten with them, taught among them, prayed beside them. Barabbas belonged to another order entirely: a man already removed, already counted among the lost.
The chief priests and elders moved through the gathering, not shouting, only reminding. “He stirs up the people,” they said. “He teaches throughout Judea, beginning in Galilee and continuing even here.” They recalled the overturned tables, the uproar in the courts, the palms still remembered as debris rather than praise. Better one already taken than one who continued to provoke Rome.
Pilate asked again, “Which of the two do you want me to release?”
This time the answer came at once. “Barabbas.”
Pilate looked back toward Jesus. “Then what shall I do with the one you call King of the Jews?”
The reply quickly followed, “Crucify him.”
Seeing the uproar growing, Pilate said, “I am innocent of this man’s blood.” He spotted a bowl of water nearby, reached for it, and washed his hands before the crowd, letting the water run over them as if to remove all responsibility. Then he ordered Barabbas released.
The man called Barabbas was led away without ceremony. He had not been tried, nor acquitted; the fiction of his condemnation had served its purpose. One life slipped back into obscurity, and another was placed upon the path Rome reserved for kings.
Although Pilate had decided their fate, there was still a jurisdictional issue. Technically, Herod Antipas held authority over Galilee and the surrounding lands, including the Essene territory near the Dead Sea. He questioned, “Is Antipas present?”
Agrippa, residing at Antipas’s court, saw his chance to fulfill his dream of kingship and stepped forward. “I am the grandson of Herod and currently his official. I can act in his name.” Pilate was relieved—he could pass the guilt.
Looking to Jesus as if greeting a long-lost friend, Agrippa said, “I have long wished to see you perform a miracle. I have a stye in my eye—can you heal it?”
Jesus did not answer. Agrippa removed his purple cloak and draped it over Jesus’ shoulders. In the shuffle, a Sadducee priest’s crown had fallen. Agrippa seized it and pressed the thorns into Jesus’ head, and blood dripped down his face.
“Hail, King of the Jews!” Agrippa cried. The soldiers and bystanders joined in the mockery. Still Jesus remained silent, so Agrippa struck him with a rod. Pilate was so amused by this that Agrippa and Herod were reconciled.
Standing in chains, I was ashamed to bear the name Agrippa. Had my father, Marcus Agrippa, been present, he would have drawn his sword. Agrippa was already a damaged man, having lost his own father, Aristobulus—executed by Herod the Great—the wound that shaped the son’s ambition. By mocking Jesus, Agrippa gained favor and standing, a rehearsal for the power he hoped one day to hold. I vowed that if he attained it and I survived, I would see him undone by his own venom.
Judas, overcome with remorse at the reality of his betrayal, ran to Caiaphas. “I return my appointment to the Council of Thirty, for I have sinned—the thirty pieces of silver I now throw down at your feet. I have betrayed innocent blood.”
Caiaphas leaned close and whispered to Pilate. “They say he was deputy to Simon Magus, the other criminal condemned to die.”
Pilate replied with dry amusement, “You Jews are obsessed with threes. I will gladly hang him as well.”
The shadow of Judas’ fate lingered, caught between greed, betrayal, and conscience.”
The Passover ritual had begun. It was Friday, Nisan 14 (April 3), the day appointed for the slaughter of the lambs. Their blood would soon mark the lintels of the holy ones.
By law, the place of refuse was set at a fixed distance beyond the city, outside the bounds of holiness, where impurity was carried away and not returned. It was to be marked and known, so that no one might enter it unknowingly, for nothing unclean might approach the sanctuary. Beyond the prescribed paces—roughly a thousand cubits, nearly half a kilometer—the Essenes marked that place with the sign of death itself—the skull. South of Qumran, across the broad plateau that stretched beyond the city’s holy precincts, the ground held firm beneath our feet even as it sloped gently toward the wadi.
The three of us—Jesus, Judas, and I—were led from the praetorium and taken to that ground, defined by law as unclean, where what was cast out of Jerusalem was meant to vanish.
The sun was rising. It was the day the lambs were slain. But now the blood of three condemned men would mark the lintels of their crosses. Would death pass over them? Would Jesus, the Lamb of God, bring the resurrection Enoch foretold?
(26-1)Tacitus records:
“Christus, the founder of the name, had undergone the death penalty in the reign of Tiberius, by sentence of the procurator Pontius Pilatus.” Tac15.44
The Gospel of Barnabas states:
“God (meaning the High Priest) had decreed the issue and reserved Judas for the cross.” GB 217
The Nag Hammadi Library in The Second Treatise of the Great Seth declares that it was not Jesus upon the cross, but I, Simon.
Later, the exchange between the two criminals on the crosses will make this even clearer—their words will reveal which is Judas and which is me.
| (8:15AM) Carrying the Cross (Simon Magus is carrying a cross) | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Jn 19:16-17 | Mt 27:32-33 | Mk 15:21-22 | Lk 23:26,33 | |
|
Jesus is bearing his cross: Then Pilate handed Jesus over to be crucified, and the soldiers took him away. Carrying his own cross, He went out to The Place of the Skull, which in Hebrew is called Golgotha. | Jesus or Simon is bearing the cross And coming forth, they found a man, a * Cyrenian, by name Simon* him they impressed that he might bear the cross of him; and having come to a place called Golgotha, that is called Place of a Skull," | Jesus or Simon is bearing the cross And they impress a certain one passing by *Simon, a Cyrenian*, coming from the field, the *father of Alexander and Rufus*, that he may bear the cross of him, they bring him to the place Golgotha, which is, being interpreted, 'Place of a skull'; | Simon Magus is bearing cross behind Jesus: And as they led him away, having taken hold on *Simon, a certain Cyrenian*. coming from the field, they put on him the cross, to bear it behind Jesus ... and when they came to the place that is called Skull, | |
| This is purposely obscure because the writers want to hide the fact that Simon is also on the cross. Simon from Cyrene is the father (superior) of Theudas-Thaddeus-Barabbas from the (Alexandrian) Therapeuts and Rufus is clearly Thomas the Twin with his red hair (Rufus) | ||||
The soldiers, having tied the crossbars to our backs, drove us forward. Our path was short—from the praetorium southward to a place just beyond the skull-shaped stone, the refuse pit known as the Salt. There, three holes had been dug for the posts, each notched to receive its crosspiece.
The Gospel John shows that Jesus carried his own crosspiece and Luke leaves it possible that I, Simon of Cyrene, followed him with my own crosspiece. Matthew and Mark reveal that I am the leader of Theudas and Thomas in the same field as Jesus.
As we moved along the dusty road, the weight of the cross pressed heavily upon our shoulders. Women peered through the throng, and others—families drawn by the Passover crowds—watched in uneasy silence.:
“They say this Jesus was exchanged for the criminal Barabbas—Theudas, the leader of the Therapeuts of Alexandria.”
“And isn’t that next man his master, Simon Magus, the one who took the place of John the Baptist?”
“Yes, the man from far Cyrene—the one who calls himself the Standing One.”
“He befriended Thomas, the deposed Herod, the twin—red-haired, like Esau, who lost his birthright to Jacob.”
“Amazingly, they do not stumble beneath that great weight.”
The soldiers shouted for us to stop, and the murmurs of the crowd fell away. We had just passed the skull, bearing the name Golgotha.
The ropes dug into our shoulders as the soldiers slammed us to the ground, gagtged by the dust of defilement mingled with sweat and blood. The spades of the covenant’s initiates dug holes here to bury the filth of human weakness from God’s eyes. I could hear the shovels of the soldiers digging holes for the poles of the crosspieces. With our wrists still bound, awaiting the spikes, the darkness would yet reveal the measure of our faith—three hours donated from the sun to the Son, hope distilled from poison, and love made manifest in our resurrection.
With the soldier occupied with theu taks, Theudas—skilled in Egyptian medicines—offered each of us a potent analgesic to dull the pain.
As he administered it to Jesus, he said softly:
“Dear nephew, I will forever be in your debt for graciously taking my place.”
Jesus replied,
“It was not in my control, yet I would have taken your place willingly. You have been my father since Joseph’s death.”
They gave him vinegar mingled with gall to drink; but when he had tasted it, he would not drink.
Then Theudas whispered, “Shall I give you now the gall mixture that will make you appear dead—and thus deliver you from the cross?”
Jesus answered quietly, “No. I will take the gall at the ninth hour, after the time change—as planned—while reciting Psalm 22. It is fitting.”
And he began to sing:
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me, so far from my cries of anguish?
My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer; by night, and find no rest.”
(26-4) Pilate and Herod Agrippa sat in cushioned chairs overlooking the execution site, just above the place of the Skull.
Pilate called to the soldiers,
“You’ve arranged the crosses incorrectly! Jesus, the King of the Jews, must be in the center. Place a sign above him reading, King of the Jews.”
A centurion approached and said,
“James, brother of Jesus, protests that Simon—as Pope—should occupy the center cross.”
Pilate frowned.
“He is his brother? Then ask him if he wishes to change places with Jesus.”
Agrippa interjected,
“He’s merely citing the Essene rule—the prophet stands to the right.”
Pilate’s gaze hardened.
“The people proclaimed him King of the Jews. Let them see how they humiliate and destroy their own king.”
The soldiers fixed the sign to the middle post, then positioned the uprights over the prepared holes. As they raised the beams by pulley and secured them with stones, they dragged Jesus to the center cross and moved me to the right.
Then the moment came—the spikes driven through the centers of our wrists. The agony was blinding; cries escaped us despite resolve. The crossbars were hoisted and fitted into their notches atop the posts.
A chain was looped around each of our ankles and tightened to the post. Without it, our bodies would sag, our lungs collapse, and death come too swiftly.
|
Many have tried to convey the excruciating pain that Jesus felt, imagining that reliving it proves Faith. Every spike, every rope, every weight was designed to crush body and spirit—the Romans made it unbearable. Yet beyond mere suffering, another kind of Faith holds sway—not a magician’s trick of survival, but one subtle and precise. Faith bends the hours themselves, shortening the time spent upon the cross. Hope flows through the gall mixture, steadying the body at the edge of agony. And Love waits, patient and exact, ready to act when the law demands, transforming what seemed an ending into a doorway.
Two others were crucified alongside Jesus, one on his right and one on his left. Those who passed by hurled insults at him, shaking their heads:
“You who are going to destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself! Come down from the cross, if you are the Son of God!” (9 AM : 3rd hour)
The chief priests, teachers of the law, and elders mocked him in the same way:
“He saved others,” they said, “but he can’t save himself! He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe. He trusts in God—let God rescue him if he will, for he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’”
Even the criminals reproached themselves. Yet through it all, he endured. He set up his sign among the violent ones, and they stretched out hands of deceit. But the one called righteous endured their mockery, for the time of revelation was near, and his wisdom would not perish with him.
Pilate uncorked a small vial of perfume and lifted it to his nose. “What a stench these Essenes live in,” he said.
Herod Agrippa laughed: “That’s because this cave was their latrine!”
We remained silent now, the gall mixture beginning to dull the pain, though drops of blood still fell from our wrists.
Pilate frowned. “Why are they not screaming?”
Agrippa replied: Their bodies are in shock. Give it time—they’ll wake soon enough.”
After an hour (10 AM : 4th hour), Pilate grew bored: “I was half expecting Jesus to walk off the cross. But clearly, he is only a man—and not a god.”
Agrippa grinned: “Shall we ride down to the Dead Sea? It’s named for its salt—so thick and bitter that no fish can live in it, and no man can drink from it. Yet they say Jesus once worked a miracle there by walking on the water.”
Pilate laughed, rose, and agreed. They left with a small escort.
With Pilate gone, the drugs began to wear off. The three men groaned in pain.
Judas Iscariot, one of the criminals, railed at Jesus:
“If you be the Christ, save yourself and us.”
I, Simon Magus, rebuked him:
“Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? We indeed receive the just reward of our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.”
Then I said to Jesus:
“Remember me, when you may come in your kingdom.”
Jesus replied:
“Verily I say to you, Today with me you shall be in paradise.”
I added softly:
“And to you, Judas, the fires of Gehenna will be your reward.”
For Jesus and me, ‘paradise’ was a code word for the burial caves at the far end of the esplanade that we hoped to reach while still alive. The thought of reaching it together, if the plan succeeded, filled our hearts, allowing us to endure the pain.
James’ cousin Susanna approached quietly: “James, have you no remorse for causing this crucifixion of your own brother?”
He whispered back, tense:
“I deeply regret all of this. I never believed Jesus would actually be crucified.
You must be relieved that your father, Theudas, was saved.”
She leaned closer:
“Of course, but I need to know—can you be trusted to save Jesus, now?”
James’ voice was low but determined:
“Upon my mother’s life, I promise.”
Susanna outlined the plan softly: Jesus would take the gall mixture to appear dead; James must secure the body quickly, reminding Pilate of the law that hanged men cannot remain on the cross after dusk. Timing was everything.
Below Jesus’ cross, Mary Magdalene and John Mark watched anxiously. Slowly, he stirred and opened his eyes, first blurry, then focusing.
Perceiving the mother (Mary Magdalene) and the disciple standing by, whom he loved (John Mark), he strained to smile:
“Woman, behold the son of you (within you)!”
John Mark took her into care, while the three Marys—Mary, Helena, and Magdalene—sobbed quietly.
Susanna stepped forward, drawing their veils over their eyes and speaking firmly:
“This is not helping. You need to remain alert. Everything is in place—the signal, the gall mixture, the feigned death. We must stay steady. Jesus depends on us.”
A fast shadow moved across the desert sand, a prelude to the darkness to come, the symbolic rupture dividing heaven and earth.
(26-5)Pilate and Agrippa returned from the Dead Sea, laughing at soldiers’ failed attempts to walk on water. Each slipped and sputtered in the brine.
“Another miracle debunked!” Pilate exclaimed.
Meanwhile, the analgesic continued to fade for the three of us. We shifted uncomfortably, muscles tightening, groans escaping as the sun climbed higher.
According to the Essene calendar Passover was supposed to be in the Spring quarter on Wednesday the 15th but, because it was out of sync with the Jewish calendar by 2 days + 3 hours, this was moved up to Friday with the time moving forward 3 hours on Good Friday, the day of the Crucifixion.
| Time references | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Event | Jewish Time | Pharisee (Adjusted Time) | Reference | |
| Darkness begins | 6th hour / 12:00 PM | 9th hour / 3:00 PM | Mt 27:45 | |
| Darkness over whole land | 6th hour / 12:00 PM | 9th hour / 3:00 PM | Mk 15:33 | |
| Darkness & veil of sanctuary rent | 6th hour / 12:00 PM | 9th hour / 3:00 PM | Lk 23:44-45 | |
| Darkness comes, people confused | 6th hour / 12:00 PM | 9th hour / 3:00 PM | GP 15a, GP 18, GP 22 | |
(Sixth through ninth hours: the Essenes and Pharisees observe the manipulated time; Pilate misjudges the hour.)
 (26-6) |
Seeing that Pilate has returned, Jesus gives Pilate rises in disbelief: “How is this possible? |
Pilate sits down, discouraged.
James approaches:
“Esteemed Prefect, as the brother of Jesus, may I take him down for burial?”
Pilate scoffs, citing the crowd and Roman power.
James insists, citing Deuteronomy 21:23.
Pilate relents partially but orders the other two crucified men’s legs broken if still alive.
Sweating from the noon heat yet feeling dusk approaching, Pilate mutters to Agrippa as he gets up to leave:
“The Dead Sea was livelier than these crucifixions. Perhaps I still have time to reach my palace before nightfall.”
And thus begins the race to save Jesus and Simon Magus.
| The Hours of Darkness — Chronology Table | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| Event | Modern | Time Jewish Hour | Notes / Commentary |
| Crucifixion begins | 9:00 AM | 3rd hour | Mk 15:25 - Jesus, two criminals crucified |
| Mockery by passersby & chief priests | 9:00–10:00 AM | 3rd–4th hour | Insults hurled, criminals reproach themselves |
| Pilate uncorks perfume, checks for screams | 10:00 AM | 4th hour | Drugs dull pain; soldiers and crucified men remain silent |
| Pilate grows bored; leaves with Agrippa | 11:00 AM | 5th hour | Pilate jokes about Jesus walking off cross; ride to Dead Sea begins |
| Criminals converse (Judas & Simon Magus) | 2:00 PM | 8th hour | Drugs wear off; discussion about “paradise” (burial caves) |
| Susanna instructs James | 2:15 PM | 8th hour | Plans for poison and feigned death outlined |
| “Behold the son within you” | 2:30 PM | 8th hour | Jesus briefly awakens, addresses Magdalene & John Mark |
| Dead Sea return (Pilate & Agrippa) | 3:00 PM | 9th hour | Soldiers fail walking on water; Pilate misjudges time |
| Faith / Darkness observed | 9:00 AM–3:00 PM | 3rd–9th hour | Time manipulated, darkness interpreted by Essenes |
| Signal & poison administered | 4:05 PM | 10th hour | Jesus appears dead; Zacchaeus delivers poison via hyssop |
| Pilate confronted by James | 5:00 PM | 11th hour | Dusk approaches; burial law invoked; race to save Jesus begins |
| Notes for editors: | |||
| The chapter title “The Hours of Darkness” refers thematically to the manipulated time period from crucifixion to the apparent death of Jesus. | |||
| Modern time aligns with Jewish hours: 6:00 AM = 1st hour; 9:00 AM = 3rd hour, 12:00 PM = 6th hour, 3:00 PM = 9th hour. . | |||
| Pilate’s absence allows all interactions between criminals, Susanna, James, and the women to occur without contradiction.. | |||
| Each hour marker now uses a colon format: (2:00 PM : 8th hour) instead of a dash. . | |||
| The chronological sequence ensures no overlap or impossible timing; the poison signal and dusk constraints are historically and narratively consistent. | |||
Meanwhile, Cornelius carefully unwraps the chains around Jesus’ legs and, with Zacchaeus, uses a pulley to lower him—still nailed and roped to the crossbar—down from the cross. They place Jesus gently on the ground. Cornelius takes a crowbar and yanks the two spikes from his wrists.
