Christ's Journal

by Paul Alexander Bartlett

  Tonight, living in this composure, I write freely. Time, as a force,has dropped away. Pressures are comprehensible such as the stress atour last supper, the betrayal of Judas. Though I held my emotions incheck I felt confused by many doubts: above all I felt that myministry would fail. Ah, that white room, those shadows, our courageas we sipped salt water in memory of the Egyptian exodus. Those facesas we sang. Now those memories are glassed inside a mirror,unblemished. And I may open that mirror and experience a memory or Imay close the surface.

  I stand alone. It is a beautiful feeling. I stand here without pastand without future. I am a naked man, a man of the wilderness. Thisis the miracle of self. The mind owns itself. It does not ask.Acceptance blocks out intrusion. Each of us should experience thewilderness of mind.

  Iyyar 18

  This is how it was:

  As I knelt in the garden I thought of John and his prison bars, foraround me were bars of shrubbery, blacker than any I had seen.Immobile bars.

  Death was in the bars and in the air around me, imagined but none theless real, as real as death had been in the street that day menwanted to stone the woman taken in adultery. This was my death—Ilistened for approaching soldiers, for the voice of Judas.

  “If it is possible,” I prayed, “let this cup pass from me quickly.”

  I heard the brook below: it had a place to go. I had this, thiswaiting, this expectancy, my disciples asleep on the ground.

  Death...death is the ransom for man’s sin, I reminded myself.

  Cries of sentinels rang out.

  Judas knew that I was here, that I had come here to pray; presently Iheard the unmistakable clank of side arms and men’s voices, foreignspeech. I could wait no longer. I stood up and waited for Judas toidentify me.

  Stumbling over shrubbery, Judas called.

  I answered.

  “Who are you looking for?” I asked a soldier carrying a torch.

  “Jesus of Nazareth,” he said.

  “I am Jesus.”

  Lanterns and torches appeared. Peter saw and heard the soldiers andsnatching a sword from one of the guards he slashed a man’s ear. Irebuked him and cared for the guard, an Arabian named Malchus, whowas singularly afraid of me, afraid of the garden, his task.

  “We shouldn’t have come...you were praying...this is the garden whereyou come to pray,” Malchus said.

  “Is Judas with you?” I asked.

  “He has gone... I’m captain here...you must come with us. We havebeen commanded to take you to the high priest, Ananias.”

  “You take me with swords and shields—like a thief. I taught in thetemple... I prayed daily for you...”

  Malchus, his face in torchlight, mumbled in Arabian and turned away.

  “Leave him alone...get out of here,” Peter shouted; I saw the guardsstruggle with him.

  Malchus led me along the narrow streets, dark. People lay asleep incorners and doorways. Donkeys were hobbled together. We walked overpiles of garbage. As we filed toward the house of Ananias wind smokedour torches. At the door of the house we were kept waiting. Two of myguards fell asleep.

  Amid bickering I was led into a small room and left there; then, latein the morning, I was brought before Caiaphas, before scribes andelders, in an open courtyard. There I heard someone say that it isexpedient for us that he die for his people.

  Caiaphas asked me about my teachings and I responded:

  “I have spoken openly. I have taught in the synagogues of Nazarethand Cana and Capernaum and in this city... I have said nothing insecret. Ask those who have heard me what I have said.” I spoketersely because I realized this was a false trial.

  One of the scribes struck me across my face and hurled me to thefloor.

  Witnesses were brought—citizens. One testified that I had vowed todestroy the temple within three days and rebuild it without hands.Other witnesses disagreed. A woman said I faked miracles. A mantestified I had threatened to depose the governor. Others disagreed.

  “Are you Christ...are you the man the people call Christ?” Caiaphasasked.

  “I am.”

  A priest gestured; he seemed to tear his robe. Caiaphas smiled.

  “You have heard this blasphemy,” he said. “We need no more witnesses.I condemn this man to death.” I knew nothing more could be said in mydefense.

