The Gospel According to the Son

47

As we came out of the palace of Pontius Pilate, there was a man, Simon by name, a Cyrene, who was chosen to bear my cross. Now, I knew why they had jeered at me when I had stood before them with no clothes. For I was no longer the carpenter who worked each day in Galilee, and with vigor. Naked, what was left to me now but my bones? And they laughed and again they called me King of the Jews.

We came to a place called Golgotha, where we were followed by many women who lamented after me. Some of my followers had returned, and these women were first among them and they kept crying out as if they were feeling my pain before I would suffer it.

I had not sought to save the world through the efforts of women. Only through the strivings of men. Now, if my throat was dry, this much I could say aloud: "Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me but for your children. The days are coming in which they shall say, 'Blessed are the barren, for the wombs that never bore and the breasts which never gave suck.'"

I thought of the fig tree I had cursed and added silently: For that, too, I ask forgiveness. And I thought of my days as a carpenter, when I used to pray that a good piece of wood not split.

In the crowd, I saw my mother. Soon I would be torn from her. Now, and too late, I understood her love. I was a gift from the Lord, and so, in her awe of me, she had contended with all I did. For to live constantly in awe is like not knowing one's own child. But in this hour, she was in great pain for me. I belonged to my mother again. Beside her was standing my disciple Timothy, so I said to Mary, "Do not cry. I am returning to my Father. Woman, behold thy son." And to him I said, "Here is your mother." He nodded. He would take her into his home. Of all my disciples, he was the one to take care of her, for he had a patient and generous heart.

Not far from my mother, I saw Mary Magdalene. I said to her (and it was at odds with what I had said to the daughters of Jerusalem, but still I whispered): "Take hope. Have children. For God has forgiven you."

On the hill of Golgotha there would be with me two thieves. Indeed, they had already been nailed to their crosses. Now they were raised. Even as they screamed in pain, Pontius Pilate approached. He looked at the sign tied around my neck, which said: "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews." Most of the priests from the Temple had chosen not to remain, but of those still present, one said to Pilate, "That should not read 'King of the Jews.' Whatever he said means little. One does not become a king by saying it."

Pilate replied: "What is written is written."

Again, I could understand his purpose. If, in years to come, they would speak of me as having been the King of the Jews, then Pontius Pilate would be known as one of the first to agree. After all, he had allowed me to wear such a title to my death. And if I were not to be seen in the future as any kind of king, then he would be admired for his power of ridicule. By one road or the other, he was a good Roman. It took a quick mind to benefit from two conclusions when they were opposite to each other. I was learning how these Romans had conquered so much of the world, but I was learning too late.

The soldiers led me to a cross lying on the ground. The wood was crude, and nailed together with slovenly blows of the hammer. It offended me that it had been built so poorly, but in any case they removed my robe and made me lie down upon the cross and stretch out my arms.

I took a breath and the morning was dark. Again I was alone and naked but for my loincloth.