A soldier says, “Why are you being so careful? He is already dead.”
Cornelius replies, “We do not want the body to be defiled further. He is, after all, the Son of God.”
The soldier mutters, “This Jewish god is not very powerful, to let his son die.”
Theudas, using his Jewish Council name Nicodemus, arrives with huge quantities of myrrh and aloe—used for traumatic injuries—carried in a palanquin belonging to James, who uses it to avoid touching the defiled ground.
James and Theudas lift Jesus onto the palanquin as the women apply the lotions and bind his wrists. They drape his whole body in linen so as not to reveal his faint breath and to reinforce the illusion that he is being prepared for burial.
James and Theudas carefully carry Jesus along the walkway that passes over the pinnacle of rock to the two adjacent caves, each sealed by a rolling stone—either cave #7 or cave #8.
Theudas rolls the stone to the right, revealing the opening to the left-hand cave, #7, the tomb of the prince James. Squatting, he carries Jesus through the opening and sets him down on a blanket on a raised ledge inside.
He induces Jesus to vomit and then gives him the antidote to drink. After rebinding his wrists, he administers a sedative.
Meanwhile, the soldiers—following Pilate’s instructions—break my legs and Judas’ by yanking the chains around them, causing both of us to faint from the pain. “What do we do next?” the soldiers ask
. Cornelius says, “I will lower these down by myself.”
He carefully lowers me and removes the spike from my wrist. My fainting spares me the danger of a slip tearing off my hand. All I feel is a sharp pain as the last spike is removed.
As Helena brings the palanquin back from the caves, James and Cornelius place me on it and carry me down to tomb #8, adjacent to Jesus’ cave on the right, laying me on a blanket.
I assume Jesus is being cared for by Theudas. I hear violent vomiting from the adjacent cave and know it to be a good sign—Jesus is expelling the gall mixture.
Susanna brings the palanquin back for Judas. Since James refuses to carry him, she enlists Cornelius and Zacchaeus. They place Judas in the same cave as me
The chief priests and the Pharisees, remembering that Jesus had said while yet living, “After three days is the Resurrection,” fear that his disciples might come at night, steal his body, and say, “He rose from the dead,” making the last deceit worse than the first.
A messenger from Pilate comes to Cornelius:
“You are to guard the tombs for three days.”
Cornelius verifies that the stone has been rolled to block Jesus’ cave. He remarks, “It appears that the Jews believe—like the Egyptians—that the dead can rise to the afterlife. It would be a miracle for any to survive the night.”
He leaves to direct the soldiers to camp on the far side of the rock’s peak.
As it is almost sundown, the women return to the Queen’s house just across the Wadi Qumran. James escorts them.
Theudas binds my broken legs and wrists and does the same for Judas. After finishing, he attempts to roll the stone back to the right to return to Jesus’ cave, but it crashes down and splits in two.
Hearing the crash, the soldiers are afraid to move, thinking the Resurrection may have truly come.
Cornelius climbs to the peak and calls out, “What has happened down there?”
Theudas emerges from Jesus’ tomb and waves him over. Producing gold coins hidden there—since the cave is one of the Qumran treasury sites listed in the Copper Scroll—he presses them into Cornelius’ hand with a wink
“The dead have no need of these.”
Looking at the broken stone, Cornelius laughs. “Your name should be Earthquake, to break such a stone. You certainly frightened us.”
Returning to the soldiers, he gives each a gold coin. “No need for alarm.”
Jesus’ sleep is restless. Jesus’ soul descended into Sheol, the shadowy realm of the dead, where the cords of the Pit tightened around him, and the snares of Death drew close. The air is thick and choking, as though smoke has risen from below and filled the caverns of the deep.
 He stands inside the parable he once spoke: A rich man feasts in purple and fine linen. At his gate lies Lazarus, covered in sores, longing for crumbs. Even the dogs lick his wounds. The ground trembles beneath Jesus’ feet.
Heat breathes upward through the stone, and a dull red glow pulses from below, Helena’s voice rises from the darkness. “You allowed women and Gentiles crumbs, but never a seat at the table.” Jesus answers, “Your daughter drank the wine of the Sacrament at our wedding.”
Helena replies, “Yet she was not invited to the Last Supper. The vision shudders and shifts. Lazarus is carried upward to Abraham’s bosom. The rich man is swallowed by flame and sees comfort only from afar.
The cords of Sheol tighten. Smoke presses against Jesus’ chest, Abraham’s voice answers from beyond the gulf, calm and unyielding. “You received good things in life; Lazarus received suffering. Now he is comforted, and you are in anguish. Between us lies a great chasm, fixed from the foundations.” Jesus cries out, his voice swallowed by smoke,
“Am I responsible for the five sons of Ananus—
Abraham replies,
The heat intensifies. Jesus looks down and sees his hands and feet glowing, “I have not faithfully kept the rule of the Essenes,” he wails.
Near midnight, the Pit surges like a flood. “Help me! The fire is singeing my hands and feet!” |
Theudas steadies him. “You are not in Hades. You are alive, here in this cave. All is well.”
Jesus stands, feeling the weight of the Pit lift. The smoke and fire vanish as if swept away by a mighty hand. He breathes deeply—the chains of Death are broken, the floodwaters receding. The walls of the cave feel solid beneath him, the foundation of the mountains firm and unshakable, and a quiet light rests upon him, like a beacon from the Lord.
He takes a tentative step, then another. Theudas guides him, and Jesus walks fully upright. His hands and feet, scorched in the dream, now pulse with life rather than fire.
The oil lamp is lit and placed in the window, casting a golden glow across the rock—an outward signal of deliverance, echoing the Psalm:
“He brought me forth into a broad place; He rescued me because He delighted in me.”
Jesus smiles faintly, knowing the Pit could not hold him. The Harrowing of Hell is ended; the rescue is complete.
Theudas comforts him, “You are not in Hades, you are alive in this cave. All is well.” He helps Jesus to stand up and to walk around then lights an oil lamp and places it in the window to announce that Jesus has recovered.
(31-6)Mary Magdalene came to the tomb while it was still dark. A flicker of light inside made her hurry forward, hoping Jesus might have revived. The stone had been rolled away, its two halves lying on the ground.
Breathless, she ran to Simon Peter and John Mark—her stand-in for the beloved disciple. “They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.”
Peter and John Mark set out at once. John Mark ran faster and reached the tomb first. Stooping, he saw the linen clothes lying there. Peter arrived shortly after and went straight inside. He saw the strips of linen and the cloth that had wrapped Jesus’ head—folded neatly and set apart. John Mark then entered fully.
That night, as dawn approached, the soldiers kept watch in pairs. A sudden crash shook the tombs. The sky lit up, and two men descended with candles. They approached the tomb, breaking the stone at the door and rolling it partially aside, allowing entry.
Startled, the guards awakened Centurion Cornelius and the nearby elders. Inside the tomb, John Mark whispered, “Wait—the neatly folded linen means his body was not stolen.”
Jesus overheard and called out, “My disciples, Uncle Theudas is helping me wash. I have all the conveniences of this priest’s tomb.”
Shortly after, he appeared to them wearing only a loincloth. In the flickering light, his body seemed unscarred, though his wrists were wrapped. Peter and John Mark embraced him and helped him into a linen gown.
From my tomb, I called, “How is Jesus doing?”
Jesus answered, “I am fine and can even walk. How are you, Simon?”
“I am fine, but the splints make it hard to rise,” I replied. “Judas did not do so well—he is still sedated and breathing heavily.”
Breathless, the pregnant Mary Magdalene arrived. In the dim light, she had mistaken the tomb of Simon and Judas for Jesus’ tomb. Seeing a candle flickering inside, she stooped to look.
Inside, she beheld two figures in white garments—one at the head (me) and one at the feet (Judas) of the tomb. Theudas had washed and dressed us in the white robes of the Essenes.
A voice called from within: “Woman, why do you weep?”
She replied, “Oh angels, because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”
I answered, “Yes, we are angels, though the other is more like the devil. Why do you weep? Jesus is alive—but in the other cave.”
She turned and saw Jesus standing there, though she did not yet recognize him.
Jesus said, “Woman, why do you weep? Whom are you seeking?”
Thinking him to be the gardener—James—she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him.”
Jesus said, “Mary.”
She looked into his eyes and, realizing the miracle, exclaimed, “Teacher!”
Jesus said, “Do not touch me. I must return to the monastery, to be purified and restored to my Father’s service. Besides, your pregnancy must remain undefiled.” Mary smiled and placed her hand on her womb.
Jesus continued, “Go home and rest. In the morning, bring the other women to the caves. Simon will be out of his tomb by then. Theudas reset his broken legs, but he’ll need a day before he can walk. As for me, my legs were never broken. Peter and John Mark will help me back to the Queen’s House shortly. I can walk—only a little dizzy, and my arms are still numb.”
The soldiers later declared what they had seen: three men coming forth from the tomb, two supporting one. Peter and John Mark, supporting Jesus between them, felt a cross behind them. The two men’s heads reached unto the heavens, but Jesus’ head surpassed the heavens. A voice from the heavens asked, “Hast thou preached to them that sleep?” And a response came from the cross: “Yea.”
Mary Magdalene followed them up to the peak of the rock and crossed the wadi towards the Queen’s House.
After they departed, Theudas—exhausted—reflected on the strange mercy of having been exchanged as Barabbas, allowing him to act again as Nicodemus, with something of his old Zealot strength. His skill had preserved Jesus and Simon.
Judas, however, was cold, his heart beyond revival. Few survived crucifixion, and he was not among them. Unwilling to leave a corpse in the caves, lest it be mistaken for Jesus, Theudas cast the body into the ravine below.
Peter would later describe: “Judas indeed purchased a field with the reward of unrighteousness, and falling headlong, he burst asunder, and his bowels gushed forth.” It became known to all in Jerusalem, so that place was called the Field of Blood, remembered as a warning and a mark of divine justice, showing the cost of betrayal.
(28-1)
As dawn broke on the day after the Sabbath, Magdalene—having followed behind Jesus as Peter and John Mark supported him on either side—was returning when she saw the other women approaching the tomb with spices to anoint Jesus. She shouted to them, "I have seen the Lord!"
They had earlier encountered a soldier who told of an earthquake that had shattered the stone stone sealing the tomb—and that Jesus was gone. They thought the worst.
“What happened with the earthquake?” they asked. “Is Jesus alive?”
Once Magdalene told them the astonishing tale, they were relieved. That Jesus could have walked down the hill was beyond their greatest expectations.
Magdalene explained that the “earthquake” was Theudas, who had accidentally toppled the blocking stone, breaking it in two.
Susanna smiled. “So it was my father, Cleopas.”
“I spoke with Jesus,” Magdalene added, “but he did not let me touch him.”
Mother Mary asked, confused, “Is he just a spirit?”
“No,” Magdalene replied. “Peter and John Mark helped him wash and dressed him.
When they arrived, the mouth of the cave stood open, the great stone lying in two pieces on the ground. Sitting atop it, like a king surveying his kingdom, was Simon. He wore a white Essene robe—one of their angelic ranks—and his legs were bound in splints.
“If you are looking for Jesus, I said to them, do not be afraid. He has risen. Look—the place where they laid him is empty. He has gone ahead of you to Ein Feshkha. There you will find him with Peter and the other disciples.”
Helena stepped closer and touched my face.
“The Standing One still lives,” she said, half in jest, half in awe. “Are you healed?”
“Not yet “standing!”, I replied.
“And the other one?” Susanna asked having helped Judas.
“He did not survive,” I said.
(28-2)“Sit, all of you, and let us thank God that Jesus survived—and that I did as well.”
We joined hands around the stone.
“Had things gone differently,” I said, “our mission might have ended forever. This deliverance rivals that of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego from the furnace—or Daniel from the lions’ den. Yet some will ask: Why did God allow the crucifixion at all? Does God intervene, or does He call us to act in His name as we grow toward His Kingdom?”
“David wrote that God guides us through the valley of death—the cross—and leads us to still waters—the potion Jesus drank. But if we do not drink, the Kingdom of Heaven cannot be made manifest on earth. Even the Zealots—Judas, and even our dear Theudas—know that passivity is not godliness. If we act with agapē love, we may become part of God’s Kingdom.”
Mary Magdalene spoke:
“This recalls some of the last words Jesus spoke before he was taken from us. He said, My brothers and sisters, I have long desired to reveal to you the deeper truths you must know for salvation. Your ears have not yet heard, and your minds have not yet understood. I have shown you that your hearts may rise through agapē love, and your minds through faithful attention to the word of God. Beware of those who say, ‘Look—here!’ or ‘Look—there!’ For the Kingdom of God is not found by pointing. It is within you. Seek, and you will find it.”
“Thank you, Magdalene,” I said. “Your presence comforts us now, as it comforted Jesus in his torment on the cross and in his recovery here.” Magdalene smiled.
“I believe my presence helped him endure the final hours—reminding him that it was not yet time to meet his Father in heaven, for he would soon become a father on earth.”
“Some will claim our survival relied on my Magian arts,” I continued. “But we know God guided us. Each played a part—and later, by our silence, the Resurrection will be understood as God’s plan.”
Susanna, ever the careful planner, asked, “Will Jesus not be recognized?”
“The mind does not see what it believes impossible,” I replied.
“If people believe Jesus is dead, he may stand before them unseen. His Resurrection—not his survival—will awaken faith in the eternal Spirit.”
She nodded. “Even if Caiaphas suspects the truth, he cannot admit it. That would make him a fool.”
Helena, the mother of Magdalene—who had borne many names and roles—listened and smiled, content that her brother and her son-in-law lived.
After a long silence, Mother Mary spoke:
“Having stood beneath my son on the cross, the image remains with me. Would not the cross itself be the perfect symbol for The Way, to remind his followers that death was overcome?”
They all said, “Amen.”
Before they left to visit Jesus, I reminded them to say nothing—trembling with awe and astonishment, their silence came naturally, for Jesus’ Resurrection would be the heart of their witness, unfolding in time.
| The Four Marys at the Cross | |||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Mother Mary | Mary Magdalene | Helena my sister | Susanna with Magdalene (Lk 8.3) | ||
| Matt 27:56 | Mary the mother of James and of Joses(1) | Mary the Magdalene | the mother of the sons of Zebedee(3) | ||
| Mk 15:40 | Mary of James (1) the less, and of Joses | Mary Magdalene | Salome (3) | ||
| Lk 23:49 | the women who did follow him from Galilee | ||||
| Jn 19:25 | his mother(1) | Mary the Magdalene | his mother's sister(3) | Mary of Cleopas(2) | |
| The Four Marys at the cave before the Resurrection | |||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Mt 27:61 | Mary the Magdalene | the other Mary | |||
| Mk 15:47 | Mary of Joses(1) | Mary the Magdalene | |||
| Luke 23:55 | And the women also who have come with him out of Galilee having followed after | ||||
| The Four Marys at the cave after the Resurrection | |||||
| Matt 28:01 | Mary the Magdalene | the other Mary | |||
| Mk 16:01 | Mary of James(1) | Mary the Magdalene | Salome(3) | ||
| Luke 24:10 | Mary of James(1) | Mary Magdalene | Joanna(3) | the other women with them | |
| Jn 20:11 | Mary Magdalene | ||||
|
(1) Mother Mary =his mother = Mother of "James (James the less" meaning younger 'Joseph', his father) (Joses is James' brother so interchangeable) (2) Susanna: daughter of Cleopas, Jesus' uncle Theudas: (Road to Emmaus) (3) Helena (Clementines) is adoptive mother of James and John schooled by Zebedee (Simon Magus) As the mother of Mary Magdalene, is sister-in-law to Mother Mary who is also god-mother of Magdalene As teacher of (stand-in for) Salome (step-daughter of Herod Antipas) - dancing for her at 'the Beheading of John the Baptist' As female member of John the Baptist (Joanna) the 30th of his group; Lk 8:3 Joanna (Helena) woman (sister of Chuza (me: adminstrator i.e. Pope) under Herod (Antipas) and Susanna (2) Martha (mother) with Mary (her daughter) | |||||
| Family name Sabbas | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Mark 6:3 “Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon...?” | ||||
| NT Name | Also Known As | House / Adoption | Significance | Joseph | James | Father | Husband of Mary | James the Just | Joseph Barsabbas | Son #1 | Nominated to replace Judas Iscariot |
| Jesus | — | Son #2 | Messiah | |
| Joses Barsabbas (Barnabas) | Matthias | Son #3 | Chosen by lot to replace Judas Iscariot | |
| Judas | Jude | Son #4 | Author of Jude 1:1 | |
| Simon | Silas | Son #5 | Companion of Paul | |
| Mary Magdalene | daughter of Helena | god-daughter of Joseph & Mary | Married to Jesus | |
| Theudas / Thaddeus | Nicodemus | Brother of Joseph | "Judas of James" in Acts | |
| Susanna | daughter of Theudas | female disciple with Magdalene | ||
| Bartholomew (Barsabbas-Ptolemy/ Egyptian Therapeuts) | John Mark | adopted son of Theudas | Disciple whom Jesus loved | |
(33-4)Only two disciples—Bartholomew (John Mark) and Thaddeus (Theudas)—had dared to remain at the Crucifixion. Peter learned of what had occurred from John Mark, before Mary Magdalene awakened them and ran to the tombs. Jonathan and Matthew heard the account from their younger brother Zacchaeus, son of Ananus, who had helped take Jesus down from the cross. The others learned of it later, from the women.
Jesus’ survival was such a wonder that even the Eleven could scarcely believe it. He appeared to us many times, offering proofs that he lived. Yet we failed to recognize him on the road to Emmaus and again by the Sea of Tiberius, and Thomas would not believe until he touched him.
As rumors spread that Jesus was alive in the flesh, it became clear that the story itself required a fitting conclusion while the wonder was still fresh in the minds of the people. Forty days had long stood as a period of testing—from Moses upon Sinai onward—and so it was understood that on the fortieth day Jesus would appear openly and be taken up to God. Word passed among the people that they should gather below the Western Hill, the heights of Mount Zion overlooking the city, to hear what would be his final words.
