The Virtual Life of Fizzy Oceans (32 page)

“What if we were to believe that Palestinians and Israelis have been ‘chosen’ to make peace with each other and to demonstrate to the world the power of love to heal conflict? We can draw upon past real-world examples to envision a radical transformation, both in the
process
and the
outcome
. Gandhi set out to do something so radical that few could even imagine it.

“Just like the skeptics who doubted Gandhi’s plans to escort the British out as friends, some might believe Israelis and Palestinians cannot be friends. Israeli/Palestinian communal reconciliation
is
possible, and inevitable when the idea begins to gain traction in the minds of people.”

“Thank you, Matthew,” I tell him. Not so much for the retro-experience—a real trip though it was—but for his foresight, which we can only hope will soon be regarded as insight.

Shalom
…

The PL Garden of Gethsemane at the foot of the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem is a short distance from the Wailing Wall, and my friend Matthew Taylor has directed me to his friend, Sir Harold Smithson, who has consented to be my guide to the fabled events of the Passion as it happened more than two thousand years ago. Sir Harold is waiting for me in the garden as night falls on the evening before the beginning of the Jewish Passover in the year 33 A.D.

“Have no fear, Fizzy Oceans,” Sir Harold tells me, “because the players in the drama we are about to watch have no consciousness whatsoever of our presence. They can neither see us nor hear what we say. We are like ghosts in this world. Their drama is an essential one, and they must play their parts in perpetuity.”

“Really…”

“Watch and learn,” he insists. “Over that hill, the one covered in olive trees, Yeshua is about to enter the garden with his disciples Simon Peter, John and James the Greater. This story is known in Biblical history as the ‘Garden of the Agony’.”

“Am I really going to see Jesus?” I ask.

“The Lord is entering now,” he confirms.

Turning toward the hillside stand of olive trees, I see Yeshua emerge from the grove flanked on his left by James and John, and on his right by Simon Peter. At first glimpse of The Son of Man I am dumbstruck by his presence and charisma. He is dressed in a simple white robe with sandals upon his feet, yet an aura of white light seems to engulf him as he walks. Upon his face is the look of inescapable destiny, yet he appears to be calm, if not reconciled. He asks his disciples to grant him privacy, and he moves a stone’s throw away from the threesome to talk intimately with his Father. Sir Harold and I follow, careful not to compromise his sanctuary.

“Father,” Yeshua prays reverently and humbly, “the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I ask Thee: Remove this cup of wrath from which I am bound to drink.” Immediately, the Son of Man collapses over a stone as he receives his Father’s answer. “Thy will be done,” sobs the Son of Man.

Overhead, the stars swirl against the black backdrop of the desert sky. In the distance, thunder can be heard. Or is it the marching of feet upon hardened earth? Yeshua lifts himself from the rock and again implores his Father to spare him the ordeal that awaits him. Once again, God shows the Son of Man his fate, and sends an angel from Heaven to comfort the lamb in the hour before sacrifice.

“This is heart wrenching,” I whisper to Sir Harold.

“This is an eternal struggle,” explains my guide, the scholar. “It is the primal conflict experienced by every person who has ever walked in a corporeal body upon the earth. It might seem trite to say it, but we all must eventually face death, and no matter how strong our faith might be in something or someone greater than ourselves, we are all afraid. Yeshua is not immune to the fear of pain and suffering; he is not impervious to anxiety of the unknown. He is first a man; his eternal metaphorical identity is yet to be manifest. This is the inevitable moment of doubt, the urge to cancel at the most critical moment our elemental obligation as human beings.”

Who is this person that lived in the ancient land of Palestine and called himself the Son of Man? Why is he willing (albeit somewhat reluctantly) to forfeit his life, to pay the ultimate price for the love of people who do not love him, and to a god he can neither see nor touch nor influence? Is he a martyr? Or is he a fool? Is he a man? Or is he God incarnate?

As Yeshua recovers his composure, the three disciples approach him. James leans close to his ear and informs him, “The others have arrived—all except one: Judas Iscariot.” The Lord looks into James’s eyes and says, “All is as it
must
be.”

