by Nick Tosches
The growing strangeness that had long been felt in the air was back upon us: that eeriness of days whose every breeze seemed to whisper foreboding, whose every stillness seemed to bear presentiment, and whose every aspect seemed to possess a darkening shadow. There were nights when it seemed that the sun would never rise again, and black eternity, or death, could be heard like a distant groan deep down in the ground. Dogs barked at what men did not see.
29
AFTER YOU HAVE LEFT THE WAYS OF YOUTH BEHIND YOU, MY cherished boy, you will see that people are like sheep to the shepherd’s crook. To possess and wield well the shepherd’s crook is to hold sway over the herd of sheep that are those who believe. It matters not in what they believe.
How similar the crook to the lituus, the rod used by our Roman augurs in their divinations. And how similar, in turn, to augury and divination are the religions of men’s folly. Sheep are sacrificed, and the quivering entrails of sheep are read to divine the future.
Wolves swim among the sheep, as Ovid says. Be always a wolf, never a sheep.
The Essenes we encountered at Qumran were like all other sheep to the slaughter. They differed only in the chosen mode, or fashion, of their bondage and their sheepishness. The thousand or so of them, from Qumran itself and from the En-Gadi caves to the south of Qumran, did in fact resemble a vast gathering of sheep. Their plain woolen garments were all of the same once-white weathered gray. They were all bearded; and no matter their ages, their beards and the hair on their heads seemed to be of the same drab gray, or streaked with it. Their countenances, of earnest and sullen castings, were all the same. Indeed, to look at the thousand or so of them was to see one, and to look at one of them was to see the thousand or so of them. This effect of their sameness was increased all the more by the fact that they were all men, as the Essenes allowed no women among them.
Jesus stood before them and raised his staff. Why had I not until now noticed that it was a shepherd’s crook? Was it new? If it was, I was not with him when he had bought it, or been given it, or had stolen it from a shepherd asleep in a pasture.
Behind him rose the limestone cliffs of this place, and the plastered marl caves that were like silent open mouths in the pallid faces of these cliffs.
He spoke in a way that lent each of his words a monoepic gravity. This manner of speaking seemed reflective of the manner of their own solemn thought patterns, and lulled them into expecting the sum of his words to be other than it was:
“I have come here, among you, because I have heard that this is a good place to seek a wife.”
There was silence, like that from the mouths of the cliff faces. Then one in the thousand or so of them laughed deep from his gut. Then others of them laughed. Then many of them laughed. Then the air shook with resounding laughter like a roar.
These earnest, sullen men appeared suddenly less earnest, less sullen. They seemed to seek more laughter in his words. But it was not to be.
Jesus did not smile to them, even as they smiled to him. The rhythm of his speech did change, however, forsaking all affectation as he resumed, after the last of their laughter fell to stillness:
“The God who is my Father will have no more of Pharisee, or of Sadducee, or of Essene, or of any sect. All of those who are of sects are as Philistines before him, and their division of the house of David will no longer be suffered. The Way is not to be argued. The Way is not to be contended. The Way is not to be cleft. Rock that is smitten and sundered has no strength, and only of solid rock will the new temple of my Father be built.
“But, I have said to the God who is my father, the men known as Essenes, the silent ones, the pious ones; they are of no sect, for they are seekers and keepers of truth, which is of no sect and can be not hewn and can be not sundered.
“To all, I have said: Renounce your sect, dear brothers, as the God who is my Father has renounced it. There is one Word. There is one Way. Embrace these, or be gone.
“To you, I say: I have within me messages that I have been entrusted to deliver. I would that all the world might understand the truth of their meaning. But I feel that only you, my brothers who are gathered here today, might understand this truth. If only some among you do, and reveal it to those whom it escapes, I will not have spoken in vain. This is why I have come here on this day.
“I say unto you these things as they have been given unto me to say them:
“The Pharisees and the scribes have taken from people the keys to knowledge, and have hidden them. They have not entered, and nor have they allowed those who want to enter to do so. Woe to the Pharisees. As for you, be you as clever as snakes, and as innocent as doves.
“May all who have ears to hear, may they hear.
“If it is said to you, ‘Whence have you come?’ say ‘We have come from the light, from where the light came into being by itself, established itself, and appeared in an image of light.’
“May all who have ears to hear, may they hear.
“A disciple has asked me: Is circumcision meaningful? I have answered him: If it were, a father would produce children already circumcised from their mother. But rather, it is the circumcision of the spirit that is meaningful in every regard.
“May all who have ears to hear, may they hear.
“Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. If you have money, do not lend it at interest. Give it, rather, to someone who will not return it to you.
“There was a rich farmer who had a great deal of money. He said: ‘I shall invest my money so that I may sow, reap, plant, and fill my storehouses with harvest. Then I shall have everything.’ These were his plans. But that very night, the farmer died.
“May all who have ears to hear, may they hear.
