The Last Temptation of Christ
“Father,” Jesus murmured, “Father who is in heaven, Father who is on the earth: the world you created is beautiful, and we see it; beautiful too is the world which we do not see. I don’t know—forgive me—I don’t know, Father, which is the more beautiful.
He stooped, took up a handful of soil and smelled it. The aroma went deep down into his bowels. There must have been pistachio nearby, and the ground smelled of resin and honey. He rubbed the soil against his cheek, neck and lips. “What perfume,” he murmured, “what warmth, what brotherhood!”
He began to weep. He held the soil in his palm, not wanting to part with it ever. “Together,” he murmured, “together we shall die, my brother. I have no other companion.”
Peter had stood enough. “I’m exhausted,” he said. “Where’s he taking us? I’m not going farther; I’m going to lie down right here.”
But as he searched around him to find a comfortable hollow in which to stretch out, he saw Jesus coming slowly down upon them. He immediately recovered his strength and went out before the others to meet him.
“It’s almost midnight, Rabbi,” he said. “This is a good place for us to sleep.”
“My children,” Jesus said, “my soul is mortally sad. You go back and lie down under the trees while I stay here in the open to pray. But I beg of you, do not sleep. Stay awake tonight and pray with me. Help me, my children, help me to pass through this difficult hour.”
He turned his face toward Jerusalem. “Go now. Leave me alone.”
The disciples drew a stone’s throw away and thrust themselves under the olive trees. But Jesus fell to the ground, his face glued to the soil. His mind, heart and lips could not be separated from the earth—they had become earth.
“Father,” he murmured, “here I am fine: dust with dust. Leave me. Bitter, exceedingly bitter, is the cup you have given me to drink. I don’t have the endurance. If it is possible, Father, remove it from my lips.”
He remained silent, listening. Perhaps he would hear the Father’s voice in the blackness. He closed his eyes. Who could tell—God was good, the Father might appear inside him and smile compassionately and nod to him. He waited and waited, trembling. He heard nothing, saw nothing. All alone, he looked around him, became frightened, jolted upright and went to find the companions in order to steady his heart. He found all three asleep. He pushed Peter with his foot, then John, then Jacob.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?” he said to them bitterly. “Can’t you bear up just a short while, to pray with me?”
“Rabbi,” said Peter, unable to keep his eyelids from falling, “the soul is ready and willing but the flesh is weak. Forgive us.”
Jesus returned to the open space and fell upon his knees on the rocks. “Father,” he cried again, “bitter, exceedingly bitter, is the cup you have given me. Remove it from my lips.”
As he spoke he saw above him in the moonlight an angel, stern and pale, coming down. His wings were made of the moon and between his palms he held a silver chalice. Jesus hid his face in his hands and collapsed to the ground.
“Is this your response, Father? Have you no mercy?”
He waited a short time. Little by little he timidly separated his fingers to see if the angel was still above him. The heavenly visitor had come still lower, and the chalice was now touching his lips. He shrieked, threw out his arms and fell supine onto the ground.
When he came to, the moon had moved a hand’s breadth from the summit of the heavens and the angel had dissolved into the moonlight. In the distance, on the road to Jerusalem, he saw scattered, moving lights—apparently from burning torches. Were they coming toward him? Were they going away from him? Once more he was overcome by fear—and by the longing to see men, to hear a human voice, to touch hands he loved. He departed at a run to find the three companions.
All three were again asleep, their serene faces floating in a bath of moonlight. John had Peter’s shoulder as a pillow, Peter Jacob’s breast. Jacob supported his black-haired head on a stone. His arms were spread wide as if he were embracing the heavens, and his gleaming teeth shone through his raven-black mustache and beard. He must have been having a pleasant dream, for he was smiling. Jesus took pity on them and this time refrained from pushing them awake. Walking on tiptoe, he retraced his steps. Then he fell once more on his face and began to weep.
“Father,” he said, so softly it seemed he did not wish God to hear, “Father, your will be done. Not mine, Father—yours.”
He rose and looked again in the direction of the Jerusalem road. The lights had now come closer. He could clearly see the quivering shadows around them and the flashing of bronze armor.
“They’re coming ... they’re coming ...” he murmured, and his knees gave way beneath him. Exactly at that moment a nightingale appeared and perched in a small young cypress opposite him. It swelled its throat and began to sing. It had become drunk from the immense moon, the vernal perfumes, the damp warm night. Inside it was an omnipotent God, the same God that created heaven, earth and the souls of men. Jesus lifted his head and listened intently. Could this God who loved the soil, cool embraces and the tiny breasts of the birds really be the true God of men? Suddenly, in reply to the bird’s invitation, another nightingale bounded up from the very depths of his soul and it too began to hymn the eternal pains and joys: God, love, hope ...
It sang, and Jesus trembled. He had not realized that such riches were inside him, nor so many delectable, unrevealed joys and sins. His insides blossomed; the nightingale became entangled in the flowering branches and could not, did not, wish to flee ever again. Where to go? Why should it leave? This earth was Paradise. ... But as Jesus, following the double song, entered Paradise without losing his body, hoarse voices were heard, lighted torches and bronze panoplies came near, and amid the glare and the smoke he seemed to descry Judas: two strong arms which clasped him and a red beard which pricked his face. He screamed and lost consciousness for a moment—so it seemed to him—but not before he felt Judas’s heavy-breathed mouth glued to his own and heard a hoarse, despairing voice: “Hail, Rabbi!”
