Necessary Heartbreak (29 page)

Michael stopped, trying to catch his breath. “Oh, I don't believe this.”

Exhausted from the chase, he slumped down against the wall. As Michael did so, he felt the stones slice a gash in his back.

“Oh, great!” he gasped, reaching back to feel the torn skin. He looked down at his hand, now covered in blood. “Wonderful. A great way to top off the evening.”

Michael leaned harder against the concrete wall, his chest heaving, and his head pounding.
Why am I doing this?

But as he rested there a moment, Michael heard footsteps approaching.
Soldiers?
he thought, starting to panic. He looked around and noticed a gate farther down the wall. He jumped up and ducked through it into another quiet courtyard, then crouched down. He could tell he was in someone's yard. A house was across the courtyard, similar in design to Leah's. Lamps were burning brightly on the second floor, but he couldn't hear any voices.

All the thoughts that he'd tried so hard to dispel these last few days with logic and lagging faith now came rushing back to haunt him. This was it. If these events were truly unfolding—and he was here to bear witness—could this be the night of the Last Supper? And if so, would it be some form of blasphemy to consider warning Jesus? What would happen if he altered anything, assuming he even could at this point? Would fate, or perhaps something more divine, simply lead the soldiers to Jesus some other time? Would they still crucify him? What if he could find Judas and stop him? Should he?

Most important, he could no longer avoid the biggest question of all: if Jesus didn't die tomorrow, what would it all mean for everyone?

A high-pitched voice engaged in whispered conversation broke his concentration. Michael waited a moment until the sounds of shuffling feet had receded before cautiously making his way back through the gate and onto the road. He could see a group of men walking about thirty yards ahead. As he followed them at a safe distance, Michael soon recognized the bald man talking to his bearded friend from the market. Surrounding them were about twenty soldiers dressed in purple cloaks, walking in twos. They were carrying sharp spears and lit torches.

It was an odd procession, but Michael felt as if he'd seen it before. Slowly the realization dawned on him, though he tried desperately to find another answer or excuse. The whole scene felt like a reenactment of one of the most terrifying stories in the Bible. He looked more closely at the bearded man.
Oh, no, not him.

The bearded man led the soldiers through the gate of a walled garden. Michael kept his distance but followed closely enough so as not to lose them. When they abruptly stopped, he hid behind a tree that was rooted just outside the stone wall enclosing the garden. From there he could see the man draw near someone kneeling in prayer at the foot of a tree. He watched in horror, knowing what was coming.

The bearded man approached Jesus, then kissed him on the cheek.

An explosion of activity erupted as the soldiers began to shout, brandishing their spears. In response, the apostles leaped to their feet,
flanking Jesus. Their fists were raised and Michael found Judas mesmerizing—he was moving toward them, as if to join their ranks. Then Michael saw Jesus put his hand up as a sign of peace. All eyes in the crowd instinctively followed him. Then he stretched his hands before him in a gesture of surrender. The soldiers immediately surrounded him and began to lead him from the garden.

Jesus is coming my way!
Michael thought as the group approached. He leaned back farther into the shadows behind the tree.
I can try and stop this. I can fix this. This isn't how this has to go down. He doesn't have to die. Not this way. I should do something now. He doesn't have to die.

But as Jesus drew near, Michael was too terrified to move. He was paralyzed by indecision, unable to even call out to him. He covered his face with his hands until they passed.

When he could no longer hear them, he stood up, dazed. He started to run in the opposite direction but slammed into one of the soldiers.

“Out of my way!” the soldier shouted, shoving Michael to the ground and pressing a spear to his chest. “Do you want to live?”

“Yes,” Michael gasped.

The soldier kept his spear near Michael's racing heart. “Were you in the garden with that rebel?”

Michael was silent.

“Are you one of his followers?”

Michael felt the spear scratch against his skin, knowing it was leaving a mark. He slowly looked down. “No.”

The man withdrew the spear. “Get out of here!” he growled.

Michael rolled to his side, hiding his face. He lingered for a moment, stunned with the knowledge that he now possessed.
I'm no better than Peter.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Judas running out of the garden. Anger flared through his own humiliation, propelling him to his feet.

Michael sprinted after Judas into a deserted field just beyond the garden walls. He slowed to a jog as he watched Judas collapse near a
large rock. He put his hands to his face, his body heaving with cries of sorrow. His wrenching sobs were heartbreaking.

Watching Judas, Michael felt the fury that had raged within him only a few moments ago evaporate. He had not only just watched the greatest betrayal in mankind's history take place, but had even played a part in it himself. With that realization came pity, despair, and a surprising sense of mercy.

Judas continued to weep as Michael slowly approached. The sound of his sandals alerted Judas, who raised his head to look at Michael, his face red. “Are you here to stone me?”

“I was.”

“Then do it now.” Judas fixed his gaze, searching Michael for a reason. “If it's the money you want, you can have it.” He pulled the satchel from his belt and threw it to him, hitting Michael squarely in the chest. The bag dropped to the ground with a loud thud, spilling its contents in a pool at his feet.

Michael flinched with disgust. “I don't want your money.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“An answer.”

Judas looked away. “I have nothing for you then.”

Michael stepped over the fallen money and stood above him. “Why did you do it?”

Judas pulled himself upright to look Michael in the face. “The others will come for me soon. You should go.”

“Tell me why you did it and I'll leave.”

Judas wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. “Why would I betray him, my friend, my rabbi? Why would I hurt him when my life has only been about me doing whatever he willed?” Judas glanced up into the night sky, a bitter smile curving his lips. “Maybe I'm the devil?”

