MAN OF NAZARETH

Re-telling the story of Jesus is like re-inventing the wheel—it's Been Done, leaving a novelist merely the option of new alignments. This novel is based on Burgess' screen play for Zeffirelli's TV film, and considering the formidable hurdles, it's a somewhat strained but certainly consistent version. Burgess uses an anonymous, detached narrator who manages to bring the miracles and the teachings of Jesus—couched in a muscular idiom that sheds all mystic shadings—into a fairly comfortable balance. Some miracles are reported simply and briefly (the raising of Lazarus, the appearance of the angel at the Annunciation and Nativity); one is twisted into an amusing possibility (at the marriage at Cana, the Prophet extolls water as wine for the Good); and a few are left misty but not mystic (at the birth of Jesus: "There was the sound of music, whether of the heavenly host singing Holy, holy, holy or of drunken men in the tavern, I do not know. . ."). Jesus here is a man of powerful voice and body, "a man who could eat whole sheep and wrestle with lions," and along the way Burgess indulges in some rather playful innovations—Jesus is married briefly to a wife who dies; Jesus and John the Baptist, as boys, discuss their future. He also worries a variegated humanity from the supporting cast: Judas is a young vulnerable intellectual; Thomas is a Downstairs retainer; the Romans are cynically witty; the Zealots steely activists. His main thrift, however, is the portrait of Jesus as a good and brilliant man for whom the kingdom of heaven could be on earth: "Enter the house of death and you leave time behind. . . . You may even say that the kingdom is now, that heaven and hell are now." Make of this what you will theologically—call it liberal Protestant or radical Catholic—but Burgess deserves A for effort in an impossible assignment.