Tag: life of Jesus

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Among the Scoffers

And Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they know now what they do.” . . . And the people stood by, watching, but the rulers scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself, if he is the Christ of God, his Chosen One!”  Luke 23:34-35

Rulers: If you are the Chosen One . . .

Save yourself!

Soldiers: If you are the King of the Jews

Save yourself!

Criminals: If you are Messiah

Save yourself! and us!

Messiahs breath catches, snags on the nails, streams out in shreds.  No . . .

Not me and you

not both and all

no and–but or.

It’s one or the other.

Save myself or you?

I choose you.  I choose . . .

from the other side, a whisper choked and raw,

barely raised above the mutters and jeers:

“Lord? . . . that kingdom you talked about?

When it’s finally yours–remember me?”

Bloody fingers slowly uncurl and stretch; the right hand of one to the left of the other.

When it is mine, it will also be yours.

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Criminals All

Two others, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him.  Luke 23:32

“Up! It’s your time!”

Their names are unknown to us: One and Two.  Left and Right.  As we meet them, they’ve known for some time that the day was coming but they weren’t sure when—like all of us.

They’ve lived their lives in a haze, yelling from the very first hour: give me food!  Give me warmth!  Give me shelter, give me love!  Give me that shiny thing, and this tasty thing, and that thrilling thing, and this intoxicating thing that will make me lose consciousness for a while so I’ll forget how unsatisfied I am (like all of us).

Unwilling to make do with that they had, they became thieves; interlopers, snatching bright moments from the dull days, decking their lives with desperate finery.  They bargained with the time but time always wins; sooner came before later, and they were caught.

Like all of us.

“Up!  It’s your time!”

Pulled from a filthy cell, loaded down with heavy cross-pieces, they are herded like cattle to the Walk of the Damned.  Terror blinds them; only gradually do they perceive the splatters of blood on the path before them.  And then the crowds: Dear people, is all this acclaim for us?  No, couldn’t be: there’s another poor wretch ahead of them, who’s doing all the bleeding and attracting all the noise.  And what noise!  Wails of sorrow, mocking jeers, furious catcalls packed into a multi-legged clamor, punctuated by stings of a whip applied to make them move faster.

Is there no escape?  No way out?  They’re moving down a hollow tube with iron walls and no joints—no vulnerable places that can be exploited.  Life—once full of possibilities and angles and gaps, pleasure and pain, light and dark—now hardens, funneling them down to a single point they cannot see beyond.

As for all of us.thief

Down the road, through the gate, up a long, tortuous hill, the splintery crosspiece bearing down with every step. Still, they’d gladly keep walking forever—or even more gladly pull someone from the screeching throng to take their place  That scribe over there, his face so buckled you would have thought he was passing bricks, screaming his rage.  That smug-looking Pharisee or his grim-faced pal.  Any one of the contemptible Romans: illiterate peasants most of them, of no higher birth than a Jewish thief, who nonetheless lord over them every chance they got.  Even that wailing woman there, or the wide-eyed boy—pull one of those out of the mob, put this hunk of lumber on their back, and I’ll not protest.

Might feel guilty tomorrow of course, but there will always be another skin of wine and another willing woman to help me forget.

“Halt!”

Not today, though.

Rough hands throw the crosspiece on the ground, drag the two men aside and strip off their clothes.  A guard sizes up those pathetic garments with a calculating eye, deciding if he wants to gamble for them.  Though they know they’ll soon be beyond it, shame stabs each of the condemned as they stand exposed before the crowd.  They’ve been observers at scenes like this, and well know the kind of jokes and jibes passing among the ranks right now.

The crosses are being nailed together.  The two thieves, pathetically trying to cover their private parts with unbound hands, become aware of the third condemned man.  He too is naked except for a grotesque garnish—a circle of spiky thorns pressed down on his head.  The soldiers are calling him King of the Jews.  The thorns are supposed to be a crown—their idea of satirical wit.  The two thieves realize, at about the same time, who this is: Jesus of Nazareth.  They’ve heard of him—who hasn’t?  And what Jew, however impious, didn’t harbor some hope, however sketchy, that this was the one: Messiah.

