Document of an Eyewitness of Jesus Christ
The present document was entrusted to me by a sister in the faith. I do not know the author who traveled through Israel and found the writings there. The account of the witness to Jesus’ resurrection contained in the leather container survived two millennia; it is now being made accessible to a wider public.
I must have gone farther from the camp than I intended, for suddenly I found myself completely alone, surrounded only by the desolate hills of Judea. Far to the east stretched a blue-gray, barren wasteland. When I wanted to return to the camp, I noticed ashes and refuse marking the place where a nomadic tribe had recently struck its tents. As I continued, my attention was caught by a strangely shaped stone. It lay there, gray and inconspicuous, like a rod, about 20 cm long and 10 cm in circumference. Looking more closely, I noticed that it was not a stone but a cylindrical leather container. It lay in a crevice in the rock and had either ended up there by accident or had been thrown away. I looked carefully around me to make sure I was not the victim of an attack, pulled the container from the crevice with some effort, and found it light and small enough to fit into a large coat pocket. Then I went back to the camp.
It was not possible to find out immediately what the container held. In the camp, everything I did could be observed by the interpreter and his servants. It would have aroused suspicion if I had been seen opening an obviously old container. It could easily have been an important object of veneration among the local people. In any case, I did not want to take any risk. I kept the container with me until, a few days later, I was in the relative safety of a hotel room in Damascus. The container held a written manuscript. It was composed in Latin, but even so I could make nothing of it. It seemed very old to me; it was damaged and discolored at the edges, though most of it was well preserved. The manuscript was written in a flowing hand, with contractions and small embellishments. My knowledge was not sufficient to shed light on its historical value.
On the cover one could still make out, though only faintly, the Byzantine depiction of the risen Christ. The ornamentation was badly worn from the use of many generations.
By chance, on the journey from Beirut to Marseille, I met a man whom I had known some years earlier as a French exchange professor at Harvard. I renewed our old acquaintance and spoke to him confidentially about my find. His field was philosophy, so his opinion of the document was objectively no more valuable than mine. He did, however, give me a letter of recommendation for a colleague at the University of Montpellier whose specialty was reading and interpreting ancient writings.
From this man I received three opinions: one was his own, the other two were from students working in the same field. All agreed that the narrative contained in the text represented an actual experience:
Someone named Galba, Roman by descent although born in Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee, wrote down as an adult or old man what he had treasured throughout his life. In his youth he had encountered a “wondrous person” named Jesus of Capernaum—as he calls Him in his account—and the experience never left him. After a later encounter, in his subsequent place of residence in England, with a disciple of the Lord who introduced Jesus to him as the founder of a new religion, he decided to leave his memories to posterity in written form.
The text that follows shows that the writer’s father was an Italian stonemason who came to Tiberias at the time when Herod was having baths built for himself in a magnificent foreign style. Other fragments indicate that the writer was born in Tiberias and lost both father and mother while still a small child.
The translation prepared for me in Montpellier was, of course, in French. I was told that my translation from French into English would lose much of the antiquity of the style. The simplicity of the thoughts and expressions, so vivid in the original, also no longer comes through as clearly. I should add that there were neither punctuation marks nor paragraphs in the original. I added them.
Here is the record that was found:
In the Jewish land of Galilee it was no great evil to be without parents. I needed little to sustain my life, and I never possessed much. As a boy I slept wherever night overtook me. The climate was mild and pleasant, and only rarely was it cold. I needed little clothing and food. What little I needed could be begged or stolen. I, Galba, usually had to steal, for as soon as they realized that I was a foreigner, they drove me from their doors. I could often deceive them in this respect, for I was as much at home in their language as one of their own, but they recognized me by my features. I wandered from place to place around the Sea of Galilee, occasionally earned a few pennies, but often found food and shelter as birds and foxes do. When I was twelve, what I suffered from most was the lack of love.
