The blood rose to his head. On every side he saw the stares of the oppressed and the ragamuffins, who had all of their hopes pinned on him. Littering a savage cry, he jumped onto a platform. The people swarmed around him. Smirking, the rich and well fed stopped too, in order to hear. Jesus turned, saw them, and raised his fist.
“Listen, you who are rich,” he shouted, “listen, lords of this world. Injustice, infamy and hunger can last no longer! God rubbed my lips with burning coals and I cry out: How long will you recline on beds of ivory and on soft mattresses? How long will you eat the flesh of the poor and drink their sweat, blood and tears? ‘I can stand you no longer!’ cries my God. The fire is approaching, the dead are being raised, the end of the world has come!”
Two huge ragamuffins seized him and lifted him above their heads. The multitude gathered around, waving palm leaves. Steam rose from the prophets fiery head.
“I have come not to bring peace to the world but a sword. I shall throw discord into the home, the son shall lift his hand against the father, the daughter against her mother, the daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law—for my sake. Whoever follows me abandons all. He that seeks on this earth to save his life, shall lose it; and he that for my sake loses this temporary life, shall gain life for all eternity.”
“What does the Law say, rebel?” shouted a wild voice. “What do the Holy Scriptures say, Lucifer?”
“What say the great prophets Jeremiah and Ezekiel?” Jesus answered, his eyes glistening. “I shall abolish the Law engraved on the tables of Moses and shall engrave a new Law in man’s heart. I shall remove the heart of stone which men now have and give them a heart of flesh; and in this heart I shall plant a new Hope! It is I who engrave the new Law in the new hearts, and I am also the new Hope! I extend love; I open God’s four great doors, the East, West, North and South, for all nations to enter. The bosom of God is not a ghetto; it embraces the entire world! God is not an Israelite, he is immortal Spirit!”
The old rabbi hid his face in his hands. He wanted to shout, Jesus, be quiet, this is a great blasphemy! but was too late. Wild cries of joy broke out. The poor howled with delight; the Levites booed, and Jacob the Pharisee tore his robes and spit into the air. The old rabbi gave up in despair. Weeping, he departed. “He’s finished,” he murmured as he went, “finished! What devil, what god, shouts from within him?”
He went along, so fatigued that he stepped all over his feet. During all these days and weeks that he had been running behind Jesus, battling to understand who he was, his ramshackle body had completely melted away. Nothing was left now but a sun-baked hide wrapped around bones to which the soul clung and waited. Was this man the Messiah whom God had promised him or wasn’t he? All the miracles he performed could also be performed by Satan, who could even resurrect the dead. The miracles therefore did not give the rabbi sufficient basis to pass judgment; nor did the prophecies. Satan was a sly and exceedingly powerful archangel. In order to deceive mankind he was capable of making his words and actions fit the holy prophecies to perfection. For these reasons the rabbi lay in bed at night unable to sleep and begged God to take pity on him and to give him a sure sign. ... What sign? The rabbi understood perfectly: death, his own death. When he brought this sign to mind, he shuddered.
He stumbled along in a cloud of dust. Bethany appeared at the top of the hill, fully devoured by the sun. Puffing, he began the ascent.
Lazarus’s house was open. The villagers ran in and out in order to see and touch the resuscitated man, to listen carefully for his respiration, to discover if he could speak and if he was really alive—or if, perhaps, he was a ghost! Fatigued and reticent, Lazarus sat in the darkest corner of the house, for light bothered him. His legs, arms and belly were swollen and green, like those of a four-day corpse. His bloated face was cracked all over and it exuded a yellowish-white liquid which soiled the white shroud which he continued to wear: it had stuck to his body and could not be removed. In the beginning he had stunk terribly, and those who came close held their noses; but little by little the stench had decreased, until now he smelled only of earth and incense. From time to time he shifted his hand and removed the grass which had become tangled in his hair and beard. His sisters Martha and Mary were cleansing him of the soil and of the small earthworms which had attached themselves to him. A sympathetic neighbor had brought him a chicken, and old Salome, squatting by the fireplace, was at present boiling it so that the resurrected man could drink the broth and regain his strength. The peasants came and stayed just a few moments to examine him attentively and speak to him. He answered their questions wearily with a laconic yes or no; and then others came from the village or the surrounding towns. Today the blind village chief came too. He put out his hand and fingered him avidly. “Did you have a pleasant time in Hades?” he asked, laughing. “You’re a lucky fellow, Lazarus. Now you know all the secrets of the underworld. But don’t reveal them, wretch, or you’ll drive everyone up here crazy.” He leaned over to his ear and, half joking, half trembling, asked, “Worms, eh? Nothing but worms?” He waited a considerable time, but Lazarus did not answer. The blind man became enraged, took his staff, and left.