The crowds gathered quickly, and as they gazed upward, Jesus ascended to the height of Mount Zion. As he stood upon the hilltop, two men in white appeared beside him, reminding some of the Transfiguration.
“Peace be unto you,” he said. “I am going to my Father, but I will return in Spirit.”
A transcendent cloud rose, as if drawn from my own uplifted hands, and surrounded them, and in a moment he was taken from sight, leaving only Peter and myself behind. The multitude stood silent, their eyes fixed on the place where he had been, still longing to see him there.
Peter spoke: “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking into the sky? This same Jesus, who has been taken from you into heaven, will return in the same way you saw him go.”
It had been forty days since Jesus’ “Resurrection” and ten since his “Ascension,” and we were gathered in the upper room of the Cenacle in Jerusalem: the eleven disciples, including Simon the Zealot (myself) and “Judas of James” (Theudas)—who had taken Judas’s seat at the Last Supper but was now subordinated under Jonathan. All joined in prayer and supplication, including Mother Mary and the women, except Mary Magdalene, who was pregnant and therefore ritually unclean.
Peter stood among the believers, who numbered about one hundred and twenty.
“It is necessary,” he said, “to choose one of the men who have been with us from the beginning—from the baptism of John until the day Jesus was taken from us—one who can bear witness to his Resurrection.”
Two men were nominated—both sons of Joseph, son of Sabbas, the father of Jesus: Joseph Barsabbas, also known as James the Just, and Joses Barsabbas (corrupted as Barnabas).
They prayed, and the lot fell to Joses, who had served as Jesus’ deputy at the Last Supper. He was being schooled by the priest Matthew, one of the twelve, and thus called Matthias.
When the day was fulfilled, a sound arose among us, as of a rushing wind, and the room seemed filled with it. Those gathered there—men from Parthia, Media, Elam, Mesopotamia, Judea, Cappadocia, Asia, Egypt, Libya near Cyrene, and from Rome, Crete, and Arabia—each spoke of the wonders of God in his own tongue. Their voices mingled, and their hearts were stirred with a joy beyond restraint.
Peter addressed them:
“Men of Israel, hear these words. Jesus of Nazareth, delivered up according to the foreknowledge of God, you crucified and killed—but God raised him, freeing him from death. This is what was spoken by the prophet Joel: that God would pour out His Spirit upon all flesh.”
His words rang true, and yet they did not exhaust the moment. The Spirit was among us, unmistakably so, and it moved where it willed. From that day forward, it was clear that those who sought God would be called to act—not waiting upon signs alone, but bearing within themselves the fire that had been given.
In the days that followed, excitement swept through Jerusalem. Yet Jesus could not remain, for word of his return had spread too widely. It was agreed that he must withdraw again until the time was safe. Beyond the city, on the north-western slope of Mount Gerizim, there were caves long used as a place of prayer and retreat. Jacob’s Well lay below the mountain to the west. Among the Samaritans, the mountain was held sacred, and it offered quiet beyond the reach of priests and Roman eyes.
There is an event occurring early in Jesus’ mission that is not actually a healing, but it appears to offer a clue about Jesus’ current location and also about that of my sister Helena. It supports the Clementine reference describing me (Simon Magus) as “a Samaritan by race, from the village of Gitthae,” which lies six schoeni (60 stadia, or about 10.5 kilometers) from the city. This confirms my residence to the west of Jacob’s Well, beyond the major city of Nablus, near my monastery at Mount Gerizim.
Helena is the head of the convent to the north, where Jesus’ six disciples are housed. Her higher status can be inferred from the ease and equality of their conversation.
And since Jesus first sends his disciples away to buy food, the meeting must have been secret. Their discussion of the sanctity of Mount Gerizim for the Samaritans further identifies her role. The “five husbands” are code for the five elite disciples (Jonathan, Matthew, Theudas, Thomas, and Judas Iscariot), with the sixth elite disciple being me, her superior. The word “husband” is supplied by translators; anēr can simply mean an adult man.
With my home in Nablus as a quiet refuge, I often visited Jesus. We would speak in whispers, pacing the monastery courtyard or sitting beneath the olive trees, discussing how the Crucifixion had reshaped everything. The Spirit seemed to flow through our veins, tethering body and soul to heaven.
Many may remember me only as the bystander who carried Jesus’ cross. Yet my legs and wrists required at least a year to heal from the Crucifixion, and I was still on crutches. Jesus would never be able to write again, but that was no problem, because John Mark would help him write his story in the Gospel of John, using my first chapter.
And so the days of wonder passed into memory. Representatives from distant lands had returned home, spreading the story and converting in earnest, each recounting their encounters with the risen Jesus. Life settled into a quieter rhythm—one no less charged with meaning.
It was during this season of quiet endurance that new life entered the world. That autumn, in September 33 AD, Mary Magdalene bore a daughter. They named her Tamar, after the princess of David’s line and sister of the tragic Absalom. I stood as her godfather, guardian of her innocence.
The Gospels are silent when it is a daughter—for a son, they use the word “joy.” From this time onward, Jesus was supposed to be dead—alive only “in spirit.” Yet Peter’s declaration at Pentecost that God would “pour out His Spirit upon all flesh” implied more: that Jesus’ presence would return in cycles of renewal. In this case, a daughter marked a three-year interval before such renewal; for a son, it was six. Since the prophecy of Restoration pointed to the year 36 AD, it also foretold the time when he would return again, this time for a son. I would enshrine these years of return in my calendar, knowing they would be world-changing.
The Davidic line had at last seen the birth of a daughter. Though it was wished to be a son, Phoebe would be more than just a “helpmate” to Paul. Her strength belonged to the same hidden current that now sustained us all.
Yet even as hope quietly endured, sorrow followed close behind. When I heard that my sister Agrippina the Elder had died at the age of forty-six on the island of Pandateria, I was too numb even to feel grief. That her death had occurred on the same island as my late mother made it feel almost unreal, as if separated from my own life. She had starved herself, even though Tiberius had her force-fed. Her daughter, Agrippina the Younger, was secretly compiling three memoirs to record the misfortunes of our family—lost, or probably destroyed on purpose.
For me, the last hope of returning to Rome to assert my claim against the pretender Tiberius vanished with her death. My obligations to Jesus, however, were foremost in my mind. Back in the monastery, he was counting on me to organize the Twelve and encourage them to spread his teachings to the East and West, to establish God’s kingdom on earth.
In the quiet of Nablus, as the sun sank behind the hills, I understood once again that our work had only begun—and that the true kingdom of God would be built not by miracles alone, but by those willing to carry the fire into the world.
At the crucifixion, the centurion Cornelius watched until Jesus’ final breath and spoke aloud, “Truly this man was the Son of God.” He pierced the side to confirm death and reported to Pilate that the man had died, though a part of him still hoped life might remain. When gold was pressed into his hand for silence, he accepted it and said nothing of the caves, merely the earthquake—seeming confirmation of Jesus’ spirit leaving his body. He would honor that spirit.
Luke would frame Cornelius’ conversion as the first Gentile formally received into the Way—ratified by Peter and defended before the apostles in Jerusalem—quietly reflecting more than a mere perspective, hinting at his own presence within the story. From here on, I call him Luke, the name he would take at baptism. From here on, I call him Luke, the name he would take at baptism. Among the followers, it appeared to him that Peter spoke with authority. Luke’s recognition was quiet, like a soldier acknowledging a superior. His loyalty was not born of doctrine, but of a deep desire to witness and preserve the living voice of what had been lost. Being a scribe, he recorded the deeds and words of the apostles, though his bias against me is clear.
After the Resurrection, by the Sea of Galilee, Jesus restored Simon Peter, charging him to Feed my sheep, linking his authority to obedience and the path of suffering. Peter’s charge was real but bounded, governance measured by service, not supremacy. When he turned to ask about another, Jesus made the distinction clear: Peter would shepherd, and the other would remain as witness, each role essential and ordered. In Jerusalem, Peter addressed the disciples as decisive voice, while the apostles bore witness with great power and under great grace, their testimony uniting authority and mission without coercion. From this sacred pattern,
I—Simon—stood at the source (Great Power), Peter governed the flock (Great Voice), and John Mark preserved the apostolic memory (Great Grace). Power founded the mission, governance directed it, and grace bound it all together in an ordered testimony to the risen Lord.
Abgar the Black, king of Edessa, a small kingdom on the edge of the Roman Empire, had requested Jesus to come and cure his leprosy. Jesus promised to send a disciple after his Ascension, and this mission was given to disciple Thomas. Helena accompanied him as Sapphira, her identity echoing the blue jewel among the Scrolls’ symbolic members. I, a master of disguises, went by the priestly name Ananias Together, we secured the favor of Queen Helena and King Abgar, presenting a cloth bearing Jesus’ image and returning with rich gifts.
Luke transforms this mission into the story of Ananias and Sapphira’s “sin,” claiming I fell dead followed by Helena—symbolic of excommunication. Yet Peter had no authority to impose such a punishment. The tale sullied my name through simony—associating me with the selling of Church positions. Peter focused rightly on humble offerings to support the Way, but these alone could not have enabled the rapid growth we achieved.
When I instructed Philip to go to Samaria, signs were performed and the city rejoiced. Yet Luke could not allow my success to stand alone. Authority, once outward from me, was recast as dependent on Jerusalem. The mission had already succeeded, yet Luke frames it as incomplete until Peter approves. In Samaria, Philip preaches and baptizes, performing signs; I am diminished—“amazing the people” rather than organizing them.
The Ethiopian episode is displaced similarly: a wealthy, literate Gentile is baptized by Philip, without Peter present. Luke mentions it briefly, without scrutiny. Yet the act reflects the logic of Great Power and Great Grace: I am the underlying authority, John Mark facilitates.The man disappears into the road to Gaza, his faith intact, yet the story remains incomplete. Luke allows the event but downplays its significance, maintaining Jerusalem’s authority and sidelining independent initiative.
From Galilee to Jerusalem, Edessa, and Samaria, the structure of the Way is clear: Simon at its source (Great Power), Peter shepherding the flock (Great Voice), and John Mark safeguarding the apostolic memory (Great Grace). Power founded the mission, governance directed it, and grace bound it all together, forming an ordered testimony to the risen Lord that no human narrative could fully capture
As the grandson of Herod the Great, who had killed his father, Agrippa was a megalomaniac in every sense, scheming with money and false alliances to rival his grandfather’s glory. I had sworn to take revenge on him, for he bore my father’s name and had mocked Jesus cruelly at his trial.
Growing tired of his small role in Galilee, Agrippa defrauded the disciple Philip to fund his return to Rome. There, he sought audience with Tiberius, who was then residing at Capri. At first Tiberius received him kindly, but when a letter arrived detailing Agrippa’s debts, the Emperor flew into a rage. Agrippa, fearing another flight from Rome, begged Antonia—the mother of Claudius—for help. Out of affection for Agrippa’s late mother, Bernice, she paid his debts.
Antonia was also grandmother to Caligula through her son Germanicus, who had married my sister Agrippina who had just died in exile. With Tiberius’ failing health, Agrippa grew close to Caligula, whose ascension to the throne seemed certain.
Knowing this, I persuaded John Mark to return to Rome under his former name Eutychus, serving as Agrippa’s freedman and charioteer—a perfect position for our eyes and ears.
One day, while driving the chariot with Caligula and Agrippa seated behind him, Eutychus overheard a dangerous exchange. Caligula asked,
“How was Tiberius when you visited him at Capri?”
Agrippa replied,
“The same as ever—an old man obsessed with his little boys who swim naked around him, his so-called small fry.”
Caligula groaned in disgust,
“I’m no prude, but that’s vile.”
Agrippa smirked,
“Gaius, soon this doddering Emperor will die, and you, Augustus’ great-grandson, will rule all the world.”
Eutychus at first ignored the treasonous remark, but his attention sharpened when Agrippa showed Caligula a purple cloak.
“This very cloak,” Agrippa boasted, “I placed on Jesus before Pilate—it made the crowd roar with laughter. But now, with rumors of his resurrection, it grows more valuable by the day.”
Recognizing that this cloak was sacred relic, Eutychus stole it and hid it beneath his bedding. When Agrippa discovered it missing, he accused Eutychus and had him arrested.
After Eutychus languished in prison due to Tiberius’ laziness, Antonia insisted that Tiberius hear the matter. Once he did, he turned his fury upon Agrippa, especially for neglecting his grandson Drusus. Agrippa was imprisoned, and Eutychus released.
With Agrippa out of the Way, I consolidated my power. My wrists had healed, and though I still walked with a limp, no one knew I had been crucified beside Jesus. It would have been unwise to reveal it—it would detract from the Resurrection. Jesus, still in hiding, visited me on occasion. I rewarded John Mark for his service by elevating him to Cardinal.
Above the dim confines of Agrippa’s prison, an owl dozed on its perch, one eye half-open, watching. Agrippa, the grandson of Herod the Great, mourned the thought of dying before his greatness could be fulfilled. The owl stirred, opening its eye fully, a silent herald: the heights of meteoric power, once reached, would blaze as brilliantly as they would fall—a burst of light, a fiery streak , then cold dust. “I do not care,” Agrippa answered with numbing resolve. “I wish to be called great.”
In March of 37 CE, Caligula became Emperor. Chains of iron were removed from Agrippa’s wrists and replaced with gilded links of equal weight; he counted each link as though marking the steps of fate. Soon he was granted the tetrarchies of Philip and Lysanias and the title of king, planting his feet firmly in Judea. But envy shadowed his ascent. Herodias, his sister and wife of Herod Antipas, could not abide it. She urged her husband toward Rome, grasping for honors that were not theirs. Agrippa whispered of treason into the emperor’s ear, and the lightning of imperial favor struck: Galilee and Perea were wrenched from Antipas; wealth and dignity confiscated; exile awaited the scheming pair in distant Gaul. The owl ruffled its wings, reminding all that power could be seized, yet vanish as swiftly like a magicians empty hand.
When Caligula was slain, Agrippa moved with cunning to secure Claudius’ throne. Finally, he was granted Judea and Samaria, uniting almost all that his grandfather once held. From the heights of Lebanon to the shores of the Dead Sea, the Herodian kingdom of Agrppa I briefly shimmered as if it were God’s promised kingdom.
The owl vanished, silent and watchful, only to return later and settle upon my shoulder, reminding me of my duty as divine agent to determine Agrippa’s fate. At the apex of his glory, I would help to fulfill the prophecy—risking my own power to achieve it.
In 35 AD, Pilate once again proved his unfitness to govern. My uncle Theudas, derided by the Romans as a magician, had organized a re-enactment of the crossing of the Jordan—an important ritual among the Therapeuts. Pilate, misunderstanding the pageant as rebellion, ordered an attack. Many were slaughtered, including my dear uncle, and his head was carried back to Jerusalem. It was a cruel irony: having been saved as Barabbas with Jesus being substituted for him, he would still die at Pilate’s hand.
Lucius Vitellius, governor of Syria, was forced to repair Pilate’s blunder—along with the turmoil caused by Herod Antipas’ divorce from Aretas’ daughter, which had provoked Nabataean retaliation. Vitellius brought his forces to the region around the Jordan River and Mount Gerizim, alarming us that Jesus’ hidden monastery might be discovered. Fortunately, it was not.
Jonathan, the third son of Ananus (Annas), was appointed High Priest in Jerusalem by the Roman governor Vitellius during the Passover festival of 36 CE, shortly after the removal of Pontius Pilate and Caiaphas. With these two figures—central to Jesus’ crucifixion—out of power, the followers of the Way hoped that Jonathan, a Sadducee, would maintain continuity and order.
But the Sanhedrin would not allow Jonathan—the disciple of Jesus, James son of Alphaeus—to rule over them. He pleaded that Israel had always resisted God’s chosen agents—Joseph and Moses—and that even when the Law was given, they failed to keep it. He declared that God does not dwell in temples made by human hands, and that they had slain those who foretold the coming of the Righteous One—John the Baptist and Jesus—whom they had now betrayed and murdered.
The Sanhedrin shouted at him, calling him Stephen (Greek for “crown”)—“King of the Jews.” Sound familiar!
Luke’s account of Stephen’s death shows deliberate narrative shaping: Rome appears steady and measured, its governors act with fairness, and the priestly elite recede into the background. Luke—identified here with Cornelius, a Roman convert to the Way—uses Paul’s inaction at the scene to establish his transformation from Saul, an ecclesiastically aligned Roman, to Paul, a leader of the Way. From that point forward, he positions Paul at the center of the narrative throughout the remainder of Acts.
Luke reinforces the authority of Acts by grounding it in apostolic proximity to the events of the Gospel and, at key moments, shifting into the “we” passages to suggest direct eyewitness participation. Yet Acts itself never names its author. Scholars who charge the Clementines with “pseudo-doctrine” must therefore reckon with the fact that Acts likewise invokes apostolic authority through narrative construction rather than explicit self-identification. If “pseudo” denotes a work that claims such authority—whether through attributed authorship or a crafted narrative voice—then Acts is no less implicated. The Clementines, attributed to Clement in ten books, are faulted chiefly for their romanticized literary form; but the deeper controversy concerns their asserted authorship and theological positions that diverged from emerging orthodoxy.
My whole existence is validated by the Clementines: Most importantly, they record my identity plainly: Simon, son of Antonius and Rachel (Rec. 2.7; Hom. 2.22). This is not allegory but biographical fact. The political danger of this lineage explains its suppression, not its invention.
My claim is that the debates between Peter and Simon Magus took place in the spring of 38 CE based on the section title, Contents of Clement’s Dispatches to James, which describes ten books of material drawn from those exchanges. If “James” is understood not as James the Just but as Jonathan—identified with James son of Alphaeus—then the chronology shifts significantly. During his brief tenure as High Priest, he would have possessed both the authority and the institutional capacity to organize and sanction a series of formal disputations along the Levantine coast, from Caesarea Maritima to Laodicea. Such debates would have served a strategic purpose: to delineate the Way as distinct from both Temple-centered Judaism and Essene separatism.
