The Silence of Gethsemane

by Michel Benoît

  “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them! For it is to such as these that the Kingdom of God belongs!”

  Children! They are the ones who run around gaily and unconstrainedly in village halls where feasts are held, climbing onto the host’s lap and cuddling up to him without a second thought! They are the living image of my Kingdom. But for my disciples as much as for my audience, it was a mirage on a distant horizon, and they showed no sign of wanting to set off along the road that led to it.

  So I was left alone to stare at the stars and dream.

  Then suddenly reality burst in, when some Pharisee friends came to warn me:

  “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you!”

  I would later discover that Herod – a slave to superstition and wracked with remorse for having had John the Baptist beheaded – believed I was the reincarnation of the prophet of the Jordan. He wanted to summon me before him so he could question me. The moment I was in his clutches it would be easy for the Sanhedrin to have me moved from Galilee to Jerusalem, where by now there was enough evidence against me for them to put me on trial. There was little doubt what the outcome would be.

  I had to escape, get across the border.

  The Evil One had gained the upper hand; from now on my life was in danger.

  Part III

  Born to Be Killed

  The flimsy but unyielding strands of the demon’s web.

  Rimbaud

  40

  Ever since the first day of creation, Evil has acted on the world stage.

  There isn’t a single deserted spot, not a blasted heath or corner of a crowded town or city where he doesn’t perform. Here he takes a pace back, there he skirts round an obstacle, attacks from the flank, from behind, from every direction. Down through the ages his victories have come in swift succession, he finds his way into the slightest crack, burrows and tears away at it until he makes it bigger, deeper. He weaves himself into the fabric of everyday life, creates its desires, its anxieties, its every act of brutality. He divides, destroys and demolishes, thriving on the chaos he has caused.

  Then he dances for joy in the ruins.

  Having tried to eliminate me when I was first in the wilderness, he revealed himself openly in the synagogue in Capernaum. In a sense, it was at that moment that we recognized each other. Ever since then I had come up against him constantly in people who were mentally ill, in the bedridden, the blind, those who were close to death, even in words that came from Peter’s mouth. It was an exhausting hand-to-hand combat.

  I thought I would win victories. Dredge the stream of prophecy that runs beside the great river of the Law, make the human heart its source; reveal who our neighbour is, that woman isn’t created to be ruled by man but to unite with him in carnal bliss; make happiness – not hellfire – the stuff out of which this new creation is woven; address God as Abba, replace fear with loving kindness.

  Reunify. Bring enemies together, unite neighbour with neighbour, man with woman, and each and every one of us with the Invisible. But the relentless dance of Evil shattered my dreams of unity. In the fight against Evil I would now be confronted with people in powerful positions; there was a chance I might be silenced, like John the Baptist. I think we were still on the Syrian border when I decided to tell my disciples one last parable, which would sum up everything that I had tried to explain to them about the Kingdom and about themselves, as well as about God.

  I asked them to gather round, as I had on that warm, sunny day beside a field in Galilee when everything still seemed possible, when I had spoken of sowing and reaping. They sat round me in a circle in the gathering dusk, along with one or two others. How far away it was, the time of multitudes beside the lake! And I began by saying:

  “There was a man who had two sons…”

  The man was wealthy. One day, out of the blue, the younger of his sons asked for his share of the property that he would one day inherit. Saddened, the father couldn’t refuse, and his son left the family home. He wanted to travel to distant lands, experience life, but he would squander his money on extravagant living… And his father guessed right. Because after a while, the young man found that both his pockets and his belly were empty. In order to survive he hired himself out to a farmer, looking after pigs.

  The power of parables! In the lengthening shadows I could see the faces of the people around me beginning to fall as I described the son’s sorry state, how he would have been happy to eat the swill that he poured into the troughs, how he missed his father’s house where the hired hands were treated better than he was now. In the depths of despair he decided to go home and face his father’s anger. What would he say in his defence? He would admit his guilt. He would accept the punishment he was given, he deserved it, it was only right. And he worked out what he would say, learnt it off by heart:

  “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me like one of your hired hands.”

  From the look in the Twelve’s eyes I could tell that they were picturing the scene, the young fellow in rags, trudging barefoot along the road, repeating his plea over and over so he didn’t forget it… He was going to be put through the mill, that was for sure, humiliated, rebuked by his father – and rightly so! They were waiting to hear what would happen next, hanging on my every word like in the early days in Galilee.

  But during all the time he had been away, the father, who was consumed with worry, had never stopped looking out for him. His heart was bleeding, he wanted only one thing in the whole world, for his son to come back. Then one day, in the shimmering heat in the distance he saw a figure that looked like one of the many vagrants who passed by that way, and immediately knew it was him.

  “He was filled with compassion, and ran and put his arms around him and kissed him!”

