The Silence of Gethsemane

by Michel Benoît

  The next day I set off for Jerusalem. A group of people from the village came part of the way with me. When they turned to go back, I said solemnly:

  “Prophets are not without honour, except in their home town, and among their own kin, and in their own house.”

  Home town, kin, house: in this land of honour and dishonour I was openly admitting that I had lost the three things that lie at the heart of every Jew.

  Along the way we heard the terrible news – John the Baptist had been arrested by Herod’s police and imprisoned in the fortress of Machaerus. Knowing how easily influenced the King was, and how much his wife hated the Baptist, we all knew what it meant: within a few weeks, perhaps a few days, the voice of this great prophet would be silenced for ever.

  21

  Tonight, although I am aware of the distance I have travelled from the banks of the Jordan to the quiet of this garden and its kindly olive trees, I no longer remember the order in which my stays in Galilee actually happened. When I got to Jerusalem I would be seeing the Judaean again, and I admit that the prospect dispelled my sadness at the loss of my master, as well as finding myself an outcast in the place where I grew up.

  The city was the same as ever, its throng of pilgrims, idlers and priests rubbing shoulders with the Roman soldiers who quietly strolled the streets. Since the rebellion led by Judas of Galilee twenty years earlier, the region had enjoyed a period of peace that no one wanted to see come to an end. I met my friend just outside the western part of town where he lived, and explained that I wanted to stay for a few days: where could I find accommodation for my disciples and myself? He suggested I go with him to Bethany, a village less than three kilometres away. He knew a wealthy landowner there whose property, which was close to Jerusalem without being too close, would provide the peace and quiet I was looking for.

  Lazarus gave me a warm welcome, perhaps more than customary Jewish hospitality required. The Judaean had already told him about me, as he had Nicodemus. He said I could stay as long as I liked, that from now on I should treat his home as my own. His sister Martha, who never seemed to rest, acted as mistress of the household and looked after the domestic affairs. Lazarus had a great many clients and colleagues in Jerusalem, and she made it a point of honour to entertain them royally. Mary, his other sister, wasn’t as assertive as Martha, and seemed to be constantly at her beck and call. This traditional family were soon quite attached to me, and it became my second home, taking the place of the one I had lost.

  In Jerusalem no one found it unusual that a disciple of John the Baptist, particularly one who was a Nazarene, didn’t offer sacrifices at the Temple, although it was the done thing at least to put in an appearance during major religious festivals, which for me was an opportunity to remind myself of my ordinary Jewish roots, something I enjoyed. The Judaean showed me round his native city, which he knew like the back of his hand. As it was the Sabbath, would I like to go to the bathhouse with him, a Roman habit that sat well with the old Jewish tradition of ritual cleansing? He took me to the pool of Beth-zatha, an enormous public baths in a lush green spot just outside the walls, by the Sheep Gate.

  Around the pool itself were five porticos, beneath which lay many invalids – blind, lame and paralysed. With a smile, the Judaean told me that these poor souls were waiting for the water – which came from a deep source – to start bubbling: it was commonly believed that at this moment an angel of God went down to the pool. Whoever stepped in first after the stirring of the water was made whole, freed from whatever disease they had. It was evidence not only of the power that superstition had over these desperate people, but also of that of the healers who took advantage of this obscurantism, to which their fellow elite, the priests, turned a blind eye.

  Lying on a mat in the midst of all the suffering humanity on display in the shade of the porticos was a paralysed man who kept staring at me. I asked someone nearby about him, and they said the man had been coming there every day for the last thirty-eight years. I caught his eye: in it was written the tragedy of a life spent waiting, which filled me with compassion. I asked him:

  “Do you want to be made well?”

  As always I made sure to use the passive form, which leaves the salvation of the body or soul firmly in God’s hands. Probably noticing that I wasn’t claiming to heal him with a charm or magic spell like the others, he replied resignedly:

  “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up, and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me.”

