Killing Jesus: A History

by Bill O'Reilly

  In that belief, there is hope. The hardships of the land and the cruelty of Rome have bred a resurgent faith in the power of the Jewish God, to whom they pray for rescue, power, and relief. This is the world a young Jesus of Nazareth inhabits. These are the prayers he hears poured forth every day. The promise of God’s deliverance is the one shaft of daylight that comforts the oppressed people of Galilee. Someday, in some way, if they just hold on, God will send someone to make things right, just as he did with Abraham, Moses, Daniel, Samson, and David.

  Ten years after the death of Herod the Great, the populace of Jesus of Nazareth’s village and his land eagerly await a new king of the Jews.

  * * *

  How much Jesus is affected by all the turbulence in his town is unknown. He grows into a strong man, respectful of his parents. Joseph dies sometime between Jesus’s thirteenth and thirtieth birthdays, leaving Jesus the family business. Jesus remains devoted to his mother, and she to him. But as he passes his thirtieth birthday, Jesus of Nazareth knows that silence is no longer an option.

  The time has come to fulfill his destiny.

  It is a decision that will change the world.

  It will also lead to his agonizing death.

  BOOK

  II

  Behold the Man

  CHAPTER SIX

  JORDAN RIVER, PEREA

  A.D. 26

  MIDDAY

  John the Baptizer stands waist deep in the cold, brown river, waiting patiently as the next pilgrim wades out to stand at his side. He looks to the shore, where scores of believers line up on the Jordan’s muddy bank, oblivious to the heat as they wait to experience the full immersion ritual that will cleanse them of their sins.

  The believers are mostly poor working people. They are electrified by John and his radical teachings. The long-haired young man with the sunburned skin and unkempt beard has disciplined himself by living alone in the desert, existing on a diet of locusts for protein and honey for energy. His clothes are not the elaborate robes of the haughty Pharisees, now spying on him from the shore, but a coarse tunic stitched from the skin of a camel and cinched tightly around his waist with a simple leather belt. John is celibate, with a passion for God and God alone. Some think him eccentric, others consider him a rebel, and many find his direct manner of speaking to be caustic, but all agree that he has boldly promised them something that neither Rome nor the high priests can offer: hope. Thus, the believers have come to redeem that promise.

  The end of the known world is coming, John preaches. A new king will come to stand in judgment. Wade into the water and be cleansed of your sins, or this newly anointed ruler—this “Christ”—will punish you in the most horrible manner possible. It is a message both religious and political, one that directly challenges the Roman Empire and the hierarchy of the Jewish Temple.

  John extends an arm as the next pilgrim draws near. But before he can baptize the man, a tax collector cries out from the shore, “Teacher, what should we do?” He speaks for his profession, well aware that he is despised for diverting Jewish money to a pagan king in Rome.

  “Don’t collect any more than you are required,” John answers.

  There is little shade along the Jordan, and the believers have waited in line patiently for the chance to be immersed in these cool waters. But despite their discomfort, one and all listen closely to what John has to say.

  “And what should we do?” calls out a soldier. Many soldiers have been known to engage in unethical practices in the name of that perverted and despised new Roman emperor Tiberius.

  John’s answer is nonjudgmental. “Don’t extort money and don’t accuse people falsely. Be content with your pay.”

  The Baptist turns his attention back to the man who stands at his side in the river. He listens intently as the man confesses his many sins. Then John prays for him: “After me will come one more powerful than I, the thongs of whose sandals I am not worthy to stoop down and untie. I baptize you with water, but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”

  Only a slave would be tasked with loosening a man’s sandals, so John’s words are powerful, a tremendous show of respect. As the pilgrim nods in understanding, John places one hand in the center of the man’s back and slowly guides him down into the water, holds him under for a few seconds, and then lifts him back to his feet. The relieved pilgrim, his transgressions now forgiven, battles the lazy current back to shore. Before he has even reached the bank, another believer is wading out to experience the same sensation.

