"We will," Jude says.
With that the man I've wanted to kill for years disappears into a hot and dishonest night.
I once thought there was no worse fate than to grieve for my parents alone. But I was wrong. It's infinitely worse to partner with the man who dug their graves. To avenge my parents' deaths, it turns out, means I must betray them first.
roam the city all night in search of Maria.
I don't find her.
At daybreak I return to the temple and find the Teacher hard at work, as he always is. I locate Petra and the others and take my place among them. The Teacher once again has aimed his criticism not at the Kingdom but at our own religious authorities—an action that increasingly grates on my nerves. I can't understand why he spends so much time arguing with them instead of aiming his wrath at the true enemy—the Kingdom.
"Beware of the scribes," he says, "who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the temple and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows' houses and, for the sake of appearance, say long prayers. They'll receive the greater condemnation."
As the Teacher speaks, Southerners approach the temple in droves to deposit their taxes into the Kingdom treasury, which has been strategically placed at the temple, since all Southerners will visit the temple during the Great Festival. It's just one example of how the Kingdom desecrates our religion.
A poor widow appears in the midst of those paying taxes and deposits two small copper coins, which are worth practically nothing. Seeing this the Teacher calls our attention to her and says, "Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. They have contributed out of their abundance, but she, out of her poverty, has put in everything she had, all she had to live on."
That does it. I can't stand it anymore and am shouting before I realize what I'm saying. "And this is a good thing?" I call out to the Teacher. "That a poor widow gives away her last pennies? Did I hear you right?"
Jude elbows me in the rib cage. "What are you doing? Shut your mouth!"
"I'm sorry," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I can't listen to this any longer! Here we are, in the Holy City, with the Kingdom breathing down our backs, stealing our money, and all you do is talk about our own religion! What about them? What about the murderous centurions who rob our very way of life? What have you to say to them, oh, wise Teacher?"
The Teacher moves toward me, the people parting like the Red Sea before him. Pointing at the skyline of the Holy City, he says, "Do you see these great buildings, Deacon? Do you see these magnificent buildings?"
I'm red hot with anger. "Yes," I say. "I see them."
"Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down."
"When? Tell me...when will this happen?"
"When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, don't be alarmed. This must take place, but the end is still to come, for nation will rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom. There will be earthquakes and famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs."
"You know what I think?" My voice cracks under the strain of anger. "I think you're afraid to do what must be done."
"Deacon," Jude says, taking my arm firmly in his hands, "you need to watch your mouth."
After a long moment, the Teacher says the following words as carefully and sincerely as I've heard him say anything during my time with him. "But the good news must first be proclaimed to the nations, Deacon."
"How can there be good news while we groan under the tyranny of the Kingdom?" My anger breaks as I say these words and is displaced with sorrow; grief floods my soul. "Please, Teacher, I need to know. I...must...understand the way."
The Teacher cups my face in his hands, and I let him do it. His hands are sweaty and calloused, but the way he holds me—it makes me feel as safe as a child with his father.
Safety—an emotion I haven't felt since my parents were taken.
The Teacher holds my head perfectly still for several long moments and looks with care into my eyes. Then, staring only at me, says, "You will be hated by all...because of my name. But the one who endures to the end will be saved. Will you endure for me, Deacon? Will you?"
I try to answer him, but I can't, because I'm once again weeping with the Teacher.
t's the eve before the Great Festival, and I've abandoned everyone. I've spent the past few days on my own, searching for Maria.
Because...I can't go through with it.
I can't betray the Teacher. To be honest, I don't think I can explain my decision. My head is the foggiest it's ever been. I am ages beyond the clear-headed vision of my train ride home when I knew precisely who I was and what I was going to do.
Revenge. That's all I've lived for, and all I've wanted. Kill those who took my parents, and keep killing until they killed me. That was my plan, plain and simple. Take as many of them to the grave as humanly possible. Then die the death of a warrior. Die gloriously on the battlefield and join my parents in the afterlife.
But the Teacher has done something to me. My soul has been stirred so deeply that I believe it has awakened, perhaps for the first time in my life. But that's not really true. Maria woke up my soul first, but...this is different. It has me thinking confused and troubling thoughts, which isn't good, because I need to be focused or it'll all fall apart. Maybe it already has.
So I vanished. I said nothing to Miles and Petra. Then I abandoned Jude, who's probably having a nervous breakdown right now.
I don't care; I had to do it. Nothing matters to me anymore except finding Maria. All I want is to find her and escape this city. To hell with the rebellion.
I've scoured every nook of the Holy City and found no trace of her, not the faintest hint of her lavender perfume. I've been to every temple, hotel, café, and bar. I've hounded strangers on the street. Last night I was nearly arrested by the Centurion Guard for public belligerence.
I'm losing my mind. I'm not the true messiah; I can't be, because that title belongs to someone else. This epiphany both confounds me and brings me the greatest comfort I've known. Because if it's true, then the true messiah will do what must be done. Which means I'm free to love and be loved in return—something I'm finally ready to do.
If only I can find Maria.