  As I sit at my table, underneath the trees, at Peter’s home, I writeas if I were writing about someone else, a friend perhaps. I writewithout prejudice. I am shaken by man’s corruption and yet my lack offaith in man does not influence my writing.

  I was left in the hands of guards and palace servants and then I wasled into a room where my hands were roped behind me. I was thrown onthe floor and beaten and kicked and spat on. Men placed me in a chairand covered my eyes and asked me to guess who struck me, everyonelaughing.

  I fell asleep on the floor and was wakened for a trial beforepriests, elders, scribes, in a marble-floored room, Roman insignia onthe wall, the room icy, airless, officers and soldiers at one end,one of them in battle gear—to impress me, I thought. But I wasscarcely able to stand, scarcely able to think. My hands on the backof a chair, I put my mind to work: I singled out my home, its doors,its windows, the grass growing in the street. I forced myself tovisualize my mother and father. Though I was in pain I remembered mylittle friend, Amos: we were kneeling in the dust before my house,playing marbles: dust flipped as we shot.

  I was asked if I was the son of God.

  The trial was not a trial. There were no witnesses.

  Temple officials conferred.

  Roman authority was not involved.

  A judge or priest condemned me to death.

  Such authority had been denied forty years ago by the Romans. Beingaware of this added to my resentment; I tried to speak out but wassilenced. From the courtyard I was marched to the paved square calledBabbatha; troops lined the square, spectators gathered. The sun’swarmth lessened my pain. One of the guards, secretly, gave me bread.I saw Judas with Pontius Pilate; Pilate was accompanied bycouncilors, guards. I felt I had been hurled into a wholly alienworld—enemy world.

  Pilate, stepping forward in his robe, asked Caiaphas the nature of mycrime. I will remember that scarlet robe.

  Caiaphas, annoyed, said:

  “If he were not a malefactor we would not bring him before you.”Pilate understood the evasion. He responded:

  “Take him, judge him according to your law.”

  A priest declared:

  “We found this man saying he was Christ the King.”

  Perhaps Pilate was remembering his troubled past, the servitude ofhis ancestors, some problem, for he hesitated, suspecting a ruse,that the priests were deceiving him. He must have known that I hadnot preached revolt.

  “Are you king of the Jews?” he asked, motioning me to come closer.“Your people have brought you here. What have you done?”

  “My kingdom is not of this world.”

  “Are you a king?”

  “I was born to bear witness to the truth.”

  Pilate shrugged.

  “What is truth?” He resumed his seat.

  I did not respond.

  “What is truth?” he repeated. He waited a little while and then said,looking at me closely: “I find no fault in this man.”

  Spectators and priests protested. Someone shouted:

  “He stirs up the people from here to Galilee. He’s a troublemaker. Hedrove us out of our temple market.”

  At that moment Pilate may have become aware of my accent orremembered I was born in Nazareth for he ordered me brought to trialbefore Herod, the local governor. Herod, I thought, the name stunningme as I recalled his crime.

  We crossed a bridge, a hostile crowd following; young Herod welcomedme because he had heard of my miracles and wanted me to perform forhis benefit. Was I wizard, necromancer, fakir?

  I could not speak to this murderer: I envisioned John in prison,waiting, waiting for the liberty that never came. I saw hisdecapitated head on a
tray, displayed for a dancing girl.

  Because I could not speak Herod had his men throw a purple robe overmy shoulders and place me on a chair. They mocked me, spat on me, anddemanded I save myself.

  Herod refused to try me and ordered guards to return me to PontiusPilate. It was then, as we recrossed the bridge where the populacejeered, it was then I attempted to think of home. Something like anactual wall blocked me. All the emptiness of life, the savageness ofthe wilderness, the enmity of mankind, came into being. I prayed butprayer was useless. A man held my arm or I would have fallen: hissword hit my side.

  Peter’s

  Iyyar 25

  Pilate resented a jeering mob and tried to establish order.

