The Gospel According to the Son

by Norman Mailer

  Some shouted: "Let him be crucified!" That was enough to arouse the interest of Pontius Pilate. "Why should Jesus be crucified?" he asked. "What great evil has he done?"

  Indeed, he seemed curious. If they were looking for a crucifixion, why had these Jews not chosen Barabbas? Since Romans believe that good judgments serve public order, they would decry murder; to them it is a deed worthy of the sentence of death, and even in the harshest form. But blasphemy is merely an insult to a god; it can be placated by prayer or by shifting one's worship to another god. As these Romans looked upon it, prophets were no more to be esteemed than rich merchants. You do not kill a dishonest merchant; you fine him. Pontius Pilate may even have been surprised by how many cried back: "Crucify him! Crucify this Jesus!" And so he saw that for the Jews, virtue was not to be found in land but in the punishment of sin.

  Pilate called for a bowl of water and washed his hands. Then he said: "I am innocent of the blood of this person." Even I knew this was his way of accepting their decision.

  Caiaphas and his people replied: "Let the blood of this man be on us, and on our children." They were sincere. Their belief was deep enough to take a vow upon their children, whereas Pilate would only take a gift.

  I wanted to cry out: "Do not take such a vow! My blood will be not only upon your children but upon your children's children, and all of their descendants. Catastrophe beyond catastrophe will follow." Yet I had to be silent before the certitude of these people, who were also my people.

  The Roman soldiers took me into their common room and stripped me of all but a loincloth. Then they covered me with that purple robe fit for a king's officer. They plaited a crown of thorns and placed it on my head and handed me the stout stalk of a reed for my right hand. It would be my scepter.

  Now they bowed before me, touching their knees to the ground, and cried out: "Hail, King of the Jews."

  Whereupon they rose and spit in my eyes and whipped me upon the head. They were Romans, and crude.

  They forced the wreath onto my forehead, pressing down on the thorns until the blood began to run from my brow. And that trickle of blood felt like the white worm of death crawling down my flesh.

  Soon enough the robe was taken away. In my nakedness, they returned the old garment to me. And it felt as tender upon my skin as the hand of the Lord upon a new-born babe.

  47

  As we came out of the palace of Pontius Pilate, there was a man, Simon by name, a Cyrene, who was chosen to bear my cross. Now, I knew why they had jeered at me when I had stood before them with no clothes. For I was no longer the carpenter who worked each day in Galilee, and with vigor. Naked, what was left to me now but my bones? And they laughed and again they called me King of the Jews.

  We came to a place called Golgotha, where we were followed by many women who lamented after me. Some of my followers had returned, and these women were first among them and they kept crying out as if they were feeling my pain before I would suffer it.

  I had not sought to save the world through the efforts of women. Only through the strivings of men. Now, if my throat was dry, this much I could say aloud: "Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me but for your children. The days are coming in which they shall say, 'Blessed are the barren, for the wombs that never bore and the breasts which never gave suck.'"

  I thought of the fig tree I had cursed and added silently: For that, too, I ask forgiveness. And I thought of my days as a carpenter, when I used to pray that a good piece of wood not split.

  In the crowd, I saw my mother. Soon I would be torn from her. Now, and too late, I understood her love. I was a gift from the Lord, and so, in her awe of me, she had contended with all I did. For to live constantly in awe is like not knowing one's own child. But in this hour, she was in great pain for me. I belonged to my mother again. Beside her was standing my disciple Timothy, so I said to Mary, "Do not cry. I am returning to my Father. Woman, behold thy son." And to him I said, "Here is your mother." He nodded. He would take her into his home. Of all my disciples, he was the one to take care of her, for he had a patient and generous heart.

  Not far from my mother, I saw Mary Magdalene. I said to her (and it was at odds with what I had said to the daughters of Jerusalem, but still I whispered): "Take hope. Have children. For God has forgiven you."