  “Who are you?” demands a voice from the shore. John has been waiting for this question. It is the condescending request of a priest, sent from Jerusalem to judge whether John is committing heresy. The holy man is not alone, having made the journey in the company of other Pharisees, Sadducees, and Levites.1

  “I am not the Christ,” John shouts back. The high priests know that he is referring to the new Jewish king, a man like Saul and David, the great rulers of generations past who were handpicked by God to lead the Israelites.

  “Then who are you?” demands a Pharisee. “Are you Elijah?”

  John has heard this comparison before. Like him, Elijah was a prophet who preached that the world would soon end.

  “No,” John replies firmly.

  “Who are you?” the priests ask once again. “Give us an answer to take back to those who sent us.”

  John prefers to invoke the prophet Isaiah, a man whose name meant “the Lord saves.” He lived eight hundred years ago and was said to have been martyred by being sawed in half for uttering his many bold prophecies. In one particular prediction, Isaiah foretold that a man would come to tell the people about the day the world would end and God would appear on earth. This man would be “a voice of one, calling in the desert, preparing the way for the Lord, making straight paths for him.”2

  John has prayed and fasted for many days. He truly believes that he is the man of whom Isaiah wrote. Even if he dies a most horrible death, he feels obligated to travel from city to city, telling one and all that the end of the world is near and that they must prepare by being baptized.

  “Who are you?” the priests demand once again, their voices angrier and more insistent.

  “I am the voice of one,” John responds, “calling in the desert.”

  * * *

  The Temple priests are not the only officials keeping a close eye on John the Baptist. From his stunning new capital city of Tiberias, which he has built on an even grander scale than Sepphoris, Herod Antipas has sent spies to the Jordan River to track John’s every movement. The Baptist is the talk of Galilee, and Antipas fears that this charismatic evangelist will persuade the people to rise up against him.

  Antipas is prepared to deal with John in the same manner as Judas of Gamala nearly twenty years ago. But there is something about John’s nonviolent message that makes him a much greater threat. Life in Galilee has become even more difficult since Judas was executed. Antipas’s decision to build Tiberias on the sunny shores of the Sea of Galilee a decade after rebuilding Sepphoris has increased the financial burden borne by the people of Galilee. As with all of Antipas’s building projects, no expense was spared. Once again, the peasants of Galilee are being taxed to cover these costs.

  Antipas has named the new city in honor of the Roman emperor who succeeded the late Caesar Augustus twelve years ago. Tiberius was once a great general, defending Rome from Germanic barbarians. But a lifetime of personal sadness has turned him into a horrible man. Tiberius knows no boundaries. One of his amusements is swimming with handpicked “tiddlers,” naked young boys whose job is to chase him around the imperial pool and nibble between Tiberius’s legs.

  The swimming sessions are the least of the emperor’s considerable depravities, but Antipas knows better than to pass moral judgment. Even after more than two decades on the throne, he rules solely at the pleasure of Rome. And indeed Antipas has his own depraved résumé. He has divorced his own wife and married that of his brother, an act of abo
mination to the Jewish people.

  So it is that even as he began making plans to kill John the Baptist—a man whose only crime is an outspoken passion for the coming of the Lord—Antipas named the capital city of a devout Jewish province after a sixty-eight-year-old pagan who hosts orgies in his private villa and dispatches his enemies by throwing them off a thousand-foot cliff.

  And while Antipas refuses to pass moral judgment on Tiberius, the vile man who controls his destiny, the Baptist will have no such qualms.

  * * *

  In Jerusalem, there now exists an uneasy alliance between faith and state. That unholy collaboration is also tracking the Baptist.

  Since Augustus declared Herod the Great’s son Archelaus unfit to rule twenty years ago, four other Roman governors have been in charge of Judea.

  The fifth has just arrived. His name is Pontius Pilate.

  * * *

  As John the Baptist is preaching on the banks of the Jordan River and Jesus of Nazareth is about to end years of self-imposed silence about his true identity, Pontius Pilate steps ashore in the seaside fortress town of Caesarea to fill the role recently vacated by Valerius Gratus.