Other boys had a home, parents, brothers, playmates, a school. I, Galba, had nothing. If I dared join a game near a school, the teachers drove me away. If I found work in a vineyard or an olive grove, I was beaten and often cheated of my wages when it became known that I was of foreign descent. At night I lay in the fields and wept with anger and loneliness.
Because I experienced only hatred and contempt, I too began to hate and despise all people. I hoped one day to be big and strong so that I could do evil to those who had done evil to me. Whenever the opportunity arose, I caused as much harm as possible. I got up at night, broke branches from olive trees, or knocked over sheaves of grain. Then I moved on so that before sunrise I would be in an area where I could no longer be suspected. When I met children weaker than I was, I treated them badly; I took away their food and left them in tears. I often fought with older boys, tore their clothes, and scratched their faces. Yet I regretted that these acts of revenge brought me so little comfort.
One day, while I was walking between two towns, I saw a great crowd stream out of one of them and climb a mountainside. I did not dare ask, but listened to what they said among themselves. I learned that they wanted to hear the words of Jesus of Capernaum. I had heard much about this man. Some said He was a deceiver; others claimed He was a prophet. All agreed that He performed healings and miracles, whether through the help of God or Satan—the only question was with whose help. Since I had nothing better to do, I joined the crowd and paid little attention to the insults directed at me. I hoped to see a miracle. Apart from my curiosity there was nothing in me, except perhaps the wish to pick up something that might accidentally be thrown away, or perhaps to get something to eat.
Later, as I looked for a place from which I need not fear being driven away, I heard a voice whose sound made me stop. It was loving and commanding at once, with a power that penetrated everything and made every syllable clearly intelligible. To me, accustomed to the rough Galilean dialect, it was already a miracle that such a wonderful, loving voice existed. Although at first I could not see the speaker, He seemed to have seen me, and it was as though, among all those people, He were speaking directly to me:
“But I say to you: love your enemies; do good to those who hate you; bless those who curse you; pray for those who offend you.”
These words fell like balm into the bitterness of my spirit; they soothed the hatred that poisoned my life. A child of twelve has no desire to hate. Love is the food it longs for and the air it wishes to breathe. The thought of loving those who hated me was like a liberation from fear for my oppressed young soul.
I pushed through the crowd until at last I saw Him, though I cannot describe to you what He looked like. As far as I can remember, He embodied strength and grace in equal measure. Never had I seen anyone so strong and at the same time so winning and courteous. I had heard that He was a serious, troubled, reserved man. To me, by contrast, He seemed happiness embodied.
He radiated courage, health, vitality, youth, and energy. One could not approach Him without becoming convinced that perfect joy dwelt in Him, a joy in which every matter, however distressing it might appear, had to become better.
I cannot have had these thoughts as a boy; they came to me later in life as an explanation. All I felt then was that here was someone who would not send me away. He would take me even in my rags and welcome me. Perhaps He even loved me. I already loved Him, in any case.
My only wish now was to reach Him. But the crowd prevented me. He sat in a small hollow around which several moss-covered steps rose like an amphitheater. When, despite every obstacle, I forced my way toward Him, someone shoved me angrily and I stumbled. Thus with a cry I came before His eyes—a sad, dirty little boy without joy, hot tears running down my cheeks.
At my cry He interrupted His speech and looked at me as I lay there ashamed. I was terribly afraid that He would send me away, but when I looked up anxiously, He only smiled. With a movement of His left arm He made me understand that there was room for me close beside Him: “Come here!”
But I could not move. “Lord,” I said softly, “I dare not. I am only a stranger and an outcast.”
His loving smile entered my heart like sunshine. “In the Kingdom of Heaven,” He replied, “there are neither outcasts nor strangers, but only the children of My Father.”
“But Lord,” someone in the crowd protested, “the boy is known in all our towns as a thief and a vagabond!”
“If he has a home,” Jesus replied, “he will no longer be one.” Turning to me He continued: “Your home is in My Father’s house. Come!”