It's late now, and the streets are thin as people head home to prepare for the festival. I'm so exhausted that I slump down on the corner of a dimly lit street. The pavement is wet from a light but hot evening shower. I've just eaten a heavy meal of pasta and drunk far too much white wine. I lie back against the wet concrete, and the buildings above my head spin wildly. I close my eyes and hope to pass out quickly.
That's when I hear her laugh—the one I would recognize from the grave. My eyes pop open, and I spring to my feet.
She laughs again.
There! At the end of the street, I see a woman tossing back black hair. Then she disappears into a building, followed closely by a giant. I slip and fall on the wet concrete, landing hard on my aching wrist. Cursing, I climb back to my feet and continue to run, my arm throbbing with pain, my stomach nauseous. "Maria!" I scream. "Wait! Maria! Wait!"
But she's already gone. At the end of the street, I lunge for the door she disappeared through and fling it open. The doorway leads into a small stairwell that takes me down several floors beneath the street's surface. At the bottom I find another door, but it's locked.
I bang furiously on the thick wood, crying out Maria's name. It doesn't open. I bang harder and louder, my voice reaching a crescendo of fury and urgency.
It still doesn't open.
I pull my gun and prepare to shoot through the door.
The lock turns, and the door inches open. "Who's there?" comes a hostile voice.
"Maria?" I slur. "It's me, Deacon! Maria!"
"Deacon?" the voice says. "Where on earth have you been?" The door swings wide, and Miles welcomes me into the room. I stow t
he gun in my waistband and stumble into the cramped chamber, ignoring him as he tries to hug me.
They're all here. The Teacher. The students. An angry Jude. Even Alejandro sits furtively in the corner of the room, avoiding eye contact with me. In this small room, he appears even larger, like an adult sitting in a child's make-believe house. There's another face in the group, one I immediately recognize. It's the scarred face of the leper whom the Teacher healed the first night I met him in the park.
All of them are seated at a U-shaped table.
All of them but Maria, that is. I feverishly scan the room but don't see her. I look again, inspecting each face carefully, but she's nowhere to be found. "Where is she?" I ask.
Only the leper speaks to me. "Welcome to my home. May I offer you some water? You look thirsty."
"Where's Maria?"
Then she appears, standing before the Teacher, a dripping sponge in her hands. She's even more gorgeous than I remembered her in my dreams. She tilts her toward me but doesn't smile.
She's crying; thick tears smear heavy makeup I've never seen her wear. She's dressed in a simple but elegant white gown and is done up as if she were getting married. Her face, however, couldn't be further from that of a blushing bride; it's the longest, saddest face in the world.
I rush to her side, clumsily stumbling past the others. I failed Maria the last time she stood before me. I treated her as a little boy might and not a man. I won't make the same mistake twice.
"Maria," I say, wrapping my arms tightly around her. "My Maria," I whisper into her ear. "You came. You came to the Holy City."
A warm, thick liquid drips from her sponge, wetting my clothes. She says, "I thought something happened to you. I thought you did something—something foolish—and the Kingdom snatched you away."
"Never," I say. "They'll never take me away from you. Where have you been?" I'm fully aware that every man in the room, including the Teacher, is listening to our conversation, but I don't care. All that matters is that Maria is here and knows of my love, my loyalty to her.
"Here," Maria replies, as if her answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "I've been here with the Teacher and my brothers. Where else would I be?" She wipes her face. "We've been looking for you."
My eyes dart to Alejandro then back to her.
"No," she says decisively, reading my mind. That does it for me. Nothing more needs to be said of him. Maria is mine.
"I've been looking for you," I say. "I was terrified the Kingdom kidnapped you in Oxford."
"Why would the Kingdom kidnap me?"
I start to answer then think better of it. "Forget it. All that matters is you're safe."
"We need to talk," Maria says, "but first there's something I must do." She releases me and drops to her knees before the Teacher. She takes his head in her hands and tilts him forward. He gives himself to her. Then she takes the sponge, dips it into a jar of oil sitting on the floor, and begins to wash his head. She works her fingers slowly from the crown outward, methodically working the oil into every pore of his scalp.
The Teacher groans and breathes out deeply in satisfaction. I suddenly feel as though my eyes are trespassing onto sacred ground. I look at the other men. They appear tense and confused.
"What are you doing?" I ask Maria.
"Shut up!" Petra orders. "Take a seat, Deacon, and be quiet."
"I don't understand. What's happening?"
Miles stands up, takes me by the shoulder, and leads me to a seat at the table. I'm too tired and tipsy to resist him. I sit in a stunned stupor for what feels like a very long time as Maria anoints the Teacher's head. The sweet scent of the oil wafts through the room, as do the Teacher's sighs and soft cries.
There are rare moments in life of inexplicable beauty, times when you know something significant is happening but you don't understand its power.
This moment is such a time. I don't know what my precious Maria has done, but I know it matters; I know it is of monumental importance for both her and the Teacher who saved her life. I don't understand it, but I'm smart enough to respect it and keep my mouth closed.
Jude slams his fists on the tabletop. "Why was the ointment wasted in this way? That oil is insanely expensive! That jar costs more Worlds than the average American makes in a year. We could have sold that jar and given the money to the poor." Turning to Maria, he adds, "You, woman, should be ashamed of yourself for being so wasteful. Surely you must know the Teacher would have preferred the money to be spent elsewhere."