The moon was now about to touch the whitish-blue mountains of Judea. A damp, freezing wind arose and Jesus’ nails and lips turned blue. Jerusalem towered blind and deathly pale in the moonlight.
Jesus turned and looked at the soldiers and Levites. “Welcome to the envoys of my God,” he said. “Let us go!”
Suddenly, amid the tumult, he discerned Peter drawing his knife to cut off the ear of one of the Levites.
“Put your knife in its sheath,” he ordered. “If we meet the knife with the knife, when will the world ever be free of stabbings?”
THEY SEIZED JESUS. Hooting at him, they dragged him over the rocks, through the clumps of cypresses and olive trees, down into the Cedron Valley, into Jerusalem and finally to Caiaphas’s palace, where the Council was assembled and waiting to judge the rebel.
It was cold. The servants warmed themselves before fires they had lighted in the courtyard. Levites constantly issued from within with reports. The evidence brought against Jesus was enough to make the hair stand on end: this recipient of the divine malediction had uttered such-and-such blasphemies concerning the God of Israel, such-and-such concerning the Law of Israel; and he had said he was going to tear down the Holy Temple and sow it with salt!
Peter, heavily bundled up, slid into the yard. Keeping his head bowed, he held his hands before the fire, warmed himself and listened tremblingly to the reports.
A maidservant came by and halted when she saw him. “Hey, old man,” she said, “why are you hiding from us? Lift your head so we can see you. I think you were with him.”
Several Levites heard her words and approached.
Peter was afraid. He raised his hand. “I swear I don’t know the man!” he said, and he drew toward the door.
Another maidservant passed by, saw him trying to leave, and put out her hand. “Hey, old man, where are you going? You were with him. I saw you!”
/> “I don’t know the man,” Peter cried once more. Pushing the girl aside, he continued on. But at the door two Levites stopped him, They grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently.
“Your accent betrays you,” they shouted. “You’re a Galilean, one of his disciples!”
Then Peter began to swear and curse, and he shouted, “I don’t know the man!”
At that moment the cock of the yard crowed. Peter groaned loudly. He remembered the rabbi’s words: “Peter, Peter, before the cock crows, you will deny me three times.” He went out to the street, collapsed onto the ground and burst into tears.
Day was breaking. The sky turned blood-red.
A pale Levite flew out of the palace in an uproar. “The High Priest is rending his clothes. What do you think the criminal just said? ‘I am the Christ, the Son of God!’ All the Elders jumped up. They’re ripping their clothes and shouting, ‘Death! Death!’ ”
Another Levite appeared. “Now they’re going to take him and lead him to Pilate. He’s the only one who has the right to kill him. Make way for them to pass. The doors are opening!”
The doors opened and out came Israel’s nobility. First, walking slowly, the overwrought high priest Caiaphas. Behind him—a mass of beards, sly, malformed eyes, toothless mouths and evil tongues—the Elders. They were all staggering from rage, and steaming. Behind them, Jesus, tranquil and sad. Blood ran from his head, for they had struck him.
Hoots, laughter and cursing broke out in the yard. Peter jumped up and supported himself against the jamb of the street door, his tears flowing. “Peter, Peter,” he murmured, “coward, liar, traitor! Rise up and shout ‘I am with him!’ even if they kill you.” He advised his soul, excited it; but his body, motionless, leaned against the door post and trembled. On the threshold Jesus tripped and stumbled forward. Putting out his hand to catch hold somewhere, he found Peter’s shoulder. The other turned to marble and did not breathe a word, did not stir. He felt the rabbi’s hand hooked into him, not letting him go. It was not fully light out yet, and Jesus did not turn in the bluish darkness to see what he had grasped to prevent himself from falling. He regained his balance and—behind the Elders and surrounded by soldiers—started out once more toward the palace tower.
Pilate had awakened, washed, anointed himself with aromatic oil and was pacing nervously back and forth on the high solarium of his tower. He had never liked this Passover day. The Jews, drunk with their God, would work themselves into a frenzy, come to blows again with the Roman soldiers-and this year another massacre might break out, which was not in the best interests of Rome. This Passover he had an additional worry. The Hebrews would by all means crucify the poor Nazarene, the crazy one. ... Disgraceful race!
Pilate clenched his fist. He was overcome by an obstinate desire to save this imbecile, not because he was innocent (innocent: what did that mean?) nor because he pitied him (alas! if at this point he began to pity the Jews), but in order to enrage the disgraceful Hebrew race.
Pilate heard a great tumult beneath the tower windows. He leaned out and saw that his yard had filled with Jewry. He could also see the maniacal multitude which filled the porches and tiers of the Temple to overflowing. Armed with staffs and slings, the crowd shoved, kicked and hooted Jesus, whom the Roman soldiers were guarding and pushing toward the immense tower door.
