The first night passed. Jesus, without speaking, looked at the stars. Around him, the tired companions slept. But Judas’s blue eyes sparkled in the darkness. He and Jesus sat up all night, one opposite the other, but did not utter a word.
At dawn they started out again. They left the stones of Judea behind them and reached the white soil of Samaria. Jacob’s well was deserted: not a single woman came to draw water and refresh them. They passed rapidly over the heretical soil and then saw their beloved mountains—snow-capped Hermon, graceful Tabor, holy Carmel.
The day grew dim. They lay down under a thickly foliaged cedar and watched the sunset. John pronounced the evening prayer: “Open your doors to us, Lord. The day declines, the sun falls, the sun disappears. We come to your doors, Lord. Open them to us. Eternal, we beseech you, forgive us. Eternal, we beseech you, have mercy upon us. Eternal, save us!”
The air was dark blue. The sky had lost the sun and not yet found the stars. Unadorned, it fell upon the earth. Jesus’ supple, long-fingered hands, pressed against the soil, shone white in the uncertain half light. Within him, the evening prayer was still circulating and doing its work. He heard the trembling hands of men beat desperately on the doors of the Lord, but the doors did not open. The men were knocking and shouting. What were they shouting?
He closed his eyes in order to hear distinctly. The birds of the day had returned to their nests; the night birds had not yet opened their eyes. The villages of mankind were far away: you heard neither the tumult of men nor the barking of dogs. The companions mumbled the evening prayers, but they were sleepy and the holy words sank within them without reverberation. Inside him, however, Jesus heard men beat on the doors of the Lord—on his own heart. They were beating on his warm human heart and crying, “Open! Open! Save us!”
Jesus grasped his breast as though he too were knocking at his heart and begging it to open. And while he struggled, believing himself all alone, he felt someone watching him from behind. He turned. Judas’s cold, inflamed eyes were pinned upon him. Jesus shuddered. This redbeard was a proud, untamable beast. Of all the companions, he felt him the closest to him and yet the furthest away. It seemed that he need explain himself to none other, only to him. He held out his right hand.
“Judas, my brother,” he said, “look: what am I holding?”
Judas strained his neck in the half light in order to see. “Nothing,” he answered. “I don’t see anything.”
“You will see it shortly,” said Jesus smiling.
“The kingdom of heaven,” said Andrew.
“The seed,” said John. “Rabbi, do you remember what you told us by the lake the first time you parted your lips and spoke to us? ‘The sower has come out to sow his seed. ...’ ”
“And you, Peter?” Jesus asked.
“Master, what can I say to you? If I ask my eyes: nothing. If I ask my heart: everything. Between the two, my mind swings like a bell.”
“Jacob?”
“Nothing. Forgive me, Rabbi, but you’re not holding a single thing.”
“Look!” said Jesus, and he violently lifted his arm. And as he lifted it high and brought it forcefully down, the companions became frightened. Judas was so happy he blushed a bright rose and his whole face gleamed. He grasped Jesus’ hand and kissed it.
“Rabbi,” he shouted, “I saw! I saw! You’re holding the Baptist’s ax!”
But straightway he felt ashamed and angry because he had not been able to restrain his joy. He withdrew again and leaned against the trunk of the cedar.
Jesus’ voice was heard, tranquil and grave. “He brought it to me and placed it at the roots of the rotted tree. That is why he was born: to bring it to me. He could do no more. I came, stooped, picked up the ax—that is why I was born. Now begins my own duty: to chop down the rotted tree. I believed I was a bridegroom and that I held a flowering almond branch in my hand, but all the while I was a wood-chopper. Do you remember how we danced and promenaded in Galilee, proclaiming the beauty of the world, the unity of heaven and earth, and how Paradise would presently open up for us to enter? Friends, it was all a dream. Now we are awake.”
“Is there no kingdom of heaven, then?” Peter cried out, terrified.
