Centurion: Mark's Gospel as a Thriller (23 page)

I'm losing my mind. I'm not the true messiah; I can't be, because that title belongs to someone else. This epiphany both confounds me and brings me the
greatest comfort I've known. Because if it's true, then the true messiah will do what must be done. Which means I'm free to love and be loved in return—something I'm finally ready to do.

If only I can find Maria.

It's late now, and the streets are thin as people head home to prepare for the festival. I'm so exhausted that I slump down on the corner of a dimly lit street. The pavement is wet from a light but hot evening shower. I've just eaten a heavy meal of pasta and drunk far too much white wine. I lie back against the wet concrete, and the buildings above my head spin wildly. I close my eyes and hope to pass out quickly.

That's when I hear her laugh—the one I would recognize from the grave. My eyes pop open, and I spring to my feet.

She laughs again.

There! At the end of the street, I see a woman tossing back black hair. Then she disappears into a building, followed closely by a giant. I slip and fall on the wet concrete, landing hard on my aching wrist. Cursing, I climb back to my feet and continue to run, my arm throbbing with pain, my stomach nauseous. "Maria!" I scream. "Wait! Maria! Wait!"

But she's already gone. At the end of the street, I lunge for the door she disappeared through and fling it open. The doorway leads into a small stairwell that takes me down several floors beneath the street's surface. At the bottom I find another door, but it's locked.

I bang furiously on the thick wood, crying out Maria's name. It doesn't open. I bang harder and louder, my voice reaching a crescendo of fury and urgency.

It still doesn't open.

I pull my gun and prepare to shoot through the door.

The lock turns, and the door inches open. "Who's there?" comes a hostile voice.

"Maria?" I slur. "It's me, Deacon! Maria!"

"Deacon?" the voice says. "Where on earth have you been?" The door swings wide, and Miles welcomes me into the room. I stow the gun in my waistband and stumble into the cramped chamber, ignoring him as he tries to hug me.

They're all here. The Teacher. The students. An angry Jude. Even Alejandro sits furtively in the corner of the room, avoiding eye contact with me. In this small room, he appears even larger, like an adult sitting in a child's make-believe house. There's another face in the group, one I immediately recognize. It's the scarred face of the leper whom the Teacher healed the first night I met him in the park.

All of them are seated at a U-shaped table.

All of them but Maria, that is. I feverishly scan the room but don't see her. I look again, inspecting each face carefully, but she's nowhere to be found. "Where is she?" I ask.

Only the leper speaks to me. "Welcome to my home. May I offer you some water? You look thirsty."

"Where's Maria?"

Then she appears, standing before the Teacher, a dripping sponge in her hands. She's even more gorgeous than I remembered her in my dreams. She tilts her toward me but doesn't smile.

She's crying; thick tears smear heavy makeup I've never seen her wear. She's dressed in a simple but elegant white gown and is done up as if she were getting married. Her face, however, couldn't be further from that of a blushing bride; it's the longest, saddest face in the world.

I rush to her side, clumsily stumbling past the others. I failed Maria the last time she stood before me. I treated her as a little boy might and not a man. I won't make the same mistake twice.

"Maria," I say, wrapping my arms tightly around her. "My Maria," I whisper into her ear. "You came. You came to the Holy City."

A warm, thick liquid drips from her sponge, wetting my clothes. She says, "I thought something happened to you. I thought you did something—something foolish—and the Kingdom snatched you away."

"Never," I say. "They'll never take me away from you. Where have you been?" I'm fully aware that every man in the room, including the Teacher, is listening to our conversation, but I don't care. All that matters is that Maria is here and knows of my love, my loyalty to her.

"Here," Maria replies, as if her answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "I've been here with the Teacher and my brothers. Where else would I be?" She wipes her face. "We've been looking for you."

My eyes dart to Alejandro then back to her.

"No," she says decisively, reading my mind. That does it for me. Nothing more needs to be said of him. Maria is mine.

