Judas (15 page)
The men worked their way through the crowd toward me. I quickened my steps, dodged down a side street, cut though a shop, and dashed out its back door and into an adjoining street. I pressed against a wall in the shadow of some hanging carpets and waited—no one. I eased back onto the street and retraced my steps. They burst through a doorway ten paces in front of me. I dashed off again. They closed in. I increased my efforts to lose them, wiggling through the mass of humanity crowding the street. Either they knew these streets very well or they were experts at tracking. I picked up the pace, but these were determined men and I did not dare run. That would have been the surest way to lose them, but running in the streets of Jerusalem on a High Holy Day would attract the notice of every Roman soldier in my path. If any one of my pursuers were to yell “murderer,” I would be done for. Of course, any inappropriate move on their part and they might feel the heavy hand of a legionnaire as well. Realizing then, that what works against me also works for me, I turned to face them.
Three men pulled up in front of me. One stepped forward, a fat man, heavy from too much good living and not enough sweating. He stretched out his arm, palm toward me. They did not look like the stony men who pursued me before, my nemeses. So who were these men? The fat one removed a perfumed linen cloth from his sleeve and wiped his brow. Only soft Pharisees seemed to have them, or something else, up their sleeve, not hard men, not men from Athens.
“We would have a word with you.” the fat one said, panting.
We stepped out of the crowd and into a small space between two shops.
“We have listened with great attentiveness to your master’s teaching, and we are impressed. Some even say he is the Messiah, do they not?”
I did not trust these men. They seemed too well turned out to be genuinely interested in Jesus. But I could see no harm in agreeing with such an open remark. I shrugged and waited.
“You are Judas, sometimes known as Iscariot. You have been a follower of Jesus of Nazareth, his trusted disciple. We know this and that is why we sought you out.” He paused, letting that sink in.
“He trusts all his friends.”
“Perhaps, but only you are trusted with the purse. Only you may be found far away from the others when there are important negotiations to be made and tasks to be done. We could easily have approached any of the others, but because of your special position, we thought it best to come to you.”
I said nothing.
“Let me speak plainly,” he continued, with a quick, worried glance over his shoulder. “We represent a small but growing number of men in Jerusalem and elsewhere who also seek the Messiah. We have studied the prophets and are certain that the time is near for the Lord to act. We have position and influence. We want to believe, as you do, that this man is the ‘Coming One,’ but we have reservations. Our colleagues are not willing to commit to him or his cause. For us to do so and then discover we were in error would do irreparable damage to us personally and to any future hopes we may have. You see our predicament?”
I shook my head.
“For example, that scene at the temple just now with…that woman…Jesus seems to have no sense of propriety when it comes to people like that. And more importantly, one might be led to believe he sees himself as a judge equal to the Lord. He said he forgave her sins. Only the Lord can forgive sins.”
“He didn’t say, ‘Your sins are forgiven.’ He said, ‘Leave that sinful life behind,’ and he would not condemn her. It’s not the same thing.”
“Perhaps not, but to the ordinary listener, one not skilled in the niceties of disputation, it amounts to the same thing. And in the past he has forgiven sins. There was a woman in the house of Simon, whose sins he forgave. There have been other instances…”
I said nothing and waited for his next words.
“We are sincere in our desire to find the Messiah. Of all the men wandering about this land in the last generation, and the testimony of the Baptizer…your Jesus seems likeliest. Our problem is what people say about him and what he says about himself do not always appear congruent. We must know all there is to know about him, and it must be from someone like you, someone who walks with him daily and he trusts completely. Do you see our point?”
Certainly, it could not hurt Jesus if they heard the truth. The stories circulating about Jesus were often hugely exaggerated. One claimed Jesus changed the colors in a vat of dye so the dyer would not be found to have made a mistake and be punished by his master. Where that story began, I do not know; probably from a dyer seeking attention. People are not satisfied with just the truth. They need to make it bigger and, sometimes, to put themselves in its middle. If this natural inclination to exaggerate, to overlook reality, were not stemmed, we would soon face a serious credibility problem.