“Whoever does not hate father and mother cannot follow me; and whoever does not hate brother and sister, and does not bear the cross as I do, will not be worthy of me.
“Whoever recognizes father and mother will be called the child of a whore.
“May all who have ears to hear, may they hear.
“Whoever has come to know the world has discovered a carcass, and whoever has discovered a carcass is worth more than all the world.
“May all who have ears to hear, may they hear.”
“A woman in a crowd did say to me: ‘Blessed are the womb that bore you, and the breasts that fed you.’ I said to her: ‘Blessed are the womb that has not conceived and the breasts that have not produced milk.’
“May all who have ears to hear, may they hear.
“Give Caesar what is Caesar’s. Give God what is God’s. Give me what is mine.
“May all who have ears to hear, may they hear.”
He stopped. There was no movement but for that of the soft white clouds in the deep-blue sky. Slowing slightly the pace of his words, so that it seemed to be one with that of the clouds, he said,
“If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”
Like all who were there, I was swept away, mystified, by the sublime majesty and terror of these final words. If this were madness, I thought, what a beautiful madness it was.
The weathered gray men in their weathered gray garments converged gently toward him, and many bowed, and many embraced him, and some knelt and made strange signs unto him.
Most of what he had said, I understood, if only because I knew him so well. Some of it I had heard before. Some of it I recognized as nothing more than flourishes of the decorative abstract ambiguities he had found in my compositions for him, and had taken to imitating. Some of it I recognized as my own words.
But the final two sentences he had spoken were what had swept away and mystified us all with their sublime majesty and terror. So great was their effect that it took some time for those present to come to the realization that they had no idea as to the meaning of these words. It occurred to one of the gray men to humbly ask him for clarification, b
ut he responded only by telling him that there was no mystery in the words of his closing sentences.
“Seek,” he told the man, “and you will find. And you will be saved, or you will be destroyed.”
Later, I asked him, less humbly, as much as the gray man had asked him. I was not pleased to hear him tell me as much as he had told the gray man.
“Did you speak of something or of nothing when you said those words?” I demanded of him.
“I spoke not only of something, but indeed of something in you that will either save you or destroy you. Something within me that will either save me or destroy me. Something in all that will either save them or destroy them.”
“So you would play your game of riddles even with me,” I said.
“It is no riddle,” he said. “It is the way I found to express the truth I told you about. It is the sum of that truth. Please, Gaius, do not think about the words. Let them flow through your mind. You will feel their meaning, and you will tell it to me.”
We came away from Qumran with a new disciple, one of the younger Essenes, not yet so gray. Jesus called him “the twin of none.” This became simply the Twin, the Aramaic and Hebrew words for which were then rendered into Greek as Thomas, the name that I and the others often knew him by. He was a studious man, but the air about him was not heavy with the usual dust of scholars.
Fishermen, the former Sadducee priest and rabbi, a Roman gentile, who knew what else; and now a strayed Essene. Our motley band grew ever more motley.
We made good money at Selim, and at Sychar, and at Arus, and Mahnayim, and at Tirathana.
In the hills near Arus, we came upon a small group of naked foragers who spoke no known tongue. At a pond near Mahnayim, we saw a two-headed snake. In the woods south of Selim, we heard a baby crying, but we could find no baby.
Once again, my composings became his pronouncements; and it was in these towns that Jesus spoke of our sheep to the slaughter, saying at Arus:
“The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I am not that thief. I am the thief that bears the key, the thief that giveth. I am come that you might have life, and that you might have it more abundantly. I am the good shepherd.”
And saying at Tirathana:
“My sheep hear my voice, and I know my sheep, and they follow me. And I give unto them eternal life; and they will never perish. Neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand. My Father, who gave them me, is greater than all; and no man is able to pluck them out of my Father’s hand. And I and my Father are one.
“I am the way. I am the truth. I am the life. No man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”
The more we belittled them, the more we called them sheep, the more they liked it. For they were sheep.
People seemed to give not according to their means, but as if they were governed by the phase of the moon, or by some immanence in the air they breathed.
His bewildering words about that which was within us that would either save us or destroy us stayed with me, like a haunting.
One moonless night, in the Beth Shan Valley, when silver clouds obscured many stars, we sat together searching the sky to find the Ear of Wheat in the Virgin’s left hand, which the Jews see as a Branch, also in the hand of a celestial Virgin.
We were as true brothers in blood beneath that sky. As our eyes journeyed through it, together seeking, we seemed to breathe beyond time and place. I recalled the melancholy dusk at Hyrcania, when I should have made known to him my true feelings, but I did not; when I knew not what was in him, and he knew not what was in me; and this was not good, and I had felt a sadness, and there had seemed to be in him a sadness as well.
“The truth,” I said now, under the stars of the Virgin that could be seen. “It is the truth.”
“What is?” He smiled to me.
“That which if you bring forth from within you will save you, and which if you do not bring forth from within you will destroy you.”