The screaming mob now surrounding Skull Hill must have had the same hope—what else could explain their rage?  In the last moment before the hammer falls, when they are seized and stretched out, when extra hands are called to hold down their twitching bodies, they feel it too: absolute rage, consuming fury.  Like a child of wrath, foolish, disobedient, malicious, envious, full of hatred for themselves, for others, for God,

Like all of us—

Screams rip the bland blue sky.

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Daughters of Jerusalem

And as they led him away, they seized one Simon of Cyrene, wo was coming in from the country, and laid on him the cross, to carry it behind Jesus.  And there followed him a great multitude of the people and of women who were mourning and lamenting for him.  Luke 23:26-27

He’s on the road again, still followed by “a multitude,” but this time with a cross on his back, staggering under the weight and bleeding from a thousand cuts.  Like a crushed dog crawling along the path, like a mangle bird, like a worm—something you turn away from and try to erase from your mind.  Even if there were no crowd, the women track him easily by the blood splashed along the way.  So much blood!  And when they reach him, he has collapsed under the weight of the heavy crosspiece.

carrying cross

There is shouting—jeering, weeping—the Roman soldiers in charge of the execution have called out an unsuspecting countryman to carry it behind the condemned man.  It’s not kindness; they just want to be over and done with it.  It’s some distance to go before Skull Hill, where executions take place, and  there needs to be enough left of the prisoner to nail up when they get there.  The clueless countryman, whose name is Simon, looks terrified.  He was on his way to the temple before the crowd swept over him—why did these alien soldiers single him out?  He barely understands their pidgin Aramaic—for all he knows, he may be headed for his own execution.

Everything the Master said about being turned over to his enemies and killed is echoing in the women’s minds. They women heard it all, along with the disciples, but they never pictures this.  Words are so clean and sterile; this is battered and bloody and helpless. The women from Galilee try to shield him from his mother, but then he stops and turns around.  In spite of the angry shouts of the soldiers, no one strikes him, and Mary (the one who poured oil on his feet) receives the distinct impression that he himself is orchestrating the entire scene.  How strange!  How terrible.

His eyes are the only part of him not bloodied.  Time stops as his eyes linger on the women, his long-time traveling companions.  Then he glances toward another cluster of women who have been following with loud laments.  These are well-born ladies of the holy city who follow political prisoners to their deaths, bringing jars of vinegar and gall to dull the pain.  With a look, he silences their wailing.

“Don’t weep for me, daughters of Jerusalem.  Weep for yourselves and your children.  The day is coming when you’ll beg the mountains to kill you quickly.  If judgment falls like this on the innocent, how will it deal with the guilty?”

The old order—eye for eye, tooth for tooth, blood for guilt—simple justice of the sort that everyone understands, is wildly out of whack.  This man has done nothing wrong: Pilate said it, Herod confirmed it, everyone knows it.  But what they may not know:

This man has done everything right.

Who can say that about anyone?  The wretched stooped-over figure stands condemned, turning blind justice on her head and rendering her carefully-weighted balance scales useless.  If such punishment falls on him, what petty thief, careless gossip, casual liar can have a prayer . . . .

“Move on!” shouts the nearest guard, more confused than angry.  The bloody face sets forward again, the bloody feet stumble on, leaving bright mottled prints on the stones that would have cried out in anguish* had he allowed it.

Luke 19:40

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Worst-Case Scenario

Pilate then called together the chief priests and the rulers and the people, and said to them, “You brought me this man as one who misleading the people.  And after examining him before you, I didn’t find this man guilty of any of your charges against him . . . “  Luke 23:13-14

With a snap of his fingers, he stages the scene: soldiers hustle the purple-clad “king” out to the portico where Pilate returns to his judge’s chair and faces down the priestly delegation.  They form a rough triangle on the pavement: judge, accuser, accused.  Beyond them, separated by a leather curtain, is the open courtyard.

“You charge this man with insurrection,” Pilate says, “but after examining him I deem the charge to be baseless.  Antipas agrees: this man has done nothing to deserve death.  Therefore it is my judgment that he be flogged for the trouble he has caused you and then released.  For–”

The noise stops him.  On the other side of the curtain a crowd is gathering and voices are beginning to come together.

With a sinking heart, Pilate realizes he’s been outmaneuvered.  The Jews have been busy while he was distracted, sweeping up the dregs of the city—peasants and ne’er-do-wells—and seeding them with shills.  In the general clash of voices a broken rhythm begins: a chant here and there, a confused tumble of words, rolling from one end of the courtyard to another.  From experience, he knows the words will come together like the pieces of a mythical monster—

The crowd is becoming a mob.