“There is, Peter, there is—but within us. The kingdom of heaven is within us; the Devil’s kingdom is without. The two kingdoms fight. War! War! Our first duty is to chop down Satan with this ax.”
“Which Satan?”
“This world about us. Courage, friends—I invited you to war, not to a wedding. Forgive me, for I did not know myself. But whoever among you thinks of wife, children, fields, happiness, let him leave! There is nothing to be ashamed of. Let him rise, say goodbye to us quietly and leave with our blessing. There is still time.”
He was silent. He swept his eyes over the companions. No one moved. The Evening Star, like an immense drop of water, rolled behind the cedar’s black boughs. The night birds shook their dark wings and awoke. A cool breeze flowed down from the mountains. And suddenly, in the sweetness of the eventide, Peter jumped forward and shouted, “Rabbi, I’m with you in this war cheek by jowl—to the death!”
“Those are boastful words, Peter, and I don’t like them. We are passing along a difficult road. Men will oppose us, Peter—for who desires his own salvation? When did a prophet ever rise up to save the people and the people not stone him to death? We are marching along a difficult road. Hold on to your soul for dear life, Peter—it must not escape. The flesh is weak; don’t trust it. ... Do you hear? It’s you I’m talking to, Peter.”
Peter’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. “Don’t you have faith in me, Rabbi?” he murmured. “The man you look at in that way and do not trust: one day he will die for you.”
Jesus put his hand on Peter’s knee and stroked it. “It’s possible ... possible ...” he murmured. “Forgive me, dearest Peter.”
He turned to the others. “John the Baptist baptized with water,” he said, “and they killed him. I shall baptize with fire. I am making that clear to you tonight so that you’ll know it and won’t complain to me when the dark times crush down upon us. Before we even set out, I’m informing you which way we’re headed: toward death—and after we die, immortality. This is the way. Are you ready?”
The companions grew numb. This voice was severe. It no longer frolicked and laughed; it was calling them to arms. In order to enter the kingdom of heaven, then, would they have to go by way of death? Was there no other road? They were simple men, poor illiterate day laborers, and the world was rich and all-powerful—how could they take up arms against it? If only the angels could descend from heaven and come to their aid! But none of the disciples had ever seen an angel walk on earth and help the poor and despised. They remained silent therefore, secretly measuring and remeasuring the danger. Judas watched them out of the corner of his eye and chuckled with pride. He alone did not calculate. He went to war despising death, caring nothing for his body and less for his soul. He had but one great passion, and it would be a supreme joy to destroy himself for that passion’s sake.
Peter finally opened his mouth. He was the first to speak. “Rabbi, will angels come down from heaven to help us?”
“We are God’s angels on earth, Peter,” Jesus replied. “There are no other angels.”
“But do you think we can manage all by ourselves, Master?” asked Jacob.
Jesus rose. The bridge of his nose was quivering. “Go away,” he shouted. “Abandon me!”
“I won’t forsake you, Rabbi,” cried John. “I’m with you to the death!”
“Me too, Rabbi,” Andrew exclaimed, and he hugged the teacher’s knees.
Two large tears rolled from Peter’s eyes, but he did not speak; and Jacob, who was a strapping young man, bowed his head in shame.
“And you, Judas, my brother?” Jesus asked, seeing the mute redbeard gaze savagely at all the rest.
“I don’t bother with words,” Judas blustered, “and I don’t blubber like Peter. As long as you hold the ax, I’m with
you. You abandon it: I abandon you. I’m not following you, as you very well know. I’m following the ax.”
“Aren’t you ashamed to talk like that to the rabbi?” said Peter.
But Jesus was glad. “Judas is right,” he said. “Friends, I follow the ax myself.”
They all stretched out on the ground, their backs against the cedar. In the sky the stars multiplied.
“From this moment onward,” Jesus said, “we unfurl God’s banner and set out for war. A star and a cross are embroidered on the flag of the Lord. God be with us!”
