But I survived these diabolical attacks. They didn’t help me grow, yet nor did they destroy me. I knew that from now on the Enemy would be at my side day and night, that I would find him in every person I met, that he would do everything in his power to control my thoughts, my urges, my every human feeling. Even when the time came for me to die a second time, I would still have to face him, choose between him and the God of silence.
So I shall live with you. But no longer will you frighten me, because I know what lies behind your mask.
Without hearing voices, not even deep inside me, I had discovered a hidden side to God, a face concealed by the heavy mantle of the traditions I had grown up with. I now had a better understanding of what John the Baptist taught, but I no longer shared his bleak outlook. It is true that this world is dead: yet it isn’t doomed to disappear in some fearful apocalypse, it will live on. God doesn’t judge with fire alone.
This intuition would guide me throughout my whole life.
John the Baptist was right. When I headed back into the north, to people whose human qualities never live up to our expectations, I was still Jesus the son of Joseph, the young Pharisee from Galilee. But I was no longer the same person.
The wilderness had lit a raging fire inside me, which would never stop burning until it had totally consumed me.
When I went past Qumran, I didn’t stop off to take leave of the Essenes, whose friendly presence had helped me survive in the vast stony expanse. There was now a tenuous bond between us, one that I would never completely dismiss.
10
After the shadows of the ravine hemmed in by red and grey rocks, the bright sunlight came as a shock. About a mile away was a thin strip of greenery – the Jordan. Beyond it was more desert, while the distant hills of Perea in Transjordan were silhouetted against the horizon.
Screwing up my eyes, I could just make out what I was looking for. In the heat haze, barely distinguishable from the sparse bushes on the banks, dark smudges were moving back and forth, a mass of activity gravitating round a central point which I wasn’t yet able to see: John the Baptist.
Staggering slightly, I made my way over to the familiar dunes. The usual crowd of people, who were drawn irresistibly to the water, moved aside as I stumbled down the slope. They all stared at me in amazement – at my long hair plastered with sand, my cracked, sunburnt skin, the inner fire whose blaze must have been clearly visible without me realizing…
John had just baptized someone; all I could see was the skin and bone of his shoulders. He turned round slowly and just stood staring at me, not moving. It was up to me to take the final step and go to him, become a disciple.
I walked into the water, which coursed between my legs. As if rooted to the spot, he stared into my eyes and mumbled: “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?…”
So he understood. If I agreed to be one of his disciples, it would be in order to leave him. To venture into places where he had never been able to go. Without answering I leant towards the water, and John pressed gently on my head and shoulders.
I spent the rest of the day alone, sitting on a sand dune some way off. Occasionally a gust of wind would bring snatches of what John was saying:
“Among you,” he told the crowd, “stands one whom you do not know…”
It was me he was talking about, and he was right: no one knew me here, I didn’t even know myself any more. There was a potent force welling up inside me, like a boil about to burst – and yet I hadn’t changed. I would have to wait till the boil came to a head, but I didn’t belong here any more.
So where did I belong in Israel now?
All Jews are born into a state of disquiet; yet since I returned from the melting pot of the wilderness I had stopped feeling the same sense of disquiet as these Jews. I sensed convictions growing in me, although what these were was still unclear. Before I could give voice to them, I would have to wait and see where events would lead me.
The next day I paced to and fro on the top of the dunes, trying to decide what to do. Down by the river, John was talking to some of his disciples. Looking up, he saw my figure and pointed to me. I didn’t want to talk to him or anyone else at that moment, so I turned away and headed slowly towards my hut.
I hadn’t gone far when I heard footsteps crunching on the sand behind me and turned round. Two men were following me, one behind the other, not daring to approach me. After a moment’s hesitation I shouted to them rather brusquely:
“What are you looking for?”
The one in front stepped aside for his companion, who answered nervously:
“Rabbi, where are you staying?”
With his lilting voice, gnarled muscles and patched smock he was clearly from Galilee, perhaps one of the men who fished the lake. And he had called me Rabbi – so he knew who I was, or rather, who I used to be. The other man stood behind him, slightly older and with an undemonstrative, elegant air about him. Like mine his coat was made from a single piece of cloth: so he was from the city, and didn’t say a word. No more welcoming than before, I replied:
“Come and see.”
It was about the tenth hour, two hours before sunset.
They spent the evening with me around the tiny little fire, which cast its light across our faces. Andrew – that was what the Galilean was called – talked and asked questions. As I had thought, the other man was from Jerusalem – a Judaean who didn’t give his name, and I didn’t ask. In no particular order I told them about how dissatisfied I was with life by the lake, how I had met John the Baptist, the time I had spent in the wilderness. I wasn’t able to describe my experiences there, because it still wasn’t clear in my own mind. The Judaean didn’t speak, he just listened. All evening I could feel his eyes boring into me, as if he were lost in thought, turning things over in his mind. And immediately I felt closer to him than to his garrulous and rather boorish companion.
