The Last Temptation of Christ (46 page)

Jesus stopped. He had begun calmly, but the more he spoke the more he thought of the Nazarenes and Jews, and wrath flamed up between his eyes. The disciples looked at him with surprise.

“Who are the invited, who the uninvited, what marriage is it? Forgive us, Rabbi, but we don’t understand,” said Peter, scratching his thick head in despair.

“You will understand,” said Jesus, “when I summon the invited to enter the ark and they refuse because they say they have fields, vineyards and wives and because their eyes, ears, lips, nostrils and hands are five pairs of oxen which are tilling—tilling what? The bottomless pit!”

He sighed. Looking at the companions, he felt completely forsaken. “I speak,” he murmured, “but to whom? To the air. I am the only one who listens. When shall the desert grow ears in order to hear me?”

“Forgive us, Rabbi,” Peter repeated, “but our minds are clods of mud. Have patience: they will blossom.”

Jesus turned and looked at the rabbi, but the old man was staring at the ground. He had a foreboding of the terrible hidden meaning and his aged, lashless eyes were brimming with tears.

At the end of Nazareth, in front of a wooden shed, stood the customs officer who collected the duties. Matthew was his name. All the merchants who entered or left the village had to pay tax to the Romans. He was short, stout, jaundiced; his hands yellow and soft, his fingers inky, nails black; he had long hairy ears and a high voice like a eunuch’s. The whole village found him disgusting and hated him. No one would shake hands with him, and everyone who passed by the shed looked the other way. Did not the Scriptures say: “It is our duty to pay tax only to God, not to men”? This man was a publican, a tax-collector in the tyrant’s service. He trampled the Law, made a living from illegality. The air around him was polluted for seven miles.

“Move quickly, lads,” Peter said. “Hold your breath. Turn away your faces!”

But Jesus stopped. Matthew, standing outside the shed, was holding his quill pen between his teeth. He breathed rapidly, not knowing what to do. He was afraid to stay where he was, yet he did not want to go inside the shed. For ages now he had longed for a close view of the new prophet who proclaimed that all men were brothers. Wasn’t it he who one day said, “God loves the sinner who repents more than he who never sinned”? And another day, hadn’t he said, “I came to the world not for the righteous but for sinners: it is with them I like to speak and eat”? And another day when he was asked, “Rabbi, what is the name of the true God?” he answered, “Love.”

For many a day and night now Matthew had turned these words over and over in his heart, saying with a sigh, “When shall I see him, when shall I fall at his feet!” And now, there he was in front of him, yet Matthew was ashamed to lift his eyes to look at him. He stood motionless, head bowed, and waited. What was he waiting for? The prophet would go away now, and he would lose him forever.

Jesus took a step toward him and said “Matthew” so quietly and sweetly that the publican felt his heart melt, and raised his eyes. Jesus was standing in front of him, looking at him. His regard was tender and all-powerful: it descended to the officer’s very bowels, brought peace to his heart and enlightenment to his mind. His vital organs had been shivering, but now the sun fell over them and warmed them. What joy this was, what certainty, what friendship! Was the world then so simple and salvation so easy?

Matthew went inside, closed his ledgers, put a blank one under his arm, wedged his bronze inkwell into his belt and placed his quill behind his ear. Next, he removed a key from his belt, locked the shed and tossed the key into a garden. As soon as he had finished, he approached Jesus with trembling knees. He stopped. Should he go forward or not? Would the teacher offer him his hand? He raised his eyes and looked at Jesus as if imploring him to have pity.

Jesus smiled at him and offered his hand. “Welcome, Matthew. Come with me.”

The disciples felt troubled and stepped to one side. The old rabbi bent over to Jesus’ ear. “My child,” he said, “a publician! It’s a great sin. You must listen to the Law.”

“Father,” Jesus replied, “I listen to my own heart.”

They had advanced beyond Nazareth. Passing the orchards, they reached the fields. A cold wind was blowing. Mount Hermon gleamed in the distance, sprinkled with the first snow.

The rabbi took Jesus’ hand once more. He wanted to talk to him before they separated. But what could he say? Where should he begin? Jesus claimed that in the Judean desert God entrusted him with the fire in one hand and the seed in the other. He said he would burn up this world and then plant a new world. ... The rabbi regarded him stealthily. Should he believe him? Did not the Scriptures say that God’s Elect would be despised and rejected by men, like a withered tree which has sprouted among stones? It was possible, therefore, possible that this man was the One ...