Clement, who would later succeed Peter, recorded the debates between Peter and Simon Magus across a range of theological and philosophical subjects and addressed them to Jonathan. After Jonathan’s removal from office, however, these volumes no longer circulated openly. In time, they might have been lost had they not been safeguarded within a protective literary framework. Eventually, they reemerged in two closely related textual witnesses: the Homilies in Greek and the Recognitions in Latin, the latter translated from a now-lost Greek original.
A further indication of their timeframe is Peter’s continued adherence to Jewish separation from Gentiles, which situates the debates prior to the developments reflected in Acts 10 (traditionally dated to 43 CE), when Gentiles were received on equal terms. As Peter explains to Clement, he did not share table fellowship with Gentiles because they lived in ritual impurity; they first had to receive the truth and undergo baptism.
In addition to my history, the Clementines preserve family stories that later readers mistook for romance. Niceta and Aquila were real individuals whose lives had been scattered by exile and catastrophe. These twins mirror James and John, with their stepfather Zebedee recast as Simon Magus. For the sake of friendship and boyish companionship, Niceta and Aquila attached themselves to Simon, the magician. The narrative’s concern over incest reflects historical reality: their mother’s brother, the son of Antonia Major, daughter of Mark Antony, was formally indicted for the crime but spared by the death of Tiberius—demonstrating how lived events were compressed and reframed within the literary structure of the Clementines.
Likewise, the Syrophoenician woman Justa and her daughter preserve a memory later absorbed into the Magdalene tradition—not through invention, but through the convergence of lived events, reflected almost word for word in the Gospels. Justa, a Syrophoenician and thus by heritage a Canaanite, had a daughter afflicted with a grievous disease. Faithful to her obligations and of affluent means, she remained a widow herself but gave her daughter in marriage to a man who was devoted to the true faith.
Almost as a matter of fact, the text also identifies Matthias as Barnabas, resolving the longstanding question of who became the twelfth apostle in place of Judas—someone who, in the Gospel accounts, disappears from history entirely.
With these truths and secrets established, the stage was set for the debates. Peter and I confronted one another across towns in the Levant, measuring reason against authority, logic against dogma, insight against fear. With these truths established, the debates commenced:
I spoke calmly, measuring each word: “If God touched the chaos directly, how could the pure mingle with corruption? The Infinite cannot be confined within matter. Creation must proceed through a Mind that mediates between spirit and form.” I watched as the murmurs grew. Scholars leaned in; some scribes frowned, others whispered their assent. Peter’s lips curled in anger. Authority alone could not strike down reason.
After the columns and murmurs of Caesarea faded behind us, we traveled north along the coast, the salt wind carrying both the scent of the sea and the echoes of lingering questions. Each city would test the mind and soul anew.
By the time we reached Tripolis, the debate had turned to evil. Peter claimed it exists to test faith. I could feel his impatience before he spoke, the rigid conviction that fueled his fury. I asked quietly, letting my words drift over the assembly: “Then your God wills evil and punishes those who act in ignorance. Would you call a king just who breeds serpents in the cradle and punishes the bitten?”
I observed the crowd, noting which minds were open and which were closed. Peter’s cheeks flushed as he pounded the air with scripture, yet his words seemed to ring hollow to those seeking coherence. I could almost hear the silent calculations of the youth around us—they were weighing the mercy of reason against the harshness of dogma. “Evil,” I explained, “is the offspring of ignorance, not divine will. The soul suffers until it recalls its origin.” I sensed some of Peter’s own followers faltering.
It is here that Peter leads Clement to the seaside and baptizes him in an ever-flowing spring. Peter warns the people that although the serpent lurking within you occupies your senses with a thousand arts of corruption, and throws in your way a thousand obstacles, by which he may turn you away from the hearing of saving instruction, all the more ought you to resist him, and despising his suggestions, to come together the more frequently to hear the word and receive instruction from us, because nobody can learn anything who is not taught.
We set out along the coast, the cliffs of Tripolis gradually giving way to the distant cedar forests of Byblos. The conversations lingered in my mind, each question, each rebuttal, a ripple upon the sea that carried us toward new horizons of inquiry.
By Byblos, scripture itself became a battlefield. Peter’s voice was sharp: “All truth stands upon the Law and the Prophets; beyond them lies deception.” I inhaled the cedar-scented air and spoke: “Scripture is a lamp for the night, not the sun at noon. Spirit writes new words upon every awakened heart.” Even as the priests whispered their indignation, I noticed the crowd leaning forward. The weight of certainty cannot outmatch the lure of living truth.
From Byblos, the road led to the marble streets of Berytus, where prophecy awaited its turn. The wind from the mountains carried both the scent of salt and the weight of centuries past.
In Berytus, the debate turned to prophecy. Peter thundered that only Jesus was the True Prophet. I studied his eyes—fury tempered by insecurity—and said, “The True Prophet is eternal Mind, clothing itself in whom it wills. Moses once, Jesus later, and now—whosoever mirrors the Divine Thought.” I felt the Roman philosophers nod subtly; the sound of recognition came first in silence, then in murmurs. Peter’s indignation was a storm I observed with quiet amusement; logic and universality always unsettle the authoritarian mind.
The coastal road curved northward, Sidon’s harbor glistening with the reflection of the early morning sun. Our minds braced for resurrection, fate, and salvation, each debate carving its mark upon the journey.
Sidon brought resurrection. Peter shouted of bodily rising; I shook my head and spoke softly, aware of the tremor in my own heart. “Would God rebuild corruption? Resurrection is the soul’s awakening. The body is but the cocoon.” I caught a few glances of understanding, mingled with disbelief. Even as Peter hissed “Pagan folly!” I felt a brief pang of sympathy—the man was sincere, and yet trapped by literalism.
We sailed past Sidon, the skyline giving way to Tyre’s towers. Stars would soon demand our attention, and the heavens themselves became our classroom.
Tyre demanded stars and fate. Peter warned against demons; I traced constellations with a finger in the air. “The heavens declare God’s order. Fate governs the ignorant; knowledge makes one free.” The astronomers leaned close. Peter’s voice rose, small and desperate against the vastness of the sky. I felt the weight of centuries of thought behind me—all the study of the heavens, of matter and spirit—crystallizing in this moment.
Here, Clement meets Bernice, daughter of Justa—thus in Helena’s convent—the fated sister of Agrippa who would almost reach the stars to become Empress of Rome as Titus’ lover but to be called the “Whore of Babylon” in Revelation.
Ptolemais emerged on the horizon, its white walls promising both salvation and fresh challenge.
Ptolemais was salvation. Peter bellowed, “Repent and believe, and you shall be saved.” I replied quietly, almost to myself, “Faith without knowledge is blind. Salvation is self-discovery—the awakening of the divine spark within.” I noticed some of Peter’s disciples falter, their eyes tracing the sea beyond the walls, seeking the freedom I described. Even a teacher’s certainty can bend when truth speaks softly.
Dora came next, the spectacle and miracles awaiting their test.
Peter demanded a sign. I held a bowl of water, whispered, and the reflection shimmered as if lit from within. “Power is understanding hidden laws,” I said. His face darkened further. “Sorcery! Demonic!” he spat, but the murmurs of the crowd betrayed my triumph. Even skeptics could sense the difference between force and comprehension.
High cliffs above Sidon loomed, a place for reflection and the lesson of divine essence.
Peter screamed at my words on the cross: “Blasphemy! The world’s ransom is crucifixion!” I felt the shadow of sorrow pass through me—the mortal misunderstanding of divine essence is always painful. “The divine cannot bleed,” I said softly. “The form that suffered was an image for those who dwell in illusion.” Some wept, others exhaled relief. Even in debate, compassion found its place.
The northern wind carried us toward Antioch, where the Kingdom itself awaited.
Debate 10 – Antioch (Kingdom of Heaven)Finally, Antioch. Peter declared its visible coming at the end of time. I looked over the river, the city, the sun glinting on stone and water. “The Kingdom is already present. He who knows himself lives in it now.” Cheers rose from the citizens, philosophers nodded, yet Peter’s threats of damnation lingered only briefly before fading into the quiet rhythm of awakening comprehension.
After the northern Phoenician debates, we paused at Balaneae. Peter’s wife joined him, her presence bringing calm authority and grounding the group. The journey had been long; the sea and wind carried reflections of each debate.
Along this leg:
• We visited Paltos and Gabala, minor ports where local stories enriched our understanding.
• Peter took a boat to Aradus Island and marveled at its vine-wood columns and ancient stone walls. Here the tale of Domitia Lepida Major, her twin sons Niceta and Aquila, unfolded, intertwining family, politics, and history with the philosophical odyssey.
It was a joyous reunion when Niceta and Aquila learned that their mother, who had been lost at sea, had been found in a setting that mirrored that of my mother on Pandateria.
Significantly, the sons James and John also claimed to be called Faustinus and Faustus, and it is historically true that later their mother married Faustus Cornelius Sulla. Thus the later romantic addition showed me as a magician able to change into their father Faustus when actually I had even time-tracked. This name would forever tie me to a deal made with the devil.
(2-5)
Reunited and strengthened, we pressed north toward Laodicea to end the debates.
Amid spies, deserters, stolen notes, whispered schemes, I—already Faustus in their eyes—watched truth move: never a pseudo-work, never twisted, flowing beyond envy and deceit, enduring, unstoppable, eternal, like a shadow of the divine bending only to understanding and truth.
As Acts would eventually be overshadowed by Paul, the Clementines remained true to the essence of the Way.
It was September 37 AD. Jesus had left the monastery for the expected birth of his second child, following the Essene requirement that allowed him to attempt a second dynastic heir three years after Phoebe, born just after the Resurrection. Soon came the announcement, whispered in the coded phrase: “The word of God did increase.” Magdalene had given birth to a son, named Jesus after his father.
As crown prince, he would take the title of first in line to Jesus, replacing his deputy Joses-Barnabas—chosen by lot to succeed his older brother. James had continued to call himself James the Just, but now even he could not claim that title. Years afterward, Paul would write in his Epistle to the Colossians, recognizing the importance of a Jesus called Justus—a circumcised Jew who brought him comfort during his imprisonment—a name that traced the bloodline of Jesus' hidden succession.
At the birth celebration Jesus sought me out. He said, with the calmness that always preceded some daring request:
“I am glad you did not run back to Rome to try to replace your nephew Caligula as Emperor. I feared you might, but I need your help now for a different plan.”
I smiled. “Yes, I did consider it,” I confessed, “but given his immaturity I had no wish to risk my life again. Crucifixion has a way of reminding one of fragility.”
“We are the only ones,” I replied, “bonded by the Crucifixion forever.”
He hesitated, then continued:
“After studying Clement’s record of your debates with Peter, the contrast was unmistakable: he does not command a crowd as you do. His dispute with you over what he labels simony—pardon the expression—has obscured a hard truth: the Way cannot be sustained by the meager offerings of the poor alone. He lacks the intellectual breadth to win the educated whose resources we require. The poor contribute faithfully, but the mission cannot endure on a widow’s mite. We must, therefore, enlist Saul.”
I laughed aloud. “Saul? The very man who would destroy us! You would bring the wolf into the sheepfold?”
“I know what you are thinking,” Jesus said quietly, “but Saul will become the vessel to bear my name before nations, kings, and the children of Israel—and he will suffer much in my name. His strength and intellect are without equal, save perhaps your own.”
“You esteem him highly,” I said, “yet his conversion seems impossible.”
Seeing his disappointment, I softened. “It is true that Saul only held Jonathan cloak and did not throw stones so he may be persuadable yet still.”
Then grinning, I added, “Except for one small obstacle: Peter has cursed me to death and excommunicated me!”
Jesus laughed. “A convenient excuse. You know it carries no weight without my sanction. You have been excommunicated by higher powers before—and survived with my help.”
“True,” I said. “The Lazarus affair proved that. But here lies our dilemma: to recruit Saul would risk your Resurrection status—the very foundation of your authority and the strongest lure for new believers. You must remain hidden, though none could sway him more effectively than you.”
I paused, my face brightening as the thought took shape. “Perhaps you can speak to him after all.”
Jesus looked puzzled.
“We can use his belief that you are a resurrected spirit,” I said. “At a gathering, from an upper gallery, you could call to him. His obsessive hatred might turn to obsessive devotion.”
“Are you proposing magic?” Jesus asked.
“More psychology than magic,” I replied. “Rage and fear sharpen illusion—and what greater illusion exists than you alive in the flesh? When he sees you, he will be struck blind by the light, trapped between terror and revelation. You will command him to find one who can restore his sight—that will be me. His hunger for divine truth will do the rest.”
We waited to set the trap.
Paul would move around the eastern world being Jew by covenant, Pharisee by training, Greek in mind, Roman by status, Herodian by nature. Citizenship, when granted, reflected his place in the delicate web of Herodian and Roman favor. In such a world, identity was never accidental. It was architecture, each layer deliberate, each piece laid to serve a purpose unseen but inevitable. Paul could move through worlds few could enter, bending law and custom, yet with a loyalty that none could question. Beneath the polish, beneath the carefully constructed layers, was a spirit that would not be contained—a mind always plotting, always reaching, always hungry.
Paul revealed these layers in the careful way he addressed others. To the Jews in Jerusalem, he declared:
“I am a Jew, born in Tarsus of Cilicia, but brought up in this city; I studied under Gamaliel, educated strictly according to the law of our ancestors, being zealous for God as all of you are today” (Ac 22:3).
Before the Sanhedrin, he emphasized his Pharisaic lineage:
“I am a Pharisee, the son of Pharisees” (Ac 23:6).
Addressing Agrippa II, he recounted his upbringing and zeal:
“I was educated from my youth according to the strictest sect of our religion, being a Pharisee. I persecuted this Way with the utmost intensity.” (Ac 26:4–5).
In his letters, he proclaimed his tribal and religious credentials with precision:
“Circumcised on the eighth day, of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; in regard to the law, a Pharisee; as for zeal, persecuting the church; as for righteousness under the law, faultless” (Phil 3:5–6), and “I was advancing in Judaism beyond many of my own age among my people, being more extremely zealous for the traditions of my fathers” (Gal 1:13–14).
And when Roman authority threatened, he did not hesitate to invoke his citizenship:
“Is it lawful for you to flog a man who is a Roman citizen?” (Ac 22:25–28).
Each statement was both mask and instrument—carefully chosen for audience and occasion. And yet even the most practiced of masks could not prevent a single misstep.
In the last chapter of his time in the East, Paul had spoken with Jesus of the need for them both to go to Rome, though the path was far from straight.
His misstep came at the Temple in Jerusalem: attempting to bring Trophimus into the restricted, oily inner courts, he had overstepped the boundaries of the Law. The crowd surged in outrage.
If he had he not appealed to his Roman citizenship, they would have torn him from the steps to meet a swift death . Safety came from his arrest and having been brought to the prefect’s quarters, He thought he was safe, but Trophimus uncovered a plot to abduct Paul and immediately warned him. The Roman authorities acted quickly, sending him under escort—a disciplined contingent moving through the city, soldiers forming a living barrier between Paul and the angry mob, carrying him to the palace of the procurator Festus in Caesarea.
Festus, recognizing the delicate mix of religious law and Roman politics, called in Agrippa II, who had been entrusted by Nero with oversight of Temple affairs. Agrippa and his sister Bernice arrived, curious and attentive.
Paul, seizing the moment, recounted his conversion, framing it in terms of divine revelation and obedience. He spoke carefully, hoping to draw Agrippa into acknowledgment of the Way which was secretly a part of, without endangering himself. Agrippa, aware of his own precarious position, noted quietly, “This man has almost persuaded me to be of your way.”
(31-4)
Then Trophimus was called as a witness. In the presence of Agrippa and Bernice, he declared himself, “I am the son of Paul’s sister.” No one challenged him at the moment; the revelation hovered in plain sight, unspoken.
Paul saw Agrippa hesitating, unwilling to fully endorse him, and invoked his rights as a Roman citizen: he requested to appeal to Caesar. The appeal was a lifeline, a sanctioned path to Rome—and a way to join with Jesus in the journey they had long discussed. Agrippa, respecting the law, granted the request. Paul was removed in chains, destined for the imperial court.
As the guards led him away, Bernice whispered to Agrippa, pondering Trophimus’s revelation. “He said he is the son of Paul’s sister… how could that be?”
Agrippa paused, retracing the family lines. “Salome is his mother,” he murmured. “The daughter of Herodias… the one whose dance led to John’s head on a platter.”
He thought back to Herod Antipas’s divorce of Phasaelis, the Nabataean princess, and subsequent marriage to Herodias. Slowly the pieces fell into place.
“Herodias is Paul’s stepmother,” he realized aloud. Turning to Bernice, he added, “I see it now. Paul is the son of Antipas himself. If he had not appealed to Caesar, I could have set him free.”
The weight of the revelation settled over them, unspoken yet undeniable: the Herodian bloodline coursed quietly through the leadership of the Way, linking dynasty and discipleship in ways that even Rome had not anticipated.
Paul was born in 17 AD. From a young age, he studied under Gamaliel, heir of Hillel, in Jerusalem, absorbing the law until he was considered beyond reproach in Pharisaic circles.
In 36 AD he entered Qumran and Ein Feshkha as an acolyte at the age of 20. Suddenly in the winter of 36 AD two legions appeared nearby! Vitellius, the governor of Syria had marched them through Judea to fight King Atreus who had attacked Herod Antipas for divorcing his daughter, While they camped nearby, the inhabitants of Qumran were in panic. They worried that since Qumran which had been once used as Zealot fort, they might be suspected of harboring opponents of Rome.
It was then that Saul wrote the Pesher of Habakkuk which spoke of the Kittim (Romans) who “trample the earth with their horses,” and of “the House of Absalom” (the traitor son of David, i.e. Jesus) and “the Wicked Priest” (Jesus) “who was called by the name of truth when he first arose.” When the news arrived that Tiberius was dead, he withdrew.