  So for thirty-eight years this man’s life had been made up of wishing and hoping! Without ever losing faith in God, he had waited for his appeal to be heard. And I had the vast yet tenuous power to tell him that today his wait was over, that his years of perseverance had healed him inwardly – the fact that his paralysis had gone attested to the depth of his faith. So as not to be overheard, I leant forward and said:

  “Stand up, take your mat and walk.”

  Without replying he stood up, put his mat under his arm and headed towards the main door.

  Beside me, the Judaean had witnessed everything. Taking me by the arm, he dragged me behind a nearby pillar. After recent events in Galilee, it would be best if this healing were attributed to the angel of God rather than to me. On his way out, the former paralytic was quickly surrounded by the crowd. An argument was already underway, and a loud, imperious voice drifted across to where we were standing:

  “It is the Sabbath; it is not lawful for you to carry your mat!”

  It was some dignitary or other, using a visit to the baths to remind everyone of their legal obligations on this hallowed of days. Listening hard, I just caught the last few words of what was being said. The paralytic was standing up for himself:

  “The man who made me well said to me, ‘Take up your mat and walk!’”

  “Who is the man who said to you, ‘Take it up and walk’?”

  The paralytic looked round. He didn’t know who it was, for his healer had disappeared into the crowd.

  The next day I saw him in the Temple, where he had made a sacrifice to bear witness to his healing. As I walked over he recognized me.

  “See, you have been made well,” I whispered in his ear. “Do not sin any more, so that nothing worse happens to you.”

  Once again I had weighed my words. If he had been made well it was because he was ready. Yet he had to remain on guard: against Evil no victory is ever final. But, probably still under the influence of Jewish superstitions, he didn’t seem to hear me, because the next moment he went over to a group of worthies and pointed me out.

  The Judaean urged me to leave the Temple precincts, in fact the city immediately, even to avoid Galilee until people (in Jerusalem as well as by the lake) had forgotten about all the times I had contravened the laws of the Sabbath.

  Once we had crossed the Jordan, we headed along the east bank towards the area of the Decapolis, taking care not to come into contact with the local population, who were mostly Gentiles. This was the first time I had had to hide, to flee the authorities. It wouldn’t be the last.

  But tonight, in the light of the paschal moon, I am fleeing no longer.

  22

  I think we had just arrived in Galilee when some of the Baptist’s disciples caught up with us. They brought a message from their master, who had sent them to ask me:

  “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” In the depths of his dungeon, this is what he wanted to know.

  John’s question was a sign of inner lassitude. What could I say to the man who had witnessed my conversion in the wilderness, and was now trying to catch a last glimmer of hope in the dark night of his soul, as well as that of Israel, before he died? As it happened, there were some sick people among the small crowd who had gathered to listen to me. Witnessed by John’s messengers, who could hear what I was saying, I sent them away whole.

  “Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their si
ght, the lame walk, and the poor have good news brought to them!”

  As usual I was careful not to tell the prisoner in Machaerus that it was me who gave the blind their sight, me who caused the lame to walk, but that I had simply been present when these healings took place. Even my teaching, which was now departing more and more from his own, was not truly mine: the good news was brought to the poor, it was between them and God.

  John would understand.

  But it was too late. Not long afterwards, news of the death of the bare-chested prophet spread across the whole country – with gruesome details of the furtive and shameful way in which his head had been severed from his body in a dark cellar then presented on a platter to Herod, who was feasting with his court.

  The Evil One had won this battle.

  It affected me even more deeply than my disciples. With John dead, Elijah’s mantle had to be picked up from the pool of blood where it lay. I owed it to my master, to myself and to every Jew. Assuming this mantle would mean teaching, first and foremost throughout the length and breadth of Galilee, where I would have to travel constantly in order to make my voice heard.