The power of Rome has his back in everything, except this.  His job is to keep the peace at almost any price.  Mobs lead to protest and protest to bloodshed, and bloodshed to full-scale rebellion.  He has scarcely recovered from the unfortunate incident with the slaughtered Galileans,* and now this.  The random chants that reach his ears are beginning to take shape:

“Away with him!  Away with him!”

The faces of the priests and Pharisees are bland as cream.

“You know,” says Pilate, grasping at straws, “that at every feast I can release any prisoner I choose.  I choose to release this man.”

But they have anticipated this too.  Even now, voices are crying out, “Give us Barabbas!  Give us Barabbas!”

“Barabbas?” he demands of the Jews.  You’d rather set a rebel and murderer loose among you than this man, who has done no harm?”

They only shrug: who are we to resist the people’s will?

Heaving a giant sigh, Pilate stands up and marches past the curtains.  The Jewcruficy!s have done their work well—restless bands fill the courtyard, more coming all the time.  He puts on a brave show: stands up tall, adjusts his toga and band of office, pitches his voice above the din.

“I find no fault in this man!  Therefore, he will be flogged and then–”

Another chant is beginning, an undercurrent snaking through the voices, roping them in, tying them together:

Crucify!

 

*Luke 13:1

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Kings of Earth

Then the whole company of them arose and brought him before Pilate.  And they began to accuse him, saying, “We found this man misleading our nation and forbidding us to give tribute to Caesar, and saying that he himself is Messiah, a king.”  Luke 23:1-2

Not even a conscientious procurator should have to rise this early.  Pilate barely has his eyes open all the way before his body servant brings word that the entire Sanhedrin (or so it seems) is standing on his porch.  And here he’s been congratulating himself on getting through Passover without an incident.  “What do they want?”

The servant isn’t sure.  They have a prisoner . . .

Pilate groans.  He takes his time getting dressed, makes them wait.  They are in the outer courtyard, his servant says.  He knows what that means—on certain holy days, they consider it defilement to cross the threshold of a Gentile.  They must keep themselves lily-white. These Jews are the most arrogant people he’s ever encountered—with, to his mind, the least to be arrogant about.  When he finally emerges from the shadows of his house, they all begin talking at once.  He calls for a chair and raises a hand to quiet them.

“Where is the prisoner?”

The priests and scribes part down the middle.  Pilate blinks in surprise.  He was expecting a hulky, surly zealot like Barabbas, the notorious troublemaker awaiting execution.  This man doesn’t look capable of overturning a sheepfold: shrunken, beat up, clad in a torn filthy garment—and utterly silent.

Jesus of Nazareth, is it?  Pilate has instructed his men to keep an eye on him ever since that showy entrance into the city earlier in the week.  But the man roused no rabble or called no one to arms; he only seemed interested in hanging around the temple and irritating the priests—a project the Governor heartily approves.

But regardless of sentiments he has a job to do.  He forces himself to listen to the accusations: subverting the nation  (pretty vague, that one) . . . opposing the payment of taxes (serious, if true) . . . claiming to be Messiah—

“Messiah?” he asks.  Has heard the term, a little unclear on what it means.

“A king, your Excellency.”

That’s a stretch.  Messiah has a more spiritual meaning, if he remembers correctly.  “So,” he addresses the prisoner, “are you the ‘King of the Jews’?”

The term is a joke, whether the plaintiffs know it or not.  The late unlamented Herod the Great called himself King of the Jews, but after he was dead Caesar determined that none of his surviving sons (survivors, more like) would take that title.  But Pilate’s grim half-smile melts when the wretched prisoner raises his head.  There is an unnerving stillness about him, rock-solid and ages deep, that pulls the Governor a little off balance.

“You have said it,” he whispers.

It’s almost—almost—as though the prisoner shares the joke.  But Pilate senses no irony about him.  Because on another level . . . he affirms it.  As though he really were a king of some sort.

“He speaks with authority,” they said of him. 

“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us?” 

“Who is this, that the wind and sea obey him?”

Irritably Pilate shakes his head.  This is ridiculous; anyone can see the man is harmless.  Perhaps even “holy”—that austere word the Jews apply to their god.  “I see no grounds for condemning this man,” he says, standing to reinforce that judgment.

