The Transmigrant

by Kristi Saare Duarte

  Yeshua drained his cup, placed it on the table, and pushed it away from him. There was no need to say more. Ever since Herod Antipas had killed Yochanan the Baptizer, they had known he ran the same risk. Not only was he a Galilean, whom the Judeans generally viewed as patriotic troublemakers, but his actions in the temple could only have added to any suspicions of rebellion. The Romans would never allow a common Yehudi to threaten their authority.

  Mariamne placed her hand on his thigh. “If you should leave us, my master—I mean, my love—who will lead us?”

  Yeshua squeezed her hand. His most beloved Mariamne. His wife. She deserved to be their new leader. She was the wisest of them all. If only she had been a man.

  “Each of you has your own star to follow,” he said. “From now on, you must become your own masters. Walk on, and proceed with courage, love, and a heart full of hope. And when you encounter difficulties, remember that I am always with you, wherever you go. You’ll never walk alone.”

  The confusion on their faces filled Yeshua with sadness, but he knew he was doing the right thing.

  “I have taught you all I know, and from now on you must teach others. Believe me when I say I have faith in you. But if you’re ever in doubt about what to do next,” he added, “go to Yakov, my righteous brother. He will guide you.”

  “And how will this all end?” Mariamne asked. Yeshua caressed her thigh under her tunic, seeking comfort in her warm flesh.

  “Have you found the beginning, then, that you’re looking for the end? Remember, the end is the beginning and the beginning is the end. Whoever understands this will not experience death.”

  The disciples were slumping at the table. The shock of Yeshua’s announcement had exhausted them.

  “I want you to know that if you should abandon me, I’ll forgive you.”

  His words startled them awake.

  Kephas banged his fist on the table. “Yeshua, we will never leave you! None of us.”

  The others, too, declared their eternal support. Kephas stood up, his face bright red. “They’ll have to arrest me first. I’ll fight them to my last breath. I’d even die for you!”

  Yeshua shook his head and gestured for him to sit again. “Kephas, calm down. Everything happens as it must. I will leave you with the gift of peace. Do you understand? Don’t let anything worry or upset you or frighten you. And soon you will find that everything I’ve taught you is true.”

  Kephas sat down, but now Yakov came and kneeled beside Yeshua and put his head in his lap.

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  Yeshua stroked his brother’s hair. “But I won’t be gone. Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not still here with you. You already know that everything you see before you is a lie, and that God’s Kingdom lives within you, and that’s where you will find me. There will be days when you’ll look for me in vain, but on those days you’ll simply have to try harder. Remember what I’ve told you. Live your lives as someone who is only passing by.”

  At last Yeshua stood, wiped the food from his mouth, and brushed the crumbs off his beard and robe. He took Mariamne by the hand and led her to a private room in the back. He needed one last moment alone with her.

  Too shaken to make love, they lay down and held each other. Yeshua buried his face in her hair and wept for the fleeting illusion of a life that would soon come to an end. Mariamne cradled his head and kissed away his tears until he had exhausted his sadness and fear. Tomorrow he would be strong. His words had sprouted as seeds, and one day the harvest would be rich. But first the shell of the kernel must disintegrate and return to the soil. Just like Moses. Like the Buddha. Like Krishna.

  Chapter Thirty-SIX

  Jerusalem, Judea, AD 30

  By the time the women had cleared away the food and swiped the floors, it was too late to return to Bethany. Instead, Yeshua and his followers decided to spend the night in the gardens of Gethsemane where many other pilgrims had rolled out their sleeping mats under the open skies. Yeshua kissed Mariamne and left to meditate alone. He needed to withdraw inside and connect with the Eternal Spirit. Only there would he find peace.

  “Father,” he whispered, tears straining his voice, “let me live. I know anything is possible. Please take this bitter cup away from me.”

  But his inner voice reminded him that the agreement had been made long ago, before he had even come to this earth. The script of this life had been written, he had acted out all the scenes, and now the end was nigh. Everything was happening as it should.

