I, Judas

by Taylor Caldwell

  When they could not keep him from Judea, the disciples decided with some dramatics that they would die with him there. Thomas, who had less faith than the rest, took the lead in announcing his own martyrdom. Even Jesus, somber as he was at this time, was inclined to laugh at this bravado.

  “Nothing will befall you, Thomas, for you still have many souls to save.”

  I could understand his laughter, for this band of Galileans was not distinguished for its bravery. I had made a poll of their political opinions at one point, and all but the brothers, Andrew and Peter, James and John, shared my view that Jesus should lead the rising against Rome. But at no time could I get the others to add a word to my own.

  “He knows what he wants,” said Matthew, “and nothing any of us say, with the possible exception of Andrew, would have the slightest impact.”

  “How about John? He seems to prefer him above even Andrew.”

  “It is not the same thing,” said Matthew. “He treats him like a son or a younger brother.”

  “And yet,” I said, “he speaks of the whole world as being equally his family.”

  “In the importance he attaches to their souls. Still, we all enjoy some people more than others. It is but human.”

  “He is not human like the rest of us.”

  “True, but in his earthly role he is still a man, with a man’s flesh and spirit.”

  Ordinarily we would have entered Judea only two or three days before the Passover, but Jesus decided to visit with some friends and pick out a special place for this Passover feast.

  And so, traveling only by night to avoid the usual camp followers, we came to the Holy City six days before the holiday.

  As usual, when he came to Jerusalem, Jesus stopped first with Lazarus in Bethany. Mary Magdalen and Martha were overjoyed to see him but could barely hide their concern. After they made the Master comfortable, they pressed me for a report on my meeting with the High Priests.

  “Have you told him of this meeting?” the Magdalen asked.

  I shrugged. “I saw no point in it.”

  Martha’s heart-shaped face wrinkled in concern.

  “I like not the way he speaks of his impending death.”

  The Magdalen had been eyeing me closely. “You have a secret, Judah. I can tell from the way you avert your eyes.”

  “It is in your imagination.”

  “If you know of any harm they intend him and say nothing, then you are as guilty as those who would take his life.”

  “Who can kill him unless he wills it?” I cried. “Did he not raise your brother from the grave? How can they slay him to whom death is but a word?” I walked to a window and looked down on the street. It was already thronged with the curious who had heard that he brought Lazarus back to life and now longed for a glimpse of him.

  “This crowd,” I said, “stands as a testimonial to his triumph over death.”

  The Magdalen would not be diverted. “You avoid the issue,” she said. “What transpired at the meeting to which they summoned you in such haste? These couriers are not sent out for mere sociability.”

  Like her or not, the Magdalen had a sixth sense that made her more perceptive than most.

  “It was nothing, I tell you.” I prepared to turn away, but she caught me by the edge of my robe.

  “You lie,” she hissed. “You have betrayed him.”

  Martha drew back in horror. “You couldn’t,” she cried, her eyes widening. “Judah, tell me she is wrong.”

  “She is wrong,” I sighed. “I could no more betray him than you could. And to what purpose?”

  The Magdalen was not easily put off. “Because you have some strange idea that his betrayal would help your cause.”

  “Wrong,” I repeated.

  To my relief, the disciple Philip entered the room at this point, inquiring after Andrew.

  “Some Greek pilgrims have heard of the Master’s wonders, and they desire a few words with him.”

  The Master was in his room, a small chamber perched atop the roof, chatting with Lazarus.

  He shook his head. “I have nothing for these strangers, for soon it will all be said for me. The hour draws nigh when the Son of Man will be glorified in God.” He closed his eyes, and I could see his lips moving in silent prayer. And then, though there was not a cloud in the sky, there came a clap of thunder that rocked the house. There were shouts of alarm from the street. But Jesus’ face was as tranquil as the sea after a summer storm.

  “My Father has heard me and gives me courage. For my soul is troubled as the hour approaches, but shall I say: ‘Father, save me from this hour,’ when it is for this hour that I came, and for this cause?”

  It troubled me that he should talk now like other men. For if he was like other men, he was then as vulnerable as they.

  The Magdalen and Martha had poked their heads through the doorway. Jesus’ face shone as he beckoned them forward. “It pleases me that you two ladies hear what I say as well, for I love you both dearly for all the kindness conferred by your open hearts.”

  They came forward and kneeled, and he said a small prayer for them.

  “I have come as a light into the world that whosoever believes in me shall not abide in darkness. And if any man hears my words and believe not, I judge him not, for I came not to judge the world, but to save it.”

  The timbre of his voice deepened and a glow came into his eyes.

  “My Father gave me a commandment, which I pass on to you. That is that life is everlasting.” He looked around the room. “And there is another commandment he gave me for you, added to that given Moses on the mountain, and second only to that which I mentioned.”

  “And what is that. Master?” said Peter, who had just walked into the small room, straining its capacity with his bulk.

  Jesus’ eyes traveled around the room, stopping at the Magdalen. “That you love one another, and carry this message of everlasting life to the far corners of the world.”