  And why not Judaea? Even Jerusalem? Perhaps, but that would come later. What of healings? For me, these weren’t performed with a view to establishing my reputation, but to bring about something entirely new, not simply to restore a few individuals to health. I was well aware that what attracted people’s attention were so-called miracles – how could it be otherwise? Yet I knew that my word alone could give meaning to these different healings.

  Teaching… With John dead, I was no longer bound inwardly by the vow of loyalty and respect that a disciple owes his master. I could find my own style, give voice to what had been simmering away inside me since my time in the wilderness. What of the Pharisees and their dialectics? I had shown what little regard I had for the fetters of their tradition. In the end it would come down to a confrontation between them and myself, that was inevitable – but I would deal with that when the time came! “Never cut yourself off from the people,” was what Hillel said. I had to create a language that was both ancient and modern, one that could be understood by everyone, whatever their level of education and culture, ordinary people as well as the intelligentsia. A universal language, with enough depth so people could use it to shine light on their dreams, discover different viewpoints that matched their individual needs, and which would bring them to the gates of the Ineffable – beyond which everyone must travel alone.

  From now on the form of my teaching would be something I had to consider in incisive detail.

  New wine must be put in new wineskins.

  Part II

  Born to Be Reborn

  Pray that all this good of ours might turn to evil,

  And all the evil to good…

  Saint-John Perse

  23

  From the saddles of their camels, the nomadic Arabs, whose way of life takes them all over the Mediterranean region, have always looked down somewhat pityingly on my fellow countrymen, whose backs are constantly bent over their hoes. Natural traders, their hands are always on their swords, ready to raid and plunder under the remorseless desert sun. These warriors and profiteers have nothing but contempt for the Jews, who are chained to the ploughshare. Besides, the colourful peasant dialect that these clodhoppers speak doesn’t lend itself to commerce, does it?

  So how could I communicate with these hard-working sons of the soil? First I had to tell them they were like the salt that they dug up in blocks from the ravines, where they knew it was to be found. A mere pinch was enough to flavour the food on their table, while a handful would preserve the fish they caught in the lake almost indefinitely. I had to teach them to love themselves again, remind them that since the time of Abraham, Jacob and Moses they had been the custodians of a divine promise that is only as enduring as their faith.

  Then I would liken them to the only oil lamp in their dilapidated hovels, which they didn’t light just to hide it under the bushel basket that they use to measure grain. Despite their being disheartened at having their hopes constantly dashed, weighed down by their narrow existence, I would tell them that they could still be a light to shine forth before people everywhere, simply by the radiance of their everyday acts.

  I would give them back their self-confidence, remind them that no Jew is ordinary, because he bears within him, engraved in his very being, the mark of God’s creative act and his call to be reunited with him. I began to realize that my healings were more than just acts of compassion – better than any speech, they demonstrated how I meant to leave John the Baptist’s pessimistic vision behind. Unlike him I hadn’t come to proclaim a desolating fire, the end of the world in a fiery furnace, but a new creation like the one at the beginning of time: a rebirth.

  To be born again: as Nicodemus had sensed, this was exactly what my teaching had to offer to a people whose heart and soul were diseased. To stay the same, while becoming a new person. Never denying what had gone before, yet going beyond it. Now I was a wandering prophet: I wouldn’t only speak in order to impart, to tell things as they were and how they came to be. What I said had to bring into being something that didn’t exist, or at least not yet. For a Jew, to speak is to create – pronouncing the name of something that is only a hope or an expectation, transforms it into a reality.

  Despite their unshakeable sense of exclusivity, the Jews have been influenced by initiatory religions whose origins lie in the East. Unlike the uninitiated, the neophyte is no longer blinded by the bright light of the mystery; he enters into its depths, and the scales of doubt fall from his eyes.

  Yet by opening up the gates of knowledge, initiation destroys the mystery itself.