But they won’t be dismissed so easily.  “Your Excellency, he’s far more dangerous than he looks!  He stirs up the people everywhere he goes, starting from his home in Galilee.”

“Galilee?”  The word opens a door of escape; Galilee, that region of firebrands and zealots, is not his jurisdiction.  “The man is Herod’s subject, and you’re in luck: Herod is in the city this moment.  Take the man there.  I’ve give you a detachment of guards.  Now go—Go!”

pilate

An hour or so later, while finishing his breakfast, Pilate hears the sound he has dreaded ever since his posting to Judea: the rumble of a mob.

It has not been a peaceful morning; after the Jews reluctantly left the pavement, his wife declined to join him for breakfast.  She wasn’t feeling well, her note said, adding this: I got almost no sleep last night.  I kept dreaming of a bedraggled Galilean brought before you, and now I hear it’s true!  Have nothing to do with him, I beg you.

And now another note, brought by his secretary:

To Pontius Pilate, procurator of Judea, greeting:

I rejoiced to receive Jesus of Nazareth from your generous hand, for I’ve heard much about him.  The tales from Galilee are almost too rich to believe!  But it seems I must use the term “rich” to describe the Jews’ fear of him. He may have performed “signs” for them in Galilee but it appears his bag of tricks is empty.  He’s a harmless has-been, no threat to anyone.  I suggest you have him flogged—that may satisfy the Jews—and let him go.

Your servant, Herod Antipas.

So here is the Nazarene, back again, sporting more bruises and a purple robe.  That is an extravagant touch: Herod’s idea of a joke.  Pilate never liked the old fox, but must admit Herod has offered good advice, even while shrugging the responsibility back to Rome.  Flog and go:  it’s time to bring this sideshow to a quick and decisive end.

From that day on, Pilate and Herod are friends.  Funny thing: it’s the Nazarene who brought them together, like he brought the Pharisees and priests together.  Opponents unified in opposition–and so it will ever be.

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Lord, Look at Me

And immediately, while he was still speaking, the rooster crowd.  And the Lord turned and looked at Peter.  And Peter remembered . . .  Luke 22:60b-61a

The deed is done, the words said—

Those words, crowding my mouth, clamoring to get out,

and where did they come from? What secret sniveling ghost of my heart chose that moment to break out,

Deck itself in phony outrage and deny, deny, deny?

Or could that be the real me, turned inside out, a pocketed pimp exposed in his quivering skin, who will sell out—

NO! When I said it, it was true: “I’ll go with you anywhere,

even to death.”  And you said—

And you turned—

And you looked—

Oh, that look, that spears me like a fish,

That pins me to me, and to you,

That burnishes the bond between us,

That lets me know you will never let go.

in qualm or quiet, in doubt and death, in courage and cravenness,

Oh Jesus, please look at me.

remorse

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The Devil’s Sifter

Then they seized him and led him away, bringing him into the high priest’s house.  Peter was following at a distance.  And when they had kindled a fire in the middle of the courtyard and sat down together, Peter sat down among them.  Luke 22:54-55

Within the hour, Simon “the Rock” feels like a handful of sand.

Of course he had the best intentions—he followed the flaming torches and flashing swords out of the garden, through the twisty city streets, past the temple complex and all the way to the High Priest’s house. John caught up with him* but didn’t speak; no words can push past their thudding hearts.  Their breath came hard and fast as they rushed uphill toward the Palace of Herod Antipas.  The high priest’s house nestles beside it like a chick under a hen’s wing.

It’s much more than a house—it’s also a council chamber and judgment hall, where the Sanhedrin meets and theological disputes are hammered out or hammered on.  As the guards hustle their master through the portal, Peter and John step up their pace before the iron-ribbed gate swings shut.

“Wait,” murmurs John.  He hurries forward and speaks to the gatekeeper–who, after glancing Peter’s way, shrugs and holds open the gate for both of them.  Once in, John disappears, leaving Peter in the courtyard.  John has connections in Jerusalem, even within the priestly class—his mother’s relations.  That’s one reason the sons of Zebedee sometimes give themselves airs and drop  names and make asses of themselves—though they are decent fellows most of the time.