“What is it you wish from me?” I asked, my suspicions still intact.
“Only the truth,” he said, and spread his arms wide. “We want you to write the things that happen, the things he says. Write only what you are comfortable in sharing with us. And do not worry whether we understand. We will study what you write and decide for ourselves. If we can support Jesus, we will send for you. If not, we will dispose of your letters and remain silent. In any case, what can be the harm in that?”
What indeed? If the truth were known and reported, what harm could come of that? But if those other wild stories continued to circulate, there could be trouble. A record of the important points kept by someone who had witnessed them could only strengthen our case. The men were right: I was the one person trusted by Jesus and levelheaded enough not to get carried away with flights of fancy, like Andrew, or misunderstand the essence of the thing, like Peter, or dress it up in John’s theological abstractions. I could do it. Still, I hesitated. What would Jesus say?
“This is a delicate position,” he added, sensing, I suppose, my concerns. “Perhaps it would be best if only we knew of these writings. Your associates may think you are over-reaching. Why not just deal with us? When the time comes and we announce our support for Jesus, we will acknowledge your contribution. I think that would work best.”
As I listened, it dawned on me that I must have been placed in this position precisely for this task. When we met, did not Jesus tell me that I had been chosen? And now I knew why. I set aside my intuitive dislike for this sweaty official and his perfumed handkerchief. We needed something more—something from the established leadership, from the center of power. He asked only for the truth.
“Very well,” I said. “I will do as you ask, if I can. I write passable Greek and some Aramaic…”
“Greek will be fine. It is for our eyes only.”
“Where would you like me to start?”
“Ah, that is most important. Begin as far back as you can. There are things reported about the circumstances of Jesus’ birth that raise serious doubts, questions, you understand, about his ability to be considered a whole Jew, much less the Messiah of Israel. It is the problem with his father, Joseph, you understand?”
Did I? People could be very hard on those with uncertain or mixed parentage,
mamzers
like me. Even though the scriptures are filled with one example after another of instances where great men arose from a mixed lineage, the descendants of Ruth and Boaz, for example, they worry too much about marriage with the historical inhabitants of the land and others who moved in with us. Pity the poor Samaritans.
“What else?” I write slowly. It would read well enough but I did not want to spend time on things that did not interest them or would not help in their decision.
“We would like to know what he says about the special relationship he has with the Lord. Every prophet has such a relationship. It is important we know his. The events of this morning need to be put in context. Tell us things he has done, healings, miracles, that sort of thing. And, oh yes, this is very important, any time he may have spent in the company of the Zealots, the Essenes, or any other dissident group. We must know if he could unite these people to our cause.”
“I will write what I know to be true. I cannot capture all of the events, because I will not have time. But those things you ask, and those things I believe to be important, I will write.”
“That will be enough. We will contact you in a week or ten days, if that is agreeable.”
“I will try to be ready.”
I doubted the other disciples would grasp the significance of what I had been asked to do. They were content in their belief that Jesus would magically unveil the new kingdom, or his army, or perform some mighty miracle and it would be done. They did not understand the world as I did. Common sense told me if any progress were to be made, it would have to involve many people including the entrenched ruling class.
“Love your enemy,” he preached. Well, now I understood.
Jesus wished to return to the Sea of Galilee, but this time he decided to press farther north, toward Caesarea Philippi and visit the towns in Bashan and the Decapolis. Why he picked that particular day to travel by boat across the sea escaped me. It would have been easier to walk along the shoreline than bob around in a damp, smelly fishing boat. He said he wanted to let our fishermen exercise their skills and they were hard at it, hauling in lines, setting and resetting sails. As long as we had a northerly breeze, we were fine. These men, Peter, James, and the rest, were in their element and having a grand time. I tried very hard not to notice the boat’s rocking. Jesus, on the other hand, fell asleep in the stern. He had been teaching steadily for days and needed rest.