  I had to lead the people who listened to me to the threshold of the mystery that had been revealed to me in the wilderness, while preserving it in its inviolate state. The One God has no name, words cannot describe or tell of Him. By forever pontificating about God, the Scribes shroud the mystery in a web of dialectic, each strand of which blocks off the path that leads to its meaning rather than opening it up.

  Instead, my words would be like a mirror, which would take my audience back to the source of the light without dazzling them. By its very simplicity and clarity, this original meaning would reveal many others, all as varied and unfathomable as human nature itself.

  Yet by simply making assertions, I risked overestimating the unique calling of the men and women who sat listening to me. What I had to do was not proclaim, but evoke, not reveal but propose.

  Our rabbis prefer to teach by way of short, succinct maxims. This is suited to a culture where nothing is written down; they can be passed on down the ages, never at risk from fire or damp – unlike parchment or papyrus, those luxuries reserved for the wealthy, and as insubstantial as their wealth.

  These maxims represent the library of the poor, who preserve them on the bookshelves of their memories. Yet even if a maxim is inscribed in the mind, a parable surpasses it by appealing to the imagination, casts a spell over all who hear it.

  I can’t remember when this certainty first dawned on me, but it transformed the way I taught.

  Without disregarding maxims, from now on I would teach in parables.

  More than any Jew had done before.

  We were walking along one of the stony paths that run beside the crops in our part of the world. A farmer was scattering seed far and wide across the ploughed earth of his field. The birds were eyeing his every move, and he kept shouting to scare them away, so they didn’t take their share of the seed as soon as it landed. The sun was high in the sky, blazing fiercely in the still air.

  From this familiar, everyday sight came the first of my parables. Asking the small crowd who were with me to sit down beside the track, I pointed to the man, striding out across his field.

  “Listen! A sower went out to sow…”

  I showed them the seed that had fallen by the wayside, which the birds swooped down and ate. Then the seed that fell amo
ng the stones that were dotted across the field – it would spring up quickly but wouldn’t take root. And the seed that fell among the thorns that the farmer hadn’t bothered to pull up – and which would grow tall and choke it. I pointed to the next field, which had been sown not long before, where the young shoots had no depth of soil and were scorching in the sun. Finally I painted a picture of the ripe, fat, healthy ears of corn that would eventually grow out of the good soil, but which were still just a distant hope.

  Amazed to hear something as commonplace as sowing seeds treated in such a theatrical way, they turned to me, expecting to be told the real meaning. So I exclaimed:

  “Let anyone with ears to hear listen!”

  Yet did they actually have ears? Judging by their reactions, the blank expressions, the disgruntled looks, I could see they didn’t – they had listened but not heard. They expected much more from the gifted young rabbi whose fame was spreading by the day than a description of a field, a detailed commentary on a ploughman at work!

  Some of them shrugged, then got up and walked away.

  From the questions asked by those who remained, it was clear that all they had grasped from the parable was the moral behind it. Some of them compared themselves with the stony ground, others with that by the wayside, with the good soil or the poor; what they saw in these images was a reflection of themselves, whether flattering or unflattering. Having stopped at the signpost they hadn’t even noticed which direction it was pointing in – that very few seeds ever fall into good soil and bear fruit. That many were the stumbling blocks, the risks and dangers. That in a sense the seed had to work with the soil in its struggle to survive.

  That being born again required an effort, that it would take time; that they shouldn’t expect help from me or anyone else, that everything had to come from them.

  Some of the local Pharisees were there. From their worried expressions I could tell that these experts were busy pondering another matter, one they considered fundamental. Some rabbis also tell little stories which stick in people’s minds, but it is always a way of illustrating or interpreting the Law. However, because the parable I told about the sower stood on its own, the authority of its teaching derived from the fact that it was self-evident. Everywhere I went in Galilee, this subtle argument was just one of many with which they would take issue. It was part of a case file that was being built up, and which was already lying on the desk of the Pharisees in Jerusalem, waiting to be dealt with.