The Gospel According to the Son

  I felt as if I had cried out to Him and remained alone. Yet my words were still obliged to do their best to reach into their hearts. For each word might become as valuable as a boat's timber that can keep a man afloat in a sullen sea.

  From afar, I could see a priest talking to an officer of the Temple Guard. And one of the lesser priests standing close to me spoke: "By the scrolls it is said that the Messiah shall be from Bethlehem. How, then, can any good thing come out of Nazareth?"

  Another said, "No, Jesus is of Bethlehem. Where can you look for a man's nature if not in the land where he was born?"

  The priest said: "He is of Galilee. Out of Galilee can arise no Messiah." He nodded his head wisely. He knew. He knew nothing about God, but he could tell you where the Messiah could arise and where he could not.

  Listening to this declaration, I told myself: "A man of small mind develops a hard shell so that he can protect his small thoughts." The anger that had reached the center of my heart after the blind man had been mistreated by the Pharisees now came forth in the words I said aloud. "Your fathers killed the prophets," I told them, "and here you build the tombs of the prophets. God will send new prophets, and you will persecute them. You will slay them. So great will be this bloodshed that all the blood of all the prophets that has been shed from the foundations of the world will yet be required of this generation."

  When the priest drew back a step, I stepped forward to say more: "All of this has gone on from the blood of Abel to the blood of Zacharias and he perished between the altar and the table."

  This priest before me might be small in mind and small in body, but he was as certain as a scorpion of what he knew; he scolded me for offering cures on the Sabbath.

  Bereft of patience over this matter, I said: "In you is not the love of God."

  How I wished to smite the piety of every Jew who was sharp of practice and narrow of mind. I could have prayed that they find some of the good spirit of those other Jews with whom I had built houses in Nazareth. Those men had been my equals; those men had been my friends.

  I said more. I said: "The hour is coming when all that are in the grave shall hear His voice and then they shall come forth, they who have done good and they who have done evil. Then will my judgment be upon all your ancestors." I waited and said again: "Upon all your ancestors."

  By these last words I aroused a greater wrath than by anything I said or did on the first day. It burned in these priests and Pharisees. If they suffered in their souls from many sins and lusted after Mammon, still they believed that they would be protected in heaven against their worst acts. For their glorious forebears would intercede. They believed in their ancestors before they believed in God. And more than they believed in God. Their real faith was that these ancient members of their family would carry them across the abyss that separated them from the Lord. And here was I passing judgment on the old and evil deeds of their ancestors. So they closed their ears. They had to protect themselves against giving any kind of audience to the Devil. Tears stood forth in my eyes like sentinels on guard. For I knew that the most powerful of my own people, and their highest priests, could only see me as the messenger of Satan. And I could not believe how deep this wound went into me: I was repugnant to the leaders of my people. Yes! As repugnant as the swine of Gadarene.

  So great was their rage that the light of the day turned red before my eyes. It was as if their souls were already in the Fire. Toward such rage I offered no peace. I could not restrain my tongue: "You shall know the truth," I told them, "and only the truth shall make you free." Yet these Pharisees were proud; from the heights of their selfesteem they offered homage to themselves. So they answered: "We are of the seed of Abraham. We were never in bondage to any man. How then can it be said 'You shall be made free'?"

  I answered: "You are Abraham s seed, yet you seek to be rid of me. But I have come to tell you the truth as I have heard it from God."

  They answered, "We too have one father, and He is God."

  To which I replied: "The Devil is your father."

  Was I preparing a furnace to melt iron? Never had I seen Pharisees more provoked. "Now we know," they said, "from whom you come. Do you dare to say that you are greater than our father Abraham?"

  "Your father Abraham rejoices to see my day," I told them, "because he knows me. Before Abraham was, I am.

  They took up stones to cast at me. No longer could I walk by them as on the first day. Then, some had been ready to hurl a rock, yet could not. I had passed through their ranks. Now one, and soon another, would be bold. And after the first stone, many. So I stepped behind one of my disciples, and he behind others, and we slipped away. Even as they raged in their fire, they still would not be quick to pursue me.

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  Concerned about where I could stay, my disciples chose the house of Simon the leper in Bethany. No one would think of searching there. Yet word of my presence soon went out. While we were at table, a woman came with an offering. It was an alabaster jar of spikenard, which she massaged into my hair. This spikenard was of great worth, as much as three hundred denarii, which is what a poor man earns by his labor over many a month, even a year.

  But this spikenard had power over me. Its aroma entered my ears as well as my nose, and I heard the Song of Songs. First came the voice of the Bride. She said: "While the king sat at his table, my spikenard sent forth its fragrance."

  Some of my disciples were indignant. One even said, "Why was this ointment not sold by our Master and the money given to the poor? This is waste!" It was Judas who spoke.

  I looked at him with disfavor. And he was dark with anger and looked away. The woman who brought the gift was named Mary (the same as my mother, and Mary Magdalene, and the Mary who was Lazarus' sister), and, yes, another Mary whose name I would not forget, for she anointed my feet with the last of the spikenard and wiped my feet with her hair. Nor was I without a sentiment of peace as she gave this homage to my ankles and toes (as if blessing the miles we had walked). Verses came to me from the scroll of the Song of Songs: "Rise up, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over, flowers appear on the earth and the time for birds to sing has come." The house was filled with the sweet odor of the ointment.

