The Last Temptation of Christ

  Jesus gave a start. It was the first time he had heard this prophecy. “Where is it written?” he shouted. “Who is the prophet? This is the first I hear of it!”

  “Not many years ago in a cave of the Judean desert a monk found an ancient parchment in a clay jar. He unrolled it and saw at the top in red letters: ‘The Testament of Moses.’ Before he died the great patriarch had called his successor, Joshua, son of Nun, and dictated to him all that was going to happen in the future. And lo! we’ve reached the years he prophesied. The debauched king was Herod, the barbarous armies the Romans; and as for the end of the world, if you lift your head, you’ll see it coming in through the door!”

  Jesus rose. The house constricted him. He went past the companions who were eating, free of cares, and emerged into the yard. There, he lifted his head. The moon, large and sorrowful, was at that moment rising from behind the mountains of Moab. It was at last about to become entirely full and to issue in the Passover.

  He gazed at it, astonished, as though he saw it for the first time in his life. What is the moon, he asked himself, this moon which rises from the mountains and makes the frightened dogs thrust their tails between their legs and bark at it? It mounts, silent in the terrifying silence, and drips venom. The heart of man becomes a pit which fills with venom. ... Jesus felt an envenomed tongue over his cheeks and neck and arms, a tongue which licked him, which wrapped his face and body in a white light, a white shroud.

  John had a presentiment of the master’s suffering. He came out into the yard and saw him, his whole body submerged in moonlight. Speaking softly so that he would not frighten him, he said, “Rabbi ...” and approached on tiptoe.

  Jesus turned and looked at him. The tender, beardless adolescent vanished, and an old man, a very old man, stood in the middle of the yard under the moon. He held a blank book open in one hand and in the other a quill, long, like a copper-tipped lance. And his all-white beard flowed down to his knees.

  “Son of Thunder,” Jesus cried, drawn out of himself, “write: ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega, he who was, is, and shall be, the Lord of Hosts.’ Did you hear a loud voice like a trumpet?”

  John was terrified. The rabbi’s mind had begun to totter! He knew that the moon inebriates—that was why he had come out into the yard: to get Jesus and bring him indoors. But alas! he had arrived too late. “Be still, Rabbi,” he said. “I am John, whom you love. Let’s go inside. This is Lazarus’s house.”

  “Write!” Jesus again commanded. “’There are seven angels around God’s throne, each with a trumpet in his mouth.’ Do you see them, son of Thunder? Write: ‘The first angel fell to the earth, hail and fire, mixed with blood. One third of the earth was burned up, one third of the trees, one third of the green grass. The second angel sounded his trumpet. A mountain of fire fell into the sea, and one third of the sea became blood, one third of the fish died, one third of the sailing ships sank. The third angel sounded his trumpet. A great star fell from heaven and one third of the rivers, lakes and fountains were poisoned. The fourth sounded his trumpet. One third of the sun became dark, and one third of the moon, and of the stars. The fifth sounded his trumpet. Another star hurled forth, the Abyss opened and out poured clouds of smoke and in the smoke locusts which flowed, not over the grass or trees, but over men; and their hair was long like women’s hair, and their teeth like lions’ teeth. They wore iron armor and their wings thundered like many-horsed chariots rushing into battle. The sixth angel sounded his trumpet ...”

  But John could stand it no longer. He burst into tears and fell at Jesus’ feet. “My rabbi,” he cried, “be still . . . be still ...”

  Jesus heard the weeping, quivered, bent over and saw the beloved disciple at his feet. “John, beloved,” he said, “why do you cry?”

  John was ashamed to reveal that for a moment, under the moon, the teacher’s mind had tottered. “Rabbi,” he said, “let’s go inside. The old man is asking what happened to you, and the disciples want to see you.”

  “And is it because of that you weep, John, beloved? ... Let us go in.”

  He entered and sat down once more next to the old rabbi. He was extremely tired. His hands were sweating, he was burning up—yet shivering.