  Surprised by the unexpected ending, my disciples were wondering what the wretched young man would say. He would hang his head in shame and begin the little speech that he had memorized:

  “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son…”

  But his father stopped him, put his hand over his mouth so he couldn’t finish what he was saying: Not one more word, he said, I know, I imagined it all, the hardships, the suffering, the shame. Eyes welling with tears of joy, he turned to his servants, who had come to revel in the young master’s sorry state, watch him being punished.

  “Quickly!” he said. “Bring out a robe – the best one – and put it on him! And then get me a ring to put on his finger, and… sandals for his feet! And then…”

  And then they had to go to the herd and pick out the fattest calf, and kill it, and then prepare…

  “And then let us eat and celebrate! For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!”

  In the dark of evening I could see the Twelve’s eyes shining brightly. There was no such thing as a dead end, there was always the joy of being reborn into God’s loving kindness, a feast that lasted for all eternity! As I was speaking I was filled with the same compassion as the father, felt my eyes filling with his tears.

  When I had finished, I realized I would never be able to tell them any more than this. If they hadn’t understood tonight, then perhaps after I was dead they might remember this parable.

  Because of Herod’s police, when we got back to the lake we kept ourselves to ourselves. Some of my Pharisee friends came to see me. I was wise to keep out of sight; in Jerusalem, my defence of the woman who had committed adultery had been rejected, it was possible that the Pharisees and the Sadducees would join forces against me. Here, on the other hand, I was perfectly safe, people in Galilee were as quick to forget as they were to flare up. The crowds had stopped coming to listen to me, so if I kept quiet I would have nothing to fear.

  Should I heed their advice? Is a prophet born to stay in hiding, smother the flames of his teaching for fear they might burn him? If I refused to concede d
efeat, then I alone would suffer the consequences. I didn’t have children to watch grow up, no wife to look after, no mother to cosset, no brothers any more; no friends around me, just supporters and opponents.

  Perhaps not even any disciples.

  On another occasion I had just been telling them about the very real danger I was in, hoping to get a few crumbs of comfort, perhaps some fellow feeling from them. I think we were either at Zebedee’s house or somewhere nearby, when I saw his two sons, James and John, the Boanerges, coming towards me. In full view of everyone they took me to one side.

  “Rabbi,” they said, loudly enough for the others to hear, “we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.”

  “You want!… And what is it you want me to do for you?”

  “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.”

  Poor souls! They were still drifting around in the murky backwaters of their imaginings. They had no idea what they were asking. If the future held anything for me, it was less likely to be power and glory than it was a very bitter cup: were they able to drink it too? Certainly, they replied, with staggering self-confidence that only went to show how out of touch they were with reality – and with their rabbi. But the other ten came and put a stop to our private conversation: they had heard everything, and they weren’t about to let this conniving pair manipulate their way into the two senior positions without doing something about it!

  Taken aback, I walked away and left them to shout and argue. Zebedee’s wife immediately seized her chance, taking her sons’ place and begging me on bended knees to help secure their advancement. So behind each of my disciples loomed an extended family whose members had only one thing in mind – to use me to procure preferential treatment for them, create a brighter future.

  No longer were the Twelve content to imagine what it would be like to occupy the best positions, they were fighting among themselves to get their hands on them.

  I glanced at Judas. Iscariot didn’t say a word, he wasn’t going to get involved with their dispute.

  41

  In this wake-like atmosphere there were still one or two dignitaries who came to see me, almost covertly. Such as the Scribe from Galilee who claimed that he would follow me wherever I went. I replied that foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but that I didn’t even have a stone on which to lay my head. He nodded in dignified fashion, and I never saw him again.

  Another episode springs to mind, one that is indicative of the sense of abandonment and euphoria with which Jews are simultaneously afflicted. Seeing me walking past, an elegantly dressed young man rushed over and prostrated himself in front of me. I helped him up and asked what he wanted. From his candid manner I could tell straight away that he was from a good family, had had an excellent education and would inherit a fortune.

  “Good Rabbi, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

  At the very first word my hackles rose. Good was one of the ways in which cultured Jews refer to God so as not to use his name. He received a terse reply:

  “Why do you call me ‘Good’? No one is Good but God alone!”

  There were any number of people like this in Israel, confused, noble-minded and gullible, quick to idolize the first passer-by who was able to catch their attention and entice them away to some Eldorado. Never would I be a god, not for him or for anyone else. Before even answering his question I wanted him to understand this, even if it meant hurting his feelings. But seeing his confusion I controlled myself; after all he was only a child, he couldn’t help being naive:

  “You know the commandments…”

  And I listed some of the precepts of the Law, particularly the honour that he owed his parents. For him, no one could take their place in his heart.

  “Rabbi,” he answered, “I have kept all these since my childhood.”