Magdalene stood in the doorway and gazed down the road which led to Jerusalem. Her heart was crying like a small infant. All these nights she had been having bad dreams: she saw Jesus marry, and that meant death. The night before, it seemed she dreamed of him as a flying fish which opened its fins, jolted out of the water and fell onto the land. It flapped spasmodically on the pebbles of the beach, struggling in vain to open its fins once more. Suffocating, its eyes began to grow dim. It turned and looked at her, and she all but perished in an effort to grasp it and replace it in the ocean. When she bent down and took it in her hand, however, it was dead. But all the time she held it, lamenting and bathing it in her tears, it grew, filled her embrace and became a dead man.
“I won’t let him return to Jerusalem ... I won’t let him. ...” She sighed and gazed down the white road in case he should appear.
But it was not Jesus who appeared on the road from Jerusalem. Instead, Magdalene saw her old father, all bent over and stumbling. Poor shrunken old man, she thought. In the awful state he’s in, why does he want to follow our rabbi wherever he goes, like an aged faithful dog. I hear him get up at night, go out into the yard, prostrate himself and cry to God, “Help me, give me a sign!” But God allows him to torture himself, apparently punishing him because he loves him: and in this way the poor man is comforted. ...
She watched him mount now, supporting himself on his crosier. He frequently halted, looked back toward Jerusalem and stretched wide his arms, to catch his breath. ... All these days that father and daughter were together at Bethany they both forgot the past and spoke to each other again. Seeing that his daughter had abandoned the evil road, the rabbi forgave her. He knew that all sins are washed away by tears, and Magdalene had wept much.
The old man arrived, breathless. Magdalene stepped aside so that he could go through the door, but he stopped and imploringly took her hand. “Magdalene, my child,” he said, “you are a woman: your tears and caresses have great power. Fall at his feet, beg him not to return to Jerusalem. The Scribes and Pharisees grew even more ferocious today. I saw them talking secretly among themselves, poison dripping from their lips. They are plotting his death.”
“His death!” exclaimed Magdalene, and her heart felt crushed. “But can be die, Father?”
The old rabbi looked at his daughter and smiled bitterly. “We always speak that way about those we love,” he murmured, and then was silent.
“But the rabbi is not a man like all the rest; no, he’s not!” Magdalene said in despair. “He’s not! He’s not!” she repeated over and over again, in order to charm away her fears.
“How do you know?” asked the old man. His heart leaped up because he believed in the presentiments of women.
“I know,” Magdalene answered. “Don’t ask me how. I’m sure of it. Do not be afraid, Fathe
r. Who will dare touch him now that he’s raised Lazarus?”
“Now that he has raised Lazarus, they’re more frantic than ever. Earlier, they listened to his preaching and shrugged their shoulders. But now that the miracle has been made known, the people have found courage. ‘He’s the Messiah,’ they shout; ‘he revives the dead, his power is from God—let’s go and join him.’ Today men and women took palm branches and ran behind him. The cripples lifted their crutches and threatened; the poor became unruly. The Scribes and Pharisees see all this and fly into a maniacal rage. ‘If we leave him a little while longer, we’re done for,’ they say, and they go incessantly to Annas, and from Annas to Caiaphas and from Caiaphas to Pilate—digging his grave. ... Magdalene, my child, clasp his knees, don’t let him ever enter Jerusalem again. We must all go back to Galilee!”