"I've been looking for you," I say. "I was terrified the Kingdom kidnapped you in Oxford."

"Why would the Kingdom kidnap me?"

I start to answer then think better of it. "Forget it. All that matters is you're safe."

"We need to talk," Maria says, "but first there's something I must do." She releases me and drops to her knees before the Teacher. She takes his head in her hands and tilts him forward. He gives himself to her. Then she takes the sponge, dips it into a jar of oil sitting on the floor, and begins to wash his head. She works her fingers slowly from the crown outward, methodically working the oil into every pore of his scalp.

The Teacher groans and breathes out deeply in satisfaction. I suddenly feel as though my eyes are trespassing onto sacred ground. I look at the other men. They appear tense and confused.

"What are you doing?" I ask Maria.

"Shut up!" Petra orders. "Take a seat, Deacon, and be quiet."

"I don't understand. What's happening?"

Miles stands up, takes me by the shoulder, and leads me to a seat at the table. I'm too tired and tipsy to resist him. I sit in a stunned stupor for what feels like a very long time as Maria anoints the Teacher's head. The sweet scent of the oil wafts through the room, as do the Teacher's sighs and soft cries.

There are rare moments in life of inexplicable beauty, times when you know something significant is happening but you don't understand its power.

This moment is such a time. I don't know what my precious Maria has done, but I know it matters; I know it is of monumental importance for both her and the Teacher who saved her life. I don't understand it, but I'm smart enough to respect it and keep my mouth closed.

Jude slams his fists on the tabletop. "Why was the ointment wasted in this way? That oil is insanely expensive! That jar costs more Worlds than the average American makes in a year. We could have sold that jar and given the money to the poor." Turning to Maria, he adds, "You,
woman,
should be ashamed of
yourself for being so wasteful. Surely you must know the Teacher would have preferred the money to be spent elsewhere."

"Leave her alone," the Teacher says in a tender voice. "She has performed a good service for me."

"And why is that?" I say, genuinely curious. "What purpose does this serve?"

The Teacher puts a finger on Maria's chin. "You'll always have the poor with you, and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish, but you won't always have me. She has done what she could. She has anointed my body beforehand for its burial."

The room issues a collective gasp.

"Burial!" Petra exclaims. "What burial? There will be no burial!"

The Teacher leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. "Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her."

Jude slaps a cup of water and sends it flying across the room. He kicks his chair back and rockets upward. "I've heard enough! Deacon, we're leaving. Let's go."

I don't move. Instead I wait. I wait for Maria to turn and ask me to stay. I wait for her to step away from the Teacher and come to me. I won't force her. I won't even ask. She must choose. I wait.

A second ticks by. Then another. And another. And another.

"Deacon," Jude says, "we need to go—right now."

I stand but make no movement to leave. Time stands still. Finally Maria lifts her head and says, "I love you, Deacon, but if you must go, you must go."

"Come with me," I say, choking on the word. "Come."

Maria tucks her long her hair behind her ears, walks gracefully across the room, and takes me in her arms. It's the loveliest moment of my life. She squeezes my face tenderly before running her hands around my neck and down the length of my back, scratching delicately until her fingers find the hard ridges of the gun.

She freezes, as if turned to stone. In a confused whisper, she says, "You. promised me."

"I did. I mean, I tried to get rid of it, but something happened. It's what I've been trying to tell you."

"Talk to me, Deacon. Tell me now!" She tries hard to look hopeful, but I can see how deeply hurt she is. I've betrayed her. She knows I wouldn't have left with her that day, even if Alejandro hadn't shown up. She knows I'm a liar.

I glance furtively at the other men in the room. "Are you serious? Here? Maybe we should go outside?"

"I'm not the only person in this room who loves you. We all do. Whatever's going on with you, you can say it here. Let us help you. Let
me
help you. Let the Teacher help you."

Miles interjects, "You're our brother, Deacon. What do you need?"

The door opens behind me, and Jude says, "Now or never, Deacon."

