Pilgermann

3

See me, the Jew fresh from the attainment of Wisdom, the Jew returning with the dawn of the Ninth of Av. See me as a bird might see me, as might that stork that slowly flaps its way over the huddled roofs and chimneys, over the narrow twisting streets of morning. What might this stork see looking down? Here the Jew comes, turning this way, turning that way, threading his homeward path and drawing closer, closer to those others hurrying towards him, turning this way, turning that way as if by careful prearrangement, these others with billhooks and pitchforks following a sow who wears a scarlet cross. The sow has her snout uplifted and is grunting loudly. ‘A Jew! A Jew!’ shouts the man who holds her rope, ‘She smells a Jew!’ Here they come running towards me, reeking of cow dung, sweat, beer, pigs, shouting, ‘A Jew! A Jew!’

They hurl themselves upon me, they throw me to the cobblestones, some of them sit on my chest, some of them hold my arms and legs. My tunic is pulled up, my hose are pulled down. O God! I feel the cool air of dawn on my nakedness. O God! I know what they are going to do and I cannot move a limb to help myself.

‘The covenant!’ cries some lout. ‘The mark of the covenant!’

‘Cut it off and make a Christian of him,’ says the man with the sow.

‘Look at that thing,’ says someone else. ‘You can be sure he’s had Christian women with it, filthy brute.’

‘He won’t have them any more,’ says the man with the sow.

O God! I pray in my mind. O God! Don’t let this happen! I feel the knife on me. I think of Rabbi Hananiah ben Teradyon martyred in the Hadrianic persecutions, wrapped in the Scroll of the Law and burned at the stake. As he died he said that he saw the parchments burning but the letters of the Torah flying up out of the fire. I too now see the black letters shimmering and twisting as they rise on the heated air, soaring above the flames like birds of holy speech to the blue sky. I see the black letters writhing round the holy nakedness of Sophia going up, up, out of sight into the blue morning.

How can I be brave, strong, a real man, a hero? All I can do is not give them a screaming Jew to laugh at. ‘God wills it!’ they cry with stinking breath as they cut off my manhood. I vomit but I do not scream.

‘Finish him off,’ says someone.

‘Let him live,’ says another sort of voice. It is the tax-collector on his horse at the head of the town militia.

‘God wills it!’ shouts the man with the sow.

‘This also,’ says the officer of the watch, and he prods the sow with his pike. She squeals and runs off with the peasant soldiers of Christ followed by the town militia. The tax-collector, high above me on his horse that snorts and prances and paws the cobbles, looks down at me with a pale face then looks back over his shoulder. I hear voices approaching: ‘Jews, Jews! Give us more Jews!’

‘Pray for me,’ says the tax-collector. ‘This way!’ he shouts to the approaching peasants. With a scraping of hooves horse and rider plunge away, leading the peasants away from where I am, leading them towards the town gate.

Pray for him! Did he actually say that, did I hear him right? ‘Betet für mich.’ What else could it have been? ‘Tretet mich’? ‘Kick me’? Ridiculous; that man could not possibly have asked me either to pray for him or to kick him. I have a sudden hysterical vision of the two cherubim leaning towards each other over the Ark of the Covenant, the one saying, ‘Pray for me’ and the other, ‘Kick me’. I don’t know what to make of it: this man, this husband of Sophia, this man whom I have just cuckolded, has saved my life, such as it now is.

I am lying on my back alone on the cobblestones, my tunic stuffed into my wound. It is broad day, above me arches the blue sky. High overhead, so very, very, high in the sky, circle a drift of storks, a meditation of storks, circling like those intersecting circles of tiny writing sometimes done by copyists with texts of the Holy Scriptures. They are so high, those storks, that one couldn’t say what they are unless one knows, as I do, that every year faithfully come these great dignified black-and-white birds to nest on our rooftops and to circle high in the sky over our town, returning each year in their season.

I smell burning, there is smoke drifting between me and the sky; that will be from the synagogue. Here I must say that I had never been a devout Jew. I owned a skullcap and a prayer shawl and phylacteries; I always turned up at the synagogue for the High Holy Days and I had never before missed Tisha b’Av but my observances were mostly for the sake of appearances; in between I went my own way. God was to me as a parent to whom I had given little obedience and from whom I expected no inheritance.