From these writings, it was clear that Saul believed that Jesus had corrupted the true faith and was all the more determined to work to eliminate the Way.
Jesus and I realized there was no time to waste. Already Saul had gone to the high priest and requested letters to the synagogues in Damascus so that he may arrest followers of “the Way” and bring them bound to Jerusalem. He was “breathing threats and slaughter against the disciples of the Lord, he was planning to go to a special service in our church at Damascus—whose design was ideal for illusion.
The larger gatherings of the Way had an upper gallery for bishops and presbyters to stand. A central skylight was built into the roof that could be opened to let sunlight flood the upper gallery with light, creating the halo effect so beloved by later artists. We sent out word that Jesus would be there in Spirit on the final day of the Tabernacle Festival. We were blessed with a sunny day.
At the city’s edge, Saul stormed through the gates and entered the gathering. The skylight opened; a shaft of light flashed around him—“a light from heaven.”
He fell to the ground and heard a voice
:
“Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?”
Jesus stood on the upper level, the sunlight forming a crown about his head.
“Who are you—an angel?” Saul cried.
“I am Jesus, whom you persecute. Now rise, go into the city, and you will be told what you must do.”
Saul rose, but “his eyes were open, yet he saw nothing.” Trembling, he asked, “Lord, what will you have me do?”
And the Lord said, “Arise and go into the Way which is called Straight,”, “for straight is the gate and narrow the Way that leads to life, and few there be that find it.” Led by his companions, he entered my house. In a vision he saw “a man named Ananias”—myself under my missionary name—come to lay hands upon him and restore his sight.
For several days I revealed to him the inner mysteries of the Way.
In his new self—Paul—rage fell away. Overjoyed, he ran through Damascus proclaiming, “The true path is the Way! Jesus is the Son of God!” The crowd murmured, “Is this not he who destroyed those who called upon this name in Jerusalem?”
The governor under King Aretas IV heard of him. “I know this man,” said Aretas. “He is the son of my daughter! Arrest him—he shall not trouble my city.” The gates were guarded, but Paul’s friends let him down in a basket through a window in the wall. King Aretas IV, who had once visited Jesus in the manger, would die shortly thereafter, as funerary inscriptions attest.
Paul spent the next three years in study with me. When he returned to Peter in Jerusalem, most still distrusted him, and he went to Tarsus for further study.
In 43 AD, Joses-Barnabas collected him to travel to Antioch for the opening of the first Christian Church.
| Herodian Name | 'Way Name | Note |
|---|---|---|
| Herod | Timothy | Grandmother Lois (Herodias) mother Eunice (Salome) 2Tim Whose mother was Jewish and a believer but whose father was a Greek. Appears in four epistles; accompanies Paul on journeys; circumcised by Paul; appears in at least thirteen of Paul’s epistles; eldest son of Salome; groomed to be the adoptive son of Agrippa II, who was childless. |
| Agrippa | Tychicus | Appears in four epistles; accompanies Paul on journeys. |
| Aristobulus | Trophimus | Nephew of Paul; warns him of the Jewish plot; mentioned in 2 Timothy as being sick. |
Salome was married to Aristobulus of Chalcis, brother of Agrippa I, placing her firmly within the Herodian dynasty of Judea. Though the family lived in Chalcis and were often labeled “Greek” or “Asian” by geography, their lineage remained distinctly Herodian.
When Paul traveled through the eastern provinces, three of his companions are listed: Timothy, Tychicus, and Trophimus—from the province of Asia. These correspond directly with the sons of Salome and Aristobulus of Chalcis: Timothy, Tychicus, and Trophimus. Likewise, the Second Epistle to Timothy mirrors this generational continuity, presenting Eunice and Lois as maternal transmitters of faith—echoes of Salome and Herodias within the same family line.
Timothy, bearing the Herodian name Herod, was the son of a Jewish woman and a Greek father—matching Salome and Aristobulus of Chalcis. Raised by his mother Salome, associated with the myth of John’s head on a platter and living in the convent of Helena—clearly a convert of the Way—he stood at the intersection of Jewish covenant and Hellenistic reach. As the son of Salome—Paul’s sister-in-law—Timothy was not merely a disciple but Paul’s own nephew, binding apostolic mission to Herodian blood. Named in at least thirteen of Paul’s epistles, with two addressed directly to him, Timothy was circumcised by Paul and entrusted with oversight of congregations. He moved confidently between Jewish and Greek regions, uniting dynastic inheritance with apostolic mission. With Agrippa II childless, his first cousin Timothy stood at the convergence of royal continuity and the advance of the Way.
Tychicus, bearing the Herodian name Agrippa, appears in four epistles as Paul’s trusted delegate. He carried letters, represented Paul’s authority, and strengthened assemblies across the provinces. Sharing the name of Agrippa I and Agrippa II, he embodied the tension of sustaining Herodian legacy while pledging allegiance to the Way.
Trophimus, known within the family as Aristobulus, was Paul’s nephew and the third in this sequence. As shown earlier, he uncovered and reported a plot against Paul in Jerusalem—where Luke subtly reveals the close familial network at work beneath the public narrative. He is later mentioned in 2 Timothy as ill, a reminder that even those of noble blood were not exempt from human frailty.
Together, Timothy, Tychicus, and Trophimus formed a traveling triad whose ordinary names concealed dynastic and familial weight. During Paul’s imprisonments, he relied on them to sustain and coordinate the organization of the Way. Beneath the surface of Acts and the epistles, a Herodian framework quietly undergirded its expansion—binding bloodline and belief into a single unfolding history.
It was December 24, 43 AD—it was like Christmas for the Gentiles.
“Barnabas went forth to Tarsus to seek Saul, and having found him, he brought him to Antioch. It came to pass that for a whole year they assembled together with the church and taught a great multitude. The disciples were divinely called Christians first in Antioch.”
The Christian Church was now unified. This was the culmination of efforts throughout the year that resulted in the official acceptance of the Gentiles into the Way. Its name would now fully recognize Jesus as the founder of the Church. Included were the Jewish faction under James, the brother of Jesus, and the Essene Therapeuts.
Having so many different nations present at Pentecost, it is hard to believe that it took ten years for the Way to become accessible to both Jews and Gentiles. Part of the delay can be attributed to recuperating from the Crucifixion. Most of all it was the result of our judgment that His Resurrection was the most powerful symbol for converting followers. This required maintaining a low profile, made possible if he kept to the monastery, appearing in the world only when it was time to conceive a child.
Considering the success achieved during the brief period when he conceived Phoebe, this seemed a sound working plan. However, when he returned three years after Phoebe, it proved more difficult to remove the circumcision requirement.
Now it was six years after the birth of Jesus Justus, and he would try again. Not only did he succeed this time, but he also conceived a son with Mary Magdalene, who was named Joseph after his grandfather, and who would later be remembered as Joseph of Arimathea in Britain.
| Times when Jesus is out of monastery are conceiving time and birth | |||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| child | sex | wait time | conceiving time | birth | appearances |
| Tamar/Phoebe | female | 3 | Sept 32-Jan 33 | Sept 33 | Road to Emmaus |
| Jesus Justus | male | 6 | Jun 36-Sept 36 | June 37 | Appears at Jonathan's trial as standing and the right side of the new high priest Theophilus (Acts 7:55–56) Autumn 37 causes Paul's blindness (Acts 9) |
| Joseph | male | 6 | Jun 43-Sept 43 | April 44 | Appears to Cornelius: cloth of animals allowing Gentiles equal status (Acts 10) |
| son of Lydia | male | 6 | Jun 50-Sept 50 | March 51 | Plans his daughter Phoebe's engagement to Paul (Paul' speech: Acts 17) |
This year it was imperative to reorganize because Herod Agrippa now controlled all the territories once held by Herod the Great, and Rome had given him the title ‘ally and friend of the Roman people’ , granting him autonomy to self-rule his kingdom like his grandfather. His growing egomania had begun to frighten the factions—seeing the need for standing together.
By tradition, all the Herod kings would be offered nominal leadership of the Church. This tradition began when Herod the Great under the advice of Hillel and Menahem the Essene he founded the Way to recruit the Diaspora and to expand his kingdom and collect donations for restoring the Temple. This three-fold structure of Abrahm, Issac, Jacob as in the last line of the Lord’s Prayer: the kingdom, the power, and the glory translating into Herod, High Priest, Heli (Jesus’ grandfather). in a three fold manner. Thus Agrippa’s growing egomania had begun to frighten the factions.
The major Church leaders met secretly in Joppa in the summer of 43 AD. There they planned a major gathering for December at Antioch—a neutral ground north of Jerusalem—to formally declare themselves Christians with their own elected leaders.
Jesus decided to inaugurate the change to full Gentile membership through Cornelius, the centurion, who was called “a righteous and God-fearing man, respected by all the Jewish people”, but he was more than that to us. It was Cornelius who had testified that Jesus was dead on the cross, even though he suspected He was alive—helping to cover up the Resurrection. . Under his baptismal name Luke, he was continuing to write Acts. Cornelius enjoyed writing the events of this year with a mystical flair, especially since he was in it.
So the story begins. Jesus sent Peter to visit Cornelius, who fell to his feet and bowed before him. Peter raised him, saying:
“Stand up; I also myself am a man” meaning that Jews and Gentiles are now equal.”
Then when Cornelius was praying in his house at the ninth hour, three in the afternoon, suddenly a man in shining clothes (Jesus in the flesh) stood before him, telling him to go to Joppa for Peter, “a guest in the home of Simon the tanner (Simon Magus), who lives by the sea.”
For Jesus was preparing a spectacular event at the next Church service to admit the Gentiles.
(32-2) On the morrow, as they were proceeding on the Way and drawing near to Joppa, Peter went up upon the housetop (on the second level of the church) to pray, about the sixth hour and there fell upon him a trance.
At the Communion service—presented metaphorically as a meal of unclean animals—Peter saw heaven opened, and a certain vessel descending, as it had been a tablecloth knit at the four corners and let down to the earth, wherein were all manner of four-footed beasts, wild beasts, creeping things, and fowls of the air.
Then Jesus (on the third higher platform) called out to Peter: “Rise, Peter, kill and eat.”
The embroidered animals, reptiles, and birds —drawn from Noah’s Ark—symbolized all races of people rather than Jews alone.
Peter had once blocked Clement from eating with him during our talks in 37 AD, saying:
“We do not take our food from the same table as Gentiles, inasmuch as we cannot eat along with them, because they live impurely, unless when they believe, receive the truth, and are baptized.” Yet, after Clement was baptized, he was allowed to join Peter. Clearly, an exception to him for taking down the words of the debate.
Thus at the service Peter, acting in that role, said: “Not so, Lord; for I have never eaten anything common or unclean.”
And the voice replied:“What God hath cleansed, cannot be called common.”
And just like that – all Gentiles were allowed at the common table after baptism.
That Peter stayed in Joppa “for some time with a tanner named Simon” implies that I am his superior—the one who performed Cornelius’s confirmation and gave him the baptismal name Luke, granting him full membership in the Church.
1. Healing James, Brother of Jesus
We learn that ‘Aeneas’ is James from the comparison of the two similar healings by Peter. Both show these are not physical healings but symbolic leadership changes . Peter has not gained supernatural power.
”And it came to pass, as Peter passed throughout all quarters, he came down also to the saints who dwelt at Lydda. And there he found a certain man named Aeneas (James, brother of Jesus), who had kept his bed eight years and was sick of the palsy. And Peter said unto him, Aeneas (James, brother of Jesus), Jesus Christ maketh thee whole: arise, and make thy bed. And he arose immediately. And all that dwelt at Lydda and Saron saw him, and turned to the Lord.”
This was the second healing of James. The first one was after Pentecost: “And a certain man lame from his mother’s womb was carried, whom they laid daily at the gate of the temple which is called Beautiful, to ask alms. Peter said, ‘Silver and gold have I none, but what I have I give you: In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk.’ And he took him by the right hand and lifted him up.” This same lame man was James. The healing act was Peter consoling James, that he had been passed over for the silver and gold of the twelfth disciple who had been rejected as Judas’s replacement for his younger brother.
Actually, Jesus had ‘healed’ him earlier at the Pool of Bethesda, making fun of his belief in a faulty timing of the Restoration
2. Raising Tabitha (Mother Mary)
Ac 9:36–42
“Now there was at Joppa a certain disciple named Tabitha, which by interpretation is called Dorcas (Mother Mary). This woman was full of good works and deeds—she was sick and died—and they laid her in an upper chamber.”
Peter came, the widows stood weeping, showing coats and garments Dorcas (Mother Mary) had made. Peter kneeled, prayed, and said:
“Tabitha, arise.”
She opened her eyes and sat up. He lifted her and presented her alive. “And it was known throughout all Joppa, and many believed in the Lord.”
and many believed on “the Lord”(Ac9:36-42) and it came to pass, that (”he = “the Lord””) remained many days in Joppa, with a certain one, Simon a tanner.(Ac9:43}
With these two healings according in tandem, and, having determined that James there—previously crippled by his Jewish leaning party—we can guess that this is Mother Mary and that James is now joining us in the soon to be created Church with his mother. Had she stayed in Lydda, she would be ‘dead’ to the Church. Instead it was a joyous reunion especially since for Jesus it was one of the rare times he was out of the monastery. At my church, we shared communion.
It is significant that I am a tanner, because I am now the tester, as Judas was to Jesus prior to his first conception, for Jesus again was required to undergo his wilderness testing before joining Mary Magdalene to conceive their third child.
I had a wry thought about my position as a tanner—after the Joint Council, I was sure I would be skinned alive—removed from the Gospels. In the eyes of the crowds, the blind saw, the lame walked, and they whispered in awe as Jesus moved among them. Wonders had always flowed through Jewish tradition—Moses parting seas, Elijah calling down fire, Elisha healing the sick, Isaiah foretelling the day when the blind would see and the lame would walk.
Now the Gospel writers would draw from these ancient sources—the Torah, the Prophets, the Septuagint, the Apocrypha, and the Qumran texts—to portray Jesus’ deeds as fulfillment and revelation, while concealing how he reshaped Essene doctrine for the masses—to be revealed later in the “Pesher of Christ.”
Two small Gospels already existed: the Gospel of John (by Jesus and myself, scribed by John Mark) and the Gospel of Peter (by Peter, later revised by Mark). Both covered His three-year ministry, centered on the Crucifixion.
A more complete Gospel was needed. Matthew Annas, disciple of Jesus and High Priest in 43 AD, agreed to write it. Jesus wished to compose a Gospel equal to Matthew’s but more compassionate, including parables drawn from the Way’s earlier history. Luke agreed to help write it. At that time, Luke was continuing to write Acts, already dedicated to Theophilus (Matthew’s younger brother, High Priest 37–41 AD). The Gospels of Thomas and Philip were considered later.
Peter’s Gospel had been literal; the council decided that presenting events as miracles—in Jewish prophetic style—would be more effective and chose a certain Mark to rewrite it.
Leviticus 19:11 commands: “Thou shalt not lie”; the Eighth Commandment forbids bearing false witness. How, then, could the Gospel writers shape allegories truthfully?
Oral stories could bypass this—gossip, rumor, allegory. The Resurrection could be framed as women’s rumor at the tomb. Once canonized, metaphor protected truth.
Thus I taught them to hide truth through metaphor—Jesus’ survival from the Crucifixion could be called Resurrection, and His return to the monastery—a higher state—could be called Ascension. Every revision of Essene law elevating Gentiles could be framed as a healing.
Impossible tales—“Water into Wine,” “Camel through the Eye of a Needle,” “Raising of Lazarus”—signaled metaphor for those “who have ears to hear.”
Paul echoed this with “Babes in Christ.”
The Essenes did the same: the pesher is the key.
Eventually, my detractors raised complaints—especially regarding John’s Gospel. Revelation records: “Go, take the little scroll—take and eat it; it shall make your belly bitter, but in your mouth it shall be sweet as honey.”
This “bitterness” was about me. The pivotal story of the “Raising of Lazarus” was not allowed to be attributed to me, so I became merely the brother of Martha and, at the Crucifixion, just “a passerby.” However, these edits were not carefully applied, and my name slipped in unawares.
Now, in December, we had all become Christmas—members of the Way, united as followers of the Anointed One, from chrió, “to anoint.” Jesus, remaining hidden in the flesh, was still able to command an army of angels.
In the wake of the Church’s triumphant founding, it was inevitable that, upon the stage of men, the mighty would fall to make way for a new order. Herod would die, Jesus would be divorced, and I would be cast down from the papal throne. One by one, the old powers yielded to the rising hierarchy—and upon the stage stepped the new rulers of faith: the bishops, Peter and Paul.
Herod Agrippa had inherited the kingdom and power of his grandfather, yet with it came his madness. He spent vast sums on entertainment, gathering prisoners to stage a gladiatorial fight of seven hundred against seven hundred, patting himself on the back for providing amusement to the crowds.
Having resolved to exert more control over the Church, Herod Agrippa had an altercation with James, the brother of John, and put him to death with the sword. While normally an execution, since he was honorary head of the Church, it amounted to little more than excommunication—but it was a troubling sign of worse to come. Wh,en he heard that Simon Peter had spoken against him, he summoned Peter. Upon Peter’s arrival at Caesarea, despite his apology, he was thrown into prison.
To diffuse the apparent attack on the Way, I suggested to Herod Agrippa that Peter’s release from prison could serve to complete his preparation for the position of bishop under my guidance. Since Peter’s wife had died (she was the daughter of Glaphyra), he now met the requirement of celibacy. If he became bishop, he would outrank James and John, who were presbyters, and thus could enforce Agrippa’s wishes. Herod agreed to release him in three days.
Although the story presents it as a miraculous event—an angel loosening the prison gates—in truth, it was I, Simon Magus, guiding Peter, the Angel of the Lord, through the stages he needed to ascend to bishop.
Peter lay half-asleep between two soldiers, bound in chains. I touched his shoulder. “Rise,” I whispered. “Your wife is gone. You are free.”