The first several hours were pleasant enough. Then, quite suddenly, the sky darkened. I saw worried looks exchanged between Peter and Andrew. They consulted with the others and looked shoreward. The wind had taken us far from land.
The wind increased and the sea became more violent. The boat pitched. Spray blew over the sides. We were soaked. Thunder crashed and lightning flickered menacingly on the roiling water. The men shortened sail and tied down baggage. Water accumulated in the boat’s bottom. Peter took an oar and attempted to bring the bow into the wind. John and Thaddeus scrambled over the thwarts to Jesus. It did not look good. I figured if these fishermen, knowing storms as they did, were frightened, I should be, too. Jesus opened one eye and then the other as they screamed at him.
“Master, Master, wake up. We are all going to die.”
He stared at us, cowering in the bilge, stood, faced the storm, and slowly raised his hands. The wind lessened. We were still tossing about but somehow we did not seem to be in as much peril. Then the storm left as quickly as it came.
“Where is your faith? What are you afraid of?” he said, shaking his head, and he resumed his place in the stern of the boat and closed his eyes. The sun came out and we sailed on. I looked at the others. They all assumed an expression as if to say they knew all along we were not in any danger. But the telltale red in their eyes told me something else.
***
We sailed to the area of the Decapolis where there were no Jews, the land of the Gerasenes, near Khersa. The coast rose steeply from the shore, forming a low bluff that hung out over the sea. We beached the boat and climbed toward the top.
When we reached the crest, we were met—perhaps overwhelmed would be a better way to put it—by the strangest sight I ever saw. A man crouched beside a pile of rocks near what appeared to be tombs. Behind him and reaching all the way up the bluff, a huge herd of swine rooted in what must have been the town’s dump. The man hunkered down on his heels and stretched his arms in front, hands planted on the ground like one of the pigs. When he saw us, he howled. He bared his teeth and growled, like Mary had at Magdala. I glanced her way to watch her reaction. Her eyes were wide.
“Master…” she began.
“I see.”
He walked toward the man, who was completely naked, his body covered with so much filth we had not noticed it before. We drew back. The howling stopped, replaced by low mutterings and words so blasphemous and vile that even I, who’d spent more years than I care to enumerate in the streets and brothels of the empire, blushed. I looked at Jesus, but he seemed as calm as if he were listening to King David play his harp.
The pigs stopped rooting, turned their heads, and watched us like an over-fed audience at a theater. We began to retreat, unsure which would be worse, pigs or this unclean and dangerous man. When he saw Jesus walking calmly toward him, the man screamed obscenities at us. Mary covered her ears. Then, the man wheeled and focused on Jesus. He growled, “What do you want with me, Jesus, son of the God of Israel?”
Jesus raised his hand and said, “Come out of him.” The man jerked about but continued to rave.
“You are torturing me,” he screamed.
Jesus said, “Tell me your name.”
“
Legion
,” he barked. “
Legion
.”
“Well, Legion, leave him…this moment. Infest those pigs if you must, but come out.”
With that, the man leapt to his feet and ran at the pigs. They, in turn, panicked, raced to the top of the bluff, and before anyone could stop them—not that we would have, they were pigs after all—they tumbled off. Some were dashed on the rocks below; others fell into the sea.
At that moment, the man came to his senses. He stood in the field looking around as if he was not sure where he was or how he came to be there. Nathaniel, who had a better sense of propriety than the rest of us, took him down to the sea, washed him off as best he could, and put a cloak around him. When we took our leave, he asked to come with us, but Jesus said he should stay with his people and tell them what a mighty work the God of Israel had done.
I mention all these cleansings, these exorcisms, because they became symbolic of my journey. The first I witnessed involved a single spirit. Later with Mary, there were more. And now this man whose demons were legion. If he could manage this demonic legion, surely he need not fear the power of Rome and its legions. That was the thought that formed in my mind. I would change that view later, of course.