The descended angel hovers nearby, but the three disciples seem oblivious to the seraphim. Ever louder grows the thunderous sound of marching feet. The air is thick with moisture. Beads of sweat from the Son of Man’s brow hit the ground like droplets of blood that nourish a parched and starving earth. The incessant hissing of a thousand locusts hidden within the leafy trees confuses any attempt at logic and numbs rationality. Faith hangs like a gossamer cloud over the Sea of Galilee. Yeshua lays his tender hand upon John’s shoulder and tells him, “Go now and remain with the others until the time comes.”

“And what time is that, Master?” John asks.

Yeshua places his finger gently over John’s lips. “All your questions will soon be answered,” he reassures.

The three disciples leave Yeshua, as he requested, and return to the other eight who are sleeping underneath the olive trees.

As the protective angel evaporates into the dense evening air, we watch as Yeshua again kneels to pray, though this time his prayers are silent ones. As he contemplates his fate and prays to God for his salvation, the moon rises over a nearby hillside, and the lunar light highlights the lines of his solemn face. Here in this garden, the minutes are like hours, the hours like days, and the days as everlasting as eternity. Whatever favor he might enjoy in Heaven, the role he must shortly play here on earth carries with it neither preference nor sympathy. It is the thankless and brutal responsibility of sacrifice, with the finality of the grave its only reward.

At a respectful distance, we follow the rabbi from his sanctuary to the grove where all eleven disciples lay sleeping underneath the olive trees. “Wake up and pray to the Father to deliver you from temptation,” he commands his most loyal followers, and all arise to bend their knees as their Master has commanded them.

“None of us would ever betray you, Master,” says Simon Peter.

The Lord regards the rock upon which his church shall one day be built. “Before the cock crows, you shall deny me three times,” he reveals.

Aghast, the disciples recite in unison, “Never, My Lord!”

Yet even before the declaration has escaped upon the ephemeral breeze, the advance of heavy steps disrupts the fragile tranquility of Gethsemane. Included in the assemblage is a force of policemen from the Sanhedrin, the supreme judicial and ecclesiastical council of Jerusalem, as well as a small detail of Roman soldiers enlisted to carry out the arrest.

“We seek the Nazarene called Yeshua ben Yosef,” the leader of the posse announces. The remaining disciple of the Christ, Judas Iscariot, steps out of the horde and approaches the accused. He places a firm kiss upon the rabbi’s cheek, the mark of identification.

“As you can plainly see, I am he,” says Yeshua.

A Roman soldier steps forward to take the prisoner into custody. Simon Peter reaches for his sword to defend his Master, but a single glance from the Son of Man directs him to replace it in its scabbard. Without protest or resistance, the rabbi is led away to face trial, and the band of disciples scatters to the four corners of the city and beyond.

Even though we cannot be seen, Sir Harold and I follow the arrest detail and the accused at a safe distance to the home of Annas, the powerful father-in-law of Caiaphas, the acting High Priest of the Sanhedrin. It is very late now, but apparently Annas has been waiting for them to bring Yeshua to him for questioning.

As Yeshua stands before the oligarch, Annas tells him, “The disruption you instigated in the Temple with the bankers is quite troubling not only to the Sadducees, but to the Roman authorities as well. It is also troubling to me, personally. And to Caiaphas as well! We in the Sanhedrin are entrusted by our people with keeping the Romans at a respectful distance—at least where it comes to our faith and our territory. Both are in jeopardy. But perhaps the rabbi has too simple a mind to understand such things. And perhaps the
Son of Man
does not know when to hold his tongue.”

Yeshua offers no explanation and no apology. Annas grows noticeably more irritated with the situation and with the prisoner. He is not accustomed to dealing so directly with the bucolic masses.

“Yet,” he continues, “it would seem that your following grows larger by the day—tradesmen and merchants and farmers, no doubt. Your entry into the city on the Sunday before the Passover feast was quite triumphal, was it not?”

“The multitudes laid palm fronds before him as he entered Jerusalem on the back of an ass, Your Excellency,” Annas is told by a man in the arrest detail.