Andrew hadn’t come all the way to the Jordan by himself – his brother and two other Galileans were with him. All four regarded themselves as John’s disciples, and when I looked enquiringly at the Judaean he nodded: he too had been baptized. The only thing that these unrefined individuals seemed to have in common – albeit superficially – with this well-bred town-dweller was that all five belonged to the movement embodied by the hermit of the Jordan.
The next day I decided to go home. In the morning, Andrew introduced me to his brother Simon, known as the Barjona.
What a coarse face he had, such a curt manner, and that combative way of drawing attention to his nickname, which suited him so well! In our native Aramaic barjona means “barren, empty, desolate”, and by extension “outside the law, in exile”. Among other names it was one used by the brigands who terrorized the local population, and who would later become the Zealots with whom I came into conflict. I heard that like many other young Galileans, Simon had lived among them for a while, shared their life of adventure before going back to his nets. When he joined me, bringing his rough and unsubtle ways to our band of wanderers, I stopped using his nickname, which was far too apt, and called him Peter instead.
Without further ado, Andrew and Peter brought Philip to see me, who like them lived in the little lakeside port of Bethsaida. At about midday, Philip fetched their fourth confederate, Nathanael, who was from Cana, a village some distance inland. He was a rabbinical student whose dream was to become a Scribe, in other words to specialize in the Law. Like them he was seized with the fanatical conviction that the Kingdom of David would shortly be restored. The first time we met I had to impress on him that I wasn’t party to this political and religious frenzy. Would they like to accompany me on my journey back to Galilee? Very well – as long as it was clear that I didn’t share their extremist longings. I foresaw something quite different, something that had come to me in the wilderness, but I didn’t go into detail: it wasn’t yet time for that. That evening we set off northwards. Peter, Andrew, Philip, Nathanael – and the Judaean, who suddenly decided t
o come with us at the last minute, although he didn’t say why. The others weren’t particularly keen on his company, they just seemed to put up with it without really accepting him.
Before leaving the Jordan I walked up onto the dunes. Below me, John the Baptist was just sending away the last of the day’s pilgrims. I stayed where I was, silhouetted against the sky, until our eyes met. In his there was a look of great world-weariness, but also what might have been a fleeting glint of joy.
Meeting this man had been a turning point in my life. I would never see him again.
11
Once past the oasis at Jericho, the most direct route is through Samaria. Nathanael was keen to put in an appearance in Cana, the village where he was born, where there was due to be a wedding, one of those Jewish celebrations that goes on for a week and to which the whole district is invited. He told me that my mother and brothers were sure to be there. I could meet up with them, and after the festivities we could all travel back to Capernaum together.
So we travelled through the land of the Samaritans, heretics whom the Jews were so anxious to avoid that they would take a long, roundabout route via Transjordan in order to bypass their territory. We spent the night at the foot of Mount Gerizim. At the top stood their temple, which they regarded as the only one in which it was fitting to speak to God, and where they used a form of worship quite different from the rite practised in Jerusalem.
The Temple of Jerusalem, the Temple of Gerizim! I didn’t join in with my companions’ scathing remarks about their respective qualities. Ever since I had gazed at the stars in the wilderness I had been convinced that if there was a place where we could meet God, it wasn’t to be found in any temple, or indeed in any specific spot.
I was unaware that one of the inner boundaries I was about to cross was the very one that divides Jews from Samaritans.
During the three-day journey I said little. Striding along at the front, the four Galileans filled the air with words, to which I paid little attention. Like me, the Judaean rarely spoke. Unaccustomed to the odd sound of our Aramaic, perhaps he was reluctant to take part in the conversation. And also like me, he could probably sense that they instinctively mistrusted him. He walked beside me, letting them go on ahead; I valued his silence, which showed thoughtfulness, and was already evidence of a respectful attitude.
During our visit to the festivities in Cana, only one otherwise unremarkable incident stood out. As it happened, my mother and brothers were there, among a large and fairly intoxicated crowd. Because my hair was still hanging over my shoulders, everyone understood why I didn’t help myself to the wine that was being constantly brought round. The week-long celebrations were drawing to a close; vast quantities of food and drink must have been consumed by the guests over the past few days. I kept quiet and stayed in the background, looking forward to getting home.
Then I felt my mother’s gentle touch on my arm.
“They have no more wine,” she whispered in my ear.
As sober as I was myself, she was the only one to have realized there was a domestic problem that the chief steward (who was very drunk) would have been unable to solve even if he had been in a fit state to notice. Foreseeing a disaster – a wedding reception suddenly running out of wine, bringing disgrace on the bridegroom – she had come to tell the head of her own family, as was usual.
I replied curtly: “Woman, what concern is that to you and to me?” – a brusqueness that was as overt as it was customary: it is out of the question for a Jewish man to be friendly towards a woman in public, even his own mother. She had a quiet word with the servants, who took me to an alcove where there were six large water jars that were being kept cool. Looking inside, I saw they contained that bitter and quite undrinkable syrup which in hot climates like ours is used for making wine. It had to be diluted in just the right proportions to turn it into a drink fit for the gods.
