“Judas, my brother,” he said, “do not be sad. Look how the wheat comes to the earth; how God sends rain and the earth swells and the ears of grain rise from the foamy soil to feed mankind. If the grain of wheat did not die, would the ears ever be resurrected? It is the same with the Son of man.”
But Judas was not consoled. Without speaking, he continued to climb. The sun fell behind the mountains; the night rose up from the soil. The first lamps were already flickering at the top of the hill.
“Remember Lazarus ...” Jesus said. But Judas felt nauseated and hurried on, spitting.
Martha lighted the lamp. Lazarus put his hand in front of his eyes—the light still wounded him. Peter took Matthew by the arm and the two of them sat down under the lamp. Old Salome had found a bundle of black fleece and was spinning, thinking of her two sons. My goodness, would the day never come when she would see them in their splendor, a ribbon of gold in their hair, and when the whole lake of Gennesaret would be theirs? ...
Magdalene had started down the path. The teacher was late. Her suffering was so intense, she seemed no longer able to fit into the house, and she had gone down the road in the hope of meeting her beloved. The disciples, squatting in the yard, glanced out of the corners of their eyes at the street door and did not speak. Anger was still boiling inside them. The whole house was peaceful, not a breath could be heard. It was just the moment for Peter, who had been longing for days to see what the publican wrote in his notebook each evening. Tonight, after his quarrel with the others, he could wait no longer: he had to know what Matthew said about him. These scribblers were a shameless lot and he had better take care he was not being ridiculed for future generations. If Matthew dared do such a thing, he would throw the book—pen and all—into the fire. Yes, this very evening! ... He took the publican’s arm cajolingly and the two of them knelt down under the lamp.
“Read to me please, Matthew,” he requested. “If you must know, I want to learn what you write about the teacher.”
Matthew was delighted to hear this. He slowly removed the notebook from its position next to his breast. He had just wrapped it in an embroidered lady’s kerchief presented him by Lazarus’s sister Mary. Now he carefully unwrapped it as though it were something alive and wounded. He opened it. His body began to pitch forward and back; he gathered momentum and started, half reading half chanting, to recite:
“ ‘The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, son of David, son of Abraham. Abraham begot Isaac. And Isaac begot Jacob. And Jacob begot Judas and his brothers. And Judas begot Phares and Zara ...’ ”
Peter closed his eyes and listened. The generations of the Hebrews passed before him: from Abraham to David, fourteen generations; from David to the Babylonian captivity, fourteen generations; from the Babylonian captivity to Christ, fourteen generations. ... What a multitude, what an innumerable, immortal army! And what immense joy, what pride to be one of the Jews! Peter inclined his head against the wall and listened. The generations marched by, reached the time of Jesus. Peter listened. How many miracles had taken place, and he had never even had a whiff of them! So ... Jesus was born at Bethlehem, and his father was not Joseph the Carpenter but was the Holy Spirit, and three Magi had come and worshiped him; and at the Baptism, what were those words thrown down from heaven by the dove? He, Peter, had not heard them. Who told them to Matthew, who wasn’t even there? Little by little Peter no longer heard the words; he heard only a lulling music, monotonous and sad—and then, gently, he fell asleep. There, in his sleep, he heard both music and words with perfect clarity. Each word seemed to him in his sleep like a pomegranate—like those pomegranates he had eaten the year before at Jericho. They burst open in the air and from inside flew out sometimes flames, sometimes angels, wings and trumpets. ...
Suddenly in the deep sweetness of sleep he heard a tumult of happy cries. He awoke with a start. In front of him he saw Matthew, still reading, the notebook on his knees. He remembered, felt ashamed at having fallen asleep, flew into the publican’s arms, and kissed him on the mouth.
“Forgive me, Brother Matthew,” he said, “but while I was listening to you I entered Paradise.”