He stirred, uncertain if he still walked the world of men or had entered a vision. The chains fell from his hands, and a radiant light filled the room. I struck gently at his side, as Jacob’s angel had done, and said: “Gird yourself. Tie your sandals. As Jacob became Israel, you are renamed. Step forward.”
Peter obeyed, stepping into the first ward. The memory of the night before the Crucifixion came flooding back. “You held the office of Merari as a deacon before,” I said. A crowing cock echoed in his mind, bridging past and present.
We moved into the second ward. A raven alighted on his shoulder. Peter flinched. “What does this mean?” he asked. “You are Gershon, a presbyter,” I replied.
An iron door swung open ahead. From its gate, a dove flew into the city, wings catching the morning sun. Peter walked down the length of One Street—the Way—my voice guiding him: “Go forth as Kohath, bishop.” And then I vanished, leaving him to the path laid before him.
Peter stood, half-dazed but filled with purpose. The wards had marked his transformation: from deacon to presbyter, and now to bishop. The Church, and its new hierarchy, awaited him.
Having been released from prison and promoted to bishop, Peter excitedly traveled to Mary Magdalene’s convent at Lydda. He arrived at the house where Mary Magdalene was staying. Her superior was John Mark (whose name is first revealed here). It was now evening, and he heard my people singing and praying. He knocked on the porch door.
Mary Magdalene opened it, and Peter said, “Mary.”
Magdalene replied, “I am Rhoda.”
Peter, confused, asked, “Can I come in?”
“I am sorry,” she said. “The joy in my belly does not allow you to enter.”
Perplexed by her attitude, Peter proudly said, “I am a bishop now; of course I am allowed to enter!”
Magdalene replied, “Oh, I see. Your wife must have freed you with her death. Although I am sympathetic to your loss,” she added, pointing to her baby bump, “it can often be a great burden.”
Peter asked, “What are you implying? … Is Bartholomew here?”
Magdalene ran back without opening the door and exclaimed, “Peter is at the door!”
They asked her, “Are you a sibyl who can see into the future?” But she confidently affirmed it was Peter. Then they said, “It must be his angel-spirit,” believing that Agrippa had executed him.
Peter kept knocking, and when John Mark opened the door, he shouted, “You are alive!”
Peter replied, “Not only alive, but a bishop!”
John Mark pulled Peter aside, saying, “You must excuse Magdalene’s rudeness. She is nine months pregnant and already planning to move away to Rhodes.”
Peter asked, “Why Rhodes?”
John Mark answered, “Many are fleeing from Herod Agrippa, like John Aquila to Patmos. But this is also because I believe she wants a divorce.”
Peter said, “That is not good.”
On April 10, 44 AD, when Agrippa had reigned three years over all Judea, he came to the city of Caesarea Maritima , formerly called Strato's Tower. There, at a certain festival, a great multitude of people of dignity from throughout his province were in attendance. On the second day of the festival, he put on a garment made wholly of silver and of a texture truly wonderful, and came into the theater early in the morning.
The silver of his garment, illuminated by the fresh reflection of the sun’s rays, shone out dazzlingly bright, dazzling the onlookers . Presently, his flatterers cried out, one from one place and another from another (though not for his good), “He is a god!”
But as he looked out at the multitude, he saw an owl out of the corner of his eye, sitting on a certain rope above his head, and immediately understood that this bird meant his death. A severe pain arose in his belly and began in a most violent manner. Falling to the ground, he was carried up to his palace. In five days, he was dead at the age of fifty-four, in the seventh year of his reign.
On the platform, the eunuch Blastus–Nicolaus confided to me:
“I feel remorse for giving him the snake poison.”
I reassured him: “Nicolaus, is it not our duty to put a mad dog down? Madness runs in the blood of emperors—Herod the Great, Caligula. Inbreeding is the sin, not ours.”
He hesitated. “He once was great. It is a tribute that he restored Herod the Great’s kingdom piece by piece.”
I continued: “Though impressive, his insanity mirrored that of his grandfather. A mad king is dangerous, capable of killing family and subjects alike. The madness of Herod the Great caused him to murder his three sons. He nearly slaughtered the citizens he locked in the hippodrome just to secure his legacy. This is the danger of allowing a king to rule past his sanity.”
“You did well to trick him into taking the snake poison. Countless lives were spared. As a reward, you will become bishop of Laodicea—one of the seven great churches under your charge.”
In June, Jesus arrived at the convent in Lydda. Magdalene stepped forward, cradling a bundled baby boy. Her eyes shone with pride, tinged with apprehension. “Now I have given you an heir—and a spare,” she said softly, her voice trembling.
Jesus smiled, lifting the infant to his chest. “Another boy! He is beautiful. I shall name him Joseph.”
Magdalene hesitated, then spoke, her fingers brushing the baby’s blanket. “I must tell you something that may displease you.”
Jesus’ gaze softened. “Speak freely.”
“I wish to divorce you,” she said. “The rift between Simon and Peter will widen now that Peter is a bishop. I am tired of this struggle. And at my age, I cannot bear another child.”
Jesus was silent for a long moment. His eyes darkened with sorrow, but he remained calm. “That saddens me,” he said finally, “but I see your reasoning. I have loved both you and Simon. If divorce is your choice, I will honor it.”
A bittersweet smile crossed Magdalene’s face. “I have affection for you,” she admitted, resting a hand protectively on her belly. “Perhaps Paul can justify it. As a Syro-Phoenician woman, I am not bound by Jewish law if I do not remarry.”
Jesus nodded, his fingers brushing lightly across the infant’s hair. For a long moment, the three of them—the mother, the child, and the teacher—stood in quiet recognition of duty, love, and sacrifice.
To the married: A wife must not separate from her husband. But if she does, she must remain unmarried or be reconciled. To the rest: If a believer has a spouse unwilling to live with them, let it be so. God calls us to live in peace.
The schism that Magdalene had predicted occurred soon after, in Paphos, Cyprus. In late autumn of 44 AD, the seventeen-year-old Agrippa II was apprenticed to the proconsul on the island—being too young to rule his father’s kingdom. I led a large group of followers there and also trained him to assume a leadership role in the Church.
At the same time, Paul had begun his first missionary journey from Antioch with Barnabas and John Mark. They were traveling through Cyprus on the first leg of their mission. They had been invited to dinner, as Agrippa was eager to speak with them. I too was invited, along with some of my followers who called me the Magus of Jesus—Elymas Bar-Jesus.
Paul, who was now a bishop and claimed the Holy Spirit, glared at me, saying to Agrippa, “How can you break bread with the sorcerer who killed your father?” Agrippa turned pale. “Is this true?” he asked.
Paul answered, “This deceiver is an expert in the dark arts and poisons. I now curse him to suffer the blindness he once brought upon me.”
Thus ended my chance of regaining my position as Pope.
Paul and Barnabas continued on their journey, but without John Mark, who was furious that they had revealed such a dangerous secret. He and I departed Cyprus for the mainland. The rift between John Mark and Paul endured for many years.
In September of 45 AD, at Antioch of Pisidia, I officiated at the Bat Mitzvah of Jesus’ daughter, Tamar. She was now twelve, coming of age. I presented her with the communion bread and declared:
“Today we celebrate the Bat Mitzvah of Jesus’ daughter, Tamar, now coming of age at twelve. It has been forty years since the High Priest Ananus the Elder declared her father Jesus the legitimate heir of David at his Bar Mitzvah. She has taken the name Phoebe as her religious name, in honor of the first Gentile martyr of ‘the Way,’ who kept silent before Augustus to protect my sister Helena from having her true lover revealed.”
Phoebe’s eyes glistened as she opened Ovid’s Heroides. “I have brought a poem to celebrate Helena’s life, now that she has passed away. This is the voice of Helen:
‘How could you, Paris, so quickly bend my mind?
The more I wonder at your confidence in what you have begun,
and the hope you have given for the bed that is said to be my cause.
Or is it because the hero of Neptune carried me to you,
that though once seized I seem twice over worthy to be seized?’”
A hush fell over the hall. Phoebe bowed her head, a small, radiant smile curling her lips. Magdalene’s breath caught, and she pressed her hands to her chest, eyes glistening with tears. She beheld, fully and without hesitation, her daughter’s courage and intellect—the quiet strength to confront the hidden truths of her inheritance, truths that had once led many to call her mother a prostitute.
I realized then how much my niece had grown—how she had shed the name Tamar, bound to the sorrow of King David’s sister, and embraced a new name of rebirth. In those few lines of poetry, she showed her recognition of her uncle’s naming of her exiled grandmother, Julia the Younger, as Helena, evoking in me the beauty that had once launched a thousand ships, along with the name Neptune, once used by Augustus to ridicule me after my exile. She had drawn a parallel between my bastard birth and hers, echoing the lineage of Zeus and Poseidon—emperor and poet—a lineage to rival even her father, the Son of God.
Afterwards, I sat down with Jesus. I did not plead to remain Pope—I knew this was the last time such a request would sway the disciples. Paul had replaced me. Still, there was one matter I could not leave unspoken: Phoebe’s future.
“Phoebe is remarkable,” I said. “Her reasoning approaches the clarity of Paul’s own. Have you considered uniting her with him in marriage? It might be the only way to guide his uncontrollable force.”
Jesus smiled. “That is precisely why I made you my Pope: always thinking ahead. But it must be her choice. Though I know she is already enraptured by Thecla’s description of him: ‘small of stature, bald-headed, bow-legged, in good health, with eyebrows meeting and a somewhat hooked nose, full of friendliness. At times he appears like a man, and at other times with the face of an angel.’”
I nodded. “This story supports the possibility of both following the Essene marriage rules.”
Jesus paused, considering. “It remains her choice. I will speak to her about it—but only gently, in due time.”
He kisses Simon and leaves, saying, “I am off to Patmos where I will soon dictate to John Aquila my letters to the Seven Churches inviting them to attend the Canonizing ceremony.”
And so, I waited as the final events unfolded, feeling the weight of both history and prophecy. Paul had condemned me to darkness, and there I remained, my waves of magic halted beneath the unyielding weight of certainty. The Old must give way to the New. Yet the culmination of all we had struggled for was still to come—the Canonization of the Gospels.
Then the Seventh Angel would sound his trumpet, and the heavenly voices would declare:
“The kingdoms of this world have become the kingdoms of God and His Christ, who shall reign forever.” Thus the stage of men—angels, kings, and prophets alike—must fall before the will of heaven was made perfect.
Paul would not be invited, having gone to Athens, and from that hour forward he would never again appeal to a written Gospel.
Revelation is not a scroll concerned with the Temple’s fall, nor with the dating of Mark’s “Not one stone will be left upon another,” which has been used to date each separate Gospel. Its vision looks beyond earthly ruins; it beholds: the holy city, coming down out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. The true canonization, therefore, precedes the zealot-led collapse, fulfilling the prophecy of Ezekiel. The four living creatures signify the fourfold Gospel—the ordered and living form of the Church, established from heaven.
"And I saw another angel flying in mid-heaven,
having good news everlasting to proclaim to those dwelling upon the earth,
and to every nation (Gospel of Luke), and tribe (Gospel of Matthew),
and tongue (Gospel of Mark), and people (Gospel of John).Rev 14:06"
The year was 50 AD. Herod Agrippa II, at twenty-three, eager to emulate his father, Agrippa the Great, was persuaded by the High Priest Matthias to hold the canonization of the Gospels at the lavish amphitheater of Caesarea Maritima. By tradition, a Herod king would be given the honorary position of Head of the Church. Three years earlier, Agrippa II had finally received recognition proper to the son of the great Herod Agrippa, having inherited the small Syrian realm of his uncle, Herod of Chalcis, along with oversight of the Temple in Jerusalem and the right to appoint its high priest. Matthias was the benefactor of the Gospel that bears his name, as was his younger brother Theophilus—also a high priest of the prestigious Ananus dynasty—the benefactor of Acts and Luke.
Agrippa II hesitated at first, knowing this was the place of his father’s horrible death. Yet he accepted, since this event was sponsored by the Church and thus free of Roman superstitions like a pesky the owl. Also, Jesus was now out of the monastery, having returned after the six-year waiting period following the birth of his son and his divorce. Simon Magus, implicated in his father’s demise by Paul, was nowhere to be seen—or so he thought. I had been removed as Pope immediately after Paul implicated me and had not been heard from.
Determined to surpass his father, Agrippa spared no expense. He approved the construction of a massive float in the shape of a Jewish star, designed to bear Jesus himself at its center.
It was the day before the Pentecost that would occur on Saturday, May 23, AD 50. Unbeknownst to him, I was directing the craftsmen—like Noah guiding the builders of the Ark—as they labored through the night to raise the Star of David upon its wheeled platform.
The first triangle of the star: Top point: Lion; Left point: Eagle; Right point: Ox.
The second triangle overlaid on the first: the lower point anchored the star to the platform, and the other two points were outfitted with wings. With Jesus positioned in the center as the Man, the float became a living transport device mirroring the four living creatures of Ezekiel 1:4-12.
Persuading Jesus to accept such a display had not been easy. He had wished for a simple, humble procession, not one adorned in splendor. Yet I convinced him that, as long as the construction and the pageant conformed to sacred order, it would be a spectacle that would resonate through history. It would remind the world that the New Testament was replacing the Old, and that through this grand, gleaming display, Jesus’ message of grace, salvation, and redemption would shine.
At dawn, attending to every detail, I oversaw the next important image: four chariots, each pulled by a white, red, black, or pale (representing green) horse, moving forth to the four winds of heaven, having first presented themselves before the LORD of all the earth (Zechariah 6:1-5).
Drivers competed fiercely, each hoping to serve their favored master, as the honor of guiding a chariot represented both prestige and symbolic authority within the pageant.
The crowds buzzed with rumor that Jesus’ spirit would appear.
The theater grounds were meticulously arranged into audience sections:
The Poor Section: Those who did not pay, welcomed by James and John.
The Bishops Section: Visiting preachers, greeted by Peter.
Paying Section: Wealthy donors and benefactors, greeted by Thomas.
High Priest Section: Matthew, Theophilus, Zacchaeus, archbishops from all tribes, and foreign dignitaries.
Emperor’s Chair: Elevated above all sections, reserved for Agrippa II.
The morning sun rose over Caesarea. First, the six chariots and horses entered the stadium to the sound of trumpets as the audience cheered. Each chariot followed in sequence:
The white horse pulling Matthew’s golden chariot, symbolizing the priestly purity of the Sadducees.
The red horse pulling Peter’s chariot, red for his position as cardinal and his fiery tongue as spokesman for Jesus.
The black horse pulling John Mark’s multistriped chariot, representing the different groups.
The pale horse pulling my green chariot of missionary sowers among the Gentiles.
A regally dressed horse pulling Thomas’ chariot, with an upside-down crown signifying his loss of royal power.
A horse dressed in white frills pulling Philip’s chariot, adorned with a fish and the number four, indicating the status of Mary Magdalene, whom he guarded.
The chariots pulled up in front of Agrippa II, forming a line. Then the Star of David float entered, pulled by seven horses with Jesus in the center. A reverent stillness fell upon the crowd. As the light struck the gilded edges of the Star during its circular journey around the stadium, gasps swept through the audience as everyone strained to see Jesus. The lion, eagle, and bull seemed to spin, while two angels flew on either side. The light radiating from Jesus cast prismatic reflections from the lion, eagle, and ox, returning back to him.
Watching from my chariot, I felt both humbled and joyful.
Gasps and murmurs swept through the poor section. Faces lifted, mouths parted, eyes wide. Some fell to their knees; others reached toward the float, trembling with reverence. Bishops whispered prayers, while wealthy donors and dignitaries leaned forward, unable to tear their eyes away. The sheer majesty of seeing Jesus’ spiritual form—simultaneously human and divine—filled them with awe.
The ministers held their scrolls with steady hands, yet their breaths caught as the divine presence passed before them. Even Agrippa II, from his elevated throne, paused, realizing that the spectacle had transcended mere ceremony. The Word had manifested itself in living light.
After completing its circle, the Star of David float stopped behind the chariots.
Agrippa II called out, “Who is worthy to break the seals and open the scroll?”
There was silence.
He repeated, “Is no one in heaven or on earth able to open the scroll or behold it?”
Again, silence fell. The people waited with bated breath, almost in tears.
Jesus stood from inside the Star and declared,
“Weep not: behold, I am the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, who has prevailed to open the book and is worthy to loose the seven seals thereof.
I am the Lamb who shed his blood for all our sins here on this Day of Atonement.”
The crowd cheered, “Hallelujah! Alleluia!”
(34-3)
Jesus unsealed the first book and held it high. The driver of Matthew’s chariot turned the white horse toward Jesus’ Star. Matthew, dressed in the white chasuble of a High Priest, held a sickle shaped like a bow. Bearing the authority of the Sadducee priest, he wore a crown of thorns and rode to plant in order to reap, not as a conqueror bent on conquest (Rev 6:1).
Matthew grasped the scroll reverently. The driver returned the chariot to face Agrippa II. “I will now read from the Gospel of Matthew”
Matthew 2:1-2 “And Jesus having been born in Bethlehem of Judea, in the days of Herod the king, lo, Magi from the east came to Jerusalem, saying, 'Where is he who was born king of the Jews? For we saw his star in the east, and we came to bow to him.'”
Matthew 13:36-39 “Then having let away the multitudes, Jesus came to the house, and his disciples came near to him, saying, 'Explain to us the parable of the weeds of the field.' And he answered them, 'He who is sowing the good seed is the Son of Man, and the field is the world, and the good seed, these are the sons of the Kingdom, and the weeds are the sons of the evil one, and the enemy who sowed them is the devil, and the harvest is at the end of the Age, and the reapers are angels.'”
Agrippa II called out, “Who is worthy to break the seals and open the scroll?”
There was silence.
He repeated, “Is no one in heaven or on earth able to open the scroll or behold it?”
Again, silence fell. The people waited with bated breath, almost in tears.
Jesus stood from inside the Star and declared, “Weep not: behold, I am the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, who has prevailed to open the book and is worthy to loose the seven seals thereof. I am the Lamb who shed his blood for all our sins here on this Day of Atonement.”
