This I found to be an extraordinarily interesting read, as it is written from the viewpoint that Jesus himself might have of the events of his life as opposed to the sometimes contrasting viewpoints and memories the other four evangelists gave of Jesus in their accounts of his life on earth.

Saramago has brought life to often repeated stories, parables and miracles surrounding Jesus, and has achieved this in a moving and indeed entertaining way. I loved the Mary Magdalen involvement, and having her as the sister of Martha, the fanatical housewife and entertainer, is a stroke of creative genius. She makes a far more interesting character than the nun-like personnage presented to us traditionally as Catholics. We even had that story as a gospel reading in our church some months ago, and the priests did their best to champion the big-heartedness of Mary who, in the giving of her time and listening ear to Jesus, did as much to show him true hospitality as the fussy Martha.

Saramago's image of Jesus' mother, after whom I imagine many of us Christian women may well have been named, is presented to us in a way that allows ordinary women to identify more readily with than with the iconic perfect creature presented to us in the traditional art and literature of the Church. He presents the suffering she endured in her life on earth, and the reality of the life she lived once Jesus started to attend to his father’s business.

I love the way Saramago has taken various tales, eg. the one of the Lost Sheep and woven it into a very credible,charming and moving story. Saramago’s capricious depiction of God is making more regular appearances at this stage of the story, and I was rather amused about the way the miracle of the fishing catch was presented so cleverly.

I read this book slowly, coming back to it intermittently and as I got close to the end I found myself being disturbed somewhat by the implacable God figure whose harshness has been searingly underlined by the author, with all due historical references. I had been enjoying getting to know the human Jesus, who possessed a form of kind strength that I regard as Christian, a man who had dealt with family difficulties, who had grown in stature from adolescence, who was able to live with the devil for years and not be corrupted, and who, according to Saramago had been used for dissent rather than unity.

Towards the end of the book Saramago suggests a vision of God that I've not encountered before this, and it engaged my racing mind and my waking hours. I wrangled with the cruelty of it all, with the obduracy. This is not the God that we have learned to call Father. It is not the God that I have always regarded as having a listening ear. This is rather the God who apparently doesn't pay any heed to the third person of the Trinity, the holy Spirit, the pure Spirit of love as we have been told. It's not that I will reject my vision of my God, but Saramago's other account is thought-provoking and makes me search and think as I still profess to hold on to my own belief. It may not be logical, but it is deeply engrained in me, and I suppose I am like many others from generations of mankind before me. If I were born in Egypt many centuries ago I'd probably have given homage to their gods, in Rome to theirs, in Greece to theirs, and in ancient Ireland to our own Celtic pantheon. I probably belong to that line of primitive people who try to look upwards rather than parallel at either side of me. And as I enter the final quarter or third of my earthly life, I still hold on to the wished for belief of something more than just a peaceful non-existence as I return to dust.