Jesus appeared at the door, followed by Magdalene. She was radiant with joy. Flames flew from her lips, eyes and bare neck. When Jesus saw Peter hugging and kissing the publican, his expression sweetened. He pointed to the two embracing men. “That,” he said, “is the kingdom of heaven.”
He approached Lazarus, who attempted to rise. But his loins creaked and he was afraid they would break. He sat down again. Extending his arm, he touched Jesus’ hand with his fingertips. Jesus shuddered. Lazarus’s hand was extremely cold, and black, and it smelled of soil.
Jesus went out again into the yard in order to breathe. This resurrected man still tottered between life and death. God had not yet been able to conquer the rottenness within him. Never had death shown its true strength as it did in this man. Jesus was overcome with fear and intense sadness.
Old Salome, her distaff under her arm, approached him and stood on tiptoe to whisper secretly in his ear. “Rabbi,” she began.
He bent over to hear her. “Speak, Salome.”
“Rabbi, when you go up to heaven, I have a favor to ask of you. You’ve seen how much we have done for you.”
“Speak, Salome ...” Jesus’ heart suddenly constricted. When, he asked himself, would men realize that good deeds never condescend to accept recompense.
“Now that you are going to mount your throne, my child, place my sons John and Jacob one at your right hand and one at your left.”
Biting his lips so that he would not speak, Jesus stared at the ground.
“Did you hear, my child? John ...”
Jesus took a long stride and entered the house. He saw Matthew next to the lamp, still holding the open notebook on his knees. He stopped. Matthew’s eyes were closed: he was still submerged in all that he had read.
“Matthew,” said Jesus, “bring your notebook here. What do you write?”
Matthew got up and handed Jesus his writings. He was very happy.
“Rabbi,” he said, “here I recount your life and works, for men of the future.”
Jesus knelt under the lamp and began to read. At the very first words, he gave a start. He violently turned the pages and read with great haste, his face becoming red and angry. Seeing him, Matthew huddled fearfully in a corner and waited. Jesus skimmed through the notebook and then, unable to control himself any longer, stood up straight and indignantly threw Matthew’s Gospel down on the ground.
“What is this?” he screamed. “Lies! Lies! Lies! The Messiah doesn’t need miracles. He is the miracle—no other is necessary! I was born in Nazareth, not in Bethlehem; I’ve never even set foot in Bethlehem, and I don’t remember any Magi. I never in my life went to Egypt; and what you write about the dove saying ‘This is my beloved son’ to me as I was being baptized—who revealed that to you? I myself didn’t hear clearly. How did you find out, you, who weren’t even there?”
“The angel revealed it to me,” Matthew answered, trembling.
“The angel? What angel?
“The one who comes each night I take up my pen. He leans over my ear and dictates what I write.”
“An angel?” Jesus said, disturbed. “An angel dictates, and you write?”
Matthew gathered courage. “Yes, an angel. Sometimes I even see him, and I always hear him: his lips touch my right ear. I sense his wings wrapping themselves around me. Swaddled in the angel’s wings like an infant, I write; no, I don’t write—I copy what he tells me. What did you think? Could I have written all those miracles by myself?”
“An angel?” Jesus murmured again, and he plunged into meditation. Bethlehem, Magi, Egypt, and “you are my beloved son”: if all these were the truest truth ... If this was the highest level of truth, inhabited only by God ... If what we called truth, God called lies ...
He did not speak. Bending down, he carefully gathered together the writings he ha
d thrown on the ground and gave them to Matthew, who rewrapped them in the embroidered kerchief and hid them under his shirt, next to the skin.
“Write whatever the angel dictates,” Jesus said. “It is too late for me to ...” But he left his sentence unfinished.
Meanwhile, the disciples formed a circle around Judas in the yard and asked him to tell them what Pilate wanted with the rabbi. But Judas, without even turning to look at them, broke away and stood at the street door. He detested the sight and sound of them; he could speak only with the rabbi now. A terrible secret joined the two of them and separated them from the rest. ... Judas looked at the night which had devoured the world, and at the first stars above him, small icon lamps which were just beginning to glow.