The crowd cheered, “Hallelujah! Alleluia!”
Jesus unsealed the second book and held it high. The driver of Peter’s chariot turned the red horse toward Jesus’ Star. Peter, dressed in the red chasuble of a cardinal, had been given the power to oppose the false peace of Pax Romana and to encourage people to follow the teaching of the “suffering servant, Jesus” (Rev 6:3). As Jesus’ representative, Peter carried a great sword, echoing the flaming sword of Eden. For Jesus said, “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me” (Jn 14:6).
Peter grasped the scroll reverently. The driver returned the chariot to face Agrippa II. Peter says, “I will read two passages from the Gospel of Mark.”
At the Beginning: Mark 1:16-20: Walking by the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon Peter and Andrew his brother casting a drag into the sea, for they were fishers. Jesus said to them, "Come after me, and I shall make you fishers of men." Immediately, leaving their nets, they followed him. A little farther on, he saw James of Zebedee and John his brother, in the boat refitting the nets. Immediately he called them. Leaving their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired servants, they followed him.”
At the Resurrection: Mark 16:1-7: After the Sabbath, Mary Magdalene, Mary of James, and Salome bought spices to anoint Jesus. Early on the first day of the week, at sunrise, they went to the sepulcher. Seeing the stone rolled away—it was very large—they entered and saw a young man on the right, dressed in a long white garment. They were amazed. He said, “Do not be amazed; you seek Jesus of Nazareth, crucified. He is risen; he is not here. Behold the place where they laid him. Go, tell his disciples and Peter that he goes before you to Galilee; there you shall see him, as he said.”
Agrippa II called out, “Who is worthy to break the seals and open the scroll?”
There was silence.
He repeated, “Is no one in heaven or on earth able to open the scroll or behold it?”
Again, silence fell. The people waited with bated breath, almost in tears.
Jesus stood from inside the Star and declared, “Weep not: behold, I am the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, who has prevailed to open the book and is worthy to loose the seven seals thereof. I am the Lamb who shed his blood for all our sins here on this Day of Atonement.”
The crowd cheered, “Hallelujah! Alleluia!”
Jesus unsealed the third book and held it high. The driver of John Mark’s chariot turned the black horse toward Jesus’ Star. John Mark, wearing a gray chasuble, held a balancing scale to measure the allotted tithes. He grasped the scroll reverently, and the driver returned the chariot to face Agrippa II.
John Mark reads a selection from the Gospel of Luke:
John Mark says, “First, I have an announcement:
A fairer system of tithes has been decided: the Gentile members now pay one denarius every six months; the celibate ministers pay one denarius every year and a half; for monastics who use oil and wine, there is a reduced tithe.
Now I read from the Gospel of Luke:”
Luke 18:18–30 A ruler asked, “Good Teacher, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?”
Jesus replied, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the commandments: ‘Do not commit adultery, Do not kill, Do not steal, Do not bear false witness, Honor your father and mother.’”
The ruler said, “All these I have observed from my youth.”
Jesus said, “One thing you still lack. Sell all that you have and distribute to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; come, follow me.”
He became sad, for he was very rich.
Jesus said, “How hard it is for those with riches to enter the kingdom of God! For it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”
The people asked, “Then who can be saved?”
Jesus replied, “What is impossible with men is possible with God.”
Agrippa II called out, “Who is worthy to break the seals and open the scroll?”
There was silence.
He repeated, “Is no one in heaven or on earth able to open the scroll or behold it?”
Again, silence fell. The people waited with bated breath, almost in tears.
Jesus stood from inside the Star and declared,
“Weep not: behold, I am the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, who has prevailed to open the book and is worthy to loose the seven seals thereof.
I am the Lamb who shed his blood for all our sins here on this Day of Atonement.”
The crowd cheered, “Hallelujah! Alleluia!”
Jesus unsealed the fourth book and held it high. The driver of my chariot turned the pale horse toward Jesus’ Star. I wore a white chasuble with a green sash.
Having once been Pope, I retained the power of spiritual excommunication. I grasped the scroll reverently as Jesus winked at me, acknowledging that I had been secretly invited.
The driver returned the chariot to face Agrippa II. Having been crucified, I had known Hades and the deathly pestilence of Jeremaih 14:11.
I will read the first words from the Gospel of John:
John 1:1-5 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God,
and the Word was God; the same was in the beginning with God; all things through him did happen, and without him happened not even one thing that has happened.
In him was life, and the life was the light of men, and the light in the darkness did shine,
and the darkness did not perceive it.
“Now I read from John 11:38-44:”
Jesus, once again deeply moved, came to the tomb of Lazarus. It was a cave with a stone laid across the entrance."Take away the stone," Jesus said.
"Lord, by now he stinks," said Martha, the sister of the dead man."It has already been four days."
Jesus replied, "Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?"
So they took away the stone. Then Jesus lifted his eyes upward and said
"Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I say this for the benefit of the people standing here, so they may believe that you sent me."
After Jesus had said this, he called out in a loud voice, "Lazarus, come out!"
The man who had been dead came out with his hands and feet bound in strips of linen, and his face wrapped in a cloth.
"Unwrap him and let him go," Jesus told them.
And he that was dead came forth, Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go.
The driver of his chariot turned the horse around towards Jesus’ star, and Thomas wearing a white monk’s robe received the book from Jesus and returns.
Thomas says, “I read from the Gospel of Thomas:”
2. Those who seek should not stop seeking until they find. When they find, they will be disturbed. When they are disturbed, they will marvel, and will reign over all.
22. When you make the two into one, and the inner like the outer, and the outer like the inner, and the upper like the lower, and when you make male and female into a single one, so that the male will not be male nor the female be female.
75. here are many standing at the door, but those who are alone will enter the bridal suite.
The driver of his chariot turned the horse around towards Jesus’ star, and Philip wearing a blue robe with sackcloth. received the book from Jesus.
Philip read: “Philip 51.29–86 A Hebrew makes a Hebrew, and such a person is called a ‘proselyte.’ But a proselyte does not make a proselyte. When we were Hebrews, we were orphans with only our mother. When we became Christians, we had both father and mother.”
Philip 63.30–35; 64.1–10 “As for the Wisdom called ‘the barren,’ she is the mother of angels. She was the companion of Mary Magdalene, whom the Savior loved more than all the disciples, often kissing her on the mouth. The other disciples asked, ‘Why do you love her more than all of us?’ The Savior answered, ‘Why do I not love you like her? When a blind man and one who sees are together in darkness, they are no different. When the light comes, he who sees will see it, and he who is blind will remain in darkness.’”
The Jewish star float moved forward slowly, casting shadows of the lion, eagle, and ox across the theater. The chariots followed, bowing slightly toward the audience sections. Matthew, Peter, John Mark, I, Thomas, and Philip bowed, blessing the people and symbolically carrying the Word into the world.
From his elevated throne, Agrippa II stood and raised both arms:
“Behold the Word made manifest, carried forth in scroll and deed! Salvation is to Him who sits upon the throne—to our God and to the Lamb!”
The congregation responded in unison:
“Amen! Hallelujah! Alleluia!”
Trumpets blared, drums rolled, and the float exited the theater. The audience erupted in joyous cries, applause, and chants.
The pageant had ended, but the air in Caesarea still vibrated with awe. As I dismounted from my chariot and walked slowly among the returning ministers, the Gospel of John heavy in my hands, I remembered how Jesus and I had met so many years ago to write the first pages of this Gospel—the first words that set in motion this momentous event today, which would change the world forever. I felt that my life was complete.
***Unlit, the lamps of the chamber hold their secret; the virgins tend their oil in silence, awaiting the moment when insight, devotion, and hidden truth will be revealed.***
In that hushed hour, before any lamp was kindled and before the secret was revealed, a defining moment for the early Church quietly unfolded: Phoebe’s marriage to Paul. Though mentioned only briefly as a deacon, Paul praised Phoebe as “a helper of many, and of himself as well.” At her Bat Mitzvah, Phoebe had shown exceptional insight with which she guided Paul to remain within Jesus’ intentions and teachings. His views on resurrection and ethics would become the backbone of the emerging Church.
Phoebe’s interest in Paul began in December 51 AD, when she stood among the listeners at the speaker’s rock of the Areopagus in Athens—near the Acropolis. This was where Paul delivered the speech that would define his mission. She was captivated:
“You men of Athens, I perceive that you are very religious in all things. For as I passed along, and observed the objects of your worship, I found also an altar with this inscription: ‘TO AN UNKNOWN GOD.’ What therefore you worship in ignorance, this I announce to you. The God who made the world and all things in it, He, being Lord of heaven and earth, doesn’t dwell in temples made with hands, neither is He served by men’s hands. He made from one blood every nation of men to dwell on all the surface of the earth—‘For in Him we live, and move, and have our being.’—‘For we are also his offspring.’—We should not think that Divine Nature is like gold, or silver, —or stone, engraved by man. The times of ignorance therefore God overlooked. But now He commands that all people repent because He has appointed a day in which He will judge the world in righteousness by the man whom He has ordained; that He has assured us He has raised him from the dead.”
After the speech, some in the crowd believed, including a woman named Damaris—Hellenized form of the Hebrew name Thamar (“palm tree”), the same as Tamar, daughter of David—and thus Phoebe. She was enthralled, and when Seneca the Younger—then visiting Athens—commended Paul for his eloquence, her admiration deepened. Seneca and Paul exchanged letters after this, and Seneca showed them to Nero, as he was his advisor.
Three months later, Phoebe requested her father’s permission to marry Paul. Jesus, recalling my counsel, convinced Paul, who joyfully proclaimed, “The Lord had opened a door for me.” By March 52 AD, Phoebe and Paul agreed to consummate the marriage in the following autumn.
In 52 AD, Simon-Silas (Jesus’ younger brother) and Timothy arrived from Macedonia with Jesus’ first son, Jesus Justus, who had reached his sixteenth birthday.
At the midnight service, Jesus encouraged Paul:
“Do not be afraid; continue speaking; do not be silent, for I am with you.”
Thus, Paul was reassured that his calling would not be hindered.
The Church hesitated to permit this marriage, for many still regarded celibacy as a requirement of faith, as Paul himself had declared. Yet they were persuaded by Jesus’ example, who had observed celibacy in order to uphold the standards necessary to continue the Davidic line.
In March 52 AD, to prepare for their betrothal, Paul departed from Athens and came to Corinth, where the union he and Phoebe had pledged before God would be sanctified through service and discipline. There he met a certain Jew who was also a follower of Christ, named Aquila—John, the brother of James, one of the rescued twins. Aquila and his wife Priscilla had begun their mission in Pontus and had been in Rome until the Emperor Claudius ordered all Jews to leave the city, “since the Jews constantly made disturbances at the instigation of Chrestus.”
Aquila was by trade a tentmaker, clearly a missionary like Paul, devoted to organizing and establishing new churches. Paul stayed and worked with them, sharing both their labor and their faith. Each Sabbath he reasoned in the synagogue—understood by the early Christians as the gathering place of the new church—persuading both Jews and Greeks to join the Way.
After many months in Corinth (spring–summer 52 AD), Paul took leave of the brethren and set sail for Syria, a region symbolically representing the wilderness of purification and renewal, accompanied by Priscilla and John Aquila. Before departing, he shaved his head in the port city of Cenchreae. That his purification was for Phoebe is confirmed by her service there as a deacon of the church. Paul’s vow entailed a three-month Nazarite discipline of abstinence and spiritual training in the desert under the guidance of John Aquila—an experience mirroring that of Jesus, who had endured his own time of testing and temptation in the wilderness under Judas Iscariot, called “the tempter.”
By June 52 AD, Phoebe had completed the first three months of her pregnancy, when the risk of miscarriage was minimal. Paul brought her to the port of Ephesus to stay with her mother, ensuring she would be cared for while he continued his mission.
After disembarking, Phoebe walked through the busy harbor town and began the ascent toward the upper terraces, where groves of olives and figs sloped beside the winding path. At last, she caught sight of her mother’s house perched atop the hill. Reaching the small courtyard, weary from the climb and the heat, she paused at the well to rest.
She called out softly, “Magdala, I am here.”
From the stone house, its walls draped with vines and fragrant herbs whose scents mingled with the sea breeze, Mary Magdalene rushed out to meet her. “My dearest, you are fainting,” she cried, drawing water from the well and holding it to Phoebe’s lips. “Did Paul leave you all alone to come here?”
Phoebe smiled weakly. “That is all right. Paul has been cooped up for so long—he could not wait to return to his missionary work.”
Her mother nodded knowingly. “I know how that is.”
Phoebe stayed with her mother through the summer of 52 AD and gave birth to a beautiful daughter in December. Naturally, she named her Paulina. Paul, meanwhile, was traveling through Galatia and Phrygia, strengthening all the disciples, and thus missed the birth of his firstborn.
Phoebe returned from Rome with Jesus and, in September 57 AD, celebrated Paul’s fortieth birthday—what he called a “chronon.” After completing his desert retreat, Paul was reunited with her, and in June 58 AD she bore their second daughter. Once again, she stayed at Magdalene’s house, though Magdalene herself was no longer there, having died before Phoebe’s journey to Rome.
***Not all unions were entered, and not all lamps were lit. In the chamber, bride and bridegroom became one.***
The chamber’s lamps lay unlit, yet their promise lingered, a silent witness to devotion and awakening. In this stillness, Bernice of Thyatira prepared to step into her own sacred role, her life quietly echoing the hidden union of insight and purpose that had marked Phoebe and Paul. It was 51 AD, a year after the canonization of the Gospels, and it had become clear that Paul had replaced me. Jesus sailed with him from Troas to Philippi, a leading Roman colony in Macedonia, where the female elders of the Seven Churches had gathered. It was the Sabbath, and after walking beyond the city, Jesus and Paul met the women who had assembled along the riverbank. Their voices were hushed in reverence, and their eyes sprang to attention as we arrived. As sunlight danced across the water’s surface and the reeds swayed gently in the breeze, we spoke of the coming together of women—the Essene teachings of purity, devotion, and the sanctity of relations.
Jesus’ eyes revealed a quiet sadness, for the woman draped in purple—the cloaked bishop of Thyatira—reminded him of his dear Magdalene, now gone from his life. Though fully eligible to marry again, he had chosen not to, out of deference to her. He reminded himself that the canonization of the Gospels was now his true legacy.
Catching himself, and remembering his role as teacher, Jesus smiled at her with compassion, taking her hands in his. He had once reprimanded her in one of his Letters to the Seven Churches. The harsh words he had written came to mind: “You tolerate that woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophet, yet in her teaching she misleads my servants into sexual immorality and the eating of food sacrificed to idols. I have given her time to repent of her immorality, but she is unwilling.” But now, Bernice was willing.
Jesus looked into her teary eyes and said softly, “I feel remorse for my hurried judgment. I am sorry for what I said. Clearly, I am partly responsible for forcing you into the marriage which you now wish to dissolve. I should not have accepted the rumors of your incest with your twin brother, whom you truly love.
“Bernice, you are a part of our family. Simon Magus told me of the first time he met you at age nine, during his speaking tour with Peter. When he learned that you had already been promised in marriage, Helena persuaded you to join her convent with Mary Magdalene. I am glad that the Essene values instilled in you in those years have now brought you to Paul and to me.”
Bernice smiled faintly, feeling the warmth of Jesus’ compassion.
Jesus continued, “As we traveled here, Paul and I agreed that you would be perfect to replace Helena, who had become ‘Luna’ under John the Baptist. Sadly, she has recently passed—may my dear sister rest in heaven.”
“I would be honored for that chance to serve,” Bernice said, her eyes brightening. “And I miss her, too.”
Jesus spoke again, “We were saddened when you were forced to leave the convent at sixteen, when your father Agrippa compelled you to marry his brother, Herod of Chalcis. You faithfully bore him two sons.”
“When he died, my position became precarious,” Bernice interjected, “and I was caught in scandal and felt compelled to marry Polemon II of Pontus, King of Cilicia in Pontus.”
“Let us now offer counsel, guidance, and absolution,” Jesus said. Bernice nodded in thanks.
Paul, forever the teacher, added, “Let me review with you the same reasoning I used regarding Magdalene’s divorce. The argument I used for Jesus’ divorce can easily apply to you, because your husband was not of Judean blood, and thus the union stood outside the covenant. Where there is no shared covenant, the bond does not bind in the same way; what was entered under necessity may be released under truth.”
Jesus drifted into thought, for Paul’s words mingled with the babbling of the brook, echoing the pain that resurfaced whenever he heard the word ‘divorce.’
Paul continued, “As for the sins, you can cleanse yourself through a Nazarite vow, similar to the one I will undertake as preparation for my marriage to Phoebe.” Paul knelt by the river, cupping water in his hands and letting it fall gently upon Bernice’s bowed head as he said, “I baptize you now to be again a daughter of God, free from sin.”
Later, as I read Luke’s story, I could not help but smile at how readers might interpret this scene. It could easily be seen as Jesus’ wedding, for six years had passed since the birth of his son Joseph, making him eligible to father another child. Yet the truth was hidden, veiled in the figure of Lydia—the city of Thyatira in the region of Lydia, famed for its purple dye extracted from sea snails. Like the unlit lamps of the bridal chamber, her true identity remained concealed. It awaited the eyes of the awakened. The phrase “selling purple” had become a whispered slur against Bernice, an accusation of simony that obscured the sacred purpose of her union and authority.
The Church of Thyatira was primarily female, and it was entirely fitting that Bernice, sister of Agrippa II, should serve as its bishop—her life now sanctified and renewed. Later, she would take another Nazarite vow for thirty days—abstaining from wine and shaving her head—standing barefoot before Florus’s tribunal in an attempt to stop the outbreak of the First Jewish Revolt.
Even the brightest lamps may falter when shadowed by desire. Having failed to prevent the rebellion, Bernice, once queen of Thyatira and of the Temple through her brother Agrippa II, would follow in Cleopatra’s footsteps, using her relationship with Titus—the future emperor and destroyer of the Temple—in an attempt to become Empress of Rome. Yet history would remember her as the “Whore of Babylon.” Her lamp, once filled, had not endured; the door to the bridegroom was closed.
