THE SILENCE OF GETHSEMANE
THE SILENCE
OF
GETHSEMANE
MICHEL BENOÎT
Translated from the French
by Christopher Moncrieff
ALMA BOOKS
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Dans le silence des oliviers first published by Éditions Albin Michel in 2011
First published in English by Alma Books Limited in 2012
This mass-market edition first published by Alma Books Limited in 2013
Copyright © Michel Benoît, 2011
Translation © Christopher Moncrieff, 2012
This book is supported by the Institut Français
as part of the Burgess programme.
Michel Benoît asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Printed in England by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
Typesetting and eBook version by Tetragon
ISBN: 978-1-84688-240-1
EBOOK: 978-1-84688-274-6
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THE SILENCE OF GETHSEMANE
To Didier,
my far-distant brother.
And to Laurence.
CONTENTS
Part I Born into Disquiet
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part II Born to Be Reborn
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Part III Born to Be Killed
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Afterword
Main Gospel References
By The Same Author
Into Jesus’s mouth I have put only those words that research suggests he was likely to have used. These are indicated by inverted commas. As for the thoughts and dialogues that I attribute to various individuals, I would like to think that they are a true reflection of my dedicated study of the ancient texts.
Part I
Born into Disquiet
The Demon is forever by my side;
He swirls around me, as elusive as the air I breathe…
Baudelaire
1
In the dark of the night I lean back against an olive tree.
The rugged strength of its trunk gives me a feeling almost akin to abiding friendship. At this moment, just before the beginning of the agony that those around me can sense is fast approaching, I have an obsessive need for closeness, something I have always lacked.
On the other side of the Kidron Valley, the vast shape of the Temple glows faintly in the light of the full, paschal moon. The dull murmur of the crowd of pilgrims who have come from every corner of the Empire to celebrate the greatest of Jewish festivals can just be heard in this olive grove planted on a slope that looks out across the city. For the first time since I was a boy, I am not among them. Gethsemane, an oil press nestling on the hillside, is the place I have chosen for my self-imposed exile.
My presence here tonight is a sign of my absence from Israel.
I like this garden, the trees that celebrate my coming with their shadows. We have been hiding here since the sun went down, when the High Priests and the Pharisees issued a warrant for my arrest. Among the bustle of the streets or on the Temple esplanade, the crowd of my admirers and opponents protects me: to arrest me in broad daylight would transform the fickle, volatile mob into a solid mass, united in their hatred of Caiaphas’s police. Ever since we returned to Jerusalem I have had to decline Lazarus’s kind offers of hospitality, which would put him in jeopardy. From now on we will be spending our nights in the uncertain sanctuary of this olive grove.
Caiaphas is aware of this. If I am arrested, it will be done covertly, taking advantage of a moment such as this, when the human shield that surrounds me from dawn till dusk is no longer there to protect me.
Perhaps even tonight.
So are these the last moments of freedom that I shall enjoy?
Consumed by their personal schemes and disquiet, my disciples fell asleep on the carpet of dead leaves in a nearby clearing as soon as they wrapped themselves in their cloaks. Let them have their rest, these wakeful sleepers whose dreams of power have always prevented them from grasping what it is that I so wanted to offer my Jewish brethren and their threadbare Judaism!
Tonight, among all their deep-seated beliefs there is one that seems to expose human frailty in a way that is especially tragic: they have always been sure in their minds that death is the end of life. Yet for many years, Israel has had contact with peoples from the Orient who realize that it is nothing of the sort, that death is simply a moment in time when we pass over from one life to another. So before my present life I must have lived a great many others, whose details aren’t worth trying to imagine – what good would it do? But when I draw my last breath, I hope that this death will be my last.
During the last two years while I have been teaching, I have paid little heed to my body. As a tireless walker I have asked a great deal of it, coming to know its limits, just how far I can push it before it weakens. Faced with days of constant wandering, unforeseen encounters and impediments, confrontations that became increasingly violent, I was vitality itself. Since my time in the wilderness I have been sustained by an inner strength that has never failed me. I have recently raised the subject of my violent death with my disciples, yet although it had always been predictable it was still a somewhat vague concept. The end of my life? In a sense it was a reality that existed outside of me.
Yet having defied the Temple authorities so many times, I am aware that they posed a risk to me: only recently I was warned not to come to this hornets’ nest, Jerusalem. But some of my disciples – Peter, John and his brother, Judas, Simon – have remained in touch with the Zealots they know, while others are still close to the Essenes. In Galilee I have friends who are Pharisees, while the Judaean has
influential contacts in Jerusalem itself.