“God of Israel,” he murmured within himself, “help me, or I’ll go out of my mind.”
Magdalene felt uneasy, and went and stood next to him. He started to leave, but she seized the edge off his tunic.
“Judas, you can reveal the secret to me without fear. You know me.
“What secret? Pilate wanted him in order to tell him to be careful. Caiaphas—”
“Not that, the other.”
“What other? You’re burning up again, Magdalene. Your eyes are lighted coals.” He laughed halfheartedly. “Cry, cry. Your tears will put them out.”
But Magdalene bit into her kerchief and tore it with her teeth. ‘Why should he have chosen you,” she murmured, “you, Judas Iscariot?”
The redbeard became angry now. He squeezed his hand around Magdalene’s arm. “Who, Mary of Magdala, did you wish him to choose—windmill Peter, or that idiot John ... or could it be that you wanted to be chosen yourself—you, a woman? I am a piece of flint from the desert: I stand up against wear. That’s why he chose me!”
Magdalene’s eyes filled with tears. “You are right,” she murmured. “I’m a woman, a creature maimed and wounded. ...” She went inside and huddled into a ball next to the fire.
Martha had set the table for supper. The disciples came in from the yard and knelt. Lazarus had drunk the chicken broth. It turned to blood inside him, and he no longer stared at the floor. Little by little with the air, light and nourishment, his fissured body was becoming caulked and strengthened.
The inner door opened and the old rabbi appeared, pale and airy, like a ghost. He leaned heavily on his crosier because his knees refused to support him any more. When he saw Jesus he signaled that he wanted to speak to him. Jesus rose, took hold of the old man, seated him, and then sat down himself next to Lazarus.
“Father,” he said, “I also want to speak to you.”
“I have a complaint against you today, my child,” said the old rabbi, looking at him with stern tenderness. “I say it openly in front of everyone. Let all—men and women—hear us; and Lazarus, who rose from the grave and must know many secrets. Let everyone hear us and judge.”
“What can men know?” Jesus replied. “An angel—ask Matthew—flies inside this house and listens. Let him judge. What is your grievance, Father?”
“Why do you wish to abolish the sacred Law? Until now you respected it, just as it is right that a son should respect his old father. But today in front of the Temple, you hoisted your own banner. How far is this rebellion in your heart going to lead?”
“To love, Father; to the feet of God. There it will find support and repose.”
“Can’t you reach that far with the sacred Law? Don’t you know what our holy Scriptures say? The Law was written nine hundred and fourteen generations before God built the world. But it wasn’t written upon parchment, because at that time no animals existed to give up their hides; nor on wood, for there were no trees; nor upon stone: there still were no stones. It was written in black flames upon white fire on the left arm of the Lord. It was in accordance with this sacred Law, I want you to know, that God created the world.”
“No, no!” Jesus cried, unable to control himself any longer. “No!”
The old rabbi tenderly took his hand. “Why do you shout like that, my child?”
Jesus felt ashamed, and blushed. The reins had escaped his hands and he could no longer manage his soul. It was as though he were covered with wounds from head to toe. No matter where you touched him, no matter how lightly, he always screamed with pain.
He had screamed this time too, and then become calm. He took the old rabbi’s hand, and lowered his voice. “The holy Scriptures, Father, are the pages of my heart. I have torn up all the other pages.”
But as he spoke he changed his mind. “Not I ... not I, but God, who sent me.”
The old rabbi, sitting as he was next to Jesus, so close that their knees touched, felt an unbearable fiery force spurt out of Jesus’ body; and as a strong wind suddenly blew through the opened window and extinguished the lamp, the rabbi saw in the darkness, all splendor like a column of fire, the son of Mary standing erect in the center of the room. He looked to the right and left in case Moses and Elijah should again be present but saw neither of them. Jesus was alone in his splendor, and his head reached the cane-lathed ceiling and set it aglow. Just as the old rabbi was about to scream, Jesus stretched out his arms. He had become a cross now and was being licked by the flames.