“Yes,” he said happily. “It is the truth of one’s self. It is that which most men never find; that which most of the few who do find it, do fear to bring from secrecy to open light.
“Most men live their entire lives without once ever meeting themselves; and when one does encounter one’s self, he keeps him unseen and imprisoned in the dark within.”
“Know thyself,” I said. The words of Thales. Or of another. Or of many.
“And then expel thy self,” he said. “Reveal thy self. Let loose the shame of thy self.”
The words of Jesus. The words of no other.
“Free your self,” he said, “that you might live in full and without knowing cowardice or fear; that your breath might be your own, liberated, unburdened by bondage, and strong. Set free the truth, and it will set you free.”
Some nights later, the first slender light of the moon of Nissan appeared. In the mornings that followed, the pink and crimson flowers in the buds of the Judas trees, whose branches were still bare of leaves, began to be seen. Returning steppe eagles and ospreys became numerous in the skies. White storks became numerous in calm waters; small, flitting, bright warblers, numerous in the trees. The zephyrs of the spring caused every emerging blade and leaf to dance. The rains that fell were light and pleasant. Almond trees and apricot trees began to flower with white petals that drank the dew.
The unsettling sense of strangeness, the foreboding in the air of a world descending to dark, wild madness, that Jesus and I had felt increasingly for so very long, almost from the beginning, was a feeling we shared. We spoke of it often. Was it us, or was it something very real, this adumbrated world that we perceived around us, and through which we felt ourselves to be moving, toward what sometimes seemed in fact the end of days? We wondered if others, those who traveled with us and those we encountered in the cities, towns, and settlements of our journeys, felt this growing strangeness in the air. Was it possible to be amid the wild twilight howlings of the ominous Messiah-mad streets of Caesarea, and not sense it?
Surely it was felt by many. Surely this was why crowds stirred as if ghosts swept past, caressing them with cold, deathly fingers, when he pronounced:
“I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.”
It was the triad of unknown finality—the Omega, the end, the last—that chilled them, that evoked the ghosts. Here, shepherds and sheep were alike in the approach of dark, untelling clouds.
For a while, in the bud-shaking zephyrs of that spring, the deep strangeness was gone. Then we realized that we were only becalmed in the heart of it. The zephyrs were gone, and there was a vague, terrible stillness, an enveloping presentiment that made even the birds look about them.
The moon was waxing full. The days of Pesach were nearing. Descending to Jerusalem, through the foothills of the Mount of Olives, we entered, beyond Bethpage, a place of many burial caves. An old narrow bridge traversed a ravine. About midway on this suspended bridge of old boards and rope, the afternoon sky became dark as night, and we were overtaken by a great wind out of blackness.
The bridge, and all the world, shook. All seemed claimed, and about to be consumed, by this tremendous wind of blackness.
What the Jews call kalil, the Greeks call olocaustos: a whole, pure, and perfect sacrificial burnt offering to God.
This was not holocaust. It could only be called what was known in olden-most Hebrew by an obscure word connoting complete devastation, catastrophe, a laying waste, a destruction and a desolation. This Hebrew word of rare might and occurrence was unknown to most Jews. There is no Greek equivalent or rendering of it, but, unlike most Hebrew and Aramaic, it can be easily pronounced in our tongue: soua, with a long o, consonantal u, and short a. It is a word used by our dire Isaiah: “and soua shall come.”
When I had first heard and learned of this word, I was struck by how alike its two syllables were to the penultimate and final syllables of the true name of Jesus. It was as if doom were embedded in his name.
; No, this was not the beauty of holocaust. It was the horror of soua.
The wind from blackness ended, and the blackness lifted, and we had not perished, as we were sure we would perish. None of us, not even Faith, Hope, or Charity, lay broken on the rocks below.
We knew then that it was not soua, but only its gentlest hasty kiss of recognition and of welcome.
Soon Jerusalem rose before us on the spur of a plateau.
Jesus rested under a laurel tree. He instructed the disciples to seek a good spring and fill our skins with good water, that we might enter Jerusalem refreshed. For them to hear, he directed me to remain with him, to receive other instructions.
“Let us take the packsaddle from Hope. I will enter the city astride him.”
I looked to him with tired confusion.
“It was written in the Book long ago,” he said. “Long ago it was written that the true Messiah would enter Jerusalem astride the colt of an ass. I will fulfill prophecy. We do not have an ass-foal, but Hope is at least younger than old Faith. He will have to do.”
“Don’t you think that this will be overstating things a bit? Don’t you think that such a show of fulfilling prophecy will appear to be, as it indeed is, too obviously of calculated design? I mean, there is a lack of subtlety here, to say the least.”
“These people are fools.”
I looked to him, no longer confused, but still tired. My questioning of his judgment showed in my face.
“They expect it,” he said. “They want it.”
He attempted a smile, but he was as tired as I. The passing bitter kiss of wrathful desolation had taken much from us. There were yet tremors in our hands.