  He commanded men to assume positions in the Babbatha yard. Callingseveral priests, he said, shouting at them:

  “You have brought this man before me. You say he perverts the people.I find no fault in him. I will punish him and release him.”

  He sat on his tribunal chair, his wife beside him. Raising his handhe resumed:

  “I will free a man. Who will it be? Barabbas? Do you want Barabbasfree or Christ? Choose your man.”

  “Barabbas...Barabbas,” the priests shouted, and the crowd repeatedhis name, a man known for his crimes.

  “What shall I do with Jesus?”

  “Crucify him...crucify him.”

  “What has he done?”

  The crowd answered: “Crucify him.”

  Shall I continue this journal? Will others accept my account? Shall Isimply destroy these words? As days pass I am able to re-live thesadness. There is a chance to diminish man’s cruelty. I take thatchance. We are here in this world to make life worthy. We are here toteach others. Teaching is no easier than learning. No one has everhad my vantage point: this permits me to continue.

  I searched for a friendly face among themob...Peter...Mother...Matthew... Clibus...

  Barabbas was brought before the judges and liberated with jeers andlaughter. He passed by me, a great, tall man. As he walked away I wasled to a whipping post, bound, and lashed with thongs; I was lasheduntil unconscious. Courage, where was my courage to bear the cru-cifixion.

  I tried to think...

  In a barren hall soldiers stripped me and put a filthy robe around meand forced a crown of thorns on my head. Six or eight men confrontedme. They mocked me.

  “Hail, king of the Jews,” they hollered.

  Priests appeared and cried: “Crucify him...he calls himself the Sonof God. Kill him.” Pilate appeared and asked: “Who are you?” I couldnot speak because of pain.

  “Speak to me...don’t you realize I have the power to set you free.”

  I was thinking of Judas.

  A Roman officer spoke out: “He’s an enemy of Rome...he defiesCaesar.” “Our emperor is Caesar,” a priest shouted.

  “Take him away,” Pilate said. “He is yours.” He took water and washedhis hands before the crowd. “I am innocent of the blood of this man,”he said.

  Again I looked for my disciples but now a centurion in cuirass andarmed soldiers, carrying shields, grabbed me and forced me outside.“To the cross,” someone said. “To the cross,” another repeated.

  I was amazed to find myself walking. It isn’t far, it isn’t far, Itold myself.

  We descended a stepped path. The bridge lay ahead. People jammed thebridge. We climbed a steep bank, passed houses, trees, rocks. Thecenturion ordered me to carry the crossbeam. As he compelled me totake the beam he gave me water.

  It was nearly noon.

  I shouldered the beam, fell, tried again. The officer ordered anonlooker to carry the beam. I heard a priest shout: “If any manwishes to prove the innocence of Jesus, let him speak.” His voice,his robe, the beam, the crowd... I can’t remember. Yet I remember menselling dates, hawking fruit. I wanted the food of earth, lifeitself.

  My mother broke through the crowd and embraced me. A little fartheron I heard Lazarus call. I saw Martha. She was kneeling, reachingtoward me. Peter, Luke, Clibus, Mark. I saw. I loved them, theirfaces like old graven coins.

  I saw them all the way to the spot where they laid the cross on theground. I prayed for courage, strength to endure, as they strippedoff my clothes.

  Then men pounded a nail through my hand and I was blinded, torn withpain. Then I felt greater pain as they pounded a nail through my legsand then I felt no more pain until I hung on the cross.

  I looked and looked but could make out nothing; then I saw two menhanging on crosses beside me. I looked at them and they looked at me.I saw people below me; I heard women and children crying. I tried tospeak to them. But as I hung there everything began to move away fromme: a great distance swam around me. I thought of a mirage. Someoneput a sponge to my mouth. Then I saw my mother, I saw Martha,Lazarus, people I had cured. A soldier shoved his spear into me. Itried to say something... That is all that I remember.

  Joseph of Arimathea obtained permission to remove my body from thecross. He and my disciples placed it in his family crypt. He provideda robe and cloth to cover my face. I lay in his tomb, myrrh and aloeabout me; there I lay for three days.