  On the hill of Golgotha there would be with me two thieves. Indeed, they had already been nailed to their crosses. Now they were raised. Even as they screamed in pain, Pontius Pilate approached. He looked at the sign tied around my neck, which said: "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews." Most of the priests from the Temple had chosen not to remain, but of those still present, one said to Pilate, "That should not read 'King of the Jews.' Whatever he said means little. One does not become a king by saying it."

  Pilate replied: "What is written is written."

  Again, I could understand his purpose. If, in years to come, they would speak of me as having been the King of the Jews, then Pontius Pilate would be known as one of the first to agree. After all, he had allowed me to wear such a title to my death. And if I were not to be seen in the future as any kind of king, then he would be admired for his power of ridicule. By one road or the other, he was a good Roman. It took a quick mind to benefit from two conclusions when they were opposite to each other. I was learning how these Romans had conquered so much of the world, but I was learning too late.

  The soldiers led me to a cross lying on the ground. The wood was crude, and nailed together with slovenly blows of the hammer. It offended me that it had been built so poorly, but in any case they removed my robe and made me lie down upon the cross and stretch out my arms.

  I took a breath and the morning was dark. Again I was alone and naked but for my loincloth.

  48

  They drove a spike into each of my wrists and another spike through each of my feet. I did not cry out. But I saw the heavens divide. Within my skull, light glared at me until I knew the colors of the rainbow; my soul was luminous with pain.

  They raised the cross from the ground, and it was as if I climbed higher and into greater pain. This pain traveled across a space as vast as the seas. I swooned. When I opened my eyes, it was to see Roman soldiers kneeling on the ground beneath my feet. They were arguing how to divide my garment so that there would be a piece of cloth for each of them. But my old robe was without a seam, being woven from one end to the other. Therefore they decided: "Let us cast lots. It is only good for one."

  The soldier who won took up the garment, and I remembered the woman who had been cured of an issue of blood by touching my robe. Now it hung from the arm of the soldier. And the cloth was as limp as the discarded skin of a snake.

  Beside me someone groaned. Another man replied. I looked at the two thieves: One was by my right hand; the other, on the left. Below us, a man said: "He saved many; why can he not save himself?" Another said: "Since he is the Son of God, where is his Father?"

  The thief to my right side now spoke: "If you are Christ, save me!"

  I told myself: This man thinks only of his own life. He is a criminal. But the other thief said: "Lord, remember my face when entering your Kingdom."

  I told him: "Today, you shall be with me in paradise."

  I could not know if I believed my words, or whether the thief would hear them. My voice was less than a whisper. Even now, in the hour of my need, I was true to one poor habitùI kept offering my promises to all.

  It was still morning, but darkness had come over the land; it was dark. Within myself, I recited a verse from the Psalms: "My bones are burned with heat; my bowels boil; my skin is black."

  Yet as Job had passed from fever into that chill which is worse than fever, so I shivered in my loincloth. From out of my nakedness, I said aloud: "The face of the deep is frozen." I could not hear God's reply. When I said, "I thirst," one of the soldiers came forward to offer me vinegar. When I refused, for vinegar is worse than thirst, he said: "King of the Jews, why don't you come down from the cross?"

&
nbsp; And I remembered what was written in the Second Book of Kings: "Hath he not sent me to the men who sit on the wall, that they may eat their own dung and drink of their own piss?"

  I cried out to my Father, "Will You allow not one miracle in this hour?"

  When my Father replied, it was like a voice from the whirlwind. He said in my ear, and He was louder than my pain: "Would you annul My judgment?"

  I said: "Not while breath is in me."

  But my torment remained. Agony was written on the sky. And pain came down to me like lightning. Pain surged up to me like lava. I prayed again to my Father: "One miracle," I asked.

  If my Father did not hear me, then I was no longer the Son of God. How awful to be no more than a man. I cried out, "My Lord, hast Thou forsaken me?"

  There was no answer. Only the echo of my cry. I saw the Garden of Eden and remembered the Lord's words to Adam: "Of every tree in the Garden you may eat freely, but from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, you shall not eat."