The rabbi leaned against Jesus. “Who are you?” he asked softly, so that the others should not hear.

“You’ve been with me such a long time, Uncle Simeon—from the hour of my birth—and you still haven’t recognized me?” The old man’s heart stood still. “It’s more than my mind can hold,” he murmured, “more than it can hold. ...”

“And your heart, Uncle Simeon?”

“My child, I do not listen to my heart. It leads one to the abyss.”

“To God’s abyss—to salvation,” said Jesus, looking sympathetically at the old man. And in a moment: “Father, don’t you remember the dream the prophet Daniel had about the race of Israel one night in Babylon? The Ancient of Days was sitting on his throne, his clothes white as snow, the hair of his head like the white fleece of a ram. His throne was made of flames, and a river of flames flowed at his feet. The Judges were enthroned to his left and right. Then the heavens opened up and upon the clouds descended—who? Do you remember, Father?”

“The Son of man,” answered the old rabbi, who had been nourishing himself on this dream for generations. There were even nights when he dreamed the same dream himself.

“And who is the Son of man, Father?”

The old rabbi’s knees gave way. He looked at the youth, terrified. “Who?” he whispered, hanging on Jesus’ lips. “Who?”

“I,” Jesus replied tranquilly, and he placed his hand on the old man’s head, as if blessing him.

The old rabbi wanted to speak, but could not open his mouth.

“Farewell, Father,” said Jesus, holding out his hand. “You must be a happy man, Simeon, for God kept his word and deemed you worthy of seeing, before your death, what you longed to see all your life.”

The rabbi stood and gazed at him with protruding eyes. What was all this around him: thrones, wings and the Son of man upon the clouds? Was he dreaming? Was this the prophet Daniel? Were the doors of the future opening before him and enabling him to look in? He was not standing on soil but on clouds; and this young man who held out his hand and smiled was not the son of Mary, he was the Son of man!

Feeling dizzy, he drove his crosier into the ground and propped himself up on it so that he would not fall. Then he looked, looked at Jesus, who, holding his shepherd’s staff, was passing under the autumn trees. The heavens had darkened; the rain could no longer hold itself in the sky: it fell. The old rabbi’s clothes became drenched and stuck to his body. Water ran down from his hair. Though shivering, he remained motionless in the middle of the road. Jesus, followed by his companions, had already disappeared behind the trees, but as the old rabbi stood in the wind and the rain he saw them, ragged and barefooted, still going forward and mounting. Where were they going? In which direction? Would these barefooted, illiterate ragamuffins set fire to the world? The designs of the Lord are a great abyss. ...

“Adonai,” he whispered, “Adonai ...” and his tears began to flow.

ROME SITS upon the nations with her all-powerful insatiable arms spread wide and receives the boats, caravans, gods and produce of all the world and all the sea. While believing in no god she fearlessly and with ironic condescension receives all gods into her courts: from faraway fire-worshiping Persia, Mithras the sun-faced son of Ahuramazda, mounted on the sacred bull which is soon to die; from the many-uddered land of the Nile, Isis, who in springtime upon the blossoming fields seeks the fourteen pieces of her husband and brother Osiris, whom Typhon dismembered; from Syria, amid heart-rending lamentations, exquisite Adonis; from Phrygia, stretched out on a bier and covered with faded violets, Attis; from shameless Phoenicia, Astarte of the thousand husbands: all the gods and devils of Asia and Africa; and from Greece, white-topped Olympus, and black Hades.

She receives all the gods; she has opened roads, freed the sea of pirates and the land of bandits, brought peace and order to the world. Above her is no one, not even God. Under her—everyone. Gods and men: all are citizens and slaves of Rome. Time and Space are richly illuminated scrolls rolled up in her fist. I am eternal, she vaunts, caressing the two-headed eagle which, having folded its blood-stained wings, reposes at the feet of its mistress. What splendor, what irremovable joy to be omnipotent and immortal, thinks Rome; and a wide fat smile flows over her fleshy rouged face.

Contented, she smiles ... and forgets. For whom has she opened up the routes of land and sea, for whom has she toiled for so many ages to bring safety and peace to the world? This never even crosses her mind. She conquered, made laws, became rich, stretched herself over the entire universe—for whom, for whom?