They were all silent. They had made their decisions; their hearts had become valorous.
“I shall speak once more in parables,” Jesus said to the companions, who had finally been swallowed up by the darkness. “One last parable before we depart for battle. ... Know that the earth is fastened on top of seven columns, and the columns on water, and the water on clouds and the clouds upon the winds, and the winds on the tempest, and the tempest on a thunderbolt. And the thunderbolt rests at God’s feet, like an ax.”
“I don’t understand,” said John, blushing.
“John, son of the Thunderbolt!” Jesus replied, caressing his beloved companion’s hair. “You will understand when you grow old and go to become an ascetic on an island and the heavens open above you and your mind catches fire!”
He was silent. It was the first time he had so clearly seen what God’s thunderbolt was: a burning ax at the feet of the Lord; and hanging from this ax like a string of beads were the tempest, wind, cloud and water: the entire earth. Though he had lived for years with men, for years with the Holy Scriptures, no one had ever revealed to him this terrible secret. What secret: that the thunderbolt is the Son of God, the Messiah. It was the Messiah who was going to cleanse the world.
“Fellow partisans,” he said—and Peter perceived two flames, like horns, suddenly fly out from his forehead—“I went to the desert, as you know, to meet God. I was hungry, thirsty, broiling hot. I sat curled up on a rock and called God to appear. Wave after wave of devils pounded over me, broke, frothed and then turned around and flowed back. First were the devils of the body, then the devils of the mind and lastly the all-powerful devils of the heart. But I held God before me as a shield of bronze, and the sand around me filled with fragments of claws and teeth and horns. And then I heard a great voice above me: ‘Rise, take the ax brought you by the Forerunner, strike!’”
“Will no one be saved?” Peter cried.
But Jesus did not hear. “All at once my arm grew heavy as if someone had wedged an ax into my grasp. I started to get up, but as I did so I heard the voice once more: ‘Son of the Carpenter, a new flood is lashing out, not of water this time, but of fire. Build a new ark, select the saintly, and place them inside!’ The selection has begun, friends. The ark is ready; the door is open still. Enter!”
They all stirred. Creeping forward, they swarmed around Jesus as if he were the ark and they were trying to go in.
“And I heard the voice again: ‘Son of David, as soon as the flames subside and the ark casts anchor in the New Jerusalem, mount your ancestral throne and govern mankind! The old earth will have vanished, the old sky will have disappeared. A new heaven will stretch itself over the heads of the saints. The stars—and the eyes of men—will shine seven times brighter than ever before.’ ”
“Rabbi,” Peter again cried, “all of us who have fought the fight with you must not die before we see that day and sit to the right and left of your throne!”
But Jesus did not hear. Plunged in the fiery vision of the desert, he continued. “And for the last time I heard the voice over my head: ‘Son of God, receive my blessing!’”
Son of God! Son of God! each one shouted to himself, but no one dared open his mouth.
All the stars had now appeared. They were hanging low tonight, halfway between sky and men.
“And now, Rabbi,” Andrew asked, “where do we begin our military life?”
“God,” Jesus answered, “took earth from Nazareth and fashioned this body of mine. It is therefore my duty to begin the war in Nazareth. It is there that my flesh must commence its transformation into spirit.”
“And afterward we’ll go to Capernaum,” said Jacob, “to save my parents.”
“And then to Magdala,” suggested Andrew, “to get poor Magdalene and put her in the ark too.”
“And then to the whole world!” shouted John, pointing to the east and west.
Peter heard them and laughed. “I’m wondering about our bellies,” he said. “What’ll we eat in the ark? I suggest that we take along only edible animals. Goodness gracious, what use have we for lions and gnats?”
He was hungry, and his mind and thoughts were on food. The others all laughed.
“All you can think about is dinner,” Jacob scolded him. “We’re speaking here about the salvation of the world.”