  Thickly built and prone to arrogance, Pilate is a member of the equestrian class and a former soldier from central Italy. He is married to Claudia Procula, who accompanies him to Judea. It is a dismal appointment, for Judea is known to be a very difficult place to govern. But if her husband excels in this remote diplomatic posting, the powers in Rome might make sure that Pilate’s next assignment will be somewhere more prestigious.

  Pilate is no friend of the Jews. One of his first official acts is to order Roman troops in Jerusalem to decorate standards3 with busts of Emperor Tiberius. When the people rise up in protest of these graven images, which are forbidden by Jewish law, Pilate responds by having his soldiers surround the protesters and draw their swords as if to attack. The Jews refuse to back down. Instead, they bend forth and extend their necks, making it clear that they are prepared to die for their beliefs.

  For the first time, Pilate sees with his own eyes the power of the Jewish faith. He orders his men to stand down. The standards are removed.

  Pilate now finds a new strategy for dealing with the Jews. He forms an uneasy bond with Caiaphas, the most powerful high priest in the Jerusalem Temple. Caiaphas is from a family of priests and lives in a lavish home in the upper city. He has complete power over religious life in Jerusalem, including the enforcement of Jewish law—even if that means condemning a man or woman to death.

  Of course, while Caiaphas may be able to pass sentence, it is the Roman governor who decides if it should be carried out.

  Pilate is a Roman pagan. Caiaphas is a Jew. They worship different gods, eat different foods, have different hopes for their future, and speak in different tongues. Pilate serves at the behest of a divine emperor, while Caiaphas serves at the behest of God. But they share a command of the Greek language and a belief that they are entitled to do anything in order to stay in power.

  In this way, state and faith keep a stranglehold on Judea. And now it is Caiaphas who plays his role in their partnership, sending a team of religious authorities out into the wilderness to cast a critical eye on the ministry of John the Baptist.

  * * *

  “You brood of vipers,” John screams at the Temple priests who have come to the river to question him. “The axe is already at the root of the tree, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.”

  All eyes turn to the shocked religious authorities and then back to John, eager to hear what he will say next. For although it is known that some of these learned men are enormously hypocritical, no one dares criticize them in public. But John defiantly commands the Pharisees and Sadducees either to be baptized or to burn in an eternal fire.

  The clerics are stunned by John’s words. They say nothing.

  John returns his focus to the throngs who have come to be baptized. Farmers, craftsmen, tax collectors, and soldiers—they all respect John’s monastic lifestyle and his outspokenness and energy. There is a fearless independence to his behavior that many long to mimic. He seems immune to the threats of Rome. Some in the crowd are curious whether John pays his taxes—and, if not, what will happen to him.

  Most of all, each and every one of these people, deep in his heart, wonders if John himself is the coming Messiah of whom he preaches.

  * * *

  The answer comes the following day.

  Once again John stands in the Jordan. The village of Bethany is behind him, on the far bank. As usual the day is hot, and long lines of believers wait their turn to be baptized.

  In the distance, John spies a man walking down to the river. Like the Baptist, Jesus of Nazareth has long hair and a beard. He wears sandals and a simple robe. His eyes are clear and his shoulders broad, as if he is a workingman. He looks younger than John, but not by much.

  Suddenly a dove lands on Jesus’s shoulder. When Jesus makes no move to shoo it away, the bird is quite content to remain there.

  The dove changes everything.4 In that instant, the rage that so often fuels the Baptist’s words disappears. In its place is wonder, brought on by the awareness that his vision has now become a reality. As the crowd of pilgrims looks on, an awestruck John motions toward Jesus. “Look, the Lamb of God. I saw the Spirit come down from heaven as a dove and remain on him. I would not have known him, except that the one who sent me to baptize with water told me, ‘The man on whom the Spirit will come down and remain is he who will baptize with the Holy Spirit. I have seen and I testify that this is the Son of God.’”