  The old rabbi gazed at him, frightened. “My child, do not look at the moon,” he said, clasping Jesus’ dripping hand. “They say that it is the nipple of Satan’s chief love, the Night, and flows with—”

  But Jesus’ mind was on death. “Father,” he said, “I believe you spoke badly about death. Death does not wear Herod’s face. No, it is a great lord, the keeper of God’s keys, and it opens the door. Try to recall other deaths, Father, and comfort me.”

  The disciples had finished their meal. They cut short their chattering in order to listen. Martha cleared away; the two Marys collapsed at Jesus’ feet. From time to time the one glanced stealthily at the other’s arms, bosom, eyes, mouth and hair, anxiously calculating who was the more beautiful.

  “My child, you are right,” said the old man. “I spoke badly of God’s black archangel. He always wears the face of the moribund. If Herod dies, he becomes Herod; but if a saint dies, his face shines like seven suns. A great lord, he comes with his chariot and lifts the saint from the ground and brings him up to heaven. Do you want to see the face you will have in eternity? Then look to see how death appears before you at the last hour.”

  They all listened open-mouthed, and each, within his mind, anxiously weighed his own soul. For a long time silence fell over them all, as though each one was struggling to see the face of his death.

  Finally Jesus opened his mouth and spoke. “Once, Father, when I was twelve years old, I went to the synagogue and listened to you relate the prophet Isaiah’s martyrdom and death to the people of Nazareth. But that was years ago, and I’ve forgotten it. Tonight I have a great desire to hear about his end once more, so that my soul may be soothed and I may become reconciled with death: for you have made my soul extremely angry with your talk of Herod, Father.”

  “Why do you want us to talk only about death this evening, my child? Is this the favor you wished to ask of me?”

  “Exactly. There is none greater.” He turned to the disciples. “Do not fear death, comrades. May it be blessed! If death did not exist, how could we reach God and remain with him forever? Truly I say to you, death holds the keys and opens the door.”

  The old rabbi looked at him with surprise. “Jesus, how can you speak with such love and sureness about death? It’s been a long time since I’ve heard your voice so tender.”

  “Tell us about the prophet Isaiah’s death, and you’ll see that I am right.”

  The old rabbi shifted his position to avoid touching Lazarus.

  “Iniquitous King Manasseh forgot the commands of his father, God-fearing Hezekiah; Satan entered and took possession of him. Manasseh could no longer bear to hear Isaiah, the voice of God. He therefore sent assassins all over Judea to find him and cut his throat so that he would speak no more. But Isaiah was in Bethlehem. Hidden inside a huge cedar, he prayed and fasted in order to make God take pity on Israel and save her. One day a Samaritan, a man outside the Law, passed by as the hand of the prophet, who was praying, emerged from the tree. The lawless Samaritan saw it and straightway ran to the king and informed him. The prophet was seized and led to the king. ‘Bring the saw used to cut down trees, and saw him in two!’ the accursed man ordered. They laid him down. Two men took hold of the two handles and began to saw. ‘Disown your prophecies,’ shouted the king, ‘and I’ll grant you your life!’ But Isaiah had already entered Paradise, and no longer heard the voices of this earth. ‘Deny God,’ the king shouted again, ‘and I’ll have my subjects fall at your feet and adore you.’

  “ ‘You have no power,’ the prophet then answered him, ‘except to kill my body. You cannot touch my soul, nor can you smother my voice. Both are immortal. The one goes up to God; the other, my voice, shall remain evermore on the earth and preach.’ When he had spoken Death came in
a chariot of fire, with a crown of gilded cedar in his hair, and took him.”

  Jesus got up, his eyes shining. A chariot of fire hung over him.