In January 57 AD, Paul entrusted Phoebe with a copy of his Epistle to the Romans and the Epistle to the Corinthians, along with a personal note:
“I commend our sister Phoebe, a deacon of Cenchreae. Receive her in the Lord and assist her as needed; she has been a benefactor to many, including me.”
Jesus promised to accompany her, eager to see how Rome had changed since his youth. Once I learned of their plans, I insisted on joining. Peter, too, signed on, and we were soon to set to sail.
The Church in Rome had expanded greatly since the early days of Joseph and Mary’s mission and enthusiasm was growing to move its center from Jerusalem to Rome, where the believers were already many.
There was yet one task I had to accomplish before I left. I was still bothered by the sparse attendance at Magdalene’s funeral and I wanted it to be more special. Even in death, her memory was contested. Some were already reviving the claim that she had been a reformed prostitute.
I recalled the day she had stood accused, surrounded by men with stones in their hands.
Jesus bent and wrote in the dust, marking each accuser, and at the center inscribed the letters י־ר.
Those who understood the words of Book of Jeremiah recognized the warning: those who forsake the Lord shall be written in the dust. One by one, they left—not defeated, but revealed.
Living in Ephesus, the center of Artemis worship, I had taken the name Demetrius with deliberate cunning. It was a subtle nod to the philosopher who told how cities like Ephesus had long traded by transforming gods into silver-and-gold craftsmanship. There I learned the craft of the silversmith and fashioned molds for small statuettes of Magdalene. I would have just enough time to cast them and use the proceeds to fund my journey to Rome. Each piece served as both remembrance and quiet resistance—for my beautiful niece.
The populace mistook these statuettes for Artemis which did not bother me. Of course, Paul objected, calling it simony, and Peter echoed him, yet the artisans chanted: “Great is Artemis of the Ephesians!”
By day’s end, every statuette had been sold. I watched them pass into the hands of the people—not merely as objects, but as carriers of memory. In them, Magdalene endured, and with her, my sister Helena.
Whatever the Church chose to diminish, the people would remember.
I had grown weary of the internal wars and longed to join Jesus and Phoebe without Paul overshadowing me. I had borne so many personas—Simon Magus, Simon the Canaanite, Simon the Zealot, Zebedee, Simon of Cyrene, Lazarus, Simon the leper, Ananias, “the great power of God,” Simon the tanner, Demetrius the silversmith, even the Beast 666—that I had nearly forgotten my true identity: Postumus Agrippa. Perhaps the streets on Rome, my true self might live again.
In March of 57 AD, we sailed for Rome from Cenchreae, the port of Corinth. With Jesus on board, even Peter was on his best behavior. He could laugh now, even at my expense, over the time I had gotten into trouble with Paul for simony. Phoebe’s presence was a joy.
On the second night the sea fell utterly still. The ship lay becalmed, as though the waters themselves had withdrawn into listening. We had gone below deck to our hammocks—Phoebe toward the captain’s cabin—when Jesus set the oil lamp upon the central table, its flame lighting the inner hull.
“Come,” Jesus said. “Sit with me. There is a matter I wish us to consider together.”
We gathered, the silence close around us. Jesus spoke again. “Paul’s letter to the Corinthians troubles me. Its voice leans toward law, sounding like Leviticus—shaped by command and correction—yet it leaves kindness unnamed. We are gathered in fitting company to weigh his words. Phoebe, would you bring the scroll and read for us the passage of the mirror.”
Before she could rise, Simon halted her. “First—accept this.” From his satchel he drew a small wrapped figure and placed it into Jesus’ hands.
Jesus unbound the cloth. His eyes teared up. It was the statuette of Magdalene. Phoebe inhaled sharply; she knew how Paul would regard such an image.
Jesus kissed Simon, saying gently, “I receive it as an offering of love. And see—how fitting for our discussion! Phoebe, please read it.”
Phoebe read:
“For now we see through a mirror, darkly,
but then face to face.
Now I know in part;
then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”
She laid the scroll upon the table. The lamp’s flame stirred, and shadows crossed the papyrus like passing thoughts.
“Paul’s truth is here,” Phoebe said. “Knowledge comes to us broken—mediated, refracted. We never grasp the whole.”
Peter nodded. “Our mirrors are merely polished bronze. Their reflections waver. So does our understanding. Faith steadies what knowledge cannot.”
Simon leaned forward, his voice alive. “Yet Paul refuses gnosis—the knowing that alters the knower. He laments the mirror, yet never dares to step beyond reflection. His words are fine, but they remain words.”
Peter gestured toward the wavering light. “Do not mistake humility for cowardice. We walk by faith, not by certainty.”
Simon lifted the lamp, shifting its light. “Gnosis demands presence. Risk. Even suffering. It is not content with shadow.”
Phoebe read again:
“As for prophecies, they will pass away;
as for tongues, they will cease;
as for knowledge, it will pass away…
When I became a man, I put away childish things.”
“He senses incompletion,” she said softly. “But he does not name what completes it.”
Jesus rested his hand upon her head. “Your sight is still unburdened by argument—a true babe in Christ. Write this, Phoebe, at the beginning: Love never ends.” She looked up, startled. “You would have us change his letter?”
“Not change,” Jesus said. “Answer it—as a teacher to a student.”
Phoebe dipped the quill and wrote in the margin.
“And now,” Jesus said, “add this at the end of Paul’s epistle.” His voice slowed, measured, as she followed his words:
“Love is patient and kind.
Love does not envy or boast.
It does not demand its own way.
It bears, believes, hopes, endures.
So faith remains, and hope —
but love abides beyond them.
The greatest is —” He paused, looking to Peter.
“The greatest,” Peter said, smiling, “is love.”
Phoebe set down the quill, and Jesus’ eyes glowed, “Thank you, Phoebe.”
Then I spoke,
“Jesus, this is your true message to the world.
Agapē love is the measure of knowing.
Love does not merely reflect—it participates.
It is both mirror and face.
Where love abides, knowledge is transformed.”
At that moment the wind returned, filling the sails, as though it had waited for the words to be written. The ship lurched forward. We came up on deck and watched the stars dip into the ocean’s veiled mirror, distorted and shimmering, and rise again in the wake—never fully held, never fully known, carried forward by the motion of the sea itself.
It was the last time I would stand with Jesus.
A month after our arrival in Rome, Paul sent a coded Aramaic plea: “Maranatha”—Come, Lord. His second letter to the Corinthians accompanied it, revealing the danger closing around him. He wrote of his “thorn in the flesh,” a messenger of Satan—his conflict with the priest Jonathan—yet still insisted:
“My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness… for when I am weak, then I am strong.”
At the harbor, Jesus spoke to Peter encouraging him to proselytize and to not be intimated by me, and promised to be with Peter in spirit:
Now when the night fell, Peter, while yet waking, beheld Jesus clad in a vesture of brightness, smiling and saying unto him, “Already many people of the brotherhood will return through me and through the signs which thou hast wrought in my name.”
“But thou shalt have a contest of the faith upon the sabbath that cometh, and many more of the Gentiles and Jews shall be converted in my name unto me who was once reproached and mocked and spat upon. For I will be present with thee when thou ask for signs and wonders, and thou shalt convert many: but thou shalt have Simon opposing thee by the works of his Father; yet all his works shall be shown to be charms and contrivances of sorcery. But now do not slack and whomsoever I shall send unto thee thou shalt establish in my name.”
These words of Jesus foreshadowed the dangerous rivalries that would soon arise between Peter and myself.
Jesus kissed Peter and me farewell, and Phoebe embraced me tightly.
As I watched their ship disappear over the horizon, I realized that Jesus had become to me what my grandfather once was. A treasured memory overtook me of the day my grandfather Augustus greeted me on my island of exile but left me forever when he died. Now both were gone.
And so we were left, Peter and I, to battle it out in Rome'
Early in 58 AD, without Jesus’ guidance, Peter and I soon grew frustrated by the indifference of Rome’s crowds. Our preaching at street corners drew little attention even with the Jewish Diaspora. We would call out,
“Hear the good news of a prophet called Jesus who survived a crucifixion and was resurrected.”
Someone would answer,
“Our prophet Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven—where is your proof?”
So we resorted to performing miracles based on illusion. At first they were simple—Peter, the fisherman—reviving a herring that appeared to be dead. Me—a master of sleeping potions from the Crucifixion—bringing a boy back to life. There seemed no end to the rivalry.
Sides had been taken among the followers. Those of Peter, hoping to end the magical battles, insisted that Peter confront me with one final trick. Peter went out to the house of Marcellus, where I lodged. There, before a crowd, he unchained a great dog. The beast rose, spoke with a man’s voice, and declared, “Peter saith unto thee, Simon, thou art a deceiver of simple souls!”
An agent of Peter, hiding in the bushes, was taunting me, unaware that I was a master of ventriloquism. It seemed there would be no end to the illusions, for now we were attacking each other—which served neither of us. The obvious futility of it all left me with only a dangerous option: to reveal myself to Nero, and thereby attempt to turn the Empire itself toward our cause.
I devised a plan that could get me into Nero’s palace. I befriended a certain Marcus Salvius Otho, a friend of Nero and husband to Poppaea. He was vain and preened like a woman: his body plucked of hair, his baldness hidden by a perfect wig, his face smooth from daily shaving. Seeing Poppaea’s beauty and ambition, I suspected her motives—surely she had married Otho to reach Nero’s throne. Poppaea, I realized, was my key to Nero’s ear.
She indicated a fascination about the teachings of Jesus. Within a month, opportunity came—Nero was to preside over a contest of oration and verse. Otho brought me.
Recalling my debate with Peter in Caesarea, I spoke on the necessity of struggle for truth:
“Do not pray for peace, for peace without battle is but stagnation. War is the mother of peace, and truth is born only when falsehood falls. Therefore fight—not for hatred, but for revelation.”
Nero, of course, won the contest, but it did pique his interest in me.
At the banquet that followed, Otho having been suddenly dismissed to Lusitania, Poppaea reclined beside me. Nero soon joined us, taking the place to her right. To his left lay his wife Octavia and his mother Agrippina.
Octavia regarded Poppaea coolly.
“It seems your husband could not attend. Who is this new companion of yours?”
Poppaea smiled.
“He calls himself a follower of the new faith—Christianity.”
Nero smirked.
“Ah, one of those agitators of Chrestus.”
I inclined my head.
“I am honored, Emperor. The name Chrestus is mistaken. We were once called the Way, though now men call us Christians, for we hold the cross of Jesus as our sign.”
Nero chuckled.
“Strange that a man crucified by that fool Pilate should gain followers.”
“It was not his death that moved men,” I said, “but his return from it.”
Nero raised an eyebrow.
“So he walks the streets still—eating, drinking, like any man?”
“In a sense, yes,” I replied. “For I was crucified with him—and yet here I stand.”
Nero leaned forward.
“That is impossible—show me the marks.”
I turned my wrists, the scars still faintly visible.
He laughed.
“So you must be a magician, to have survived.”
I smiled.
“Indeed. I am called Simon Magus.”
“You must perform for me,” Nero said.
“I shall,” I answered, “but allow me to show off my magic to you now. I am remembered to have taken the form of Faustus Cornelius Sulla, but now I am Postumus Agrippa, your great-uncle.”
Nero and Agrippina stared in astonishment.
“There is a family resemblance,” Agrippina admitted, “but impossible! Postumus was slain by Tiberius before my birth.”
Nero said,
“Wasn’t there a man named Clemens who claimed to be him? He was executed. Is it possible that you have cheated death three times—perhaps you are a god?”
I removed the royal signet ring given to me by Augustus and handed it to Nero. He passed it to his mother.
Agrippina examined it closely.
“The seal of Augustus—mounted in gold. To wear this falsely was death. Are you truly my uncle?”
“Pleased to meet you, dear niece,” I said. “Clemens saved me. I lived in Cyrene and in Phoenicia, I came to know Jesus.”
Poppaea said,
“I might believe you escaped Tiberius—but no one escapes the crucifixion.”
“Yes,” I said, “but we planned carefully. A drop of potion that feigned death, three-hour time change, and a law that said we had to be taken down before sundown—lest a body defile the Passover night.”
Poppaea whispered,
“Then praise be to Christ,” then quickly changed the subject to Nero.
Nero smirked.
“So it was no miracle, only cunning.”
“A magician never trusts to luck,” I said. “Greater wonders await. Come see me take to the air. Then you’ll know I am no fraud—but your grand-uncle, risen from the dead.”
“Tell me the day,” Nero said.
“And I as well,” Poppaea added, eyes lingering on him.
Nero rose, drawing her up by the hand.
“Grand-uncle, you’ll excuse us.”
They disappeared into the garden together.
Agrippina muttered, “Not again.”
Octavia rose stiffly. “I’ll not grant him a divorce.” She swept out.
I turned to Agrippina.
“I’m sorry for your mother. I wish I could have saved her. But I did save her sister Julia the Younger and her child.”
Agrippina stared. “Then you truly are a magician. That sounds like another of your fables.”
“No more than your history,” I said gently. “You—honored like a Vestal—exiled by Caligula, rescued by Claudius, and then to wed to him—guiding your son to the throne.”
She laughed bitterly. “Guiding him? You call that a blessing? His father defiled me; his madness burns in my son. He dreams of a ship that will collapse beneath me. I should have ended him before he was born.”
“I did not know your pain, it only appeared to be a testament to your guile,” I said.
“Perhaps I can help you now.”
She whispered,
“He needs guidance, or he’ll inherit his father’s curse.”
“Let us hope not, dear niece.”
She managed a small smile. “It might give him stability—but first, uncle, you must show that you can fly.”
I smiled. “That will be the easy part.”
Two weeks later, Nero came to witness my greatest miracle near the Forum, Poppaea beside him. “If he truly flies,” she said softly, “then we must all become Christians.”
But you all know that I failed. It was not easy, after all. I had not counted on the rage I had incurred with Peter, nor his realization that I would demolish his ego in front of everyone. This would be no escape from the cross—I had planned that precisely. The contests of men—the tricks, the displays, the rivalries—were fleeting shadows compared to the true purpose of my journey. I had not been sent to master Rome, or to bend emperors to my will, but to reclaim what had been lost, to retrieve the pearl hidden from the eyes of the world, and to remember what had been scattered.
The quest for that pearl began in my youth, long before I understood the world or my place in it.
When I was a child, |
On January 61 AD, Jesus, Paul, and Felix landed in Malta before entering Rome—too late to stop Peters sabotage of my flying act. But Christianity did prevail.
In 62 AD Paul is freed and writes to Timothy: "The Lord stood by to give me strength ... So I was delivered from the mouth of the lion" ... Salute Priscilla and Aquila ... Linus sends greetings"
And after Paul had fasted three days and asked of the Lord that which should be profitable for him, he saw a vision, even the Lord saying unto him: “Arise, Paul, and become a physician in thy body (i.e. by going thither in person) to them that are in Spain.”
Thus Paul says, “I will go to Spain and visit you on the Way.” This is significant because, in 39 AD, Herod Antipas—having been accused by his nephew Agrippa and found guilty by Caligula—was banished to Gaul, and Herodias voluntarily followed him. This region would have been a logical refuge for Phoebe and her family during the persecutions, since Herod Antipas was her father-in-law. It is likely that she stayed there with her daughters, Paulina and Sarah, and possibly Jesus as well.
There is a legend of Mary Magdalene and two other Marys landing in landing in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer in France and also with a Lazarus. This legend is derived from Phoebe's voyage with two daughters, Paulina and Sarah, having landed in France and then traveling up to Herod's heretitaty house. Lazarus would have been me, but having long died.
Shortly after the Great Fire at Rome in 64 AD, Paul was beheaded in Rome itself and Peter likewise was crucified under Nero.
In 71 AD Jesus (at age 77) advocates for peace with the Emperor Vespasian and steps down as Cardinal: These (Bernice) shall make war with the Lamb (Jesus), and the Lamb shall overcome them: for he is Lord of Lords, and (stepping down to) King of Kings and they that are with him are the "Called".(Jesus elects Linus to replace Clement as Pope.). Jesus dies a year later at the age of 78
. Jesus Justus (Jesus II) would succeed Jesus when he died in Rome at the age of 78 near the end of June, 72 AD.
Jesus Justus' son Jesus III would be born in 77 AD.
In AD 79 Felix had had a son by Drusilla named Agrippa who perished with with her at the conflagration of the Vesuvius volcano.
In June 114 AD—120 years after Jesus' birth in 7 BC—the great grandson of Jesus is christened: “I Jesus (Jesus III the son of Jesus Justus) have sent mine angel to testify unto you these things in the churches: for I am the root and the offspring of David, the bright and morning star”. And the Spirit (abbot) and the bride say, “Come.” And let him that hears it (Jesus III) say, “Come, and let him (the baby: Jesus IV) who is thirsty come and let him take the water of life freely.”
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To advance the approach that this book is more non-fiction than fiction, great effort has been spent to use direct references whenever possible: shown in italic (with reference footnote in red).: Suetonius(SeutA (Augustus), SeutT (Tiberius), SeutC (Caligula), SeutCL (Claudius) Tac (Tacitus Annals), Dio (Cassius Dio), Ant (Antiquities of the Jews- Josephus), War (The Jewish War-Josephus), R (Clementine Recognitions), H (Clementine Homilies), DSS (Dead Sea Scrolls), Bible: abbr Book Chapter:Verse. Note: "GP" indicates Gospel of Peter: This is certainly the original Gospel of Mark (the scribe of Peter) before it was modified as it contains sections that unveil the truths that were removed especially GP 39-42 which shows Jesus coming from the tomb with Peter and John Mark supporting him. "And, as they (the soldiers) declared what things they had seen, again they see three men (Peter, Jesus, John Mark) coming forth from the tomb, and two of them supporting one,..." Some drawings marked (BT) are from Barbara Thiering's site that I built and support: https://www.peshertechnique.infinitesoulutions.com/ |
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