I glanced over at the steward, who, his face very flushed, was holding forth with gusto in the main room. I had often seen this delicate operation performed at my wealthy customers’ houses, transforming concentrated extract into wine suitable for drinking. I beckoned to the servants: one by one they filled the jars with fresh water, waiting for me to give them the sign to stop pouring.
When they took a cup to the chief steward, he was amazed at how good the wine was: in the middle of the festivities, who was still clear-headed enough to get the subtle mixture exactly right?
But by then I was already rounding up my brothers and the four Galileans – they had had enough to eat and drink; it was time to go.
On the way out I bumped into the Judaean. Also sober, he had seen everything, and the smile he gave me was a sign that this little incident had strengthened the understanding between us. So I wasn’t just a country carpenter – I was familiar with the ways of his world! He was going back to Jerusalem and his household, who were expecting him. As he said goodbye, he told me that the very next time I was there, he would be sure to see me.
The sun was low in the sky when I saw the perfect oval of the lake, breathed in its deliciously damp, fresh air.
Deep down inside me, the molten lava that had built up during my time of testing in the wilderness was still simmering away. If it were ever to burst out, consuming all that lay in its path, then it would be here, in this landscape that seemed to be meant for nothing more than the happiness of a peaceful existence.
12
So as not to transgress the law of the Sabbath, we arrived in Capernaum on Friday evening, just before sunset. The next day I went to the synagogue where I had gone as a boy, as was my custom. Everyone I saw greeted the young rabbi whom they had watched grow up, and who in their eyes would be for ever wreathed with the esteem that came from having spent time with the ascetic of the Jordan. They knew, and would never know any more than that. There are inner rifts that words cannot describe.
After the chanting of the Shemoneh Esrei, the eighteen Ritual Blessings that lay the world at the feet of even the least significant Jew, I was handed the scroll. I saw that it was open at the Book of Isaiah, a verse that I had always found particularly moving, and which had prompted me to go to John the Baptist: “The spirit of the Lord God is upon me…”
I must have read in a distinctive way, because the congregation suddenly started to pay special attention. In the front row, the hazzan – the chief cantor who led the congregation in prayer – nodded at me: for the first time I was allowed to continue, and give the official commentary on the passage.
Fire of the wilderness, tide of lava within me, held back until now by my silence, convictions won at a high price, mysterious Awakening which leads who knows where… Was this the right moment?
Yet the decision wasn’t mine to take – the words just came of their own accord, heedless and uncontainable:
“Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing…”
Ignoring the suddenly set expressions on people’s faces, I continued. The Pharisaical commentary on the Law is intended to show how it can and should be fulfilled in a gradual way in the course of our everyday lives. But this wasn’t what I was saying. I was declaring to all those present that the Law had been fulfilled at this very moment, in this very place – that is to say, by me. On hearing this assertion, which they would immediately start considering from every possible angle, assessing its potential and unprecedented ramifications, my fellow Pharisees instinctively pricked up their ears. For if the Law was fulfilled – if it had nothing more to achieve – then their entire lives, which were wholly devoted to a never-ending and meticulous evaluation of the precepts, their very existence as a caste of recognized jurists, all of this – which to them was the natural order of things – was doomed to extinction.
But for the moment they were too surprised to analyse their emotions. Trained all their lives openly to challenge the law, a process that was as much accepted as it was constrained by rules that limited its scope, they didn’t react. Before their very eyes, their young pupil
was stepping into their shoes: the most important thing was to listen to what he had to say. It held out the prospect of some wonderful debates after the service, discussions which would last all the way to the marketplace or down to the quay in the little harbour.
Perhaps they were about to interrupt me and point out that I hadn’t made any reference to the tradition of the Elders, which was the most glaring omission from what I had said, and to which, carried away by the lava which had finally begun to flow, I had paid little heed. But they didn’t have time.
A man came forward into the empty space in the middle of the synagogue, facing the dais on which I was standing. The whole congregation could see him. Dressed in rags, with no coat, no fringes, he was waving his arms wildly – he was one of those simpletons that every village makes allowances for, and are compassionate enough to keep out of harm’s way. Although I didn’t know his name I had often come across him at street corners, babbling incoherently. But he obviously knew me:
“What have you to do with us, Jesus the Nazarene?”
The Nazarenes are a separate part of the Baptist movement, for whom the Judaean whom I had met by the Jordan said he felt an affinity. But how did this halfwit, who was foaming at the mouth, know that I also felt drawn to the Nazarenes, who loved the Hebrew scriptures above all others, and who had the characteristically Baptist mistrust of any custom that stemmed from the Temple or its Scribes? And then, staring at me with his mad eyes, he went on:
“Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are!”
The Silence of Gethsemane Page 4
