The Last Temptation of Christ

  Old Salome sighed. “Your words are hard, Rabbi, hard for a mother.”

  “The word of God is always hard,” Jesus replied.

  “Take my two sons,” the old mother murmured, crossing her hands. “Take them; they are yours.”

  Jesus heard the orphaned mother and felt that all the sons and daughters of the world were suspended from his neck. He recalled the black he-goat he had seen in the desert with all the sins of the people enclosed in blue amulets and hanging from its neck. Without speaking, he leaned toward the old Salome, who had given him her two sons. He seemed to be saying to her, Look, here is my neck; hang your sons around it. ...

  He threw a handful of vine branches onto the fire. The flames swept over them. For a long time Jesus watched the fire hissingly consume the branches; then he turned again to the companions.

  “He who loves father and mother more than me is not worthy to come with me; and he who loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy to come with me. The old commandments are no longer large enough to hold us; neither are the old loves.”

  He paused for a moment, then continued. “Man is a frontier, the place where earth stops and heaven begins. But this frontier never ceases to transport itself and advance toward heaven. With it the commandments of God also transport themselves and advance. I take God’s commandments from the tables of Moses and extend them, make them advance.”

  “Does God’s will change, then, Rabbi?” asked John, surprised.

  “No, John, beloved. But man’s heart widens and is able to contain more of God’s will.”

  “Forward, then,” shouted Peter, jumping up. “Why are we sitting? Let’s go proclaim the new commandments to the world.”

  “Wait for the rain to stop so we don’t get wet!” hissed Thomas mockingly.

  Judas shook his head, infuriated. “First we’ve got to chase out the Romans,” he said. “We must liberate our bodies before we liberate our souls—each in its proper order. Let’s not start building from the roof downward. First comes the foundation.”

  “The foundation is the soul, Judas.”

  “I say the foundation is the body!”

  “If the soul within us does not change, Judas, the world outside us will never change. The enemy is within, the Romans are within, salvation starts from within!”

  Judas jumped up, boiling. For a long time he had kept his heart from crying out. He had listened and listened, storing everything in his breast, but now he could bear it no longer.

  “First throw out the Romans!” he shouted again, choking. “First the Romans!”

  “But how can we throw them out?” asked Nathanael, who had begun to feel uneasy and to cast sidelong glances at the door. “Will you tell us how, Iscariot?”

  “Revolution! Remember the Maccabees! They expelled the Greeks. It’s our turn now; it’s time for new Maccabees to expel the Romans. Afterward. when everything is in our own hands again, we can settle about rich and poor, injured and injurer.”

  No one spoke. The disciples were not sure which of the two roads to take. They gazed at the teacher and waited. He was looking thoughtfully at the flames. ... When would men understand that only one thing exists in both the visible and invisible worlds—the soul!

  Peter rose. “Excuse me,” he said, “but these are complicated discussions and I don’t understand them. Experience will teach us which is the foundation. Let’s wait and see what happens. Master, give us the authority to go out by ourselves in order to bring the Good News to men. When we return we’ll talk it all over again.”

  Jesus raised his head and swept his eyes over the disciples. He nodded to Peter, John and Jacob. They came forward and he placed his hands heavily on their heads.

  “Go, with my blessing,” he said. “Proclaim the Good News to men. Do not be afraid. God will hold you in his palm and keep you from perishing. Not a single sparrow falls from the sky without his will, and you are worth many sparrows. God be with you! Come back quickly, and may thousands of souls be suspended from your necks. You are my apostles.”

  The three apostles received the blessing. Opening the door, they went out into the tempest, and each took a different road.

  The days went by. Zebedee’s yard filled with people in the morning and emptied in the evening. The sick, the lame and those possessed with devils came from every direction. Some wept, others grew furious and shouted at the Son of man to perform a miracle and cure them. Wasn’t this why God had sent him? Let him appear, then, in the courtyard! ...