  Judas now asked: "Why was this pomade not sold?"

  Others began to complain. They did not speak against me, but they did attack the woman's gift. I said, "Why trouble her? She has left her good work on me." And to Judas I said more: "The poor are with you always," I told him, "and whenever you can, you may do them good. But me you will not have always."

  Now I was of two minds. The love that had come from this woman's hands had given me a moment of happiness; so at this instant I did not feel like a friend of the poor. Indeed, was I not poor myself? I was certainly living with all the shortness of breath that is one's first companion when there is fear of death. The perfume of the spikenard had been a balm to the loneliness in my belly.

  So for the first time, I knew how the rich feel, could understand their need for display. To them, a lavish presentation of their worth was as valuable as their own blood. Thereby, I could also understand that their greed was a potion against foreboding. I had said it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, yet from the other side of my mouth, I had, if only for an instant, been scornful of the poor.

  Did I speak with a forked tongue so that I might reach out to all? The perfume of the spikenard was in my nose, and I had an image of beautiful temples. They would be erected for me. I could see how I wanted to be all things to all men. Each could take from me a separate wisdom. Indeed, I thought: Many roads lead to the Lord.

  But now I noticed that Judas had left. If he loved me, so did he also love me no longer. Even as he had warned me. And he had gone away into that same night where many now wandered back and forth on the road between Bethany and Jerusalem. And all were wondering about the changes to come.

  Discipl
es came up and said that Judas was speaking ill of me on the street. I was ready to betray the poor, he had said. I was like the others. I had not remained true to my convictions. Yet I was obliged to forgive Judas. For, indeed, had I not scorned the poor? That was true even if I had said the words for one moment, only for one moment. But I had believed the words as I said them. The truth need last no longer than a shaft of lightning in order to be the mightiest truth of all.

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  In my dream it had been foretold that the first day of Passover would be my third day in Jerusalem. On that day the Romans would lay hands on me. And here were my limbs heavy on the morning of this third day. I could not rise. My eyes ached from all I had seen, my ears from all that had been heard; an unholy congestion of spirits was in my chest. Multitudes would be waiting to accompany me to the Temple, more than on the first day, or the second. And I was not ready. I asked myself whether it might not be God's will for me to quit this city so that I might preach by the Sea of Galilee once more. How beautiful was the sun upon the water of the Sea of Galilee.

  How many debates had there been during the night among the priests of the Temple? Were they looking to imprison me? Today was the feast of the Passover, and so these priests would hesitate to engage in any deed that might cause riots among the people. Jewish riots would enrage the Romans. The priests could find themselves in much disfavor for failing to protect the peace of the city.

  They did not know what to do. Of that, I was certain. But then, I did not know what to do. On this third morning, I could not rouse myself to go to the Temple. If prudence comes to us from God and cowardice from the Devil, the line between cannot always be discerned. Not by a man. On this morning I was no longer the Son of God but only a man. God's voice was weak in my ear; a low fear was in my heart.

  By afternoon, the disciples gathered at my bed. "Where shall we go," they asked, "that we may all eat together on the Passover?"

  At last, I could begin to act. I said, "Let two of you go into the city and follow the first man you see who is carrying a pitcher of water. Walk with him to his door. Tell him: 'My Master asks for the guest chamber. He would like to eat the Passover here with his disciples.' That good man will show you a large upper room, furnished and prepared. Make it ready for us."

  I saw this as clearly as if God had told it to me. And, indeed, the man was soon found. All was as I had said; they made ready the Passover. In the evening, in the dark, I came to that house with my twelve, and we ate.

  I remained silent until I took the bread. Then I blessed it and broke it and gave a piece to each of my friends. I recalled the hour when I had broken bread in the desert and five loaves had fed five hundred. In that hour I had lived in the miracle of God's favor, so I said now: "Eat of me, for this is my body." And what I said was true. In death our flesh returns to the earth and from that earth will come grain. I was the Son of God. So I would be present in the grain.

  I took the cup, and offered thanks to the Lord, and poured our wine, and recalled other nights when we had drunk together and had felt as if all were one, and things hidden would be revealed. Now, indeed, was much revealed. The wine made me feel near my Father, and I looked upon Him as if He were a great king. Indeed, for these few breaths, my fear of Him was less than my love; I felt close to His long labors. He had sought to bring order to the chaos our people had made. How hard He had worked, and how often He had fallen into rage and sent us into exile for our sins. Yet even as He had scattered us, so had He brought us back. He had sought to forgive us no matter how we had despoiled His Creation. Could I now tell these twelve men at this table that God would come, and soon, to save us? I could not give them such a certainty. For I knew that we Israelites were a scattered and sinful people who would prefer, doubtless, not to be saved but judged. For we were so vain as to believe that we would pass judgment.