Martha got up and re-lighted the lamp. Everything immediately returned to order. Jesus was still sitting with bowed head, thinking. The rabbi glanced around: no one else had seen anything in the darkness. The others had all placed themselves around the table and were tranquilly arranging themselves for dinner. God holds me in his hands and plays, thought the rabbi. Truth has seven levels. He brings me up and down from level to level, and I grow dizzy. ...
Jesus was not hungry, and did not sit down to eat. Nor did the old rabbi. The two of them remained next to Lazarus, who had closed his eyes and seemed to have fallen asleep. But he was not sleeping; he was thinking. What was this dream he had had? Had he died, he wondered, had he been laid under the earth, and had he then suddenly heard a terrible voice: “Lazarus, come out!” and had he jumped up in his shroud and awakened to find himself wrapped in the very shroud he had seen in his dream? Or perhaps it was not a dream. Could he really have descended to Hades?
“Why did you bring him out of the tomb, my child?”
“I didn’t want to,” Jesus answered softly, “I didn’t want to, Father. When I saw him lift up the tombstone I became terrified. I wanted to run away but was too ashamed. I stayed there and trembled.”
“I can endure everything,” said the rabbi, “everything, except the stench of a rotting body. I’ve seen one other horrible body. It decomposed while it still lived, ate, talked and sighed. King Herod, a great soul condemned to hell. He killed beautiful Mariana, the woman he loved; killed his friends, his generals, his sons. He conquered kingdoms, built towers, palaces, cities and the holy Temple of Jerusalem, richer even than Solomon’s ancient Temple. He inscribed his name deeply on the stones in bronze and in gold: he thirsted for immortality. Then suddenly at the height of his glory God’s finger touched him on the neck, and all at once he began to rot. He was always hungry. He ate ceaselessly but was never filled. His intestines were one lingering, putrid wound; he was so hungry, the jackals heard his bellowing in the night and trembled. His belly, feet and armpits began to swell. Worms emerged from his testicles—they were the first to rot. The stench was so great that no human being could come close to him. His slaves fainted. He was carried to the warm springs at Callirhoe near the Jordan, and he became worse. They plunged him in warm oil, and he became worse. At that time I had a reputation for curing and exorcizing diseases. The king was told this, and he called for me. They had him then at Jericho, in the gardens, and his stench reached from Jerusalem to the Jordan. The first time I approached him I fainted. I made salves and anointed him. Secretly I lowered my head and vomited. Is this a king? I asked myself. Is this what man is: filth and stench? And where is the soul to put things in order?”
The rabbi spoke extremely softly. It was not right for the others to hear such word
s while they ate. Jesus listened, bowed over in despair. This was precisely the favor he wished to ask of the rabbi this evening: to talk to him about death, so that he could find strength. He ought at this time to have death always in front of him, in order to get used to it. But now ... He wanted to put forth his hand to stop the old rabbi, to shout at him, That’s enough! but at this point, how could he hold the old man back? The rabbi could not wait to recount all the filth, to draw it out of his memory and cleanse himself.
“My salves were worthless; the worms ate them too. But a devil was still enthroned in that filth and he gave orders. He commanded all the rich and powerful of Israel to assemble, and he penned them up in his courtyard. As he was dying he called for his sister Salome. ‘As soon as I give up the ghost,’ he said, ‘kill them all, so that they won’t rejoice at my death!’ He perished. Herod the Great perished, the last king of Judah. I hid behind the trees and began to dance. The last king of Judah had perished—the blessed hour had come, the blessed hour which Moses prophesied in his Testament: ‘At the end there will come a king debauched and dissipated, his sons unworthy; and out of the west will come barbarous armies and a king to occupy the Holy Land. And then, it will be the end of the world!’ That’s what the prophet Moses predicted. It has all taken place. The end of the world has come.”