Peter tries to look like he belongs.  The night has turned chilly and some of the household servants and hangers-on have gathered around a fire.  Pulling his cloak around him, he wanders over and joins the circle, ears open for useful information.

Any hopes that his master has been seized by mistake, or that he is some sort of diversion, are soon dashed.  Messiah is the main event; all the servants are talking about him.  And the gist, Peter soon realizes with alarm, is not favorable.

“After that grand entrance, all he’s done is talk.  When will he act?”

“My mother tried to get close to him, to heal her bad hip.  But she was turned away.”

“The signs are dried up, they say.  I’ll bet they were just tricks all along.”

This is ominous.  These are ordinary people, the kind of who flock to Jesus, love him, know he is on their side.  If the ordinary people start to turn against him . . .

“You there.”  Peter looks up to meet the narrowed eyes of a servant girl.  “Didn’t I see you with him in the temple court?”

It strikes like a javelin, cleanly thrown: raw fear.  It invades and occupies him; takes over his voice, hands, heart.  “Me?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Every face turns to him: young old, thin, round, all hollow-eyed in the firelight; judging, accusing.  He glares back, hitching his cloak tighter as though it could protect him.  Best to bluff it out, bide his time, wait for an opportunity—to do what, he doesn’t know.

The servant girl is called away and a butler arrives, brisk and officious, rubbing his hand to warm them.  What news? they ask him.

“It doesn’t look good for the Galilean.  He won’t even answer to his own defense.  They keep threatening to take him before Pilate, but he doesn’t even opens his mouth.  Sanhedrin’s next.”

“What’s–”  Peter clears his throat.  “What’s the charge?”

“Good question.”  The butler glances his way, gives him a second look.  “Wait—haven’t I seen you before?  Aren’t you one of the man’s followers?”

It happens again: something takes hold of him.  “No!  I just got here.  Don’t know him.”

The butler doesn’t look convinced, but has more important things to attend to.  After a moment he goes back inside, promising to keep them informed.  Peter shrinks back but holds his place by the fire.  Most of the circle ignore him, but one, a lowly stable hand by the look of him—a nobody–keeps staring.  Peter tries to stare back but the youth won’t relent.  Minutes pass, people come and go.  Through the open doors of the house he hears voices raised, tempers rising.  Something is about to happen.

The stable hand bursts out, “I know you were with him!  I saw you—and besides, you talk like a Galilean.”

He jumps to his feet, the very picture of indignant outrage.  “Curse you, boy!  By all that’s holy, how many times do I have to say it—I don’t know this person you’re talking about!”

He stalks toward the gate.  Already the darkness has begun to lift, giving way to a pearl-pink glow of dawn.  A small crowd is crossing the courtyard from the other side—guards with spears, and among them—

rooster

A jaunty, familiar sound pierces him through: a rooster’s crow.

A face in the passing crowd turns toward him.  The Master eyes bore into his, uncovering the wretch that has always lived there, who once said to him, “Lord, depart from me!  I’m a sinful man!”

Lord, never depart from me! For I’m a sinful man . . .

 

*John includes this detail in his own gospel account.

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Time Closes In

And he came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives, and the disciples followed him.  Luke 22:39

He leads the way back toward their camping place on the Mount of Olives, but then turns aside in the little valley between the outer wall of Jerusalem and the crown of the hill called Gethsemane.  “Stay here for a while,” he tells them, adding this strange instruction.  “Pray that you may not be put to the test.”  Then he walks on alone—they know not to follow—and darkness obscures him.

gethsemane

For a moment, no one knows what to say.  “Well,” Peter remarks at last, “That was strange.”

“Remember what he taught us to pray,” John says: “’Lead us not into temptation?’  Big things are about to happen, and we must be ready.”

“All right then.”  Peter takes the lead, as usual.  Spreading his hands, he looks up to heaven, closes his eyes, and speaks in the singsong lilt of a cantor in the synagogue, “O most high and exalted God, the Blessed One of Israel, hear our prayer!  Keep temptation from us and let us . . . let us walk always in the way of our Master, the Messiah who comes from you.  And train our hands for battle that we may bend a bow of bronze and triumph over our enemies.  The LORD is my strength and song, and he had become my salvation! Amen.”

“Talk about making a show of your prayers,” teases his brother Andrew.

“As fine as any Pharisee!” laughs James.

