The Last Temptation of Christ (62 page)

He grew up in the eyes of the Lord like a small, frail tree

  
which sprouts out o f unwatered ground.

He had neither beauty nor luster that we should turn

  
our eyes to see him; his face had nothing to please us.

He was despised and rejected by men,

  
a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief.

We turned away our faces and esteemed him not.

But he took upon himself all our pains;

He was wounded for our transgressions,

  
he was bruised for our iniquities;

And with his stripes we are healed.

He was scourged, and he was afflicted,

  
yet he opened not his mouth;

Like a lamb that is led to the slaughter,

  
he opened not his mouth. ...

“That’s enough,” said Jesus, sighing.

He turned to the companions. “It is I,” he said quietly. “The prophet Isaiah is speaking about me: I am the lamb that is being led to the slaughter, and I shall not open my mouth.” After a pause, he continued. “They have been leading me to the slaughter ever since the day of my birth.”

The amazed disciples stared at him with gaping mouths, struggling to understand what he had told them; and suddenly, all together, they hid their faces against the tables and raised the dirge.

For a moment even Jesus lost heart. How could he abandon these wailing companions? He lifted his eyes and looked at Judas. But the other’s hard blue eyes had been pinned on Jesus for a long time. He had divined what was happening inside the master and how easily love could paralyze his strength. The two glances joined and wrestled in the air for a split second, the one stern and merciless, the other beseeching and afflicted. A split second only—and straightway Jesus shook his head, smiled bitterly at Judas, and turned again to the disciples.

“Why do you weep?” he asked them. “Why are you afraid of Death? He is the most merciful of God’s archangels, the one who loves man the most. It is necessary that I be martyred and crucified, and that I descend to hell. But in three days I shall jolt out of my tomb, ascend to heaven and sit next to the Father.”

“Are you going to leave us again?” John shouted, weeping. “Take us with you to hell and heaven, Rabbi!”

“The task on earth is also a heavy one, John, beloved. You must all stay here on the soil, and work. Fight, here on the earth; love, wait—and I shall return!”

Jacob had already become reconciled to the rabbi’s death and was spinning in his mind what they would do when they were left on earth without him.

“We cannot oppose God’s will and the will of our master. As the prophets tell us, Rabbi, it is your duty to die, ours to live: to live so that the words you spoke shall not perish. We’ll establish them firmly in new Holy Scriptures, we’ll make laws, build our own synagogues and select our own high priests, Scribes and Pharisees.”

Jesus was terrified. “You crucify the spirit, Jacob,” he shouted. “No, no, I don’t want that!”

“This is the only way we can prevent the spirit from turning into air and escaping,” Jacob countered.

“But it won’t be free any more; it won’t be spirit!”

“That doesn’t matter. It will look like spirit. For our work, Rabbi, that’s sufficient.”

A cold sweat flowed over Jesus. He threw a quick glance at the disciples. No one lifted his head to object. Peter looked at Zebedee’s son with admiration. His was a creative mind: he’d taken on all the shining traits of his father, the captain; and now you would see—he was going to set everything in order for the master himself. ...

Jesus, despairing, lifted his hands. He seemed to be asking for help. “I shall send you the Comforter, the spirit of truth. He will guide you.”

“Send us the Comforter quickly,” John cried, “so that we won’t be led astray and fail to find you again, Rabbi!”

Jacob shook his hard, obstinate head. “It too—this spirit of truth you’re talking about—it too will be crucified. You must realize, Rabbi, that the spirit will be crucified as long as men exist. But it doesn’t matter. Something is always left behind, and that, I tell you, is enough for us.”

“It’s not enough for me!” Jesus shouted in despair.

Jacob felt troubled when he heard this painful cry. He approached and took the master’s hand. “Yes, it’s not enough for you, Rabbi,” he said. “That is why you are being crucified. Forgive me for contradicting you.”

Jesus placed his hand on the obstinate head. “If God wills it thus, let the spirit be eternally crucified upon this earth, and may the cross be blessed! Let us bear it with love, patience and faith. One day it will turn to wings on our shoulders.”