“The rest of you have the same thought I have,” Peter objected, “but you won’t admit it. I say frankly whatever comes into my head, whether good or bad. My mind goes round and round, and I go round and round with it. That’s why the gossips call me Windmill. Am I right, Rabbi, or am I not?”
Jesus’ face brightened into a smile. An old story came to his mind. “Once upon a time there was a rabbi who desired to find someone who could blow the horn so skillfully and loud that the faithful would hear and come to the synagogue. He announced therefore that all good horn-blowers should present themselves for an audition. The rabbi himself would choose the best. Five came—the most skilled in town. Each took the horn and blew. When they all had finished, the rabbi questioned them one by one: ‘What do you think of, my child, when you blow the horn?’ The first said, ‘I think of God.’ The second: ‘I think of Israel’s deliverance.’ The third: ‘I think of the starving poor.’ The fourth: ‘I think of orphans and widows.’ One only, the shabbiest of the lot, stayed behind the others in a corner and did not speak. ‘And you, my child,’ the rabbi asked him, ‘what do you think of when you blow the horn?’ ‘Father,’ he answered, blushing, ‘I am poor and illiterate and I have four daughters. I’m unable to give them dowries, poor things, so that they can get married like everyone else. When I blow the horn, therefore, I say to myself: God, you see how I toil and slave for you. Send four husbands, please, for my daughters!’ ‘Have my blessing,’ said the rabbi. ‘I choose you!’ ”
Jesus turned to Peter and laughed. “Have my blessing, Peter,” he said. “I choose you. You have food on your mind, and you talk about food. When you have God on your mind you’ll talk about God. Bravo! That’s why men call you Windmill. I choose you. You are the windmill which will grind the wheat into bread so that men may eat.”
They had one piece of bread. Jesus divided it. Each man’s share was only a mouthful, but the rabbi had blessed it, and they were filled. Afterward they leaned against one another’s shoulders and slept.
All things sleep, relax and grow during the night—even stones, water and souls. When the companions awoke in the morning, their souls had branched out and invaded every inch of their bodies, filling them with assurance and joy.
They started out before dawn. The air today was cool. Clouds gathered—it was an autumn sky. Late-journeying cranes flew by, carrying the swallows toward the south. The carefree disciples ate up the road: heaven and earth had joined in their hearts, and even the humblest stone glistened, filled with God.
Jesus marched all alone in front. His mind was sluggish; it hung on the mercy of God. He knew that he had finally burned his bridges behind him and could no longer turn back. His fate marched in front and he was following it. Whatever God decided, that was what would take place. ... His fate? Suddenly he again heard the mysterious footsteps which had been mercilessly following him for such a long time. He strained his ear and listened. They were rapid, heavy, decisive. But now they were not behind him; they were in front, guiding him. ... It’s better, he reflected, better. Now I can no longer lose my way. ...
Rejoic
ing, he lengthened his stride. It seemed to him that the feet were hurrying, so he hurried too. He advanced, whispering “Onward! Onward!” to the invisible guide; stumbled forward over rocks, jumped ditches, ran. Suddenly he uttered a cry. He felt a horrible pain in his hands and feet, as though he had been pierced by nails. He collapsed onto a rock, the sweat pouring over him in cold granules. For a moment his head swam. The earth sank away from under his feet and a fierce dark ocean spread itself out before him. It was deserted but for a tiny red skiff which sailed bravely along, its sails puffed out, ready to burst. ... Jesus looked and looked, then smiled. “It is my heart,” he murmured, “it is my heart. ...” His head became steady again, the pains subsided, and when his disciples arrived, they found him tranquilly seated on the rock and smiling.
“Onward, lads, faster!” he said, and he rose.
IT IS SAID that the Sabbath is a well-fed boy at rest on God’s knees. With him rest the waters, birds refrain from building their nests, and men do not work. They dress, ornament themselves and go to the synagogue to watch the rabbi unroll the holy scroll with its Law of God written in red and black letters and to hear the learned search every word, every syllable and discover—with great art—the will of God.