The Book of God: The Bible as a Novel

by Wangerin Jr. , Walter

  “Oh, my soul!” Jesus cried. “My soul is so troubled! And what should I say now? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? No.”

  Slowly he lifted his head and rose to standing again. “No,” he said. “It was for this very reason that I have come to this hour. Therefore I say, ‘Father, glorify your name—’”

  As if in answer, the sky exploded.

  “Thunder!” the people cried.

  But John whispered, “An angel was speaking to him.”

  “So, so,” said Jesus softly. “That was a voice from heaven—for your sake. Now begins the judgment of this world. Now the prince of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up—I will draw all people to myself.”

  Judas said, “Lord, what do you mean, lifted up?” It sounded like exaltation. Judas wanted to pursue exaltation.

  But Jesus looked heavy and sick. “It’s the reason I need no swords, Judas,” he said. “To those who have ears to hear, it reveals what sort of death I am going to die.”

  Death and dying. Morbid and disconnected conversation: that’s all that happened on Monday. The passions of the people began to dissipate. Surprise was lost. Surely the authorities were contriving ways to contain Jesus, his person, his force, and his effect.

  And Judas began to be afraid.

  ON TUESDAY JESUS WENT with his disciples to Jerusalem and into the courts of the Temple.

  A light rain was falling, so they gathered under the roof of the Portico of Solomon, and there Jesus continued his talk, but he took no action. Absolutely none.

  He told a story about a landowner who had let his vineyard out to tenants. When the harvest had been taken in, the landowner sent a servant to get from the tenants his due, but they beat him up. He sent a second servant and they beat him, too. The third servant they murdered. So the landowner decided to send his son. “His beloved son,” Jesus said. “Surely they would respect his son.”

  But when the tenants saw that it was the son, they thought to make the vineyard their own by killing the landowner’s only heir.

  “What will the landowner do,” Jesus said at the end of his story, “when he finds that the tenants have executed his son? Put his beloved son to death? Don’t you think he will come and destroy them, too?”

  Judas saw certain members of the ruling council among the people in Solomon’s porch. He noticed how stiff and self-conscious they became when Jesus spoke of executions. Quickly they left the area. But Jesus let them go. He hadn’t so much as engaged them in dialogue. No action. Only talk.

  A scribe said to him, “Which commandment is the first of all?”

  This was such a common question, an old rabbinic test; yet Jesus answered it.

  “Love the Lord your God will all your heart and all your soul and all your mind,” he said. “This is the first and great commandment. And the second one is like it, Love your neighbor as yourself.”

  Judas couldn’t believe it. This sounded like conciliation! Even so did the gentlest, most maundering rabbis teach their students. There was neither prophecy nor power in such talk! Where was the messianic cry? Where was the captain of the hosts of heaven and the catalyst of revolution on earth?

  The Passover was only days away. Multitudes were filling Jerusalem like a hive with energy and expectation.

  And Jesus was muttering rabbinic love.

  Later, as they wandered out of the Temple, that thick-minded dullard of a disciple—Thomas—paused to marvel at the walls.

  “Look, Teacher,” he said. “How huge the stones are, yet how close the masonry!”

  Jesus responded in odd, distracted tones: “The time is coming when not one stone will be left on another. They will all be thrown down.”

  Again, Judas was confused. The Messiah was to restore the Temple and Jerusalem. Twice, now, Jesus had spoken of the city’s destruction.

  At the Mount of Olives Jesus turned and looked back at Jerusalem. The rain had stopped. The clouds had lifted. A bright sun caused the entire city to shine resplendent on its hills, ten degrees of holiness, the crown of God!

  But Jesus drove Judas mad by heaving another, bottomless sigh.

  To provoke him, Judas said, “When, Lord? When will the beautiful stones come down? Tell us what signs we can look for that these things are finally going to be accomplished?”

  Jesus said, “When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, don’t worry. They are not the end. Nations will rise against each other; there will be earthquakes and famines—but these are just the beginning of the birth pains.

  “Listen to me: the gospel must first be preached to all the nations. And those who preach it will be hated for my name’s sake.”

  Jesus looked at Judas. “But you asked for signs,” he said. “Your dreams, Judas, are both greater and lesser than you know. Here are your signs: when you see the desolating sacrilege set up where it should not be, then let everyone in Judea flee to the mountains. For then will occur such tribulation as has never been—no, not from the beginning of creation.

  “Signs? After the tribulation the sun will be darkened and the moon made dim, and the stars will fall from heaven!

  “And then the Son of man will come in clouds with power and glory, all the angels surrounding him. He will sit on his glorious throne, and all the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate them one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. The sheep he will place at his right hand, and the goats at his left. And which, Judas, do you think will be saved? And why do you suppose they will be saved? Because of war? Because of triumphs and victories and grand defeats?

  “Listen to my last parable of all:

  “The King will say to those at his right hand, Come, O blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food. I was thirsty and you gave me drink. I was a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, sick and you visited me, in prison and you came to me.