So, ignoring the danger, I thought I was safe.
Until these last few days, that is, when I have seen Peter take Judas aside several times and talk to him at length. I have detected a change in Iscariot, who for the first time has started disagreeing with my decisions. This evening, too, out of the corner of my eye I saw Peter slip a short sword under the folds of his cloak, the sort carried by the Sicarii, fanatical Jews who are close to the Zealots and who never hesitate to use these weapons. During the meal I offered Judas a piece of bread from my dish, the traditional sign of friendship: he took it without a word, then suddenly got up and walked out of the upper room with a stony expression on his face.
The noose is tightening round my neck.
I have glimpsed the shadow of death.
I’m afraid.
Sharpened by the pressures of the last few days, perhaps released from its bonds by the strange silence that hangs over this garden, which is an island of tranquillity on the outskirts of the city and its throng of pilgrims, my memory relives various moments in my short life with extraordinary vividness. It is now clear that it is the culmination of an almost unbroken line of Jewish prophets. All of them tried to make the whisper of their prophet’s instinct heard, to act as a counterpoint to the mighty bellow of the Law. I so wanted to be the fulfilment of this line, for my life to bring ancient Israel to its consummation.
Consummate… the Greeks, whose language isn’t unfamiliar to me – in the Empire, everyone speaks some Greek – use the word plérōma. It has a sense of plenitude, of perfection (as well as the satisfaction that comes with it) that my native Aramaic isn’t able to express.
I wanted to bring the Law and the lives of the prophets to a state of perfection: but I failed. My whole life has been a failure. The most insignificant general of some Roman legion will have a longer entry in the official chronicles of the Empire than I will. A mere vagrant from a Jewish province in the back of beyond, if the Roman historians even refer to my death it will be as an afterthought, without the slightest notion of what it was that I was trying to be or to achieve.
Eventually, I suppose, people will think of writing an account of the life I led among them after meeting John the Baptist. Just as they passed me by during my lifetime, after I’m dead they will alter what I said and did to suit their personal hopes and ambitions. They might even go so far as to turn me into something I never was.
Knowing people as I do, I can imagine the result.
2
I have never liked Jerusalem, this arrogant city where they put prophets to death. Throughout my childhood, as well as during these last few months of turmoil and excitement when I really believed that I was going to be able to achieve this fulfilment, I walked past them on the hills of Galilee that surround the lake, which although usually calm and tranquil is prone to sudden storms.
My Galilee! So provincial, so isolated from Jerusalem, with its grating dialect that city dwellers poke fun at, its hills and caves where terrorists still have their hideouts today, just as they did in King David’s time. The pale, gentle gold of the crops in the fields, the warm water of the lake where my first companions earned their living! It wasn’t me who chose these fishermen, it was they who found me, or at least the first four did. Andrew, Peter, Philip, Nathanael and – even before Andrew – the Judaean. It was at the mouth of the Jordan, near where John the Baptist was living. Sometimes I have had to keep away from its banks, mostly to avoid the minions of that sly old fox, King Herod. But always I returned, as if irresistibly drawn to the reflection of the sky in the surface of the water.
This is where I was born, in Capernaum – not Bethlehem as some people might suppose. And not in Nazareth either, which is just an area of caves, where (according to legend) the earliest men used to live in prehistoric times. Nothing but caves, where a few poor wretches eke out an existence – but that isn’t what’s called a village, at least not in Israel.
Capernaum, where my father Joseph had a house and workshop, which I inherited when he died.
Because I’m the eldest: four brothers who never accepted my sudden decision to lead a life of wandering, who have never followed me, who did everything they could to make me come back and live at home – and rightly so. And sisters who don’t matter – for women don’t much matter in Jewish society.
Four brothers, James, Joses, Judas and Simon. And a mother.
When people talk about me in the future, my father will just be an obscure figure, a patronymic attached to my name – Jesus, son of Joseph. There will also be a dearth of information about my mother – for what is there to say about a woman who has always behaved as a widow is expected to behave in Israel, who doesn’t remarry and is obedient to the wishes of her eldest son, as she was to those of her late husband? As she has been to my younger brother James ever since I left the family home and ceased to be in charge of the workshop.
Ever since this life of wandering chose me, rather than me choosing it.