Like a beaten dog I crept to Him. He put His arm around my shoulder and continued His discourse. He seemed to be speaking about a kingdom. I did not understand the words themselves. I no longer know whether I even listened. Simply to sit beside Him, protected by His arm, was the highest happiness I could wish for. Never before could my weakness have…
Here the narrative breaks off abruptly and continues with a new line of events at a later time. In the meantime Galba had evidently heard and seen Jesus several times, and love had bound him to Jesus. He was also apparently taken in as a child and in the further course of events had at least a stepfather.
… stepfather, and since he could exercise some influence on the governor of Jerusalem, Pontius Pilate, he decided to travel there to see what he might accomplish through negotiations. He took me with him. Wherever we rested at night, we asked about the fate of Jesus of Capernaum. But only when we reached Bethany on the outskirts of Jerusalem did we learn that He had been crucified the day before.
I will say nothing of our grief. After we entered the city, my stepfather sought out Pontius Pilate and accused him bitterly. Afterward he lay down on the ground and refused food and comfort. Left to myself, I roamed the city and eagerly sought everything I possibly could about the death of my beloved Master. I went to Calvary, and the three empty crosses confirmed what I had heard. Nearby was a garden where He was supposed to lie. I found a tomb, threw myself against it, and shed many tears.
This Jewish tomb was closed by a hewn block of rock that slanted upward. This shaped stone door fits the opening of the tomb so exactly that when it is closed it seems to be one with the rock. I threw myself against this hard, rounded stone slab and wept myself out.
When night had fallen and the moon shone through the cypresses and cedars, my tears were exhausted and I grew calmer. The only thing I could think of was that the adored figure lay only about a meter away from me behind the impenetrable stone. I think my pain would have been more bearable if I had been granted one last look at the face and eyes that had always turned toward me only in love; but everything was over. I comforted myself with the fact that I was here—as close as possible to Him who was so far away.
I sat down in the grass, but so near the tomb that I could touch it at any moment. The Passover moon lit everything with radiant light. Soon it would set. Open spaces of the garden that had just lain in light were now wrapped in darkness. The sycamores and cypresses that had stood out clearly against the sky now became one with it. For this reason a faint rim of light marking the line where the door of the tomb was fitted into the rock became more visible.
It was a faint glow, like the one often seen in a dark room when a candle burns in another room behind a door. I cannot say how long I had seen it before I became conscious of it. Indeed, it seemed to have been there all night; my heart had felt it, but my eyes had been held. I was not surprised and did not find it unusual. In my thoughts Jesus of Capernaum had always been surrounded by so much light that it did not seem strange to me that He should radiate light even in the tomb.
Then I saw an even greater miracle. The door of the tomb slowly lifted by about the width of two fingers, remained still for a few moments, and then closed again. Had I been on top of the rock instead of at its foot, I could have looked inside.
A few moments later the effort was repeated. At its widest opening the door stood open by about the width of a man’s hand; the movement was completely silent. Meanwhile the light streamed strongly and without flickering from the tomb. On the fourth occasion the stone was about a meter from the tomb, so that I could easily have looked inside had I been standing upright. But I lay in the grass, astonished and excited and far too overcome with awe even to dream of what would soon be shown to me. This time the tomb did not close again. The stone stood for a few moments on its lower edge and finally fell silently, in its full length and breadth, into the grass beside me.
There He lay, my Jesus of Capernaum, tall and powerfully built, wrapped in white, His face covered by a burial cloth. Even for a boy—I was fourteen then—the majesty of the figure was heightened by the loneliness and mystery of the tomb. Here was a place of eternal solitude, where the busy life of man changes into the peace of eternal rest, where the body gives itself back to the dust from which it came. Apart from this unveiling for me, which had occurred for a purpose unknown to me, Jesus of Capernaum would rest here in the heart of the rock while the centuries rolled over Him until His name was forgotten. But there was greatness in this fate; the spirit was now free from torments and trivialities, from pain and mockery.