  “But the righteous will ask, ‘When, Lord, did we see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you drink? When did we welcome you or clothe you or visit you?’

  “And the King will answer them, Truly, when you did it to one of the least of my brothers and my little sisters, you did it unto me.”

  Judas put his head down and started to walk away.

  Jesus said, “Wait! There is one more part to the parable. The King will say to those at his left hand, Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me no food. I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, a stranger, naked, sick, in prison and you did nothing at all for me.

  “But they, too, will ask, ‘When did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or in any need and did not minister to you?’

  “Then the King will answer, Truly, as you did it not unto the least of these, you did it not unto me.

  “Now, Judas, go your way. Hear with your ears. See with your eyes. Watch for the coming of the true kingdom of God. Watch, I say, for it will surely take you by surprise!”

  THAT EVENING THE DISCIPLES and Jesus went to eat with Lazarus in Bethany. They reclined around a table while his sister Martha served them.

  Then Lazarus’ other sister Mary entered the room and walked to Jesus carrying an alabaster flask of ointment, pure nard, extremely expensive. She went behind him, where his feet were stretched out on the floor, and she knelt down. She broke the flask and anointed the feet of her Lord with a slow flow of oil. Then she wiped them in her long hair, and the house was filled with the precious scent.

  In a choked voice, Judas Iscariot said, “What about the poor, Lord? What about those who are least in the world? Shouldn’t this ointment have been sold for three hundred denarii, and the money given to them?” His face was red with emotion.

  Jesus, too, reacted with emotion. “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “Who are you to blame this woman?”

  Judas’ eyebrows rose to his hairline.
He couldn’t utter a word.

  “Let her alone,” Jesus continued. “She has done for me the good work, sir, that no one else has thought to do. She has anointed my body in advance of my burial. The poor will be with you always. I, on the other hand, will not always be with you. Mary understands that. Do you? Do you? Do you, sir, take my meaning now?”

  Judas could not so much as nod. He was suffocating in humiliation.

  By sunrise on Wednesday, Judas had made up his mind.

  He resolved to accept confusion no more. He did not understand Jesus; he could not penetrate the Master’s recent talk; but he could take matters into his own hands and create the clarity that he and the times required.

  Everything that Judas had foreseen was coming to pass: multitudes had gathered in the holy city, intense with anticipation. They were like dry kindling waiting for the flame. That flame must be some precipitating act by his Master.

  Jesus was not acting. But perhaps Judas could himself trigger that act.

  Clearly, the revolutionary power lay with Jesus of Nazareth. It was Jesus whom the people had extolled as Messiah just three days ago. And then Jesus had exhibited a divine wrath in the Temple. Bold in opposing the authorities, mighty in his miracles, absolutely transporting in his rhetoric, Jesus had to be the Messiah! Perhaps these latter hours he had become a reluctant Messiah, but no one else fulfilled prophecy as he did.

  Therefore, Judas had decided not to plumb the reluctance, but rather to force the Lord into action.

  He would arrange a confrontation from which Jesus could not withdraw except by openly displaying his messianic power.

  Judas would bring the enemies of Jesus directly to him—yes, and to his disciples, too! When the enemies attempted to attack both him and those whom he loved, the Lord would have no choice but to take up his royal power and reveal himself as the anointed one, the King!

  On Wednesday morning, then, Judas presented himself to the chief priests and the captains of the Temple, and said, “You’ve given orders that anyone who knows where Jesus of Nazareth is must come and tell you.”

  “We have,” said the chief priests.

  “And I suppose you wish to arrest him somewhere apart from the multitudes.”

  “Continue.”

  “Well, I can lead you to him when he is in a private and an unprotected place.”

  They said, “But you’re not a stranger to us, sir. We know that you are one of his disciples. Why would you betray your own Master to us?”

  Judas replied immediately. “For money,” he said. “Pay me and I’ll do it. Pay me enough, and I’ll do it soon.”

  The chief priests acted exactly as Judas thought they would. This part of the plan worked very well. In order to bind him to themselves, they weighed out thirty pieces of silver then and there, and poured it all into the bag Judas had brought for that purpose.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Jesus

  I

  SIMON PETER THRUST his head into the room and said, “Where should we go to prepare for the Passover? Do you have a place in mind?”

  Jesus looked up from the scroll he’d been reading. “I do,” he said. He stood and walked to the lattice and called: “John, would you come in here?” Then he sat down on the floor again, his back cradled by the corner of the room, his wrists on his knees, hands loose.

  “What are you reading?” said Simon the Rock.

  “Songs of comfort, Peter,” Jesus said, “songs of comfort and strength.”

  John came in and stood by Simon.

  Jesus couldn’t help it. He smiled at the incongruous pair: tough, smooth-shaven Simon, his head shaped like some weapon the Romans would make, cheeks puffing, breathing hard, his arms ever bent for action—and John, sweet John of the enormous eyes and the ascending eyebrows, pliable John who, though he would with his brother James strut and thunder, could nevertheless smile for Jesus such an ethereal smile that, seeing it, Jesus suffered the warm breath of love in his bosom. Of all the disciples, Simon Peter loved Jesus loudest and strongest. John seemed nearly indifferent to such passions—yet it was John who caused them most.