They did not speak. The moon was now high in the heavens, and a funereal light spilled over the tables. Jesus crossed his hands.

“The day’s work is done,” he said. “What I had to do, I did; what I had to speak, I spoke. I think I have done my duty. Now I cross my hands.”

He nodded opposite him to Judas, who rose, tightened his leather belt and grasped his crooked staff. Jesus waved his hand at him, as though saying goodbye.

“Tonight,” he said, “we shall be praying under the olive trees of Gethsemane, past the Cedron Valley. Judas, my brother, go—with God’s blessing. God be with you!”

Judas parted his lips. He wanted to say something, but changed his mind. The door was open. He rushed out, and his large feet were heard stamping heavily down the stone stairs.

Peter felt uneasy. “Where is he going?” he asked. He started to get up in order to follow him, but Jesus held him back.

“Peter, the wheel of God has begun to roll. Do not step in the way.”

A breeze had arisen. The flames on the seven-branched candelabra flickered. Suddenly there was a vehement gust of wind and the candles went out. The entire moon entered the chamber.

Nathanael was frightened and leaned over to his friend. “That wasn’t the wind, Philip. Someone came in. Oh God! do you think it was Charon?”

“And what do you care if it was!” the shepherd answered him. “He isn’t looking for us.” He slapped the back of his friend, who still had not recovered his equilibrium.

“Big ships, big storms,” he said. “Thank God we’re only rowboats and walnut shells.”

The moon had seized Jesus’ face and devoured it. Nothing remained but two pitch-black eyes. John was frightened. He stealthily held his hand to the rabbi’s face to see if it still existed. “Rabbi,” he murmured, “where are you?”

“I haven’t left yet, John, beloved,” Jesus replied. “I was lost for a moment because I thought of something an ascetic on holy Mount Carmel once told me: ‘I was immersed in the five troughs of my body,’ he said, ‘like a pig.’

“ ‘And how were you saved, Grandfather?’ I asked him Was it a great struggle?’

“ ‘Not at all,’ he answered me. ‘One morning I saw a flowering almond tree and was saved.’ ...

“A flowering almond tree, John, beloved: that is how death appeared to me for an instant just now.”

He rose. “Let us go,” he said. “The hour has come.” He took the lead. The disciples followed, deep in thought.

“Let’s leave,” Nathanael whispered to his friend. “I sense complications.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing myself,” Philip answered, “but let’s take Thomas too.”

They searched in the moonlight to find Thomas, but he had already disappeared into the alleyways. They remained by themselves in the rear. As soon as the group reached the Cedron Valley they allowed the others to outdistance them and then ran for their lives.

Jesus descended the Cedron Valley with those who remained, climbed up the opposite side and took the path which led to the olive grove of Gethsemane. How many times he had stayed awake all night under those ancient olive trees and talked about God’s mercy and the iniquities of men!

They halted. The disciples had eaten and drunk a great deal this evening and were sleepy. They cleared the soil by pushing away the stones with their feet, and then made themselves ready to lie down.

“Three are missing,” said the master, searching around him. “What happened to them?”

“They left,” Andrew said angrily.

Jesus smiled. “Do not condemn them, Andrew. You will see: one day all three shall return, and each will be wearing a crown made of thorns, which is the most royal of crowns—and unwithering!” When he had spoken he leaned against an olive tree, for he suddenly felt greatly fatigued.

The disciples had already lain down. They found large stones for pillows and made themselves comfortable.

“Come, Rabbi, lie down with us,” said Peter, yawning. “Andrew will keep watch.”

Jesus drew his body away from the tree. “Peter, Jacob and John,” he said, “come with me!” His voice was full of affliction and command.

Peter pretended not to hear. He stretched out on the ground and yawned again, but Zebedee’s two sons took him by the hands and lifted him up.

“Let’s go,” they said. “Aren’t you ashamed?”

Peter approached his brother. “Who knows what will happen, Andrew. Give me your knife.”

Jesus marched in front. They left the olive trees behind and reached open land. Opposite them gleamed Jerusalem, dressed all-white in the moonlight. The sky above was milky, and starless. The full moon, which earlier they had seen rise in such a hurry, now hung stationary in the center of the sky.