  We sat down to an early supper, for he had been through much that day and needed his rest. With a smile, Mary served the company, saving the best portions for the Master. He ate very little, and when he finished the serving ended. Martha sat at his feet, gazing into his countenance with stars in her eyes. Mary brought out a pound of costly spikenard, with which she anointed his feet, then wiped off the residue with her flowing hair. As before, I thought of the money for which this unguent could be sold, and what could be accomplished with it.

  “Why was not this cream sold, and the money given the poor?”

  I caught the annoyance in the Master’s eye.

  “Judah, do you not learn? Have I not said that the poor you will always have with you, but me for only a little while. Let her be, for she has saved this ointment against the day of my burial. And so she will keep some by, and there will still be a substantial amount which Andrew can dispose of for the poor.”

  I was not sure I had heard correctly.

  “Andrew? He is not the treasurer.”

  He smiled cryptically. “Yes, Andrew, for you will have turned to other things by that time.”

  I wondered, for an anxious moment, whether he had any inkling of the plan. It was on my mind to confide in him, but I had seen those eyes flash in anger and I did not relish his being wroth with me. There would be time later to explain.

  Both Andrew and Peter warned it was not safe for him to appear in Jerusalem for the Passover. But he only smiled and said that he had not come to be safe but to save.

  “Would you have me hide my head in my hood, and skulk through the streets like a thief?”

  He already spoke of his death as though it was inevitable.

  “Do you not know, Judah,” he said as we set out for the Holy City, “that there is nothing any can do to blunt the will of the Father?”

  “Why do you speak so,” I protested, “when you have the power over death?”

  He shook his head sadly. “Only by dying can the Son of Man show there is no death.”
r />   It was too much to even think about. “I do not understand.”

  “You will,” he said, “before even the others.”

  We arrived in Jerusalem two days before the Passover and camped on the Mount of Olives, overlooking the Garden of Gethsemane and the Temple.

  He made no attempt to conceal his presence, but moved through the throngs, unconcerned alike by the dark looks and the reverent.

  As usual, he sat in the Portico of Solomon, and a large crowd assembled. I could see the malignant faces of Ezra, Sadoc, and others I knew to be agents, but they were strangely quiet at this time.

  Matthew sat at his feet as if spellbound while I studied the temper of the crowd. Like his priestly adversaries, they were oddly subdued but still listened respectfully.

  He was seldom in better form.

  “Woe unto you Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, for you shut off the Kingdom of Heaven from men while not able to enter yourselves because of your wickedness. You distort and twist everything to your own evil purpose. You make much of the Temple gold, but nothing of the Temple God. You worship the sacrifices on the altar, but not the symbol on the altar itself. You insist on tithes of gold and kine, yet you dismiss the weightier matters of judgment, mercy, and faith. You are blind, though you have eyes, and so strain at a gnat and swallow a camel.”

  I had never realized before how deeply Jesus felt his rejection, yet he had nobody to blame but himself. For he could have had the full measure of their devotion had he but heeded their hopes and aspirations.

  “O Jerusalem,” he cried, “you that kill the Prophets and stone those sent unto you, how often would I have gathered your children together, even as a hen takes her brood under her wings, but you would not have it so.” His voice quickened with emotion.

  “Look at these buildings upon which you place such store. Look well, for because of your iniquities there shall be left not one stone upon another, for all shall be thrown down by the very enemy you mock.” As the crowd murmured, he shook his head. “All your disavowals will change nothing. And your house will be left desolate, for the way of the transgressor is never easy.”

  Ezra’s face had darkened and I could see him exhorting others to challenge the speaker. I noted Adam the Tanner sitting nearby, but the man who responded from the crowd was a Judean of the working classes, not quite an Amharetz from the look of him, but a clerk in a counting room, thin, sallow-faced, and intense in manner.

  “How long do you make us doubt?” he cried. “If you are the Christ, tell us plainly, and we will follow you against this foe that would tear down our Temple.”

  Jesus gave him a compassionate look. “I have shown you my work, which I have done in my Father’s name, but you have not believed because you would not be of my flock. But other sheep shall hear my voice, and I shall give unto them eternal life. And they shall never perish, nor shall they be taken from me, because my Father, who gave them to me, is greater than all, greater than the Temple, Rome, and the seventy nations you would triumph over.”

  The man still looked at him doubtfully. “You speak like a King but act not like one.”

  “In my kingdom, which can also be yours, my Father and I are one.”

  There was a stunned silence, for by now all in Judea knew whom Christ meant by his Father.

  As in Galilee, the faces showed that he claimed too much, for when he called himself the equal of God they looked around apprehensively, as if fearful that they shared his blasphemy.

  He understood their confusion perfectly.

  “Without God I am nothing, but with him, everything.”

  But they did not understand. They never understood, though many, separating the man from the message, still loved him for the multitudes he had healed and would have stood with him to the death.