  “Friends,” he said, looking at the disciples one by one, “beloved fellow voyagers: if you love me, listen to the words I shall speak to you tonight. You must always be tightly girded and ready—those who have sandals, with sandals, those who have staffs, with staffs—ready for the great journey. What is the body? The tent of the soul. ‘We are taking up our tents and leaving!’ you should say at every instant. ‘We are leaving, returning to our homeland.’ What homeland? Heaven!

  “Friends, here is the final word I wish to say to you tonight. When you find yourselves in front of a beloved tomb, do not begin to weep. Keep ever in your minds this great consolation: Death is the door to immortality; there is no other door. Your beloved did not die—he became immortal.”

  ALL DAY LONG, starting at the heavenly daybreak, but even more so during the night when no one observed, spring had been gradually pushing aside rocks and soil and rising from the land of Israel. In one night the plains of Sharon in Samaria and Esdrelon in Galilee filled with yellow daisies and wild lilies; and short-lived anemones—large drops of blood—sprouted among the sullen rocks of Judea. Protruding, crablike eyes appeared on the vines. In each of these rose-green buds the unripe clusters, the mature grapes and the new wine gathered momentum to burst forth; and still deeper, in the heart of each bud, were the songs of men. A guardian angel stood by each tiny leaf and helped it grow. You thought the first days of creation were returning, when each word of God which fell upon the freshly turned soil was full of trees, wildflowers and greenery.

  This morning at the foot of holy Mount Gerizim, the Samaritan woman was again filling her pitcher at Jacob’s well and looking down the road to Galilee, as though she still longed to see the pale youth who had once spoken to her about immortal water. And now that it was spring, this pleasure-loving widow had revealed even more of the two mounds of her sweaty bosom.

  This springtime night the immortal soul of Israel metamorphosed, became a nightingale which perched in the open window of each young unmarried Jewess and kept her awake until dawn with its singing. Why do you go to bed all alone? it twittered, scolding her. Why do you think I gave you long hair and two breasts and round wide hips? Arise, put on your jewelry, lean out of your window. Place yourself on your threshold at the break of dawn, take your pitcher and go to the well, flirt with the unmarried Jews you meet on your way and, with them, make children for me. We Hebrews have many enemies, but as long as my daughters give me children, I am immortal. I hate the unplowed fields and ungrafted trees of the land of Israel—and the virgins.

  In the desert of Idumea, at God-protected Hebron, around the all-holy tomb of Abraham, the Hebrew children awoke early in the morning and played at being the Messiah. They constructed bows out of osiers and shot arrows made of cane into the sky, shouting for the Messiah—the king of Israel—to descend at last with a long sword and helmet of gold. They made a throne for him to sit on by spreading a lambskin over the sacred tomb. They composed a special song for him; they clapped their hands for him to appear—and suddenly, from behind the tomb, there were cheers and the sound of drums and out came the strutting, bellowing Messiah with beard and mustache of corn tassels, and a ferocious painted face. He held a long sword made of a date branch and struck the children one by one on the neck. They all fell down, massacred.

  Day was also breaking at Lazarus’s house in Bethany, but Jesus had not yet closed his eyes. His anguish had refused to subside; no road opened before him except one: death. The prophecies speak about me, he was thinking. I am the lamb who shall take upon himself the sins of the world and be slaughtered at this Passover. Well, then, let the lamb be slaughtered one hour sooner. The flesh is weak; I have no faith in it. At the last minute it may turn coward. Let death come now while I still feel my soul to be standing erect. ... Oh, when will the sun rise so that I can go to the Temple. I must put an end to everything—today!

