The Silence of Gethsemane

by Michel Benoît

  When they had gone I was left alone among the crowd; my disciples were nowhere to be seen.

  Yet I had created this distance intentionally. Down through the ages, the prophets of Israel have railed against the slave trade, the barbarity of the various Jewish dynasties, their handling of public affairs, the exploitation of the poor. I had never done this, and in some of my parables I even seemed to treat the unbridled capitalism that holds sway in Israel as a fact of life. This was because I never claimed to be trying to change the world, or to prevent it from dancing with Evil.

  I wanted to proclaim its end.

  What of money? It was king, and would remain so – but my Kingdom was of another kind. To believe – as my disciples did – that the world could be transformed by the use of violence would only perpetuate the diabolic spell that the Evil One casts in order to set one man against another.

  I wanted to break this spell by wresting the world out of Satan’s clutches, by proclaiming that we would no longer dance to his tune. For me there are no more secrets lurking in the deepest depths of the shadows – the Evil One is no longer the prince of darkness, the light must shine on Man and his domain.

  And then I cast a new spell, using parables to restore the power that our imagination has over harsh reality. By making nature the stage on which life is lived, it ceased to be a dark corner full of religious suspicion. I transformed it into something poetic, something that sings of the highest truths.

  Instead of allowing it mysteriously to fuel people’s desire for violence of all kinds, I used the imagination as the driving force of my Kingdom.

  Yet here on the Temple esplanade, I was able to judge the full extent of my failure. My disciples would have accepted sweeping changes to their faith – but instead of a new creed I had painted pictures for them. I hadn’t condemned their Judaism, I had invited them to take the dangerous path of freedom. The Judaean was right: not only were they incapable of hearing my message, but their disillusionment would lead them in only one direction – the betrayal of their rabbi.

  49

  The next morning was today. At first light I set off for the Temple. The Judaean was waiting for me on the path that runs beside the dried-up floor of the Kidron Valley. He said that he had spent the previous day in the city but hadn’t witnessed my altercation with the various worthies – but he had got wind of it. At that very moment, the Sanhedrin were trying to turn the politically active elements of the populace against me. That was why they had asked me about the tax paid by colonies, and my ambivalent response had given them cause to rejoice: as well as the devout Jews, who were outraged by my pronouncements on divorce and love, the nationalists were now distancing themselves from the inconstant rabbi who didn’t seem able to lead an all-out revolt. Having once enjoyed popular support, I now found myself isolated.

  “What of the Twelve?” I asked.

  He said they didn’t have the means to lead an assault on the Temple, nor was it their ambition. The Zealots were always poised to do so, however; when they left the Temple esplanade the day before, the former activists among my disciples – led by Peter – had managed to persuade them that rather than pushing me into the background they would do better to use my popularity to gain the support of as many ordinary people as possible. Three of them – the Barjona, Simon the Zealot and Iscariot – had each been promptly issued with a sica, the short sword that gives its name to the Sicarii, who use them to disembowel their enemies. For his part, he admitted to feeling uneasy: if they did use force, he said, then like all the previous occasions there would be a bloodbath, and I would be killed before anyone had a chance to arrest me. Whereas if I were to be tried by the Sanhedrin, where we had friends (such as Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea), and where he also had contacts, I would stand a good chance.

  So what did he suggest?

  His face drawn and haggard, he said he had something in mind, not without risk, but it was the only thing he could think of given the situation. This very morning he was due to see Judas and was going to try and talk him round; he couldn’t tell me any more than that – except that I should avoid drawing attention to myself on the Temple esplanade today, and not get involved in any public debates. The upper room of his house in the western part of the city would be ready for us that evening as arranged; he had instructed one of his servants to meet us carrying a jar of water. In the meantime I should do my best to keep out of sight.

  For some time I was alone in the empty valley. The Twelve… I had been glad to have Peter and his brother Andrew with me, as well as John and his brother James, who were the first ones to join me. After them came others, who gave up everything to follow me… Everything, that is, except their illusions; everything except that typical Jewish disquiet which helped keep their wild expectations alive. They listened to me proclaim the end of one world and the beginning of a new one – they listened, but they didn’t hear. Yet I couldn’t hold this against them; there has been far too much suffering in Israel for far too long, and they were the repository of all that. From the moment I ceased to share their disquiet, we had gone our separate ways. They weren’t dreaming up a base act of betrayal, of that I was convinced: a disciple never betrays his rabbi. So what was on their minds?

  Judas… scrupulously honest Judas, who had been drawn to the Sicarii with their unsubtle, summary ideals! Of all my disciples he is the only one with whom I willingly exchange kisses, the only one whom I occasionally refer to as my hetairos, or companion. He isn’t a close friend in the same sense as Lazarus, but someone I trust. So why does the Judaean want to speak to him today? I can’t imagine for a moment that the highly respectable, refined city dweller and this poor, down-to-earth activist could be in league with each other. Yet what they do have in common is their love of Israel, as well as affection for me. I have never had any doubts about what Judas feels – he is someone who wears his heart on his sleeve. Peter is more complex, however, and all the more unfathomable because his liking for power and violence has so far never found an outlet.

