Lights in a Western Sky

by Roger Curtis

  ‘So what happened to you?’ she said.

  ‘Before or after they complained to the dean?’

  ‘Being caught in a tomb sounds rather pathetic to me. Was it worth it, did the walls speak to you?’

  ‘Perhaps they did.’

  Maria sat up sharply. ‘That sounded serious! So what new insights can you give me?’

  ‘I dreamed. I can’t remember the details, but when the custodian came for me – he actually shouted at me to come out, would you believe – there was one thought uppermost in my mind. And it’s stayed with me since. It’s so bizarre I hesitate to tell it.’

  ‘I’m your best friend – in this place at any rate. I can handle anything.’

  ‘Between us, then? For the moment?’

  She clamped her hand over her mouth in a gesture of promised silence. Paul saw it as the stifling of a laugh.

  ‘Let me say first that I don’t believe in miracles, biblical or otherwise,’ Paul said. ‘And I don’t believe half of Christendom does either.’

  ‘So the raising of Jairus’ daughter, and the young man from Nain – those were not miracles?’

  ‘I think Jesus allowed people to think so. As with the other miracles. I don’t think it was deceit – more a demonstration of power in the service of his God. True or not, such acts would have been impressive. But at the time he was not the only person making such claims, and they, too, were believed. He was not unique.’

  ‘So then why was the raising of Lazarus so special? You’ve said yourself it stood out as the greatest of all the… well… miracles – except, of course, for the resurrection itself.’

  ‘I believe that Jesus went to Bethany to perform a symbolic ritual act that would facilitate acceptance of what he believed would happen after his own death. A softening of minds, if you like.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘So when he went to the tomb he didn’t expect Lazarus to be physically dead.’

  ‘But that’s nonsense. We know from John’s gospel that Jesus was devastated to hear of Lazarus’ death when news reached him in the desert. And then showed real grief at the tomb before Lazarus emerged.’

  ‘As I believe was truly the case.’

  ‘But that could only mean that Jesus had been deceived, that somehow Lazarus or his sisters had deliberately allowed him to believe Lazarus had died. Why on earth would they have done that?’

  ‘So that Jesus’ response would have been accepted by everyone present as genuine grief.’

  ‘That sounds a wild theory to me,’ she said, smiling. ‘Now, I’ve got a lecture to attend. I’ll think about it and let you know, but don’t hold your breath.’ She got up to go.

  ‘Just hold on a moment,’ Paul said, taking her hand. ‘I believe also that Jesus never realised he had been deceived. He would have prayed to God in good faith and when that prayer was seemingly answered – by Lazarus emerging from the tomb – the effect on him would have been profound.’

  ‘I’m sure it would have been. But why, in that case, wouldn’t they have disillusioned him?’

  ‘To what advantage? To destroy a man who believed himself to be on the brink of realising his destiny? Though it must be said that they would have had no clear idea then of what that destiny entailed.’

  ‘Death on the cross, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly. So he would have left Bethany with any lingering doubts as who he was resolved – and his disciples no longer sceptical. If God had permitted him to bring Lazarus back from the dead surely he would have allowed Jesus to survive death also.’

  Maria had become thoughtful. ‘It would certainly explain why Jesus’ belief in himself was so absolute when he returned to Jerusalem for Passover – for one last time.’

  ‘And maybe why Lazarus and his sisters were so hospitable towards him. How mixed their feelings must have been: hidden guilt for the past and elation at being part of his fantastic journey.’

  ‘We have a tea-club meeting coming up next month, and still lack a speaker,’ Maria said. ‘Why don’t you air your theory then?’

  Which is what Paul did. But he failed to convince anyone there that the Saviour who was God’s son and saw everything, was capable to the least degree of being hoodwinked. ‘What you’re saying,’ said a wag in the audience, ‘is that Lazarus killed Jesus.’

  And there, at four o’clock in the afternoon in the Institute’s smaller lecture theatre, on a dismal March day in 1972, Paul’s great idea died.

  Judas

  Judas closed the door carefully behind him, but he could not prevent his hand from shaking or the catch from rattling. He stood with his back to it, breathing hard, while the pasty fragments of crust sticking to his palate released juices that seared his throat and tongue. Through the door he could hear muffled conversation. He pondered who – besides the Master – might know the reason for his leaving. Then he went below, his sandals clattering on the stone steps, and out into the moonlit street.

  From here in the upper city he could see the vast silhouette of the Temple. Beyond it, black storm clouds gathered over the hill of olives. It was a scene familiar to him from the past, before he sought refuge and obscurity in the remote and quieter Galilee. Here, more than anywhere else he knew, the elements seemed able to organise themselves into an ordered canvas, the perturbed sky mirroring the afflictions of the souls trapped within the mass of the city below. Sometimes, even, instruction might be written there in God’s hand. And once, in a moment of rapt contemplation, it had offered a solution, and turned the heart and mind of this previously troubled man.