  Like a soldier loyal yet weary, I said to myself, "0 Lord, help my unbelief."

  And as I gave them to drink, I said: "This is my blood, which is shed for you and for many."

  Whereupon, as I tasted the sorrow of the grapes that had been crushed to make this wine, I told them: "I will drink no more wine until I drink it in the Kingdom of God." The Kingdom of God seemed near.

  My apostles stirred. One said: "How can a prophet give his flesh to eat and his blood to drink?"

  I said: "Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you will have no life. But he who will eat my flesh and drink my blood will have eternal life. I will raise him up on the last day. He will dwell in me and I in him."

  I heard much muttering. Judas spoke out: "This is a hard saying. Who can hear it?"

  I answered: "Have I not chosen you? Are you not my twelve?" And I resisted what I was ready to say next, but then I said it: "And among your twelve, is not one of you a devil?" I said this with certainty. Did I not feel the boundless sorrow of the Lord? I said: "One of you shall betray me. Woe to him. It would have been good if he had never been born."

  Such a man must be close to me, as close as my own sins and my own fatigue, for now I felt grief for this man. If he would betray me, his suffering would be greater than mine.

  Yet with such thoughts I grew stronger. For strength always came to me when I was enriched by compassion.

  I arose from supper and laid aside my garments, and with a loincloth I girded myself. Then I poured water into a basin and began to wash the feet of each disciple.

  When I came to Peter, he said: "You shall not wash one foot or the other."

  I replied, "If I do not, you can be no part of me."

  Peter answered, "Then not only my feet, Lord, but my hands and my head."

  Some of their feet were clean, and others' stank of the alleys of Jerusalem; still, I knew whose limbs were brave and which men were ready to flee. So when I was done with bathing all twelve, I said: "In time to come, wash one another's feet as I have washed yours."

  But the same thought kept repeating itself: "One of you will betray me." I must even have spoken these words aloud, for now Simon Peter asked, "Lord, who is it?"

  I answered: "He is the one to whom I shall give a sop."

  And a little later, lowering my bread into the wine, I handed this piece to Judas Iscariot. Much passed between us. And not the least of it was the conversation we had had before we set out for Jerusalem.

  Judas' dark eyes grew luminous with the glow of false faith we offer when we wish to hide what we feel. Yet I told myself he was, after all, loyal. Just so much did I wish to believe in him. For I could understand how men could have faith but be faithless. Therefore I said to Judas, "What you will do, do quickly." Even if I did know, I did not, just so much did I love himùso, I said it tenderly. No other man at the table understood; some could have thought I sent him out with a blessing. I had clasped him by the shoulder. And he went out. The night was dark.

  I was as moved as if I were ready to walk again upon the water in the Sea of Galilee.

  I said, "A new commandment I give to you: Love one another as I have loved you. By this alone shall others know that you are my disciples. For soon I must go, and where I go, you cannot come."

  Peter said: "Lord, where do you go?"

  I answered: "You cannot follow me now. Only afterward will you be able."

  Peter said: "Lord, let me follow now. I will lay down my life for you. I am ready to go with you into prison and into death." He believed it. He was certain that he could never fail me. Even the best of warriors can grow so fond of his deeds that he begins to think he is as large as he wishes to be. But he is not. He can still be blind to himself. I said: "This day, even on this night, before the cock crows once, thou shalt deny me thrice."

  He spoke vehemently: "I will not deny you. Not in any way." And the others spoke the same words.

  I said: "Are there swords among us?"

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  When there was no reply, I said, "Let the man who has no sword sell his garment and buy one."

  Then they confessed
. "Lord, here are two swords," they said, and two of them brought forth short swords, whereupon Peter took one.

  I said: "It will be enough." But I wondered. Would twelve legions of angels be enough?

  The apostle Thomas now asked: "Lord, how can we know the way?" He was simple, and I had to repeat the same words many times for him to understand. So I said, "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man comes to the Father except by me." But it was late, and he was not the only one who did not know.

  Whereupon Philip said, "Lord, show us the Father."

  I told him: "Believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me."

  Now I saw as never before that if they did not believe this, they would be without power to do any works. I told them: "Know only that you must love one another as I have loved you."

  Never had I felt more love for them, or more compassion for their weakness. So many perils were waiting. "Know," I said, "that I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves. Try then to be as wise as serpents and as harmless as doves. But beware of men. For they will deliver you to their councils and, because of me, they will scourge you and subject you to evil judgment by governors and kings. Yet take no thought of what you must say, for it will be given to you in that hour of trial. It is not you who will speak but the Spirit of your Father." (To that, I could bear witness.)

  These words brought fear to many of them. But then, few are ready to seek greater faith by climbing upward, ever upward, against their fear. So I added: "Be not afraid, my friends, of those who kill the body; fear rather Him who has the power to cast you into hell. Fear Him."

  Now they might understand at last the fear that lay beneath all other fear: Would they see that death was not the end but the beginning? The joys or the agonies to come would surpass all that they had known before. Had I accomplished this muchùthat they would no longer keep from looking upon the face of death in the hope that thereby a harsh verdict might be avoided?