  When I arrived there was a sizeable crowd on the Temple esplanade. Wishing to avoid confrontations, I stood where the swarming mass of pilgrims was at its thickest, near the treasury where people come to make offerings. They were queuing up at the barrel-like container, where the loose change made a ringing sound as it tumbled in. I spotted some of my disciples and gestured to them. Peter walked over, followed by the others, attracted by the sight of the rich people pulling back the sleeves of their robes so everyone could see the handfuls of gold coins that they jingled before tossing them into the treasury.

  Money! It was the tangible sign of their failure, of an affluence and power from which they would always be excluded! They were staring at the pile of gold and copper as if bewitched when a little old woman came up, almost as if trying not to be seen. She was wearing a widow’s veil, and slipped in two lepta, the smallest denomination of coin. I turned to my disciples and said:

  “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all the others. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had to live on.”

  They said not a word. While we were in Galilee I had told them my opinion of money on several occasions – that there is nothing wrong with it when it is used to serve the interests of humanity, but not those of power. This woman was worth more than all these rich people put together, probably more than the priests to whom her two small coins would be given.

  But they weren’t listening, any more than they had in Galilee. Reflected in their eyes I saw the glitter of gold.

  By now it was late in the day. I arranged to meet them where the Judaean’s servant carrying a water jar would come and find us, to guide us through the western part of the city.

  I was going to hear the outcome of the negotiations that the Judaean had had with Judas that morning.

  And perhaps what fate has in store for me tonight.

  50

  The ordinary
Essenes who live in towns and cities are not able to observe the rite of baptism by immersion before meals as is the custom at Qumran, so instead they purify their whole body, or as much as is practical. Although fetching water is deemed woman’s work, this was why the man walking in front of us carrying a large container of water didn’t attract attention. People recognized him as one of the Judaean’s staff; his master – who was known to have been a member of the sect – was probably holding a traditional Essene dinner, for which he would need a great deal of water.

  The servant took us by a roundabout route, so as not to pass the police detachments outside Caiaphas’s palace and the homes of various dignitaries. Like most of the houses in this part of town, our host’s had a large function room that took up an entire floor. The Judaean met us at the bottom of the stairs, and gestured to the Twelve to go up and finish getting the room ready: he obviously wanted to talk to me.

  In a hushed voice, he told me that the Zealots now had high hopes of achieving their insane ambition to take the Temple by storm. Nicodemus had told him that the Sanhedrin were aware of this; it was the same every year during Passover. Steps had been taken, several cohorts of Roman legionaries were on standby, the whole enterprise would be nipped in the bud, and the ringleaders would have their throats cut before they could whip up support from the populace.

  He confirmed his earlier suspicions that my disciples had allowed themselves to be taken in by this madness. So he had decided to pre-empt them: that morning he had managed to persuade Judas to go with him into the inner recesses of the High Priest’s palace to negotiate with him to have me arrested before any riots could break out. Trials weren’t allowed during the Passover, so if something happened in the meantime, having me safely under lock and key would prove I was innocent. On Monday I would appear before the Council of the Sanhedrin, who would have no choice but to make it a matter of record that I couldn’t have been involved in any mob violence. I might be flogged and then released, having been formally forbidden to teach in Jerusalem. This is the normal procedure, and his friends on the Council would ensure that it was followed.

  So what had Judas said?

  He had agreed. Have his rabbi arrested and kept in a safe place before rioting started? Iscariot had eventually come round to his way of thinking, even seemed relieved. But at the same time he wanted a formal undertaking from the High Priest that at no time would my life be in danger. Caiaphas had smiled and produced a purse from beneath his cloak: he took a solemn oath before God that I would be spared the death penalty. And then, in accordance with legal practice in Israel, he had given Iscariot thirty pieces of silver, instead of the fifty prescribed by the Law. This was the price he charged for swearing, on pain of anathema, not to have a man of low birth put to death.

  His mind now at rest, Judas had taken the silver, which effectively sealed the agreement between himself and the High Priest in the presence of God. Since he always knew where to find me, he would be able to lead the Temple police to me at a propitious moment, and out of sight of the crowds, so everything would go smoothly.

  My heart was pounding. “So… when will it be?” I mumbled.

  For the first time the Judaean looked me in the eye: it would be one night before the end of the celebrations, so I could be tried on Monday morning. And if the Temple police refused to arrest someone during the religious festival, then soldiers from one of the cohorts would simply do it instead. He would meet us in Gethsemane every evening from now on, so he could make sure everything went according to plan. After my arrest he would follow me to the inner courtyard of the High Priest’s palace, where he knew the gatekeeper.