Michael felt his skin crawl as Judas' smile spread across his face. He stepped back and shivered involuntarily.

Judas' smile vanished, replaced with a pained sneer. “Maybe I am.
I feel like I am.” His eyes filled with fresh tears. “It wasn't supposed to be like this.”

“What do you mean?”

Judas jerked to his feet. “I mean, he wasn't supposed to let them take him. I thought he and the others would fight back. Finally, it was time for him to fight, to defeat them, to stop the Romans. To rise up and defeat our oppressors!”

Michael shifted uneasily. “Did you really think he would?”

Judas hunched his shoulders and didn't reply.

Michael continued, “Look, I'm the last person to preach, believe me. But I do know that Jesus' teachings always seemed so nonconfrontational, so selfless, so kind. He was all about love and peace, not violence and hate. He's not someone to use a sword.”

Judas glared back. “You don't know him like I do. I saw him do things that no other man could do. Things that were impossible to believe, and yet I did and so many of us did. He said he was the Son of God, the King of Kings! He's more powerful than anyone, anything. Everything bad can be changed. Every wrong righted. He is the Son of God. Or I thought he was.”

“But now you're not sure?”

“He went without a fight! He surrendered! They're just going to kill him. He won't rise up now and defeat anyone. They will beat him, destroy him. The crowd will only see him as weak. No one will stand up for him. No one is that brave.”

Judas paused a moment, then continued in a whisper. “We can't stop them from killing him.” His head dropped into his outstretched hands, and he began to weep again. “I've killed my friend.”

Michael grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking him. “Come back with me, Judas! It's not too late. We can give the money back. Tell them you've made a mistake. He isn't the one. Tell them he isn't claiming to be the Son of God. Just tell the soldiers he isn't the one.”

Judas glanced at Michael with sorrow. “You don't understand. He
is
the one.” Judas' shoulders rounded as he sank to the ground.

Michael fell to his knees frantically, pulling at Judas. “Stop it! It's not too late. We can still do something about this! Get up and at least try!”

Michael seized him by the arm, but Judas pulled away from his grasp. “Stop your crying! We've got to do something. We just can't let this happen.” Michael snatched at him again, but still Judas would not budge.

“Just go,” Judas mumbled. He lifted his head to look at Michael. “The others are coming for me. You will be in jeopardy. I am nothing. Worse than that: I just betrayed my friend.”

“Don't say you're nothing. You helped me when I was in need. Let me help you.”

Judas was resigned. “I'm about to feel God's wrath. It's best I face this alone.”

“The God I believe in loves everyone. I thought you said you believed?”

Judas stood up. “My faith has never wavered. I believe in my whole heart. He is who he says he is.”

“All right, let's go back then.”

Judas laughed harshly. “It's too late. I have nothing to live for. I have lost everything, by my own hand.”

He suddenly began to tear at the hem of his robe, glancing around. As he started toward a nearby tree, Michael grabbed his arm.

“I'm not going to let you do that.”

Judas slapped at Michael's hand, but caught him instead on the cheek and freed himself. Michael fell back, bewildered. “Leave me. Be my friend or become my last enemy.” Judas continued on, stopping under the tree, its gnarled branches arching over them. He started to reach up with the torn piece from his robe. Michael raced over and tackled him to the ground.

“Even your life is important.”

The two wrestled in the dirt, each struggling to gain an advantage. Finally, Michael pinned his knee on Judas' chest.

Judas looked up at him, pleading, “Please, go. You know you will lose your life.”

A loud noise in the distance startled them. Michael rolled off as they both looked toward the commotion, listening intently.

Judas pulled himself up on his elbows. “See? You're going to get killed if you don't leave.”

“Well, I'm not—”

Whack.
Dazed and with pain searing from the base of his skull, Michael was thrown forward on his hands and knees and collapsed in the dirt.

The screens that covered the porch were tearing, and their flapping had become a constant distraction to his daily meditation. Trying to find a reprieve, he moved out to the small, thin cement stoop in front of the shabby three-story house. Michael tried to focus but his mind was overwhelmed with new problems.

Usually he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to a boat bobbing on a calm ocean during a hot summer day. He tried several times to place himself on that familiar sailboat, but each time he opened his eyes, anxious, angry, and bitter.

Michael watched the kids swat at a Wiffle ball up and down 191st Avenue. He smiled, then closed his eyes once more. Almost instantly he heard the
bang
, followed by a screeching, cyclical
whir.
The alarm on the Stewarts' blue Chevy pierced the Richmond Hill neighborhood in World War II fashion.
Oh, jeez.

Glaring at the kids who were giggling, he stormed over to the 1975 model and cracked the side of the passenger door with his foot. The noise waffled to a halt. He sighed and sat down again.

The kids continued to play.
Whack.
The street's biggest kid belted a drive off a tree that careened off the top of Michael's head. A burst of laughter erupted from the other kids.

Michael opened his eyes. He looked at Ian, who had his hands over his mouth, waiting for a reaction. Usually he would joke and play sports with Ian and his friends. Today he was in no mood.

“Do you want to hit?” Ian asked, rubbing the top of his crew cut nervously back and forth with his hand.

“Not today, Ian,” Michael replied sternly.

“Hey, kids, I'll play for Mr. Grouchy,” said a voice from down the block. It was Michael's friend Chuck, who lived on the far end of the street. He tossed the ball to Ian, then pulled at the tips of his own hair, exaggerating its spiky appearance. Ian smiled.