O Galilee of my childhood! A crossroads where all the peoples of the Orient constantly pass through, yet where Jewish farmers have stubbornly insisted on scratching out a living from the same plot of land for centuries, putting far more into it than they ever get in return. Within its wide, temperate horizons, the voice carries much farther than anywhere else. Being a craftsman and the son of a craftsman I have never worked the land, but it has provided me with many familiar images (as well as sounds and smells), all of which nurture a child’s inner life. Even when we were reasonably well off, due to the work we were doing during the rebuilding of Sepphoris, the region’s main city, I would still walk along the road with the people bringing in the harvest, as well as the grape-pickers on their way to the press and tenant farmers from the nearby farms.
Someone who has never experienced a rural life such as ours, cut off from Caesarea and Tiberias – idle, satin-clad cities – will never be able to understand my parables or the impression they made on the small farmers whom I grew up with. They were my first audience, the only ones who were prepared to listen to what I had to say. Every time I stood up to speak I made them mine, all those faces craning towards me, with their wrinkles and a certain look in their eye.
Not that they realized, but the words that seemed to flow from my mouth actually came from them, from expectations of theirs that are inseparable from the silence of the wilderness that has dwelt within me ever since I was by the Jordan.
Which is why I rarely spoke to them about God. That’s what the Scribes and dignitaries from the Temple are for, they who are always ready to pronounce the name of God. Along the byways and on the hilltops, on the narrow plains of Galilee, the people I met every day were similar to myself. No one has ever had to prove the existence, the reality of God to them, because it was engraved in the very fibre of their being. All that concerned them was finding the path that led to him, the shortest and most reliable route.
They never took me for just another Greek philosopher, one of the Cynics or Stoics who wander into our squares and marketplaces and proceed to talk a lot of hot air. Nor one of our theologians, who have so much to say on the subject of the Invisible. I had no new beliefs to expound, only fleeting yet vivid glimpses of my own experience, rooted as it is in that of the prophets of Israel, whether known or unknown.
I didn’t try to teach them a different way of thinking: little by little I introduced them to my deep, personal relationship with the God of Moses.
3
In Capernaum, the farmers and fishermen rub shoulders without ever really getting to know each other. Greedy and grasping, inseparable from their nets, often working all night long, the men who fish the lake have little time for those who work the land and go to bed with the sun. I sometimes heard talk of people known as Zealots, fanatical nationalists who were “zealous for God”. At the time they were regarded as common bandits, who were hunted down and taken to Jerusalem, where they were nailed onto crosses while still alive. In the
Galilee of King Herod Antipas, my brothers and I were never aware that we were living under Roman occupation – my childhood was unremarkable, the days and seasons came and went in an atmosphere of unruffled tranquillity. At that age I probably came closest to what is usually described as simple happiness.
As in all Jewish families, the focal point of our lives was our mother. Everything we had came from her, everything led us back to her. She protected us from the worst of all the dangers that hang over a small Galilean village: a bad name. I was brought up not to attract attention, to be well regarded, never to become the subject of gossip – to be afraid of what people might say, of disapproving looks, pointed remarks. A Jewish mother is the custodian of her family’s respectability, as well as, perhaps even more so, than its well-being, because worldly problems are generally only temporary, whereas a tarnished reputation stays with you to the grave.
My father Joseph was a devout Jew. It was his decision to take Nazirite vows, first for me and then for my brother James, which would encourage us to be pious later in life, to observe the purity laws. I stopped cutting my hair while I was still young; my flowing locks would be a reminder, both to me and to those around me, that I must never touch wine or lead a life of dissipation.
Overwhelmed by their sudden recovery, some of the people whose sufferings I eased proclaimed to all and sundry that I had learnt my art in Egypt, where my parents must have taken me soon after I was born. Unable to understand how the sickness had left their body, they insisted on regarding me as a sorcerer, like so many others in the region. I just let them say what they liked. Joseph make a journey to Egypt, when the farthest he had ever been was Sepphoris to the west and Jerusalem to the south? His horizons stretched no farther than his workshop, the village synagogue, his customers in the surrounding towns and our pilgrimages to the Temple – a narrowly circumscribed world, where I was expected to live out my life as well.
To carry on. To sink roots in the local community, like the cork oak trees that are embedded in the dry soil of the hills that slope gently down to the lake. To be known by everyone, greeted at every street corner as the respectable carpenter who can be relied upon to repair a roof or build a lean-to against the wall of a farmhouse. And also much in demand with his well-off customers, Jews and Romans alike, who by employing a small local craftsman can have villas built in Sepphoris or Tiberias at less expense. Respected come what may, because he was educated in the synagogue at Capernaum, the Beth ha-sefer, the House of the Book where the Pharisees hold sway.
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