He recalled a somber, pock-marked face. “Magdalene,” he said, “on my way here I saw Barabbas roaming about, his face as dismal as Charon’s. When he heard my steps he hid himself in the bushes. That is a bad sign!”
His weak body went slack. His daughter took him in her arms and brought him inside. She fetched him a stool, and he sat down. She knelt at his side.
“Where is he now?” she asked. “Where did you leave him, Father?”
“At the Temple. He shouts and his eyes throw out flames: he’ll set the holy building on fire! And what words—my God, what blasphemies! He says he’ll abolish the Law of Moses and bring a new Law. He won’t go to meet God at the top in Sinai; he’ll meet him in his own heart!”
The old man lowered his voice. “Sometimes, my child,” he said, trembling, “I fear I’m going out of my mind. Or perhaps Lucifer—”
“Silence!” Magdalene commanded, and she placed both her hands over the old man’s lips.
They were still talking when the disciples, one behind the other, appeared at the door. Magdalene jumped up and looked, but Jesus was not among them.
“And the rabbi,” she asked in a heart-rending voice, “where is the rabbi?”
“Don’t be afraid,” Peter answered her with a sullen expression; “he’s coming right away.”
Mary jumped up too. She left her brother and anxiously approached the disciples. Their faces were dark and troubled, their eyes dull. She leaned against the wall.
“The rabbi?” she murmured weakly.
“He’s coming presently, Mary, he’s coming. ...” answered John. “If anything happened to him, would we leave him?”
The sulking disciples scattered throughout the house, one far away from the next.
Matthew drew his papers out from under his shirt and prepared to write.
“Speak, Matthew,” said the old rabbi. “Say something, and you’ll have my blessing.”
“My father,” answered Matthew, “just now as we were returning all together, Rufus the centurion overtook us at the gate of Jerusalem. ‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘I have orders for you!’ We were all paralyzed with fear. But the rabbi gave his hand tranquilly to the Roman. ‘Welcome, friend,’ he said. ‘What do you want with me?’
“ ‘It’s not me,’ Rufus answered, ‘but Pilate who wants you. Come with me, please.’
“ ‘I’m coming,’ Jesus said calmly, and he turned his face toward Jerusalem.
“But we all fell upon him. ‘Rabbi, where are you going?’ we cried. ‘We won’t let you leave!’
“The centurion came between us and said, ‘Don’t be afraid. I give you my word he means well.’
“ ‘Go,’ the master commanded us, ‘and do not fear. The hour has not yet come.’
“But Judas interrupted. ‘I’ll come with you, Master; I won’t leave you.’
“ ‘Come,’ said the master. ‘I won’t leave you either.’ Off they went toward Jerusalem, the two in front and Judas behind like a sheep dog.”
While Matthew spoke, the disciples, without a word, approached and knelt on the floor.
“Your faces are troubled,” said the rabbi. “You are hiding something from us.”
“We have other worries, Father, other worries ...” Peter mumbled, and he fell once more into silence.
And indeed just now, along their way, evil demons had entered them. The raising of the dead had commenced. Evidently the day of the Lord was coming near; the master would mount his throne. The time had therefore come for them to divide up the spoils. It was there, in the dividing, that the disciples had begun to quarrel.
“I shall sit on his right hand: he loves me the most,” said one.
They all dashed forward and shouted, “No, me! me!”
“Me!”
“Me!”
“I was the first to call him rabbi!” said Andrew.
“He comes more often to my dreams than to yours,” Peter objected.
“He calls me ‘beloved,’ ” said John.
“And me!”
“And me!”
Peter’s blood began to boil. “Step back—all of you!” he shouted. “Just the other day didn’t he say to me, ‘Peter, you are the rock, and upon you I shall build the new Jerusalem’?”
“He didn’t say ‘the new Jerusalem’! I have his words written down here,” exclaimed Matthew, tapping the notebook under his shirt.