  Like Kahanji had once taught him, he breathed deeply and opened one chakra after the other, joining them along his spine as he freed the Kundalini life force. Light flickered behind his eyelids, and his heart filled with warmth. His breath became shallower and his heartbeat slowed to a quiet hum. From his crown chakra, he reached high into the heavens and became perfectly, absolutely one with God. The world disappeared.

  When he came out of his trance, Yeshua found Yakov and Kephas in deep slumber only a few feet away. He shook them awake and whispered:

  “My friends, why are you sleeping? Couldn’t you stay awake for even an hour, waiting for me?”

  They stirred, embarrassed, but relaxed when they saw his grin.

  “Come,” Yeshua said, “let’s go find the others. The sun is coming up.”

  Returning to where the others slept, Yeshua found Mariamne and kissed her awake. Her lips tasted sweet, like honey. Would she kiss other men after he was gone? Would she find comfort in Tau’ma, who looked so much like him? Jealousy stabbed him like a jagged knife but dissolved in a heartbeat. She had been his muse. They had shared wonderful times, and he was thankful for their time together. But she was not the key to his happiness, just as she knew he wasn’t the key to hers. And he loved her for that.

  Under the golden skies of early dawn, the sun cast its first rays over the hilltops. Yeshua sat down to wait. A few yards away, Tau’ma curled up, asleep like an innocent child, his chest rising and falling with every breath. He could not allow the Romans to arrest Tau’ma by mistake. Strangers could never tell them apart. Yeshua rose and walked toward the gate, quietly humming a Buddhist mantra. His hands shook, but he was ready.

  A group of soldiers approached, stomping as if to emphasize their importance. Mariamne shrieked. Rubbing the sleep from their eyes, the other disciples rushed to form a shield around their teacher, but he waved them away.

  “Yeshua, no!” Mariamne threw herself at his feet. “Don’t go. I’ll follow you anywhere!”

  He pulled her up and held her trembling body close. The soldiers marched toward him, their faces obscured by their bronze helmets and their hands holding firmly on to the daggers that hung off their belts. They stopped a few feet away to allow a man through. Yeshua swallowed and pushed Mariamne to the side. Yudah, his loyal friend, was following his instructions perfectly, despite the pain it must be causing him.

  Yudah advanced toward Yeshua and their eyes locked. Yeshua fought the urge to run. He stayed still and accepted Yudah’s kiss that left traces of saliva on his cheek. Time seemed to stop as the soldiers grabbed him and pushed him to the ground, facedown in the dust. One soldier straddled him while another tied his hands behind his back. When they yanked him back up and dragged him away, Yeshua hung his head low. He turned only once to see Mariamne crying and a few of his disciples fighting the armored soldiers. Others stood over Yudah, kicking him, as he lay doubled up on the ground, vomiting. Yeshua opened his mouth to shout out, tell them to leave Yudah alone, when a blow to his head forced him to turn away.

  Where were they taking him? It didn’t matter. There could be only one outcome in this, the last phase of his earthly life. Yeshua took a deep breath and separated himself from any physical emotions, and ascended to a dimension where he felt neither pain nor fear.

  The soldiers pushed him down the narrow alleys, through the tall gate of Herod’s palace, and threw him into a dungeon below the fort, slamming the door shut. The stone walls
seeped with moisture, and the green moss that covered the ground made his feet slide from under him. Yeshua pulled his mantle closer for comfort. The scent of death made the cell even darker. Smaller. How long would they keep him here? Wails from adjacent cells told him he was not alone. The Romans had been busy, arresting anyone they suspected of stirring up trouble.

  How long would this take? Pesach would begin at sunset. Surely they would want to settle this matter before then. If not, they risked offending the Yehudi people and causing an uprising. The Romans were barbaric, but they were no fools. Yeshua wiped his running nose on the side of his head scarf. Were they planning to banish him from Palestine? Or would they really—kill him?

  Death. Yeshua shivered at the thought. Now that the steps were set in motion, he was overcome by doubt and fear. Would they cut off his head, like Yochanan? Stab him with their swords? Stone him to death—or crucify him like a zealot? Whatever they decided, he prayed the end would be quick.