  Hearing them day after day, Jesus became sad. He would go out to the yard and touch and bless each one, saying, “There are two kinds of miracles, my brothers, those of the body and those of the soul. Have faith only in the miracles of the soul. Repent and cleanse your souls, and your flesh will be cleansed. The soul is the tree. Sickness, health, Paradise and the Inferno are its fruits.”

  Many believed and as soon as they believed felt their blood spurt up and fill their benumbed bodies. They threw away their crutches and danced. Others, as Jesus leaned his hand against their extinguished eyes, felt light flow out from the tips of his fingers. They raised their eyelids and shouted with joy, for now they saw the world!

  Matthew kept his quill ready and his eyes and ears open. He did not allow even a single word to fall to the ground, but collected everything and placed it on paper. And thus little by little, day by day, the Gospel—the Good News—was composed. It took root, threw out branches and became a tree to bear fruit and nourish those born and yet to be born. Matthew knew the Scriptures by heart. He noticed how the teacher’s sayings and deeds were exactly the same as the prophets, centuries earlier, had proclaimed; and if once in a while the prophecies and Jesus’ life did not quite match, it was because the mind of man was not eager to understand the hidden meaning of the sacred text. The word of God had seven levels of meaning, and Matthew struggled to find at which level the incompatible elements could find their mates. Even if he occasionally matched things by force, God forgives! Not only would he forgive, he desired this. Every time Matthew took up his quill, did not an angel come and bend over his ear to intone what he was to write?

  Today was the first time Matthew clearly understood where to start and how the life and times of Jesus had to be taken in hand. First of all, where he was born and who his parents and grandparents were, for fourteen generations. He was born in Nazareth to poor parents—to Joseph the carpenter and Mary, daughter of Joachim and Anne. ... Matthew took up his quill and called silently upon God to enlighten his mind and give him strength. But as he began to inscribe the first words on the paper in a beautiful hand, his fingers stiffened. The angel had seized him. He heard wings beat angrily in the air and a voice trumpeted in his ear, “Not the son of Joseph! What says the prophet Isaiah: ‘Behold, a virgin shall conceive and bear a son.’ ... Write: Mary was a virgin. The archangel Gabriel descended to her house before any man had touched her, and said, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you!’ Straightway her bosom bore fruit. ... Do you hear? That’s what you’re to write. And not in Nazareth; no, he wasn’t born in Nazareth. Do not forget the prophet Micah: ‘And you, Bethlehem, tiny among the thousands of Judah, from you shall come forth One who is to be ruler in Israel, and his root is from of old, from the days of eternity.’ Jesus was therefore born in Bethlehem, and in a stable. What says the infallible psalm: ‘He took him from the stable where the lambs were suckling, in order to make him shepherd of the flock of Jacob.’ Why do you stop? I have freed your hand—write!”

  But Matthew grew angry. He turned toward the invisible wings at his right and growled softly, so that the sleeping disciples would not hear him: “It’s not true. I don’t want to write, and I won’t!”

  Mocking laughter was heard in the air, and a voice: “How can you understand what truth is, you handful of dust? Truth has seven levels. On the highest is enthroned the truth of God, which bears not the slightest resemblance to the truth of men. It is this truth, Matthew Evangelist, that I intone
in your ear. ... Write: ‘And three Magi, following a large star, came to adore the infant. ...’ ”

  The sweat gushed from Matthew’s forehead. “I won’t write! I won’t write!” he cried, but his hand was running over the page, writing.

  Jesus heard Matthew’s struggle in his sleep and opened his eyes. He saw him bent over and gasping under the lamp, the squeaking quill running furiously over the page, ready to break.

  “Matthew, my brother,” he said to him quietly, “why are you groaning? Who is above you?”

  “Don’t ask me, Rabbi,” he replied, his quill still racing over the paper. “I’m in a hurry. Go to sleep.”