  I was horrified. So was this how my career would end? Arrested under cover of darkness, locked up in the High Priest’s palace then silenced… I looked the Judaean in the eye: he had followed his conscience, I had to trust him. But there was one thing I had to ask: from what he knew, was it the Twelve who had betrayed me?

  He didn’t have to think before answering. Judas? Yes, to start with he had undoubtedly lent Peter a sympathetic ear. But by agreeing to play a part in my arrest he had helped to wreck any plans that Barjona and the Zealots were making. His affection for me, his deep-seated loyalty to the rabbi who trusted him, as well as his devout Jew’s instinctive mistrust of Peter’s violent nature, had swung him away from the activist cause at the last minute.

  And Peter? It was clear he wanted to use me to win over the masses once the coup had taken place. For the last few days, he had done nothing but talk – quite openly – about the kingdom I had promised to create once Israel finally showed signs of rebelling, and the role that various individuals would play in it. He must have believed that by acting in this way he was being true to the ideals of the entire nation. The hard core of activists among the Twelve supported him, but the others were apparently unaware of what he was hatching.

  With a sad smile he gestured to me to go upstairs.

  How could things have come to this? When they had left everything to follow me, they had been filled with genuine fervour. They had loved me, I was quite certain of that. So what had I done to make all that passion suddenly evaporate?

  I was about to eat a formal, celebratory supper with the very people who were betraying me.

  And I was going to have to dip my hand in the same dish as them.

  51

  It was no more than a few hours ago, I should be able to remember every detail quite easily, yet nothing will come back to me. It is as if everything in that upper room were somehow unreal, as if every word that was spoken there took on another meaning, the slightest gesture assumed a significance quite different from what it seemed to represent.

  Peter, James and John? Ever since we have been together I have known that they formed a clique, and there were times when I showed favouritism towards this alliance by treating them as a separate group. Then when James and John demanded the best positions for themselves, they split up. Yet despite their differences of opinion, Peter is no longer just one of the disciples – he is the leader of a faction that is involved in a plot.

  Tonight, they all believe that Judas is still part of this conspiracy. They have no reason to doubt him, no way of knowing that this very morning he deceived them by making a secret agreement with Caiaphas.

  And Judas? At the last moment he has been persuaded to betray the betrayers. He knows his life is in danger – if Peter discovers what happened he will never forgive him, he will be found in an alleyway somewhere in the Old Town, with his belly slit open and his intestines scattered far and wide.

  What of the Judaean?… If his plan succeeds, his social position will protect him from Peter and the Boanerges brothers, although not from their hatred, which will know no bounds. And if Caiaphas breaks his word, then my supporters will blame him and Judas for my death.

  Unlike the others in the room, I will keep faith with my true, inner self. But I will have to go along with the pretence as well. I am choked with fear and sadness.

  Lined up along the wall, in front of the cushions that have been laid out in a U shape, they are waiting for me: twelve men, the bearers of hopes and secrets cloaked in lies.

  They had all left their coats on a low table just inside the door. As I came in I noticed the handles of three sicas protruding from the folds; they belonged to Peter, Judas and Simon the Zealot. So the Judaean was telling the truth: they were armed.

  For me, every celebratory supper in Galilee had always been a reflection of the Kingdom that was to come. When I saw the Twelve I decided that this meal would be no different; like all the others it would be a symbolic feast; I would just have to ignore the bad atmosphere, the weapons that were left at the door. The Essene customs that we were using would make things easier: I would take the place of the priest and celebrate, as was the practice at Qumran.

  After the chanting of the Ritual Blessings, the Judaean settled himself in the middle, gesturing to me to sit on his left. The custom is to prop yourself up on your left elb
ow when eating; to his right, where space had been left for the staff to serve, he had a side-on view of Peter’s face and shoulder.

  The dishes were placed in front of us. Hillel always made it clear that if a Jew doesn’t eat the Passover lamb, he cuts himself off from the body of Israel. They were aware of this, and listened with solemn faces as I pronounced the blessing that spoke of the unshakeable unity of God’s Chosen People.

  The time came for the rite of baptism. I got up from the table, took off my outer robe and tied a towel round my waist as is customary. Then, pouring water into a basin brought by the man who had led us to the house, I began to wash my disciples’ feet and wipe them with the towel.

  The room went quiet. When I came to Peter he stiffened, and, speaking for the first time since the meal began, he burst out:

  “Rabbi, are you going to wash my feet?”

  What did he mean? That by taking the place of an Essene priest I was laying claim to a role and a status to which I wasn’t entitled? Acting on impulse as usual, he had spoken without thinking. So I replied:

  “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.”

  “You will never wash my feet!”

  Was he objecting to the future king of Israel behaving submissively, refusing to be served by someone whom he expected to share power with? I wanted to know.

  “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.”