  Yeshua lay down on the cold ground, pulled his knees to his chest, and fell asleep, drained from the events of the long night.

  His fate was out of his hands.

  When the soldiers returned, the sun already stood high in the sky. They yanked him to his feet and dragged him through damp stairwells to a brightly lit room in the upper levels of the fort. Yeshua breathed deeply to calm his racing heart. He was famished. Exhausted. Frightened. But he knew why he was here. Caiaphas must have brought the Romans’ attention to him. If only the temple priests had been willing to listen, perhaps they could have learned something, might have used his message to help others find peace. But they were hopelessly married to this world, blinded by their possessions and positions.

  The soldiers left Yeshua standing barefoot on the cold mosaic floor with only a guard for company. Heavy brocade drapes covered high windows that nearly reached the vaulted ceilings. In an alcove at the back of the room, water splashed from a spout into an ornamental, semicircular basin. Six thronelike chairs stood pushed against the smooth red walls in front of him.

  With a clank, the door swung open, and a short man in a full-length white robe entered accompanied by two soldiers. Yeshua knew him instantly: Pontius Pilatus, the prefect of Judea. For some reason, Yeshua had expected him to be taller and more imposing, maybe even handsome. With his broad face, mushroom nose, and large teeth that pushed out between closed lips, the man resembled a hyrax. He walked around Yeshua, examining him from every angle.

  “So you were planning an uprising, weren’t you? You are a traitor.”

  Yeshua let out a bitter laugh. Caiaphas had no shame. Or had the word come from Antipas? A slap across his face silenced him.

  “Silence! How dare you laugh at me?”

  Yeshua bowed his head. What was wrong with the man? Did he need to use physical violence to get his thoughts across?

  “Are you going to answer the question?” Pilatus struck his legs with his staff.

  Yeshua waited. How much power did Pilatus have? Was he a friend of the Herods? Did it matter?

  “You believe you are the king of the Yehudim?”

  Yeshua looked up. What king was he talking about?

  “Answer me!” Even his voice sounded like a hyrax.

  “Those are your words, not mine,” Yeshua said.

  “And you? What do you say?”

  “I’m a son of man. I’m here to bear witness to truth.”

  “Truth?” Pilatus laughed. “Holy Jupiter, then speak the truth. You say you are the king, the leader of the Yehudim. You corrupt the feeble-minded with fanciful ideas about a new kingdom. Power, is that what you seek? Do you seek power?”

  Yeshua stared at the tiny man in front of him. What kind of interrogation was this? Why was he alone in this room?

  “I never said I was king of the Yehudim—or of anyone,” he said at last.

  When Pilatus stepped close enough for Yeshua to smell his foul breath, he winced. Insulted, Pilatus raised his hand to slap Yeshua but was interrupted when a group of Roman soldiers burst in and grabbed Yeshua. They tied his hands behind his back.

  Pilatus grinned. “You have been sentenced to die for rebellion, king of the Yehudim.” He peeked through the window at the high sun, then nodded to the soldiers. “Let us finish this matter before sunset.”

  Yeshua’s knees buckled under him. This was not the way he had pictured his end. Did he have to give his life for this fool over a Yehudi holiday that Pilatus didn’t even celebrate?

  The soldiers dragged him into a bare room and stripped him naked. They bound a loincloth around his waist and shoved him around between them, laughing as Yeshua stumbled from one soldier to another. Why had they left him here with a group of juveniles who amused themselves by causing pain? Why not just kill him?

  When a senior soldier arrived to take charge, Yeshua almost cried with relief. But the comfort didn’t last long. Outside, in the stark sunlight, the soldiers bound a heavy wooden beam across his upper back, and fastened it with ropes around his wrists.

  They were going to crucify him.

  Yeshua staggered and tripped under the weight as the soldiers forced him down the rocky streets, behind two other prisoners who struggled under similar beams. Rebels, he heard the soldiers say. Masterminds of a planned uprising. Of course. Only traitors to the empire would be subjected to the torturous, humiliating death by crucifixion. A warning to all zealots and other Yehudi patriots. Caiaphas must hate him. And for what? Because Yeshua reminded him that God didn’t care about riches or power or sacrifices? A true servant of God was humble and kind, generous and forgiving. Caiaphas was none of those. He was ambitious, vain, and cruel.