  Jesus had a presentiment that God must be over him. He closed his eyes so that he would not disturb the holy possession.

  THE DAYS and nights passed by. One moon came and went; the next came. Rain, cold, fires on the hearth; saintly vigils in old Salome’s house. ... Capernaum’s poor and aggrieved came each evening after the day’s work in order to hear the new Comforter. They arrived poor and unconsoled; they returned to their wretched huts rich and comforted. He transplanted their vineyards, boats and joys from earth to heaven; explained to them how much surer heaven was than earth. The hearts of the unfortunate filled with patience and hope. Even Zebedee’s savage heart began to be tamed. Little by little Jesus’ words penetrated him, lightly inebriating his mind. This world thinned out and over his head hovered a new world made of eternity and imperishable wealth. In this odd new world Zebedee and his sons and old Salome and even his five caïques and full coffers would live evermore. Best not grumble, therefore, when he saw these uninvited guests day and night in his house or sitting around his table. It would come, the recompense would come.

  In midwinter the sun-drenched halcyon days arrived. The sun gleamed, warmed the bare bones of the earth and duped the almond tree in the middle of Zebedee’s yard: it thought that spring had come and began to put out buds. The kingfishers had been awaiting these warm merciful days, for they wished to entrust their eggs to the rocks. All the rest of God’s birds procreate in the spring, the kingfisher in midwinter. God pitied them and promised to allow the sun to come up warm several days in the winter, just for their sakes. Rejoicing, these nightingales of the sea flew now over the waters and rocks of Gennesaret and warbled their thanks to God for having once more kept his word.

  During these lovely days the remaining disciples scattered to the fishing caïques and near-by villages so that they too could try their wings. Philip and Nathanael set out overland to meet with their friends the farmers and shepherds and proclaim the word of God to them. Andrew and Thomas went to the lake to catch the fishermen. Unsociable Judas departed all by himself toward the mountain to let the anger filter out of his system. Much of the master’s behavior pleased him, but there were some things he simply could not stomach. Sometimes the wild Baptist thundered through Jesus’ mouth, but sometimes the same old son of the Carpenter still bleated: Love! Love! ... What love, clairvoyant? Whom to love? The world has gangrene and needs the knife—that’s what I say!

  Matthew was the only one who stayed in the house. He did not want to leave, for the teacher might speak, and Matthew must not let his words be carried away by the winds; he might perform some miracle, and Matthew must see it with his own eyes in order to recount it. And then again, where could he go, to whom could he talk? No one would come near him, because once upon a time he had been a dirty publican. He therefore remained in the house and from his corner glanced stealthily at Jesus, who sat in the yard under the budding almond tree. Magdalene was at his feet and he was speaking to her softly. Matthew strained his huge ear to catch a word, but in vain. All he could do was watch the rabbi’s severe, afflicted face and his hand, which every so often skimmed Magdalene’s hair.

  It was the Sabbath and pilgrims had set out in the early morning from distant villages—farmers from Tiberias, fishermen from Gennesaret, shepherds from the mountains—to hear the new prophet speak to them about Paradise, the Inferno, unfortunate mankind, and God’s mercy. They would take him—the sun was out, it was a splendid day—and bring him up to the green mountainside where they could strew themselves on the warm grass to listen to him, and perhaps they might even fall sweetly asleep on the springtime turf. They assembled, therefore, outside in the road, for the door was shut, and shouted for the teacher to emerge.

  “Magdalene, my sister,” said Jesus, “listen; the people have come to fetch me.”

  But Magdalene, lost within the rabbi’s eyes, did not hear. And of all that he had been telling her for such a long time, she had heard nothing. She rejoiced solely in the sound of his voice: the voice told her everything. She was not a man; she had no need for words. Once she had said to him, “Rabbi, why do you talk to me about the future life? We are not men, to have need of another, an eternal life; we are women, and for us one moment with the man we love is everlasting Paradise, one moment far from the man we love is everlasting hell. It is here on this earth that we women live out eternity.”