“He didn’t even look at our swords,” Simon yawns.

The yawn spreads like fog through their ranks; it had been a long day.  “We should take turns praying,” John suggests, as he squirms out a more comfortable place for himself against a rock.  “Who wants to be next?”

After a pause, Bartholomew speaks up: he who hardly ever says anything.  “I will.”  His droning voice puts some of them to sleep, and when it ends John give a little start: oh, my turn.  He begins, but loses his train of thought a few times and fills in the gaps with holy words.

One by one they drift away under the stars.  Satan haunts them—and taunts them—

Deliver us from evil.

They are put to the test, but since they never took his harder sayings very seriously before, they are ill-prepared to resist now.  Only one or two, before losing consciousness, thinks to wonder, Hey—where’s Judas?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Meanwhile, only about a stone’s throw away, the Son of Man rises unsteadily to his feet.  He wipes his forehead with a corner of his cloak.

It comes away bloody.

We suddenly realize: we have never observed him at prayer before.  He prays all the time—hours every day—but this is the only private prayer we are privileged to hear, and it’s deeply disturbing.  There has never been a clash of wills between these two, and indeed, this is not exactly a clash.  But it’s a conflict, an offsetting, where two wills don’t quite line up together.  What has he been asking?  If you will, do not pour out your cup of wrath on me.  Over eons of time that cup has been poised and ready: “the wine foams . . . surely all the wicked of the earth must drain and drink down its dregs . . .”* Ps. 75:8  All the wicked of the earth crowd around him and pull him away from his Father; the separation has begun, and so has the bleeding.  It’s blood from a torn heart.  Nevertheless:

“Not my will, but yours . . . .”

(Here I am—the one the prophets wrote about—I have come to do your will, O God.**)

The bright-faced boy in the temple, the emaciated Son in the wilderness, the Teacher at the well, rejoicing in unknown food, the Anointed One who has resolutely set his face toward Jerusalem—all meet here, where the paths of justice and mercy cross.  A mighty heart clenches and wrings out blood, a mighty mind recoils then returns.  Once again the wills line up, but it takes every ounce of strength Messiah has.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Standing, he goes to seek out his disciples.  He’s not surprised to find them sleeping, nor to see the distant flicker or torches emerging from the eastern gate: distant, but ever closer.  He nudges the nearest sleeping body.  “Get up.  You wasted your time in sleep when you could have been in prayer.”  One by one, they sit up and rub their eyes, pushing themselves off the ground.  “Temptation is coming—in fact, it’s almost upon us.”

The rattling of swords and hiss of resin torches is upon them: a detachment of the temple guard together with a few servants, led by . . .  It is all too much to take in at first: in a daze, the followers see Judas approach and kiss their master on the cheek—a common greeting after a brief separation, but with a sinister taint they can smell from yards away.  Then a scuffle; swords flash in the torchlight; Peter seizes a blade from Simon and leaps forward with an earnest, unpracticed swipe.

Shouting, scuffling—a scream as one of the servants clutches the side of his head.  Above the din, one clear, authoritative voice:

“No more of this!”

In the fraught silence the Master bends down and picks up a scrap of flesh from the ground: an ear.  Taking a step toward the sobbing slave he touches the man’s shoulder to steady him, then matches the ear to his bleeding wound.  Torn tissues and veins leap at his touch, eagerly knit themselves back together: Let it be.  The Master lightly traces the rim of the ear as though pleased with his own work, before turning to the stunned guards.

“Geared up for battle, are you?  As though I were a violent criminal?  You could have taken me yesterday, or the day before, while I was teaching in the temple courts, but I see you had to wait for your dark time.”

He walks toward them, holding out his hands.  Abruptly remembering what they have come for, leap forward, tie his hands and hustle him away, ignoring the followers who remain behind in shocked silence.

After a moment, Peter casts a furious glance around him, drops the sword, and hurries after the flickering torches.  John hesitates, then follows.  The others, now in near-total darkness, scatter—almost as if they had planned it ahead of time.  It is a plan, but not theirs.*  All they know is stark terror.  Only Judas is left—the only one who has nothing to fear, and yet has never felt more fearful.

He never looked at me!  Not once, even when speaking to me.  Why didn’t he look?