  Let my Father's voice strike Golgotha and His thunder become as loud as His voice, but pain had driven me to believe what one must not believe.

  God was my Father, but I had to ask: Is He possessed of all Powers? Or is He not? Like Eve, I wanted knowledge of good and evil. Even as I asked if the Lord was allpowerful, I heard my own answer: God, my father, was one god. But there were others. If I had failed Him, so had He failed me. Such was now my knowledge of good and evil. Was it for that reason that I was on the cross?

  One of the soldiers took a sponge, filled it with vinegar, and forced it between my lips. He jeered at me.

  The taste was so vile that I cried out with the last of the heavenly rage left to me, and I looked upon the face of the Roman soldier who had squeezed this vinegar into my mouth. "I have a prayer," he said. "I wish you were Barabbas. I would torture you. I would wipe my filth upon your face."

  At that moment the Devil spoke. "Join me," he said, and his voice was in my ear. "I will introduce this bully of a Roman to a few humiliations I can lay upon men. There is no pleasure greater than revenge itself. And," said the Devil, "I will bring you down from the cross."

  It was a temptation. Only one thought kept me from assent. Tears hot as fire stood in my eyes at this thought, for it told me that I must say no to Satan. Yet I knew. By these hours I had lived on the cross, I knew. My Father was only doing what He could do. Even as I had done what I could do. So He was truly my Father. Like all Fathers He had many sore troubles, and some had little to do with His son. Had His efforts for me been so great that now He was exhausted? Even as I had been too heavy to walk in the Garden of Gethsemane.

  By the aid of such a thought, as sobering as the presence of death itself, so did the Devil s voice withdraw from my ear. And I returned to the world where I lay on the cross.

  Yet now I felt less pain. For I had learned that I did not wish to die with a curse in my heart. I had told my disciples: "He who kills you will believe he is performing service for God," and those words came back to meùa comfort in this extremity. I said, "My Lord, they do not see. They came into the world empty and they will depart from the world empty. Meanwhile, they are drunk. Forgive them. They know not what they do."

  The strength of my life passed from me and entered the Spirit. I had time only to say, "It is finished." Then I died. And it is true that I died before they put the spear in my side. Blood and water ran out of my side to mark the end of morning. I saw a white light that shone like the brilliance of heaven, but it was far away. My last thought was of the faces of the poor and how they were beautiful to me, and I hoped it would be true, as all my followers would soon begin to say, that I had died for them on the cross.

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  In the lifetime of those who came after me, pious scrolls were written by those who had known me. Gospels were set down by those who had not. (And they were more pious!) These later scribesùnow they were called Christiansùhad heard of my journeys. They added much. They spoke of angels arising at my death. Others gave a description of lightning that broke the great lintel of the Temple that day. They told of rocks splitting apart and graves opening. They claimed that when the spikes were pulled from my wrists and my ankles, and I was set on the ground, the earth began to shudder. Some even wrote how prophets arose, came out of their tombs, and marched into the holy city offering their appearance to many. And the people said: "Truly, this was the Son of God."

  Many of those who had been near me were given to exaggeration; not one had believed in the Son or in the Father sufficiently to say no more than the truth, which, as you have seen, was much. Therefore I, like Daniel, would now seal my gospel and hope that its truth is everlasting.

  Yet I cannot. For I must speak of what was said after I was gone. I have been told many tales, and a few are close to events I knew. Indeed, it is true that I rose on the third day. Yet my disciples added fables to their accounts. When a man sees a wonder, Satan will enter his tale and multiply the wonder.

  This much is true: On the afternoon of my death a man named Joseph of Arimathea, who was one of my followers and a rich man, went in secret to Pontius Pilate and asked for permission to take my body. For a good sum, Pilate agreed. Thereupon, Joseph of Arimathea dressed the body which had once been mine, and with him was a man named Nicodemus. They brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about a hundredpound weight, and washed me and wound me with new clothes and put me in a linen shroud together with their spices, which is how we Jews bury the dead. And near where I had been crucified was a garden with a sepulchre, newly hewn from the rock, and this was the place that Joseph of Arimathea had prepared for himself. But such was his generosity that he laid me there.