  “Magdalene, my sister,” Jesus repeated to her, “the people have come to fetch me. I must go.” He got up and opened the door. The road was full of ardent eyes and shouting mouths, and of the groaning sick who were stretching out their hands. ...

  Magdalene appeared at the door and put her hand over her mouth so that she would not scream. “The people are wild beasts, wild bloodthirsty beasts who will devour him,” she murmured as she watched him calmly go in the lead, with the crowd behind him bellowing.

  Jesus advanced with great, calm strides toward the mountain which rose above the lake, the mountain where he had once opened his arms to the multitude and cried, Love! Love! But between that day and this his mind had grown fierce. The desert had hardened his heart; he still felt the Baptist’s lips like two lighted coals upon his mouth. The prophecies flashed on and off within him; the divine inhuman shouts came back to life and he saw God’s three daughters, Leprosy, Madness and Fire, tear through the heavens and descend.

  When he reached the summit of the hill and opened his mouth to speak, the ancient prophet bounded up from within him, and he began to shout: “ ‘The fearful army comes bellowing from the ends of the earth; terrible and quick-moving, it comes. Not one of the warriors limps from fatigue, not one is sleepy or ever sleeps. Not a single waist band is slack or a single shoe thong broken. The arrows are sharp, the bow strings taut; the horses’ hoofs are hard stones, the chariot wheels are whirlwinds. It roars menacingly like a lioness. Whomever it catches is lifted up in its teeth and can be saved by no one!’ ”

  “What army is this?” shouted an old man whose white hair was standing on end.

  “What army is this? Do you ask, you deaf, blind, foolish people!” Jesus lifted his hand to heaven. “It is the army of God, wretches! From a distance God’s warriors seem to be angels, but up close they are flames. I myself took them for angels this past summer on this very rock where I now stand, and I cried, Love! Love! But now the God of the desert has opened my eyes. I saw. They are flames! ‘I can endure you no longer,’ shouts God. ‘I am coming down!’ Lamentation is heard in Jerusalem and in Rome, lamentation upon the mountains and at the tombs. The earth weeps for its children. God’s angels descend to the scorched earth, search with their lamps to discover where Rome was, where Jerusalem. Between their fingers they crumble the ashes and smell them. This must have been Rome, they say, this Jerusalem; and they toss the ashes to the winds.”

  “Is there no salvation?” cried a young mother, squeezing her baby to her breast. “I’m not talking for myself, but for my son.”

  “There is!” Jesus answered her. “In every flood God contrives an ark and entrusts to it the leaven of the future world. I hold the key!”

  “Who’ll be saved as leaven? Whom will you save? Do we have time?” cried another old man, and his lower jaw trembled.

  “The Universe passes before me and I choose. On one side, all those who overate, overdrank, overkissed. On the other, the starving and oppre
ssed of the world. These, the starving and oppressed, I choose. They are the stones with which I shall build the New Jerusalem.”

  “The New Jerusalem?” shouted the people, their eyes shining.

  “Yes, the New Jerusalem. I did not know it myself until God confided the secret to me in the desert. Love comes only after the flames. First this world will be reduced to ashes and then God will plant his new vineyard. There is no better fertilizer than ashes.”

  “No better fertilizer than ashes!” echoed a hoarse, joyous voice which seemed like his own, only deeper and happier. Surprised, Jesus turned and saw Judas behind him. He felt afraid, for the redbeard’s face flashed lightning, as if the coming flames had already fallen over him.

  Judas rushed forward and clasped Jesus’ hand. “Rabbi,” he whispered with unexpected tenderness, “my rabbi ...”

  Never in his life had Judas spoken so tenderly to anyone. He felt ashamed. He stooped and pretended to ask something, though he himself did not know what; then, finding a small premature anemone, he pulled it up by the roots.