  He found a low wall and slumped onto it, trying to make sense of his predicament. He yearned for solitude, something not easily had in the now seething city. Some of the passers-by were newcomers, walking the streets in wonder, climbing higher and higher to gaze at the Temple and finding themselves in this place by accident. Others seemed here by design, walking furtively. A few looked down on him in pity, for he was not well-dressed. He longed to have them stay, to tell him that they, too, could not see things remaining as they were. Two young men came by, Pharisees both. One pointed out to the other how, by squinting along the Temple precinct wall, the black mass of the Antonia Fortress could be seen blemishing the lines of the Temple. They joked about it, then, seeing him, became quiet, as if he might be in the employ of the Temple Police – or of Rome itself. He wanted to shout out that he was no threat, no spy, just a foot soldier of an obscure little army of the mind advancing to nowhere he could determine.

  A week earlier – before their little band had plucked up courage to emerge from the desert and enter the city – it had all seemed clear. They had purpose, a message, prospects of influencing by example and deed. To their surprise, the crowds coming for Passover had multiplied their band a hundred-fold. Then, suddenly, the direction had changed. What had become of the humility, where the place of the poor and the sick? More puzzling still, why did the Master appear to have another agenda, involving shadowy persons and influences unknown to the Twelve? Perhaps he, Judas, was just the first to see – or the one most likely to snap through indignation. When they came there were people with whom he had spoken too freely – that he now realised. But then, what can a man from Galilee know of intrigue in the Temple and the city?

  Yet the Master had known of his disquiet, somehow, and had sought him out, alone, to divine his thinking. It happened on the evening of the third day, as the band tramped back up the hill between the olive trees, their minds bereft of useful thought because of the battering they had received in the Temple. For Judas, a little older and more corpulent than most of them, progress was slower and he lagged behind. Anticipating this, the Master had chosen the place carefully.

  Judas came upon him where the olives gave way to a small grove of larger trees offering deeper shade. He was sitting on an ancient stone seat from which the vast panorama of
the city could be seen across the valley. He was quite still, his face dappled with pale sunlight that for the moment obscured the strain. His voice cut the air – paradoxically, Judas thought, because it was never loud or harsh.

  ‘Look back, Judas,’ he called. ‘The city is beautiful, is it not?’

  Judas stopped and turned to look. ‘You were waiting for me, Master?’ he asked, still panting.

  ‘From here the balm of the evening can separate us from our tribulations so that we see them more clearly from a distance. The others have gone on ahead and won’t come looking for us. That was my thinking. Come, sit beside me.’

  Judas did so. He had never sought, or truly experienced, the physical intimacy with the Master enjoyed by several of the disciples; never appreciated the courseness of the cloth garments compared with his own, or thought much about the odours of people on the move that characterised each of them. Now, above the sweat of exertion, Judas detected for the first time the faint but pungent stench of emotion and fear.

  ‘What is it you want to tell me, Master?’ he asked.

  ‘You are a thinker, Judas. Perhaps the only one of our band that I would so describe. And things do not generally pass you by. It is something I have valued in you. But your problem – no, don’t try to deny it – is that in our present predicament you do not have the knowledge to make judgements. You have looked to me to give you that knowledge. Because I have not done so, you have… well, let us say sought enlightenment by talking to those who may not have our best interests at heart. Am I close?’

  Judas smiled ruefully. ‘I should have realised little can be hidden from you,’ he said.

  ‘My contacts in the city are more extensive than you can imagine,’ the Master continued, ‘and almost unknown to the others. Perhaps you find that a disturbing admission?’

  ‘It seems against the spirit of our brotherhood. But it doesn’t surprise me. It would account for many things that are… unexplained.’

  ‘Then where do you think our problems lie?’

  It took a moment for Judas to summon his thoughts and his courage. ‘Three days ago, when we came, we passed close to this very spot. People were shouting and waving. They loved you, welcomed you as a leader they could follow. Now, somehow – I don’t know why – there is confusion.’

  ‘So when we came over the crest of the hill, just up there, and you saw the city below. Everything seemed clear to you? What we had to do?’

  ‘No, how could it? But we trusted you. We put our faith in you.’

  A hint of impatience crept into the Master’s voice. ‘To do what? To walk into that fortress down there by the Temple and say ‘Romans go home’ and seriously expect them to, and then when that didn’t work create mayhem amongst the Judeans and attempt to overthrow Rome by force? Oh, it will be attempted, Judas, but not with me because it wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Not so blatantly as that,’ Judas protested. ‘Such things take time and careful planning, and require religious solidarity and…’

  ‘Whereas I have been treading a more… obscure… path?’

  ‘You tell us about things that are written, and we are impressed when they happen, but we don’t know why they happen, or how they advance our cause.’

  ‘An example?’

  Judas thought for a moment, then said, ‘Lazarus.’

  The Master smiled. ‘You weren’t impressed?’

  Judas was indignant. ‘I was even party to the planning.’

  ‘People confuse symbolism with reality, and as often as not choose the latter against their better judgement. It should have given you an insight into… such phenomena.’ The Master’s face hardened and he added, ‘And perhaps, even, why it was necessary.’

  ‘So it was no miracle?’