  Peter’s Home

  Sivan 2

  P

  eter is a descendant of a nomadic tribe. Euodia, his mother, is agnarled woman, dark, serious. She and Peter built this house afterher husband died. She had had enough of desert privation. Last nightshe spread a special table for my homecoming: pomegranate juice,melon, cheese, bread, nuts, chromis and another fish, clarias, myfavorite. Euodia is an expert with olive oil—perhaps some are nomadrecipes. At supper time she accepted me easily; Matthew and Peterwere wary, afraid, shy.

  While we were eating, Peter said:

  “Master, how can it be you were crucified eight days ago... Can yousay that you are well?” He brushed his hand over his yellow beard. “Icouldn’t forget the terror...will you help us understand? When all ofus meet will you explain? Is it faith?...”

  We were eating at a makeshift table under Peter’s olives; it was wellafter sunset and we felt the quiet of the extensive fields that makePeter’s home a retreat.

  Matthew, picking at his supper, nervous, kept watching my hands—Iknew he was studying the scars.

  “I hope you never return to Jerusalem,” he exclaimed.

  I agreed: I agreed for several reasons: one reason was my desire tosend my disciples to remote places, villages, towns.

  “Our work is to be carried out among our countrymen while governmentsinterfere.”

  “We love you...we had nothing to do with the crucifixion,” Euodiablurted out.

  Love, love after crucifixion is a brilliant but black enigma: itproffers and denies. We know that love helps us forget pain; howeverI ask myself whether it is evil to forget evil. But I can think ofresurrection as a form of love, a love beyond supplication. I takethat step and realize that immortality is another form of love.

  Desert air pushed in as we finished our meal and we soon feltchilled. I wanted to shed my fatigue by reading but we discussedvisiting the spring at Neby. I suggested we leave early if it did notrain during the night and bog the paths. At Neby I wanted to work outa plan for James, Peter and Matthew, if James joined us. Whengovernment cruelty diminishes I want Peter to preach in Rome.

  In my bedroom I read Ecclesiastes—drowsing at times, aware of myfamiliar pallet, the good pillow, the candles. I was able to dismissthe imminence of departure. I put it away like a shell under seagrass.

  Ecclesiastes meant more to me than weeks ago as I read and re-readpassages.

  Rain woke me during the night—a pleasant shower smelling like spring.So, we would walk to Neby another day. Here I would be able to go onreading Ecclesiastes and Peter’s copy of the Psalms. When I toldPeter that Clibus had found the Ecclesiastes scroll on a trip to theupper Nile they were astonished. They had never seen so ancient ascroll.

  Peter’s

  Sivan 5

  Judas is dead. He took his own life. His body was found by thedaughter of Pontius Pilate. Since
he was one of us we have buriedhim; at his grave a downpour struck us and drove us to a shelter. Ina few moments the earth was flooded. I can’t recall such rain andthunder.

  Judas, born in Gamala, vineyard proprietor, dead at twenty-eightyears. As Ecclesiastes says: “Woe unto him who is alone when hefalls.”

  Startling, on a hillside, on a hilltop, a contingent of Romansoldiers, a new encampment, white tents in rows, banners, standards,smoke. Shields flash as men drill. Camels are hobbled behind the tenttown. We can make out men in half armor, men wearing helmets, men atwork shoveling, men erecting a large striped tent.

  Is this always glory, power and death?

  Peter’s—early morning

  Sivan 8

  Shall we be like trees planted by rivers of water? Shall we matureslowly like the olive? Shall we endure two hundred years? Shall thesemen replant? They are humble men. Are humble men more or lesssuccessful with their lives? These men know ambition and is ambitionthe safe route? Verily, verily “all is vanity and vexation ofspirit,” if we listen to Ecclesiastes. What will evolve when the sil-ver chord is broken? I have answered these questions in the past butI wish to answer them once more.

  Peter’s