  Smiling, then, Jesus said, “Go to Jerusalem. Listen: go round by the Kidron valley and enter at the southwest through the Gate of the Essenes. When a man carrying a pitcher of water passes you and starts to climb Zion, follow him. John knows the way. John even knows the house where he will stop. But we won’t know if the place will be safe today. Therefore, ask the householder to show you the guest room where we can eat the Passover. If all is well, he will take you to a large upper room already furnished. Prepare the meal for us there.”

  They left. Jesus closed his eyes and imagined their going: Simon in the lead, Simon huffing and bustling a brave obedience, all full of his mission. Though John knew better where they were going, in his serenity it would never occur to him to lead.

  Soon Simon and John faded from Jesus’ mind. The smile vanished. The little bloom of loving he had felt drooped within him. The air went out of his mouth in endless sighing. His breast collapsed.

  Jesus took up his scroll again and read:

  I love the Lord because he has heard my supplications.

  The snares of death encompassed me;

  I suffered distress and anguish.

  Then I called on the name of the Lord—

  “O Lord, I beg you, save my life!”—

  He stopped reading. He bowed his head and allowed his hair to fall like a curtain between his face and the eyes of any who might enter his room in Bethany now.

  “Abba,” he whispered.

  It was Thursday.

  This was Thursday of the week of the Passover, the thirty-third year of his life.

  “Abba. Abba,” he whispered.

  Thursday, the fifth day of the week in which he was to die.

  II

  AT EVENING JESUS ENTERED the upper room with ten of the disciples. Simon and John met them there. The table was neatly set. Already the prescribed foods had been brought in, filling the room with a rich aroma: lamb, unleavened bread, a sauce of bitter herbs, wine.

  The table, low to the ground, was shaped like a C so the servants could enter the middle and approach each place. One would not sit at such a formal meal. The table was furnished with low couches on three sides of it; one reclined on these.

  The room was spare. There were few ornaments in the house of the Essenes. Along the wall another narrower table held water and towels. A rug received the sandals of the people as they came in. Already the candles were lit. It was dusk outside. Breezes bent the candle flames. Shadows were gathering at the high ceiling.

  Jesus, when he had removed his sandals, went to a central place at the table. The others found places to the left and the right of him. Jesus motioned them to recline. So, in a genial ripple of motion and chatter, the twelve disciples lay down on the couches, crooked their left elbows, and propped their heads on their hands.

  Jesus continued to stand, looking down both sides of the table.

  “I—” he said, “With all my heart I have earnestly desired to eat this Passover among you before I suffer—”

  Conversation ceased. Faces tilted toward him: his people, frowning, questioning, exhibiting surprise and a sudden blinking pity—his foolish people, still ignorant of what was to be, though he had told them; he had told them! He had said it clearly and often. His poor sheep-people, his munching followers, his disciples.

  “I tell you, I will not eat it again until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God.”

  While they watched him, then, Jesus shed his robe and went to the side table and picked up a clean towel and tied it around his waist in the manner of a servant. He gathered his hair in another towel, which he wound as a turban around his head. He poured water into a pitcher and carried it to the nearest disciple, the last one in sequence around the table. Then, in a room completely hushed, Jesus knelt down and began to wash that disciple’s feet.

  He moved to the next and washed his feet, too.
r />   And the next.

  So still was the room, that each small splash of water could be heard.

  Andrew began silently to cry.

  So did Judas, though his eyes were wide open and blazing with an odd ferocity. Jesus felt that Judas’ feet twitched the instant he touched them, and he knew: cosmic elements, light and darkness, were contending in this poor disciple’s soul.

  He moved on, then, to Philip and Matthew and James and the blunt, frowning Thomas.

  Last of all, Jesus came to Simon.

  Simon Peter, forever proud of his humilities!—he snatched his thick feet back beneath his robe and said, “What! Are you going to wash my feet?”

  Jesus sighed and said, “You may not now understand what I’m doing, but you will in the future.”

  “No!” Simon said, his bare jowls trembling. “You will never wash my feet.”

  Something tightened in Jesus’ throat. “If I do not wash you,” he said, striving for kindness in his voice, “if you do not let me serve you, you will have no part in me.”

  Simon shot his feet out again, pleading, “My hands, too, Lord! Wash my hands and my head!”

  As he rubbed the hard soles of Simon Peter’s feet, and then again as he toweled them dry, Jesus said, “Those who have bathed do not need to wash—except for their feet—for they are clean all over.”

  By now the light outside the lattices had diminished to a deep blue. The room trembled and shifted in yellow candle flame.

  Jesus removed the towels and laid them again on the side table. He put his arms through the short sleeves of his own robe, shook his hair free, and took his place, reclining among the disciples.

  “Do you understand what I’ve just done to you?” he said. “You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right because that’s what I am. Now: if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, then you, too, must wash one another’s feet. This is an example. Blessed are you, my friends, if you do it!”