 

*Strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered. Zech. 13:7

** Heb. 10:9

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Setting the Table

Then came the day of Unleavened Bread, on which the Passover lamb had to be sacrificed.  So Jesus sent Peter and John, saying, “Go and prepare the Passover for us, that we may eat it.”  Luke 22:7-8      

The next day was Passover and no plans have been made.  Or so it seems.  While they are still on the mountain, yawning and stretching, the Master sends Peter and John into the city with instructions to follow a man carrying a jar of water on his head, who would lead them to a house with a room to spare.

Of course, it all falls out as he said.  While following the man with the jar, Peter and John glance at each other and smile; such predictions no longer surprise them.  They secure the room, a furnished upstairs chamber big enough for all thirteen of them, and spend the rest of the morning at the market.  They take particular care with choosing the lamb, as all good Jewish men do, feeling all over for lumps and scars.  Finally Peter says, “He’ll do,” and hands over the purchase price.  The lamb is led away to slaughter.

The time is drawing near.  They can feel it.

The whole city feels it, perhaps—or at any rate, there seems to be more than a Passover hush slowly stealing over it as sunset approaches.  A band of turquoise light shimmers on the western hills.  Families gather, pilgrims find their furnished rooms, lighted windows blink on in the darkening streets.  Familiar scriptures and responses ride the soft wind:

Why is this night unlike other nights?

Youngest sons ask their fathers and fathers give the prescribed answers: hopefully, longingly, routinely, tiredly, as each is inclined.  But in some of those houses, at least, there’s a heightened anticipation in the familiar words: the Kingdom is coming.  Messiah is here!

In the upstairs room, every required detail of the feast is followed to the letter as the Master takes over the function of family head.  Does the youngest disciple ask the questions?  Probably, though later they won’t remember the details, even though this meal is the last of the old order.  What they will remember is his declaration:

“I’ve longed to eat this meal with you before I suffer.  I will not eat it again until it’s fulfilled in the Kingdom.”

They hear “Kingdom” loud and clear.  “Fulfilled in the Kingdom” at last!  The other part—“before I suffer”—goes over their heads.  As usual.

But then he says something truly surprising.  Picking up the unleavened bread, made ceremoniously in a kitchen purged of yeast, he says, “This is my body, given for you.  Do this in remembrance of me.”

(This is a radical departure from the ritual; what next?)

Picking up his cup, he said, “This is the new covenant, sealed by my blood . . .”

(Blood?)

cup

“. . . and I see the hand of my betrayer on the table.  Woe to the man who brings about my predetermined death.”

Judas snatches his hand off the table, his face blazing.  How does Jesus know?  But of course he would; how had Judas ever imagined otherwise?  He casts out demons by the prince of demons, correct?  And by the prince of demons he divines the future.  Every other hand remains on the table; as the followers stare stupidly at each other.  One of them snaps, “Don’t look at me—I wouldn’t do such a thing!”  One by one they begin to argue over supposed accusations.

The room is entirely in shadow but for splashes of lamplight.  Judas glances toward the head of the table.  The Master’s face is turned away.  Maybe he doesn’t know who, only what.  Anyway, this is as good a time as any, now that the meal is almost done.  He made a deal; now it’s time to deliver.  In the dark, he slips away.

Meanwhile the argument among the disciples has shifted, as it often does, to determining which of them will be most prominent in the coming kingdom.  Matthew touts his administrative skills, Peter sets himself forth as a natural leader, Simon the Zealot cites his experience as a point man, James and John (who have already done some not-so-subtle politicking for places of honor*), quietly lean in on the left and the right,.  All, it seem, have an opinion of what will be needed and his unique ability to supply.

“Enough!”  The Master slams his cup on the table, cutting off the debate.  “You talk like Romans, with all their elaborate authority structures.  All of you wish to be masters and lords.  Gentiles do that—they lord it over the underlings while pretending to be their benefactors.  Listen to me: you shall not be like them.”

The followers maintain a sulky silence as the women come in to clear the table.  Swift and silent as shadows, these women have become so familiar as to be almost invisible.  They have followed all the way from Galilee, providing food, washing clothes, risking their reputations for the privilege of serving the Master.  Mary, and Salome, Joanna—always near, listening, absorbing, anticipating needs before they are spoken.  His eyes follow them out of the room.