For the barefooted man who at this moment, followed by a swarm of ragamuffins, is proceeding along the deserted road from Nazareth to Cana. He has nowhere to sleep, nothing to wear or eat. All his larders, horses and rich silks are still in heaven—but they have begun to descend.

Holding his shepherd’s staff he marches with bloody feet amid dust and stones. Sometimes he halts, leans on the staff and without speaking sweeps his eyes along the mountains and then above the peaks to a light: God, who sits on high and keeps watch over men. He raises his staff, salutes him, and then resumes his journey. ...

They finally reached Cana. At the well outside the village a pale young woman with swelling womb was happily drawing water and filling her jug. They recognized her. It was the girl whose marriage they had gone to in the summer. They had expressed their wish at that time that she might have a son.

“Our wish has been fulfilled,” Jesus said to her, smiling. She blushed and asked if they were thirsty. They were not, so she put the jug on her head, went into the village and disappeared.

Peter took the lead and began to knock at all the doors, running from threshold to threshold. A mysterious drunkenness had swept him away. Dancing, he shouted, “Open up! Open up!”

The doors opened and women appeared. Night was falling; the farmers were returning from their fields. “What’s up, friend?” they asked, surprised. “Why are you pounding on the doors?”

“The day of the Lord has come,” Peter answered. “The deluge, men! We carry the new ark. All believers: enter. Behold! the master holds the key. Step lively now!”

The women became frightened. The men approached Jesus, who was sitting on a rock now and inscribing crosses and stars in the soil with his staff.

The sick and the lame from the whole village gathered around him.

“Rabbi, touch us so that we may be healed. Say a kind word to make us forget that we are blind, crippled and leprous.”

A tall, aristocratic old lady dressed all in black cried, “I had a son and they crucified him. Raise him from the dead!”

Who was this noble old woman? The astonished farmers turned. No one from their village had been crucified. They looked to see where the voice came from—but the old lady had disappeared into the twilight.

Bowed over the soil, Jesus inscribed crosses and stars and listened to a trumpet of war which was descending the hill opposite. Heavy, rhythmic marching was heard, and suddenly bronze shields and helmets flashed in the light of the evening sun. The villagers turned; their faces grew dark.

“The confounded hunter is returning from the chase. He’s gone out again to catch rebels.”

“He brought his paralyzed daughter to our village to be cured, so he says, by the pure air. But the God of Israel keeps a ledger and records and does not forgive. The soil of Cana shall bury her!”

“Don’t shout, wretches—here he is!”

Three horsemen passed before them. In the middle was Rufus, the centurion of Nazareth. Spurring his mount, he approached the crowd of peasants. “Why have you assembled?” he shouted, lifting his whip. “Disperse!” His face was afflicted. In several months’ time he had grown old; his hair was turning gray. He had been broken by his pangs of grief for his only daughter, who one morning had suddenly found herself paralyzed in her bed. As he charged and dispersed the villagers, he glimpsed Jesus sitting off to one side on a stone. Suddenly his face lighted up. He spurred his horse and approached him.

“Son of the Carpenter,” he said, “you have come from Judea—welcome! I’ve been looking for you.”

He turned to the villagers. “I have something to say to him. Go away!”

He saw the disciples and paupers who had followed from Nazareth, recognized several, and frowned.

“Son of the Carpenter,” he said, “you have helped crucify others; take care you don’t get crucified yourself. Do not touch the people; do not put ideas into their heads. My hand is heavy, and Rome is immortal.”

Jesus smiled. He knew very well that Rome was not immortal, but he did not speak.

The grumbling farmers had dispersed. They stood off at a distance and stared at the three rebels—a tall old man with a forked beard, and his two sons—who had been captured by the legionaries and were now being transported, loaded in chains. All three, with heads held high, gazed over the Roman helmets, trying to see the crowd, but they saw nothing, nothing except the God of Israel, erect in the air, and angry.

Judas recognized them. He had once fought side by side with them. He nodded, but they, blinded by God’s splendor, did not see him.

“Son of the Carpenter,” said the centurion, bending low while still mounted on his horse, “there are gods who hate and kill us, others who do not deign to look down and see us, still others who are well disposed and exceedingly merciful, and who heal the sicknesses of unfortunate mortals. Son of the Carpenter, to which of these categories does your God belong?”