  Yeshua tried to shift the beam up to straighten his back. The ropes around his wrists cut into his skin. He wanted to fall to his knees and give up, let them beat him to death. Instead, he separated his consciousness from his body and willed his legs to continue walking.

  As he struggled along the path, he recognized the faces of Yakov and Tau’ma in the crowd that was standing by, watching. And there—Mariamne, her eyes swollen with grief. At her side, his dear friend Kephas, and all the others, too. Everyone except Yudah. Yeshua’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. What a terrible price Yudah would pay for his favor to Yeshua. Didn’t they understand that without Yudah, others more innocent and less ready might have been arrested and tortured? Tau’ma, his dear little brother, might have been hung in his place for the simple crime of resemblance. But poor Yudah, he would never forgive himself. Where had he gone?

  Yeshua glimpsed the tearful eyes of his mother. She must have hidden among the crowd at the temple and listened to him from a distance, covering her face so that no one would recognize her. And yet, here she was by his side, although he had forsaken her. A mother’s love—more powerful than any other. Oh, how he wished he could have given Mariamne a child, someone to love when he was gone.

  On top of a hill, a band of executioners had gathered to nail the three prisoners to their crosses. The young soldiers who had mocked Yeshua earlier kept the onlookers at bay with their spears, in fear of a revolt.

  A temple priest had arrived to ensure Yeshua received the punishment he deserved. What did he expect? That Yeshua could talk the Roman soldiers out of his execution? One of the executioners offered Yeshua a cup of vinegar and wine to calm his nerves, but he pushed it away. He had sworn off all numbing substances and wasn’t going to break his vows now. The other prisoners gulped down the sour liquid without hesitation. They trembled with dread, unable to look at the executioners who stood ready with their sledgehammers and those long, thick nails, commonly used for the doors of wealthy homes. Yeshua’s heart didn’t even race. He could probably leave his body now, if he chose to; he just didn’t know how to actually die.

  When the executioners shoved him down and positioned his torso on top of the crossbeam, Yeshua closed his eyes. He sought the place inside where he was one with God.

  An inhuman cry of pain jolted him back to reality.

>   The man beside him wailed as the massive nails slammed into his wrists. The poor man’s face turned white as he watched the blood drip from his punctured wrists.

  Another nail pegged his feet to the cross. By then, his cries had faded into agonizing moans. The other prisoner threw up, seeing the fate that awaited him.

  Yeshua closed his eyes again.

  “Holy Spirit, please remove me from this place,” he begged. He didn’t fear his own pain. What he couldn’t stand was to hear the others suffer. He wanted to reach out and tell them about the Kingdom of God within. Convince them that physical anguish was an illusion. But his voice had left him. And could they even hear him through their fog of torment?

  Grunting under the weight, the executioners raised the first cross, then the other, in deep pits, securing them with large stones. The soldiers cheered. What kind of men would rejoice over another’s pain? Yeshua didn’t even want to know. He had to focus on forgiving. Whatever they did to his body, they could not touch his soul.

  At last it was his turn. One by one, the ropes around his wrists were tightened. The executioners nailed a plank below his feet and another under his buttocks to keep his body from sagging under its weight and to prolong the process of dying. Yeshua felt the tip of a nail press into his skin. And then, slam! The pain burned like fire. He gasped and tried to separate from his body. In his mind, he repeated over and over, It’s only my body, only my body, only my body. But before he could remove himself, another nail pierced his wrist. The pain was so fierce, he convulsed and leaned forward, vomiting the remains of the previous night’s meal. The soldiers laughed. Someone kicked his head.

  Our Father, glorified and sanctified be your name…

  Yeshua went inside, released himself from his physical body, and begged the Eternal One for relief. He found the sacred place just before they drove a nail into his ankles.

  He didn’t even wince.

  May you establish your kingdom speedily and soon…