“What did he say to me, then, scribbler? That’s what I heard!” said Peter angrily.
“He said, ‘You are Peter, and upon this rock I shall build my church.’ ‘My church,’ not ‘Jerusalem’—there’s a big difference!”
“And what else did he promise me?” Peter shouted. “Why did you stop? It goes against your interests to continue, eh? What about the keys? Well, speak!”
Matthew, not very eagerly, took his notebook, opened it, and read: “ ‘And I shall give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven—’ ”
“Go on! Go on!” Peter shouted triumphantly.
Matthew swallowed his saliva and bent again over his notebook. “ ‘And whatever you bind upon earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven. ...’ There—that’s all!”
“And does it seem a mere trifle to you? I—listen, all of you—I hold the keys; it’s I who open and close the gates of Paradise. If I want, I let you in; if I don’t, I don’t!”
At that point the disciples went wild and certainly would have come to blows if they had not already neared Bethany. But they felt ashamed in front of the villagers and swallowed their anger. Their faces, however, were still completely dark.
MEANWHILE, Jesus marched along with the centurion, followed by Judas, the sheep dog. They entered the narrow, twisting alleyways of Jerusalem and proceeded in the direction of the Temple, toward the tower which was Pontius Pilate’s palace.
The centurion was the first to speak. “Rabbi,” he said with emotion, “my daughter is marvelously well and thinks of you always. Every time she learns you’re speaking to the people she secretly leaves our house and runs to hear you. Today I held her tightly by the hand. We were together, listening to you at the Temple, and she wanted to run to kiss your feet.”
“Why didn’t you let her?” Jesus asked. “One instant is enough to save the soul of man. Why did you let that instant go to waste?”
A Roman girl kiss the feet of a Jew! Rufus thought with shame, but he did not speak.
With a short whip which he held in his hand he forced the noisy crowd to make way for him. It was so hot you almost swooned, and there were clouds of flies. The centurion felt nauseated as he breathed in the Jewish air. He had been in Palestine so many years, yet he still was not accustomed to the Jewry. ... They were passing now through the bazaar ground, which was covered with straw mats. It was cooler here, and they slowed their pace.
“How can you talk to this pack of dogs?” the centurion asked. Jesus blushed. “They are not dogs,” he said, “but souls, sparks of God. God is a conflagration, centurion, and each soul a spark which should be revered by you.”
“I am a Roman,” answered Rufus, “and my God is a Roman. He opens roads, builds barracks, brings water to c
ities, arms himself in bronze and goes to war. He leads, we follow. The body and the soul you talk about are one and the same to us, and above them is the seal of Rome. When we die both soul and body die together—but our sons remain. That is what we mean by immortality. I’m sorry, but what you say about kingdoms of heaven seems just a fairy tale to us.”
After a pause, he continued: “We Romans are made to govern men, and men are not governed by love.”
“Love is not unarmed,” said Jesus, looking at the centurion’s cold blue eyes, his freshly shaven cheeks and fat, short-fingered hands. “Love too makes war and runs to the assault.”
“It isn’t love, then,” said the centurion.
Jesus lowered his head. I must find new wineskins, he reflected, if I’m to pour in new wine. New wineskins, new words ...
At last they arrived. Towering before them, at once fortress and palace, was the tower which guarded within the haughty Roman governor, Pontius Pilate. He detested the Jewish race and held a perfumed handkerchief in front of his nostrils whenever he walked in the lanes of Jerusalem or was compelled to speak with the Hebrews. He believed neither in gods nor in men—nor in Pontius Pilate, nor in anything. Constantly suspended around his neck on a fine golden chain was a sharpened razor which he kept in order to open his veins when he became weary of eating, drinking and governing, or when the emperor exiled him. He often heard the Jews shout themselves hoarse calling the Messiah to come and liberate them—and he laughed. He would point to the sharpened razor and say to his wife, “Look, here is my Messiah, my liberator.” But his wife, without answering him, would turn away her head.