  For this reason I was surprised by Ezra’s reaction. Hoping to stir something up, he picked up a stone and hurled it at the Master. It grazed his cheek, but he faced them fearlessly, as he had that day in sheltering Mary Magdalen. Others were quick to follow Ezra, for violence begets violence. But before they could cast their stones Jesus stormed back.

  “I have fed and helped many of you and your kin and helped them with my works. For which of these works do you stone me?”

  “Not for these works,” cried the crowd, “but because you blaspheme God by making yourself his equal.”

  “Is it not written that you, too, are cast in God’s image and are God’s children? Shall I stone you for this reason?”

  I had never felt prouder of him, for in his defiance of the multitude he now showed clearly his leadership qualities.

  The crowd had become still, and though still confused, was won over for the moment. But not so Ezra.

  “We question not your works, but what works in you,” he shouted. “You are a magician, and the devil in you speaks, for if it were God who spoke you would give the people what they pray for.”

  Christ regarded him contemptuously. “If man told God, and God not man, then man would have God’s authority, and this is not so.”

  In his frustration, Ezra dug into the stoning pile once more and launched another missile at Christ from close range. This flew with unerring aim and thudded against his chest. He fell back for a moment, then righted himself. His face grew black as night, but before he could speak, a roar of disapproval, led by Adam the Tanner, came out of the crowd. It rose into a crescendo, and I could see the stunned surprise in Ezra’s eyes. He did not understand the unpredictability of crowds. By his cowardly action he had made Jesus the underdog, and the crowd had responded angrily.

  Matthew, stepping in front of Jesus, took in the situation calmly.

  “Ezra is so used to his own claques that he forgets there are many who still adore the Master.”

  Concerned as we were, we still looked expectantly for Jesus’ reaction. Had he not said many times: “Whosoever shall smite you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also”?

  But he was in no mood for forgiveness. His eyes were blazing. “Wide is the way that leads to hell and many will take it. Narrow is the gate that leads to salvation, and few there be who will find it, unless through me.”

  The crowd again stirred restlessly, and I could sense the tide of good will receding. His assumption of God-like powers made them uncomfortable, especially when he casually coupled himself with God.

  Adam the Tanner stood up so that all could see him. He turned a scornful look on Ezra and his henchmen. “I care not,” he said, “whether he says he is the Son of God, his brother, uncle, or God himself. Any man here that harms him will have me and my hardy band to reckon with.”

  His pack of rogues leered wickedly into the crowd.

  “We wait for the day he will lead us against our enemies, but we know not which is the greater foe, the priests and the Pharisees, or the Romans. For it is not the Romans but the others who deny us anything but this court, as if we were Gentiles and not Jews like themselves.”

  At this sally the crowd laughed, and even the Amharetzin joined in.

  “So throw no more stones,” concluded the tanner, “or it will go badly for the thrower, if it be Annas himself.”

  During all of this, Jesus stood unmoved. Then, as we all waited for a message that would stir our hearts, he said only what he had said a dozen times before:

  “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.”

  I groaned in my disappointment, and saw the look of chagrin on the tanner’s face.

  All slunk away, and we disappeared as well, for what was there left to say? But that evening, around the campfire, Jesus seemed strangely introspective as he told us of the trials and tribulations which would befall the nation after his death. It seemed almost as if he was eager to go, not having succeeded in what he had come to do.

  “After my return for a brief period,” he said, “I shall dwell in the heavens with my Father, and shall prepare a place for some of you, for after me they shall deliver you up to be affl
icted, and shall kill you, and you shall be hated of all nations for my name’s sake.”

  Matthew evinced his usual curiosity.

  “And is this before or after the Temple is pulled down stone by stone?”

  “Of what Temple do you speak? That which encloses the spirit of man or that of the false priests?”

  “That of which you told us earlier.”

  He smiled sadly. “My disciples, too, are more concerned with the House of God than with God himself. But I repeat, because of the iniquity of this people, for their rejection of him sent by God, this destruction shall happen, but not before all of you have been laid to rest.”

  “Tell us,” said Matthew, “when shall these things be? And shall there be a sign of the second coming, and of the end of the world?”

  “This gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations, and then shall the end come. When you shall see the abomination of desolation, spoken of by Daniel the prophet, stand in the holy place. Then let them which live in Judea flee into the mountains. Let him on the housetop not come down to take anything out of his house. Neither let him in the field return to take his clothes. And woe unto them that are with child, and to them that give suck in those days. For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, or ever shall be. And except those days should be shortened, there should no flesh be saved. But for the elect’s sake those days shall be shortened.”

  Peter had listened, wide-eyed.

  “And will all this destruction come of an earthquake, Master?”

  Jesus shook his head. “Ask rather why this destruction comes.”

  “And why is that?” asked the keeper of the keys.

  “For man would upset the balance of the universe if left to his own devices. His own weapons fashioned out of hate become the engines of his ruin. The very atmosphere which he pollutes shall contaminate the garments as well as the mother’s milk and sicken the child.”

  “And how shall man know this time?”

  “Wherever the carcasses are, there shall the vultures be gathered together.” A shadow fell across his face. “But none asks when the Son of Man comes again, and what this will be like.”