Pilate went inside and sat down on his coarsely sculptured throne. The door opened. The two colossal Negroes pushed Jesus in. His clothes were in tatters and his face covered with blood, but he held his head high, and in his eyes gleamed a light, calm and far removed from men.
Pilate smiled. “Once more I see you before me, Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews. It seems they want to kill you.”
Jesus gazed through the window at the sky. His mind and body had already departed. He did not speak.
Pilate became angry. “Forget the sky,” he yelled. “You’d better look at me! Don’t you know I’ve got the authority to release you or crucify you?”
“You have no authority over me whatever,” Jesus calmly replied. “No one has but God.”
Below, there were maniacal cries: “Death! Death!”
“Why are they so rabid?” Pilate asked. “What have you done to them?”
“I proclaimed the truth to them,” Jesus answered.
Pilate smiled. “What truth? What does truth mean?”
Jesus’ heart constricted with sorrow. This was the world, these the rulers of the world. They ask what truth is, and laugh.
Pilate stood before the window. He remembered that just yesterday they had seized Barabbas for the murder of Lazarus. It was an established custom to release a prisoner on the day of the Passover.
“Whom do you want me to release to you,” he shouted, “Jesus the king of the Jews or Barabbas the bandit?”
“Barabbas! Barabbas!” howled the people.
Pilate called the guards and pointed to Jesus. “Scourge him,” he ordered, “place a crown of thorns on his head, wrap him in a scarlet cloth and give him a long reed to hold as a scepter. He is a king—dress him like a king!”
He had devised to present him to the people in this pitiful state, hoping they would feel sorry for him.
The guards seized him, bound him to a column and began to thrash him and spit on him. They plaited him a crown of thorns and thrust it onto his head. The blood spurted from his forehead and temples. They threw a scarlet cloth over his back, passed a long reed through his fingers, then brought him back to Pilate. When the Roman saw him, he could not keep from laughing.
“Welcome to His Majesty!” he said. “Come, let me show you to your subjects.”
He took him by the hand and they went out onto the terrace.
“Behold the man!” he shouted.
“Crucify him! Crucify him!” the people began to howl.
Pilate ordered a basin and a pitcher of water brought him. He leaned over and washed his hands in front of the crowd.
“I wash and rinse my hands,” he said. “It is not I who spill his blood, I am innocent. May the sin fall on you!”
“His blood be on our heads and on the heads of our children!” the people bellowed.
“Take him,” Pilate said, “and don’t bother me any more!”
They seized him, loaded the cross on his back, spit at him, beat him, kicked him toward Golgotha. The cross was heavy. Staggering, he looked about him. Perhaps he would discover one of the disciples and nod to him so that he might take pity on him. He looked and looked. No one. He sighed.
“Blessed is death,” he murmured. “Glory be to God!”
The disciples, meanwhile, had burrowed into Simon the Cyrenian’s tavern. They were waiting for the crucifixion to be over and night to fall so that they could escape without being seen. Squatting behind the barrels, they listened with cocked ears to the happy throngs which passed by outside in the street. The whole city—men and women—had begun to run toward Golgotha. The people had enjoyed a fine Passover, had eaten more than enough meat, drunk more than enough wine; and now here was the crucifixion to while away their time.
The people ran; the disciples listened to the noise in the street and trembled. Now and then John’s muffled weeping could be heard. At times Andrew rose and paced up and down the tavern uttering threats. Peter cursed and vilified himself for being a coward and not having the courage to race outside to be killed along with the master. How many times he had sworn to him: “With you, Rabbi, to the death!” But now that death had appeared, he had burrowed behind the barrels.
Jacob grew furious. “John,” he said, “stop your bawling—you’re a man. And you, gallant Andrew, don’t twist your mustache. Sit down. Sit down, all of you. Let’s come to a decision. Suppose he’s really the Messiah. With what kind of faces will we appear before him if he is resurrected in three days’ time? Did you ever think about that? What do you say, Peter?”
“If he’s the Messiah, we’re done for—that’s what I say,” answered Peter hopelessly. “I told yo
u, I already denied him three times.”
“But if he isn’t the Messiah, we’re still done for,” said Jacob. “What do you say, Nathanael?”
“I say we should get out of here. Whether he’s the Messiah or not, we’re done for.”
“And leave him like this, unprotected? How can your hearts endure that?” said Andrew, starting to rush toward the door.
But Peter caught hold of his tunic. “Sit down, wretch, before I break you into a thousand pieces! Let’s find another solution.”
“Hypocrites and Pharisees!” Thomas hissed. “What solution? Let’s speak out and not blush over it: we made a transaction, we sank in all our capital. Yes: business! Why look daggers at me—that’s what we did; we transacted a little business. You give me and I give you. I gave my wares—combs, spools of thread, pocket mirrors—in exchange for the kingdom of heaven. All of you did the same. One gave his boat, another his sheep, a third his peace of mind. And now the whole affair has gone to the devil. We’re bankrupt; our capital has disappeared down the drain. Look out we don’t lose our lives in the bargain. What advice do I give, then? Go while the going’s good!”