“So who is the greatest?” he asks: “the one who sits at the head of the table, or the one who serves?  Surely, you would say, the one at the head of the table!  And yet, my mission is to serve.  Don’t worry—you’ve not come all this way with me for nothing.  You will receive your kingdom after I receive mine.  As we sit around this table now, so I will one day welcome you to a royal throne.  In fact—can you see yourselves on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel?”

At this, each man perks up and adjusts his tunic, entertaining the same picture of a great hall—perhaps in Herod’s own palace!–dressed in understated finery while the nation comes before them (including every Pharisee who once looked down his haughty nose and every tax collector who stuffed his purse at their expense).

“But watch out–” the Master says.

Turning his head toward Peter, he speaks in a peculiar tone that doesn’t quite sound like him, “Simon!  Simon, you should know that Satan has asked to sift you all like wheat.”

What now?  His words have been tugging them like a shifting wind, first one direction and then another.  Again they look at each other, each assessing the weaknesses everywhere except in himself, as the Master goes on:

“But I have prayed especially for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail.  And when you have recovered, encourage your brothers.”

Ah.  Peter figures it out.  The Master is in one of his cryptic moods, where he likes to throw things a little off balance to see if they’re paying attention.  This is some kind of test, but the response almost makes itself:  “Lord, I am ready to follow you anywhere, whether it be to prison—or even to death.”

“Really? The truth is somewhat otherwise: before the rooster crows tonight you will deny, three times, that you even know me.”

Peter’s openmouthed protest doesn’t make it past his lips.  Unlike some of his master’s prophesies, This one is uncomfortably specific.  Turning to the other disciples, Jesus is now saying, “Remember when I sent you out among the towns last year, and told you to take no provisions?  Did you lack anything?”

They shake their heads, recalling the generosity of those households where they brought the god news: “Not a thing.”  “They treated us like royalty!” “We received the best every household had to offer.”

”That won’t always be the case from now on,” he replies.  “A time is coming when you won’t always be received as heroes.  You would do well to provide for yourselves wherever you go—even, if need be, sell your extra cloak to buy a sword.”

Simon the Zealot glances at Thomas.  Their eyes light up—finally, the moment has arrived!  At a slight nod from his partner, Simon springs to his feet and runs to a corner of the room where their supplies are piled up.  Rummaging among his equipment he pulls out something with a metallic clang.  “Look, Lord! Two swords, at your service!”

In the darkness it’s hard to judge the Master’s expression, but his voice is full: sadness, hesitation, irony, perhaps even a touch of laughter.  “That’s more than sufficient,” he says.  “And now it’s time to go.

“It’s time . . .”

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The Deal

Now the feast of Unleavened Bread drew near, which is called the Passover.  And the chief priests and the scribes were seeking how to put him to death, for they feared the people.  Luke 22:1-2

The next day, the eve of the Passover, the Master and his followers go into the city and make their way toward the temple complex as usual.  Cheerful cries and greetings accost them, but that’s not all.  Very noticeable today were the hard looks from the elites: Pharisees passed with their noses in the air and scribes delicately moved their prayer shawls aside to keep them from contamination with the Nazarene and his little coterie.  Near the temple, two priests observe them with angry glances, muttering to themselves as they pass by.

Judas sees their dilemma—how plain everything appears to him now!  The priestly class wants to arrest the troublemaker but don’t dare, out here in public.  The crowds would run riot and their Roman overlords come down hard on the whole city.  Judas glances back, notices the priests have turned aside and are walking along the wall toward the southeast corner of the complex.

Suddenly it comes to him, what he can do.  Must do.

Murmuring an excuse to the nearest disciple—Little James, he thinks—Judas peels away from the group and follows the two priests, fighting traffic until he breaks free of the throng pouring through the eastern gate.

He has an offer in mind: I’ll show you how to arrest him quietly, in exchange for . . . But shouldn’t he do this for nothing, as his patriotic and spiritual duty?  No—that would be ideal, of course, but there are considerations. Judas2 He’ll need a nest egg to get back home, start a new life.  As for the others, well, they’ll have to look out for themselves.  They’ll survive.  What he’s doing is best for them, too.  Really, best for everyone, even the whole nation.  Even, perhaps, the Master himself.

Perhaps—probably?—they won’t kill him, seeing how deranged he is.  And even if they do . . . sometimes the one has to die for the sake of the many.  It’s for the best.  All for the best.

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