  The decision made, his mind felt somewhat soothed. He closed his eyes, fell asleep, and had a dream. The sky seemed to be an orchard enclosed by a rail fence and full of wild animals. He too was a wild animal and was frisking with the rest, and in his frisking he jumped over the rails and fell onto the ground. When the people saw him they became terrified. The women screamed and collected their children from the streets so that the beast would not eat them. The men seized lances, stones and swords, and began the hunt. ... Blood was running all over him when suddenly he fell prone onto the ground. Then it seemed that judges accumulated around him in order to judge him. They were not men, however, but foxes, dogs, hogs and wolves. They judged him, condemning him to death. But as they led him to be executed, he remembered that he could not die: he was a heavenly beast, and immortal. And as he remembered this a woman took his hand, and it was Mary Magdalene. She brought him out of the city to the fields. “Do not go to heaven,” she said to him. “Spring is here; stay with us.” They marched and marched, until the border of Samaria. There the Samaritan woman appeared, her jug on her shoulder. She offered it to him and he drank; afterward, she too took his hand and brought him, without speaking, as far as the border of Galilee. Then his mother emerged from under the ancient flowering olive trees. She was wearing a black kerchief and weeping. When she saw the wounds, the blood all over him and the crown of thorns in his hair she lifted her hands. “As you scathed me,” she said to him, “may God scathe you. You placed my name on the tongues of men: the whole world is buzzing. You lifted your hand against the Fatherland, the Law, the God of Israel. Didn’t you fear God; weren’t you ashamed before men? Had you no thought for your mother and father? My curse upon you!” Having said this, she vanished.

  He awoke with a jolt, drenched in sweat. Around him the disciples were stretched out, snoring. Outside in the yard the cock crowed. Peter heard it and half opened his eyes. He saw Jesus standing up.

  “Rabbi,” he said, “when the cock crowed, I was dreaming. You seemed to have taken two crossed boards. In your hands they became a lyre and bow, and you were playing and singing. The wild beasts assembled from the ends of the earth to hear you. ... What does it mean? I’ll ask the old rabbi.”

  “The dream does not end there, Peter,” Jesus answered. “Why were you in such a hurry to wake up? The dream continues further.”

  “Further? I don’t understand. Maybe you dreamed it yourself, Rabbi—all of it?”

  “When the beasts heard the song they rushed forward and devoured the singer.”

  Peter’s eyes popped. His heart had a presentiment of the meaning, but his mind stood still. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “You will understand,” Jesus replied, “on another morning when you again hear the cock crow.”

  He nudged the companions one by one with his foot. “Wake up, lazy bones,” he said. “We have much to do today.”

  “Are we leaving?” Philip asked, rubbing his eyes. “I say we should return to Galilee, to safety.”

  Judas ground his teeth but did not speak.

  In the inner room the women awoke and began to chatter. Old Salome came out to light the fire. The disciples had already gathered in the yard. They were waiting for Jesus, who was bent over the rabbi, talking to him in a low voice. The old man, gravely ill, was bed-ridden in the back corner of the house.

  “Where are you going now, my child?” the rabbi asked. “Where are you leading your army? Once more to Jerusalem? Will you again lift your hand to pull down the Temple? As you know, the word becomes act when it issues from a great soul—and yours is a great soul. You are liable for what you say. If you declare the Temple will be destroyed, one day it will indeed be destroyed. So, measure your words!”

  “I do, Father. The whole world is in my mind when I speak. I choose what will stay and what will not. I take the responsibility upon myself.”

  “Oh, if I could only keep alive long enough to see who you are! But I’m
old. The world has become a phantasm which roams around my head and wants to enter. But all the doors are blocked.”

  “Try to last a few days longer, Father. Until the Passover. Hold on to your fleeing soul for dear life, and you shall see. The hour has not yet come.”

  The rabbi shook his head. “When will that hour come?” he complained. “Has God deceived me? What happened to his promise? I’m dying, I’m dying, and where is the Messiah?” He clutched Jesus’ shoulders with all the strength which remained to him.

  “Last until the Passover, Father. You’ll see that God keeps his word!” Jesus extricated himself from the old man’s grip and went out into the yard.

  “Nathanael,” he said, “and you, Philip: go to the end of the village, to the very last house. There you’ll find a donkey and her colt tied to the door hasp. Untie her and bring her here. If anyone asks you where you’re taking her, answer, ‘The rabbi needs her and we’ll bring her back again.’ ”