Insofar as I could find a reason why I in particular had been allowed to see this, it seemed to me a kindly act of compensation for the adversities that had prevented me from being with the man I loved during His final days. So now, after all, I was permitted to see Him resting. I could not imagine what great, mysterious powers had granted me this favor. Great, mysterious powers lay beyond my imagination; even the being called God was unknown to me except that I knew He was the Father of Jesus of Capernaum. Nevertheless this favor was granted to me. I lay in the grass and took in every detail of the tomb so as never to forget it. The great stone door would close again and the rim of light would no longer be visible in the bright daylight.
Suddenly a hand rose beneath the burial cloths. It rose—and fell back. It rose—and fell again. At the same time I noticed a slight movement, as fine and delicate as one sometimes sees in small children before they wake from sleep. Then for many minutes nothing moved; only the body stood out clearly beneath the white cloths.
Then one hand freed itself. Although bound, it freed itself so easily, so gracefully, without any sign of struggle and so quickly that my eyes could not follow it. Then there was stillness again. The hand lay stretched out on the burial cloths, long, slender, bronze-colored even in its pallor, as I had so often seen it, but with a great wound on the back that might have been the mark of a wooden nail. Only reverence kept me from taking the hand and kissing it.
And then it moved—at first restlessly, aimlessly, until suddenly it pulled the cloth from the face. It did so as though compelled by a power outside the direction of its own spirit. By this I mean that I saw no sign of consciousness or breath in the body. The beloved features were still, and younger than I remembered them. The curled beard was the color of gold with a slight copper tint and bore witness to His natural strength. They were the features of a man whom the dark powers, as I now see it, could never hold captive.
As this thought came to me, I saw an eyelid move. Later the lips moved behind the beard. Gradually the chest began slowly to rise and fall. He lived! He may once have been dead, but now He lived again, just as I did!
Master! Master! I cried in my heart, but no sound came from my lips. Then the eyes opened. At first they seemed to see nothing; they merely looked. They looked in wonder and astonishment, as though measuring what they saw by different standards. They were blue, that deep lake-blue one often sees in the finest sapphires.
For a few moments I feared that if they turned toward me, they would no longer recognize me. When they did turn to me, they were at first like the eyes of a small child that knows nothing yet, but then a smile came, slowly but radiantly. Never, it seemed to me, had such a smile been given to a human being in this world.
“Master! Master!” I cried aloud this time.
“My dear little boy!” He answered. “It is dear to Me to have you here.”
I could see the other hand trying to free itself from the cloths. “Master, may I not help You?”
“No, dear child, this is a task I must do alone. In conquering death I must use no help other than the Father’s. If I did, a great part of the meaning of My task would disappear.”
“But what is its meaning, Lord?”
“To prove to My brothers that there is no death. It is not enough to tell them. I must show them the powers the Father has given us by using them. But even so many of them will not believe Me. They saw Me on the cross, they watched while I died, they saw loving hands bury Me. Nevertheless only a few will accept the fact that I have risen, even if they see Me and I speak with them as I speak with you now.
If this triumph of man over death had happened only for My own sake, none of this would have been necessary. I do not help My brothers if I merely glorify Myself. They must learn that they too can do what I have done. It is not necessary for them to pass through the horrors of pain and death in order to reach the next stage of being. At the appointed time they can ascend of their own free will, as birds fly north and south. My task is to show them that it can be done.”
“But Master,” I ventured to object, “I do not see how it can be done, although I see that You do it.”
His gentle smile penetrated me completely. “Dear boy, I did not say how it can be done, but that it can be done. Each person must discover the how for himself. Do not sin and do good. Whoever does so will lay aside life limited by time and put on that of eternity, as a man throws away a worn garment and clothes himself in a more beautiful one.”
“But Lord,” I murmured, “will any human being after You ever be able to do these things?”