“As it were,” says Annas with disgust in his voice.

“He claims to be the Messiah,” informs another accuser.

“Which is certainly an act of blasphemy,” Annas concludes. “Surely the rabbi is not so simple that he cannot understand the Law of Yahweh!”

“Any child understands God’s Law,” informs one of the Sanhedrin enforcers.

“As it were,” says Annas again. He drinks water from a chalice then turns again to Yeshua. “So… Now I have seen the one who calls himself the Messiah. A man of few words, apparently. At least few in the presence of this council!” Annas steps forward and speaks to Yeshua face to face: “What say you, rabbi? Are you the Messiah sent by God to deliver our people?”

“What I teach, I teach not in private but for all with ears to hear. Perhaps Your Excellency should ask those who hear my words?”

“I have waited my entire life for the Messiah who would come from God to deliver our people from this insipid occupation—a great leader, a soldier, a king!” Annas says not to Yeshua but to the detail. “Yet this dirty, ragged man—certainly not a soldier or like any king I have ever known—presents himself to our people as The One. What am I to think? Indeed, what am I to do?”

“Condemn him, Your Excellency!” calls one of the loyalists. Others voice their agreement.

“Even as I might wish to do as you ask,” says Annas, “it is not my place to render judgment on the infidel. Take him to Caiaphas: it is he who is High Priest of the Sanhedrin, and only he can decide the rabbi’s guilt or innocence. Leave my house now. And go in the knowledge that you have done your duty!”

Those in the detail closest to Yeshua push him out the door and into the street. They march him back toward the Mount of Olives, where Caiaphas lives in a palatial estate. Arriving at the residence of the High Priest, they are admitted into a courtyard where a quorum of Sanhedrin members has assembled. Shortly, Caiaphas appears, and it is at once obvious that he is expecting the arrest party. Yeshua is again pushed to the fore to face the High Priest of the Sanhedrin.

Caiaphas speaks: “The reason you have been brought here, Yeshua ben Yosef, is because of the disruption you caused in the Temple. Have you no respect for the Temple, Rabbi?”

“The Temple is the House of the Lord,” Yeshua replies.

“Your Excellency, the troublemaker has said publicly that he would destroy the Temple made by men and erect a new Temple made by God three days later,” testifies a witness.

The absurdity of the claim brings a sardonic smile to the face of Caiaphas. He walks round and round Yeshua, assessing him from all sides. “Three days only for the destruction and reconstruction of a Temple more than a thousand years in the making,” he mocks. “Now that is quite a claim indeed!” The other members of the council laugh out loud at the High Priest’s belittlement of the hearsay evidence.

“My body is my only Temple,” Yeshua states in response.

“Then you deny your allegiance to the Temple and to Our People, Rabbi?” Caiaphas baits him.

The Nazarene remains silent. His face glows in the light of oil lamps and torches. His expression shows resignation, not tension.

“I am told that you call yourself the King of the Jews,” says Caiaphas the inquisitor. “Is this true, Rabbi?”

“It is you who says it,” Yeshua replies.

“And that you claim to be God!” Caiaphas accuses.

“I am the Son of Man,” the prisoner answers almost inaudibly.

“If you claim to be King of the Jews, then where is your crown?” asks Caiaphas.

Yeshua remains silent.

“King of the Jews… I wonder how our Roman occupiers would feel about such a claim.” The members of the Sanhedrin mumble their dismay as Caiaphas continues to question Yeshua. “Neither kindly nor with charity, I suspect,” he answers his own rhetorical question.

“This is no god!” shouts another anonymous witness.

“He is but another false messiah, like a hundred others who roam the desert and speak in tongues. He is delusional, a misfit, a danger to Our People!”

“If it is true that you claim to be God, then you have defiled the Law of Moses and committed the worst kind of blasphemy. Do you know the punishment for such a crime, Rabbi?”

Yeshua bows his head. Is he praying silently? Or has he already reconciled himself to the ultimate punishment of stoning? Beads of sweat dampen his brow; his lips are parched; his hand trembles ever so slightly in its binding.