"It's early," I say to Jude. "We still have time."

"But not long," the Teacher says from his seat. "Our hours run late, and the Son of Man will soon be betrayed." He smiles warmly at me. "But Deacon, I'm so happy you've rejoined us. Will you stay for supper?"

I glance back at Jude. "I know where to find you."

"Teacher?" Jude says, disgusted with me. "Will you be in the garden tonight for prayer?"

The corners of the Teacher's mouth sink down. He wants to keep smiling but clearly can't. "I will, and you, my dear Jude, should join me."

Jude exits without another word. I slip my hand into Maria's and take my place at the Teacher's table.

It's the greatest meal of my life. Not the food—the food and wine are simple. It's the community, the experience of sitting at a table with my brothers and the woman I love. It's the knowledge that these people love me, that I'm not alone in this world.

It's the fellowship, the primeval voice whispering that most sacred of truths. People—all people—have a place at the table; we are one. It's the message of the Teacher I'm finally, at last, beginning to understand; no one is excluded from his table. Not even his betrayers. Not even his enemies.

I once heard the Teacher say we should love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. I didn't understand him then, and I'm not sure I do
now, but somehow, in some way, this meal is connected with that teaching. It must be. Otherwise I wouldn't be sitting here.

Maria and I share few words during the meal, but when I put my hand on her knee, she doesn't push it away. Later, when I slide it farther up her leg, she interlocks her fingers with mine.

The Teacher takes bread from the table, lifts it high, and blesses it. Then he breaks it and passes it around the table, saying, "Take; this is my body."

We pass the bread, each of us tearing off a piece and eating it. When this is done, the Teacher raises his glass of wine and says, "This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many." He tips the glass back and drinks deeply from it. Then he says, "Truly I tell you, I never again will drink of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God."

We raise our glasses and toast his exciting promise.

"Wait. Before you drink from your own cup," the Teacher says, "drink first from mine." He passes his cup to Petra, who drinks from it and passes it to Miles. Then Miles passes it to Maria, and Maria to me. And around the table it goes.

Each person raises the cup and drinks the wine. When the cup finds its way back to the Teacher, he places it on the table. "Let us sing a hymn to praise the one true God," he says. "Maria, would you be so kind?"

Immediately Maria begins to sing in her raspy, sultry voice.

The Lord is my light and my salvation

Whom then shall I fear?

The Lord is the strength of my life.

Of whom then shall I be afraid?

The others join her, but I don't sing. Instead I reflect on the Teacher, who sings with his eyes closed. Until this night I haven't known what to make of him. To be honest, I still don't. But I do know this; he's not the messiah we expected, but I'm beginning to suspect he's the messiah we need. My father used to say our greatness is defined by how we treat the weakest among us. I wonder what my father would have made of this man who refuses to ignore the suffering of those around him. This man who lifts up the downtrodden. This man who breaks bread and drinks wine with his friends
and
his enemies.

When evildoers came upon me to eat up my flesh,
it was they,

my foes and my adversaries,
who stumbled and fell.

Though an army should encamp against me,
yet my heart shall not be afraid.

And though war should rise up against me,
yet will I put my trust in him.

I'm singing now with the others, praying to God these words may be true in my life. I've been scared for a long time. That's the truth. And only two things have made me feel better—revenge and Maria.

Not prayer. In fact, as the words pour out of my mouth, I realize this is the first time I've prayed since my parents' death. I don't know why that is, but I find it troubling.

One thing I have asked of the Lord,
one thing I seek,

that I may dwell in the house of the Lord
all the days of my life.

The song ends, and the Teacher stands. The rest of us follow. The mood of the room has been transformed from when I first stumbled in. Gone is the jilted silence. In its place are joy and the deep satisfaction that only a meal with friends can provide.

Then the Teacher speaks and ruins everything. "You'll all become deserters, for it is written, 'I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered.'"

"No," Petra says, waving his hands wildly. "No. Even if all of them become deserters, I won't."