  I looked into his eyes. They were so unclouded, as clear and fresh as a mountain stream! If I had had a son I would have liked him to be like this; a son who, like me, would give up the comforts of home to follow in my footsteps, carry on with and complete what I had set out to do… Almost fondly, I told him something that was quite unthinkable: that he had been given everything in life, and had done all that Judaism asks of the Righteous. To be able to go into the feast, he lacked only one thing, that utter receptivity which is found in children:

  “Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor; then come, follow me!”

  Anxiously I waited for him to reply. Was he prepared to go that far?

  His eyes clouded over, his face lost its serene expression. Then slowly he turned and walked away, eyes downcast.

  Now I have nothing more to look forward to in life, the thought of the young man who aroused the very feelings of affection that I had chosen to put behind me, the image of him bowed beneath the burden of his wealth weighs heavily on me, like remorse that is too great to bear. So was it impossible for some people to enter the Kingdom, as difficult as it is to thread a needle?

  I have to believe that for God nothing is impossible.

  Tonight, I owe it to myself to believe it.

  These painful memories have shaken me out of the listlessness that was gradually taking hold of me in the cool night air. I am not in Galilee now, but in the olive grove, looking across at the walls of Jerusalem and the Temple in the light of a full, Passover moon. How long have I been here, keeping watch? On the other side of the Kidron Valley, the sound of the crowds seems to be fading into the darkness, it must be late by now.

  Why hasn’t the Judaean come to find us? What unforeseen event has upset the insane plans that he was telling me about earlier this evening? It’s as clear as daylight now. I duck under the branches and go over to my disciples. They’re still asleep in the clearing, lying at the base of the trees like dead leaves. I’m not going to wake them. If it is to be tonight, then there is nothing more that they or I can do. All we can do is wait.

  I’ve come back to the friendly tree, to lean against it. There is still time for me to be alone with my thoughts, with the dark of the night.

  42

  During this dormant period far away from Jerusalem I had time to withdraw into myself, to reflect on Hillel’s enigmatic words: “If we are not here, who is here? And if we are here, who is here?”

  It is only now that I am able to understand what he meant. Who is God? Who is He? A Jew never asks this question, He is just here. The proof of God’s existence lies in creation itself, the heavens that tell of His glory. Yet this is also evidence that the Jew himself exists, that he stands before the star-studded firmament.

  When I was in the wilderness, this fact had struck me very forcefully: if I wasn’t here, face to face with myself as well as with Him, then God didn’t exist. Later I became aware of the new relationship that had grown up between Him and me.

  If I am here, then it is He that is within me, father and mother at once. The Kingdom is a constant interaction with a familiar God – an impulse that was followed by all the prophets.

  For the Pharisees, however, God has come to live on earth in a house, the Temple in Jerusalem. His ineffable Glory – the Shekhinah – dwells there physically, in a hidden cavity in the Holy of Holies. It is the only place where it is possible for the divine and the human to meet. In our language we use the word moed, which means both meeting and feast. When I told people that they must be aware who their neighbour was, I was giving them a foretaste of this feast, and thus fulfilling the word of the Jewish prophets.

  Now that my disciples had lost interest, and I found myself in conflict with the authorities as well as abandoned by the crowds in Galilee, this feast was something I could experience only inwardly, in the silent chamber of my heart. It was almost Passover, the third since I left the Jordan. Regardless of the risks, it was in the Temple that I had to celebrate something that for me was now little more than the ghost of a festival.

  It was then I received word that Lazarus was ill; his sisters were as
king me to come to him in the house in Bethany that was now a second home for me. But I hesitated: I still had the respect of a few Pharisees here in Galilee, there was my family, and if the crowds no longer flocked to hear me as they once had, they hadn’t actually turned against me. Whereas by going to Jerusalem I would be walking straight into what John the Baptist called the fiery furnace. So should I declare the contest open, put my head into the lion’s mouth?

  For two whole days I didn’t do anything, as if powerless to make a decision. If Mary and Martha had sent for me, it was because Lazarus was dying. Yet I sensed that my own journey was coming to an end as well. Pursued by Herod, disowned by the Sanhedrin, if I did go, the only way to save my life would be to yield to them publicly. But had any of the prophets of Israel ever yielded?

  After two days, the decision took itself. I called my disciples and told them:

  “We are going back to Judaea.”

  “Rabbi,” they objected, “the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?”

  They were right. The stones that had been piled up ready for the adulteress would still be there, beside the Temple esplanade. Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills prophets and stones those who are sent to it! We were on a hillside overlooking the lake. I took one last look at the gently rolling landscape, the fishermen’s houses with their roofs made of branches, the little boats drawn up on the shore. I saw myself as a child, running through the narrow streets and alleyways of Capernaum, evenings spent in the warm, damp air that rose from the still water, my mother crouched over the fireplace whose flames cast red shadows over her face… But I hadn’t come into the world to live a life of tranquillity.