  The believers drop to their knees and press their faces into the earth. Jesus does not react to this sign of worship. He does nothing to discourage it, either. The Nazarene simply wades down into the water and takes his place alongside John, waiting to be baptized.

  John is dumbstruck. “I need to be baptized by you, and yet you come to me?”

  Jesus does not clarify his identity. He is a simple carpenter, a builder who has labored his whole life. He has memorized the Psalms and Scripture. He pays his taxes and takes care of his mother. To a casual observer, he is just one of many hardworking Jews. There is no obvious sign of his divinity.

  In the Jewish culture, to proclaim you are God is a capital offense. So now, speaking softly with John the Baptist, Jesus does declare who he is. Bowing his head to accept the water, Jesus tells John, “Let it be so. It is proper for us to do this to fulfill all righteousness.”

  John places one hand on Jesus’s back and slowly lowers him into the water. “I baptize you with water for repentance,” John says as he submerges Jesus in the current.

  He then lifts Jesus to his feet.

  “I have seen and I testify that this is the Son of God,” John cries out.

  “Son of God” is a regal title indicative of one’s being a Messiah, a title attributed to King David. It is believed that when the Messiah returns, he will be king of the Jews, in keeping with David, the perfect king. The people looking on understand “Son of God” as a Davidic title, the anointed one, who is coming as ruler and king.5

  The crowd remains on its knees as Jesus steps onto the shore and keeps on walking. He is headed alone into the desert to fast for forty days and nights. It is a journey he makes willingly, knowing that he must confront and defeat any and all temptation in order to make his mind and body pure before publicly preaching his message of faith and hope.

  John the Baptist’s work is now done. But along with that, his fate has been sealed.

  * * *

  John is that rarest of all prophets: a man who lives to see his predictions come true. The people still desire to be cleansed of their sins through baptism, and huge crowds continue to follow John wherever he goes. If anything, his following is growing even larger. And while there is no longer a need to prophesize the coming of a new Christ, John has a powerful gift for speaking. He is not the sort to remain silent about immorality and inj
ustice. So when he learns that Herod Antipas has divorced his wife and then violated Jewish religious law by taking his brother’s former spouse for his new bride, he cannot remain silent. Walking the countryside, John the Baptist loudly decries Antipas wherever he goes, turning the people against their ruler.

  Antipas orders the spies who have been keeping an eye on John to arrest him. John is chained and then marched fifteen miles over hot desert terrain. Finally, he sees a vision in front of him. It is Antipas’s mountaintop fortress at Machaerus. John is then forced to walk three thousand feet up to the citadel, which is surrounded on all sides by rocky ravines. Antipas has sought to make this castle impenetrable. He fears attack from Arabia, which lies to the east, so he has enhanced these natural fortifications by erecting sixty-foot-thick walls and corner towers ninety feet high. “Moreover,” the historian Josephus will one day write of Antipas’s designs for Machaerus, “he has put a large quantity of dart-throwers and other machines of war into it, and contrived to get everything thither that might any way contribute to its inhabitants’ security under the longest siege possible.”

  The view from the palace, which lies at the center of the fortified structure, is stunning. If John were allowed to enjoy it, he might be able to see the slender brown curves of his beloved Jordan River snaking through the valley so far below. And perhaps John does pause for a final glimpse as he is marched through the great wooden doors that allow entrance to the citadel. But those doors close behind him all too quickly. Still in chains, he is marched into Antipas’s throne room, where he stands defiant and fearless before this man who says he is king of the Jews. And even when given a chance to recant his charges, John does not. “It is not lawful,” he tells the ruler, “for you to have your brother’s wife.”

  The woman in question, Herodias,6 sits at Antipas’s side. With his charges, John is not only condemning her husband but her as well. Still, Herodias sees that Antipas is actually fearful of John and is afraid to order his death. Herodias, however, is a patient woman and knows that she will find a way to exact her revenge. How dare this unkempt savage insult her?