  So I was placed in a rich man's tomb. And they rolled a large stone before the door, and left.

  Now, Caiaphas and some of his priests had grave thoughts. They could not be certain that what they had done was wise. By the night of my death, many good Jews were beating their breasts in the streets of Jerusalem and saying, "Our sins will bring woe upon us." The priests of Caiaphas were now concerned that no ill consequences befall their people and themselves. So on the morning after my death, they came back to Pilate and told him that I had said to many: "After three days, I will rise again." They asked the Procurator to safeguard the sepulchre for the same three days. "Otherwise," they said, "disciples of Jesus could steal him away at night, then say to the people, 'He is risen from the dead.' Should that happen, every disruption will multiply."

  Pilate said to them, "Keep your own watch." For they would not pay him what he asked. Pilate then said, "I am clean of this man's blood. It is all your doing." Those words they took as a threat, and so they decided to pay him after all. Pilate gave them Petronius the centurion and his Roman soldiers to stand guard by the tomb. And these Romans put seven seals against the large stone at the entrance and set their watch.

  There are some who say that there was an earthquake and the angel of the Lord descended from heaven to roll back the stone from the door. Since the raiment of this angel was as white as snow, the guards fled.

  Others say that very early on the morning of the third day, even as death can bring together the harlot and the woman who is virtuous, so did Mary Magdalene come to the sepulchre, where she met Mary my mother. And they agreed to perform proper rites for me. But now that they were there, who would roll away the stone?

  Yet when they looked, they saw that the tomb was open. They could enter. Inside, they met a young man who wore a long white garment, and he said: "You seek Jesus of Nazareth, but he is risen. Tell his disciples that he goes before you into Galilee and there you shall see him."

  This may be close to the truth. For I know that I rose on the third day. And I also recall that I left the sepulchre to wander through the city and the countryside, and there came an hour when I appeared among my disciples. I said to them: "Why are you sad?" And they did not recognize me. They thought I was a stranger in Jerusalem and did not know what had happened. They even said to me, "Our
sorrow is for Jesus of Nazareth, who was a mighty prophet. But our rulers have crucified him."

  I said to them: "Behold my hands and my feet!" And Thomas looked and, seeing the holes, he asked to feel them (which is why he is known to this day as Doubting Thomas). But the sight of these wounds allowed them to believe. Soon, all who were there began to say that I had been received in heaven and was seated on the right hand of God. In any case, I had by then wandered away and they could no longer see me. All the same, my disciples went forth and preached that the Lord was with them. And they came at last to believe that they had the power to cast out devils. They spoke with new tongues, and when they laid hands on the sick, a few recovered.

  But the Jews were much divided by my death. Many went forth with my disciples and became new followers, calling themselves Christian; others remained close to the Temple and argued among themselves for a hundred years over whether I was or was not the Messiah.

  The rich among them, and the pious, prevailed; how could the Messiah be a poor man with a crude accent? God would not allow it!

  Still, it must also be said that many of those who now call themselves Christian are rich and pious themselves, and are no better, I fear, than the Pharisees. Indeed, they are often greater in their hypocrisy than those who condemned me then.

  There are many churches in my name and in the name of my apostles. The greatest and holiest is named after Peter; it is a place of great splendor in Rome. Nowhere can be found more gold.

  God and Mammon still grapple for the hearts of all men and all women. As yet, since the contest remains so equal, neither the Lord nor Satan can triumph. I remain on the right hand of God, and look for greater wisdom than I had before, and I think of many with love. My mother is much honored. Many churches are named for her, perhaps more than for me. And she is pleased with her son.

  My Father, however, does not often speak to me. Nonetheless, I honor Him. Surely He sends forth as much love as He can offer, but His love is not without limit. For His wars with the Devil grow worse. Great battles have been lost. In the last century of this second millennium were holocausts, conflagrations, and plagues worse than any that had come before.