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Christ the Lord: The Road to Canaby Anne Rice
Synopses & Reviews
Who is Christ the Lord?
Angels sang at his birth. Magi from the East brought gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. They gave these gifts to him, and to his mother, Mary, and the man, Joseph, who claimed to be his father.
In the Temple, an old man gathered the babe in his arms. The old man said to the Lord, as he held the babe, A light for revelation to the Gentiles, and glory for your people Israel.
My mother told me those stories.
That was years and years ago.
Is it possible that Christ the Lord is a carpenter in the town of Nazareth, a man past thirty years of age, and one of a family of carpenters, a family of men and women and children that fill ten rooms of an ancient house, and, that in this winter of no rain, of endless dust, of talk of trouble in Judea, Christ the Lord sleeps in a worn woolen robe, in a room with other men, beside a smoking brazier? Is it possible that in that room, asleep, he dreams?
Yes. I know it's possible. I am Christ the Lord. I know. What I must know, I know. And what I must learn, I learn.
And in this skin, I live and sweat and breathe and groan. My shoulders ache. My eyes are dry from these dreadful rainless days-from the long walks to Sepphoris through the gray fields in which the seeds burn under the dim winter sun because the rains don't come.
I am Christ the Lord. I know. Others know, but what they know they often forget. My mother hasn't spoken a word on it for years. My foster father, Joseph, is old now, white haired, and given to dreaming.
I never forget.
And as I fall asleep, sometimes I'm afraid-because my dreams are not my friends. My dreams are wild like bracken or sudden hot winds that sweep down into the parched valleys of Galilee.
But I do dream, as all men dream.
And so this night, beside the brazier, hands and feet cold, under my cloak, I dreamed.
I dreamed of a woman, close, a woman, mine, a woman who became a maiden who became in the easy tumult of dreams my Avigail.
I woke. I sat up in the dark. All the others lay sleeping still, with open mouths, and the coals in the brazier were ashes.
Go away, beloved girl. This is not for me to know, and Christ the Lord will not know what he does not want to know-or what he would know only by the shape of its absence.
She wouldn't go-not this, the Avigail of dreams with hair tumbled down loose over my hands, as if the Lord had made her for me in the Garden of Eden.
No. Perhaps the Lord made dreams for such knowing- or so it seemed for Christ the Lord.
I climbed up off the mat, and quietly as I could, I put more coals into the brazier. My brothers and my nephews didn't stir. James was off with his wife tonight in the room they shared. Little Judas and Little Joseph, fathers both, slept here tonight away from little ones huddled around their wives. And there lay the sons of James-Menachim, Isaac, and Shabi, tumbled together like puppies.
I stepped over one after another and took a clean robe from the chest, the wool smelling of the sunshine in which it had been dried. Everything in that chest was clean.
I took the robe and went out of the house. Blast of cold air in the empty courtyard. Crunch of broken leaves.
And for a moment in the hard pebbly street I stopped and loo
A second volume in the author's series of novels chronicling the life of Christ begins prior to his baptism in the Jordan River and concludes with the miracle at Cana, as he leaves his everyday life in Nazareth to confront his destiny, the Devil's temptations, and the call to be Israel's liberator from Roman occupation. 500,000 first printing.
Anne Rice is the author of twenty-seven books. She lives in Rancho Mirage, California.
About the Author
Anne Rice is the author of twenty-six books. She lives in La Jolla, California.
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