"Leave her alone," the Teacher says in a tender voice. "She has performed a good service for me."
"And why is that?" I say, genuinely curious. "What purpose does this serve?"
The Teacher puts a finger on Maria's chin. "You'll always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish, but you won't always have me. She has done what she could. She has anointed my body beforehand for its burial."
The room issues a collective gasp.
"Burial!" Petra exclaims. "What burial? There will be no burial!"
The Teacher leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. "Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her."
Jude slaps a cup of water and sends it flying across the room. He kicks his chair back and rockets upward. "I've heard enough! Deacon, we're leaving. Let's go."
I don't move. Instead I wait. I wait for Maria to turn and ask me to stay. I wait for her to step away from the Teacher and come to me. I won't force her. I won't even ask. She must choose. I wait.
A second ticks by. Then another. And another. And another.
"Deacon," Jude says, "we need to go—right now."
I stand but make no movement to leave. Time stands still. Finally Maria lifts her head and says, "I love you, Deacon, but if you must go, you must go."
"Come with me," I say, choking on the word. "Come."
Maria tucks her long her hair behind her ears, walks gracefully across the room, and takes me in her arms. It's the loveliest moment of my life. She squeezes my face tenderly before running her hands around my neck and down the length of my back, scratching delicately until her fingers find the hard ridges of the gun.
She freezes, as if turned to stone. In a confused whisper, she says, "You. promised me."
"I did. I mean, I tried to get rid of it, but something happened. It's what I've been trying to tell you."
"Talk to me, Deacon. Tell me now!" She tries hard to look hopeful, but I can see how deeply hurt she is. I've betrayed her. She knows I wouldn't have left with her that day, even if Alejandro hadn't shown up. She knows I'm a liar.
I glance furtively at the other men in the room. "Are you serious? Here? Maybe we should go outside?"
"I'm not the only person in this room who loves you. We all do. Whatever's going on with you, you can say it here. Let us help you. Let me help you. Let the Teacher help you."
Miles interjects, "You're our brother, Deacon. What do you need?"
The door opens behind me, and Jude says, "Now or never, Deacon."
"It's early," I say to Jude. "We still have time."
"But not long," the Teacher says from his seat. "Our hours run late, and the Son of Man will soon be betrayed." He smiles warmly at me. "But Deacon, I'm so happy you've rejoined us. Will you stay for supper?"
I glance back at Jude. "I know where to find you."
"Teacher?" Jude says, disgusted with me. "Will you be in the garden tonight for prayer?"
The corners of the Teacher's mouth sink down. He wants to keep smiling but clearly can't. "I will, and you, my dear Jude, should join me."
Jude exits without another word. I slip my hand into Maria's and take my place at the Teacher's table.
It's the greatest meal of my life. Not the food—the food and wine are simple. It's the community, the experience of sitting at a table with my brothers and the woman I love. It's the knowledge that these people love me, that
I'm not alone in this world.
It's the fellowship, the primeval voice whispering that most sacred of truths. People—all people—have a place at the table; we are one. It's the message of the Teacher I'm finally, at last, beginning to understand; no one is excluded from his table. Not even his betrayers. Not even his enemies.
I once heard the Teacher say we should love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. I didn't understand him then, and I'm not sure I do now, but somehow, in some way, this meal is connected with that teaching. It must be. Otherwise I wouldn't be sitting here.
Maria and I share few words during the meal, but when I put my hand on her knee, she doesn't push it away. Later, when I slide it farther up her leg, she interlocks her fingers with mine.
The Teacher takes bread from the table, lifts it high, and blesses it. Then he breaks it and passes it around the table, saying, "Take; this is my body."
We pass the bread, each of us tearing off a piece and eating it. When this is done, the Teacher raises his glass of wine and says, "This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many." He tips the glass back and drinks deeply from it. Then he says, "Truly I tell you, I never again will drink of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God."
We raise our glasses and toast his exciting promise.
"Wait. Before you drink from your own cup," the Teacher says, "drink first from mine." He passes his cup to Petra, who drinks from it and passes it to Miles. Then Miles passes it to Maria, and Maria to me. And around the table it goes.
Each person raises the cup and drinks the wine. When the cup finds its way back to the Teacher, he places it on the table. "Let us sing a hymn to praise the one true God," he says. "Maria, would you be so kind?"
Immediately Maria begins to sing in her raspy, sultry voice.
The Lord is my light and my salvation
Whom then shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life.
Of whom then shall I be afraid?
The others join her, but I don't sing. Instead I reflect on the Teacher, who sings with his eyes closed. Until this night I haven't known what to make of him. To be honest, I still don't. But I do know this; he's not the messiah we expected, but I'm beginning to suspect he's the messiah we need. My father used to say our greatness is defined by how we treat the weakest among us. I wonder what my father would have made of this man who refuses to ignore the suffering of those around him. This man who lifts up the downtrodden. This man who breaks bread and drinks wine with his friends and his enemies.
Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller Page 15