“Father,” Jesus murmured, “Father who is in heaven, Father who is on the earth: the world you created is beautiful, and we see it; beautiful too is the world which we do not see. I don’t know—forgive me—I don’t know, Father, which is the more beautiful.

He stooped, took up a handful of soil and smelled it. The aroma went deep down into his bowels. There must have been pistachio nearby, and the ground smelled of resin and honey. He rubbed the soil against his cheek, neck and lips. “What perfume,” he murmured, “what warmth, what brotherhood!”

He began to weep. He held the soil in his palm, not wanting to part with it ever. “Together,” he murmured, “together we shall die, my brother. I have no other companion.”

Peter had stood enough. “I’m exhausted,” he said. “Where’s he taking us? I’m not going farther; I’m going to lie down right here.”

But as he searched around him to find a comfortable hollow in which to stretch out, he saw Jesus coming slowly down upon them. He immediately recovered his strength and went out before the others to meet him.

“It’s almost midnight, Rabbi,” he said. “This is a good place for us to sleep.”

“My children,” Jesus said, “my soul is mortally sad. You go back and lie down under the trees while I stay here in the open to pray. But I beg of you, do not sleep. Stay awake tonight and pray with me. Help me, my children, help me to pass through this difficult hour.”

He turned his face toward Jerusalem. “Go now. Leave me alone.”

The disciples drew a stone’s throw away and thrust themselves under the olive trees. But Jesus fell to the ground, his face glued to the soil. His mind, heart and lips could not be separated from the earth—they had become earth.

“Father,” he murmured, “here I am fine: dust with dust. Leave me. Bitter, exceedingly bitter, is the cup you have given me to drink. I don’t have the endurance. If it is possible, Father, remove it from my lips.”

He remained silent, listening. Perhaps he would hear the Father’s voice in the blackness. He closed his eyes. Who could tell—God was good, the Father might appear inside him and smile compassionately and nod to him. He waited and waited, trembling. He heard nothing, saw nothing. All alone, he looked around him, became frightened, jolted upright and went to find the companions in order to steady his heart. He found all three asleep. He pushed Peter with his foot, then John, then Jacob.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?” he said to them bitterly. “Can’t you bear up just a short while, to pray with me?”

“Rabbi,” said Peter, unable to keep his eyelids from falling, “the soul is ready and willing but the flesh is weak. Forgive us.”

Jesus returned to the open space and fell upon his knees on the rocks. “Father,” he cried again, “bitter, exceedingly bitter, is the cup you have given me. Remove it from my lips.”

As he spoke he saw above him in the moonlight an angel, stern and pale, coming down. His wings were made of the moon and between his palms he held a silver chalice. Jesus hid his face in his hands and collapsed to the ground.

“Is this your response, Father? Have you no mercy?”

He waited a short time. Little by little he timidly separated his fingers to see if the angel was still above him. The heavenly visitor had come still lower, and the chalice was now touching his lips. He shrieked, threw out his arms and fell supine onto the ground.

When he came to, the moon had moved a hand’s breadth from the summit of the heavens and the angel had dissolved into the moonlight. In the distance, on the road to Jerusalem, he saw scattered, moving lights—apparently from burning torches. Were they coming toward him? Were they going away from him? Once more he was overcome by fear—and by the longing to see men, to hear a human voice, to touch hands he loved. He departed at a run to find the three companions.

All three were again asleep, their serene faces floating in a bath of moonlight. John had Peter’s shoulder as a pillow, Peter Jacob’s breast. Jacob supported his black-haired head on a stone. His arms were spread wide as if he were embracing the heavens, and his gleaming teeth shone through his raven-black mustache and beard. He must have been having a pleasant dream, for he was smiling. Jesus took pity on them and this time refrained from pushing them awake. Walking on tiptoe, he retraced his steps. Then he fell once more on his face and began to weep.

“Father,” he said, so softly it seemed he did not wish God to hear, “Father, your will be done. Not mine, Father—yours.”

He rose and looked again in the direction of the Jerusalem road. The lights had now come closer. He could clearly see the quivering shadows around them and the flashing of bronze armor.