“Not for thousands of years, as time is counted in the earthly world. Many people will applaud the message I have given them, but they will make no attempt to follow it. That requires sinlessness, a state in which the powers now sleeping within them are awakened.
For many centuries they will continue along the veiled path of truth with means of only slight effectiveness. Occasionally they will advance somewhat, but then they will lose ground again; on the whole they will make little progress. They will reject My way because it seems too difficult to them. Until all other ways have been tried in vain, they will regard it as too difficult; but then a new race of the children of God will be born. They will return to what you, My dear boy, are seeing this morning. They will recognize that My example was given for them all, and they will learn to follow it. The how will then no longer be a question, because all will understand and love God.”
Even as He spoke I saw a change come over Him. Before, He had been the Jesus of Capernaum as I had known Him. There had been a slight difference, like the one perceived in a person known while ill and then seen well again—nothing more. Now, quite suddenly, He began to shine, as though His garments were made of light and not of the kind in which people clothe their dead.
It was neither fire nor flames; it was a radiance in itself.
Nevertheless He continued sitting upright in the tomb and speaking to me: “Above all take heed, My dear boy: it is not knowledge of the Father’s existence that will bring eternal life; you must know Him. To understand Him means to have His powers in your hands. Then you will be able to direct your life instead of living under the rule of things. To Me, who have carried out the Father’s will, all power in heaven and on earth has been given. To you also it will be given in the same measure, according to the greatness of your obedience.”
What happened next took place so quickly that my eyes could not follow. He left the tomb. He stood before me. Between the moment when He sat there speaking to me and the one in which He stood before me, not the shortest interval had passed. But He stood there and moved as I had always seen Him move, only on feet of light.
In the tomb the cloths lay empty and abandoned. The face cloth lay to one side as He had cast it. Tall, upright, majestic, yet at the same time loving and kind in a way one cannot even imagine, He stood before me in garments that shone like the sunrise.
“Beloved boy,” He said, gently yet firmly, “you have followed Me with great love; now I will do the same for you. You will not see Me, but I will be there and help you through a long life in which joy and care will be mingled. Always remember that I will never leave nor forget you.”
And then, as I knelt down, my eyes could no longer endure the sight. It was not He who disappeared; I simply could no longer see Him. The beauty was too great, the radiance too intense. He did not disappear or leave me—the inability was on my side. He became too radiant, that was all.
The garden was dark; only the first dawn of morning was coming up. There was no longer any light in the tomb, nor was anyone with me. Yet shortly afterward two Roman guards who had been lying nearby in deep sleep awoke and began to curse. Unseen by them, I slipped away. Near the garden gate I saw three women just entering. I heard one say to the others: “We have the spices, the oil, and the linen, but who will roll the stone away from the tomb for us?” I hid behind a sycamore and waited until they had passed.
When I told my stepfather how I had spent the night and what I had experienced, he asked me to keep silent about it. He had already heard that disturbances had arisen in Pilate’s courtyards. A report had been spread that the body had been stolen while the soldiers slept. The governor feared a scandal. Thus, rejoicing inwardly yet not believing that Jesus of Capernaum had risen, my stepfather said that we would leave for Tyre that very day.
Shortly afterward we traveled from Tyre to Rome and from Rome to London in the province of Britain. Here my stepfather died. I grew to manhood and married a British woman. Since all my duties lay in this remote part of the empire, I heard nothing more of Jesus of Capernaum—until yesterday.
Then—as strange as it may seem—an old man, a wanderer, came into our city to proclaim what he called a Gospel. His name, I was told, was Joseph from the city of Arimathea in the land of the Jews. On his journey he held meetings in the cities to bring the message that a man had risen from the dead. I sought him out at once. “Can it be,” I asked, “that the man of whom you wish to speak is Jesus of Capernaum?”
He asked: “Have you heard of Him already?”
“I have not only heard of Him; I knew Him. I not only knew Him, but I saw Him in the garden near the city of Jerusalem, three days after His death, as He rose…”
… here the manuscript breaks off.
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