  ‘A miracle, certainly, in that Lazarus survived. That is to say he did not die when the odds were against him. That indeed was the hand of the Father. It is what I asked of him.’

  ‘It was a rehearsal then?’

  The Master seemed taken aback, as if a weakness in his strategy had been revealed. ‘No, no. Not a rehearsal. What must come to pass will be unique, quite unique. It’s just that people may be that much more… receptive.’

  Judas was suddenly angry. ‘What you are telling me I think I want no part of.’

  The Master jumped to his feet and stood before him, his greater height blocking out the sun, making Judas gaze into a shadow where only the white anger of the eyes was discernible. His voice trembled. ‘Do you think I want it? To give up this life, my friends, Mary, to continue to work for the common good even? The difference between us, Judas, is that I have no choice.’

  ‘It’s all determined?’

  ‘And always has been – at least since my immersion by John in the river. Before then, when I preached around Galilee, and got to know the scriptures, it was coming together. Fragments seemed to have meaning but didn’t quite make sense. But that moment with John, that’s when it became clear.’

  ‘And you weren’t afraid?’

  ‘Terrified. Then and now. Not so much of the outcome – I’ve lived with that for so long – but in being given the option, slender as it is, to withdraw. That’s the temptation. I’m ashamed to admit that the thought crosses my mind even as we speak. Contrary to what some would have you believe, I’m still human.’

  Judas rose slowly to his feet and stepped out of the shade. The Master followed, for the first time revealing the extent of his ravaged face.

  ‘Master, am I right in thinking that your question to me is whether I can accept this outcome?’

  ‘My friend, yes. And in accepting it, and pursuing what I believe is in your mind, help ensure that my mission is fulfilled.’

  Judas looked into the Master’s eyes. He saw there fear – not of humiliation or suffering or death, but of failure in the eyes of his God. And when he thought about it the reason was not difficult to see. They had been to the Temple for three days now. In spite of the Master’s belligerency, sometimes violence even, which he knew was out of character and forced, here they were, openly returning to Bethany, without – or so it seemed – significant threat to their safety. One could see how the Temple elders might be thinking. If Passover came and went and nothing happened, what danger then would there be, with this Jesus a spent force? This was why, for the Master, events desperately needed to take a different course.’

  Without a word Judas walked away, amongst the olives, shuffling his feet in the dust in agitation. He looked at the city, with its temple bathed in golden light. He saw that its destiny was this man’s destiny, bigger than anything he could understand, in the hands of an intellect greater than his own, deriving from a source that he could comprehend only in terms he could not define. And in it all he saw only his own smallness and insignificance. Whatever his fate, it would not matter to anyone except this man standing by his stone seat in the leafy shade, waiting for his answer. Slowly Judas returned. ‘I will consider it,’ he said.

  They said no more to one another as, master and servant, they trudged to the top of the hill. They sniffed the dry, clean air and saw the arid yellow of the desert fall away towards the Jordan River and the salt sea. In this vast wilderness, so beloved of the Master, ideas could grow unfettered and dreams turn into deeds.

  In the days that followed Judas realised he had emerged from the encounter without guilt. If anything, he had become a more willing party to the Master’s great, unbelievable scheme. It was as if the Master had said, ‘You and I are in this together. If your role is not what you would choose, it is in the service of my greater need. What you suffer – the hate and condemnation you will bring upon yourself – will be recognised by others only as what it seems. The truth will be known only to me – and to the Father – and that must suffice for you.’

  Judas watched the two Pharisees descend the street toward
s the Temple. Their words seemed to flutter like moths in the lamp-lit street. Faith in God – or faith in a man whose faith in God was so absolute that it permitted only blind acceptance or absolute denial? He raised himself from the cold stone. Even now there was choice. Not to go back to the room, of course – that was impossible – but simply to go home, to his lodgings in Bethany across the hill of olives, to take supper with Mary and Martha and wait for them all to return.

  But what, then, of that return? He saw in his mind the Master’s scorn and rage, because a path that had been determined – had been planned meticulously all these months – had come to nothing and was unsalvageable. For a moment he glimpsed relief, too, in those imagined burning eyes, that turned immediately to hatred because temptation might not now be overcome. The poisoned cup would indeed have been taken away.

  But still Judas could not do it. His grip tightened on the purse in his pocket so that the coins crunched within. He walked down past the fine houses of the rich and influential to the one where he knew he must go. But he walked on, skirting the Temple until he reached a point high above the valley gate. There he positioned himself so that he could see who might come and go before it was closed for the night.

  It was not difficult to recognise them. They emerged with heavy tread, in single file, as they always did when their thoughts were too profound for speech. He looked at the figure at their head, and saw in his bearing a man with no future other than that of his own choosing, enmeshed in his own dreams and fantasies. And he, Judas, had to decide: were those aspirations – and Judas now realised what they portended – more important than leaving the Master a shell? What artist, he asked himself, would wish to be blinded, or craftsman become an amputee?

  As the twelve bobbing heads descended into the darkness of the Kidron Valley Judas saw his own future in these same terms. There would be ridicule and hate, perhaps even to an extent he could not bear. Yet, what was the alternative?