Now, lying on the cobblestones looking up at the blue sky and smelling the burning I cry out to God in my agony: ‘O God!’ I say, ‘Why is this? What’s the use of it? What good is it to anybody?’

God says nothing to me.

‘Hear, O Israel,’ I cry: ‘the Lord our God, the Lord is One. Magnified and sanctified be his great name in the world which he hath created according to his will. What are we? What is our life? What is our piety? What is our righteousness? What our helpfulness? What our strength? What our might? What shall we say before thee, O Lord our God and God of our fathers? Are not all the mighty men as nought before thee, the men of renown as though they had not been, the wise as if without knowledge, and the men of understanding as if without discernment? For most of their works are void, and the days of their lives are vanity before thee, and the pre-eminence of man over the beast is nought, for all is vanity.’

Still no word from God. The blue sky is perfectly blank, the smoke of the burning synagogue drifts in the still morning air; it’s going to be a hot day.

‘God!’ I cry, ‘Whatever you are and whatever I am, speak to me! O Lord, do it for thy name’s sake. Do it for the sake of thy truth; do it for the sake of thy covenant; do it for the sake of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; do it for the sake of Moses and Aaron; do it for the sake of David and Solomon. Do it for the sake of Jerusalem, thy holy city; do it for the sake of Zion, the tabernacle of thy glory, do it for the sake of thy Temple’s desolation; do it for the sake of the destruction of thy altar; do it for the sake of those slain for thy holy name; do it for the sake of those slaughtered for thy Unity; do it for the sake of those who went through fire and water for the sanctification of thy name. Do it for the sake of sucklings who have not sinned; do it for the sake of weanlings who have not transgressed; do it for the sake of the school-children.

‘Answer us, O Lord, answer us; answer us, O our God, answer us; answer us, O our Father, answer us …’

It was then that the air began to shimmer and Christ appeared to me. He was tall, lean, and sinewy. One of those fair Jews with his hair further lightened by the bleaching of the sun. Very light blue eyes, perfectly intrepid eyes drooping a little towards the outside of the face, the eyes of a fighter, the eyes of a lion. He was wearing a patched robe, his sandals were worn, his feet looked hard and hard-travelled. He stood there with a silence flung down in front of him. He was no one in whom I had any belief but there he was and there was no mistaking who he was.

I looked at him and listened to his silence for a while. When I was able to speak I said, ‘You’re not the one I was calling.’

He said, ‘I’m the one who came through. I’m the one you’ll talk to from now on.’

I saw his lips move but his voice came from inside my head. It made me feel very strange, being on the outside of his voice. I knew that if I were capable of running and were to run away to a distance where I could no longer see his lips move I should still hear his voice inside my head. A woodwind sort of voice with something of the timbre of a modern oboe, it seemed to have in it a capability of vibration that would move the plates of the earth apart; it was a voice that made a great space happen all round it, and all that space was inside my head. Feeling vast and hollow, hearing only a silence all round me and my own voice far, far away inside my head, I said, trying to synchronize my lips with my words, ‘Until now I’ve dealt with your father.’

He said, ‘Until now you’ve dealt with no one and no one’s dealt with you.’

I said, ‘Is this the Day of Reckoning then?’

He said, ‘Every day is the Day of Reckoning.’ The way his voice filled all the great echoing vastness inside my head was frightening; I wanted to get away from him but I was afraid to try even to stand up because of the bleeding. I looked all round me; my member and testicles were nowhere in sight. I thought of them thrown away like offal, I thought of them eaten by the Jew-finding sow, I vomited again.

I said, ‘I want to talk to your father,’ then I held my head and waited for his answer to echo inside me.

He said, ‘Humankind is a baby, it always wants a face bending over the cradle.’

I said, ‘God’s our father, isn’t he?’

He said, ‘God isn’t a he, it’s an it.’

I said, ‘Where is it, his strong right arm that was stretched out over us?’

He said, ‘It’s gone.’

I said, ‘Have I got to be my own father now?’

He said, ‘Be what you like but remember that after me it’s the straight action and no more dressing up.’

Neither of us said anything for a little while. I didn’t want him to go away but I didn’t want to hear his voice inside my head.

‘Will there be a Last Judgment?’ I said.

He said, ‘The straight action is the last judgment; there’s no face on the front of it, it has no front or back.’

We are walking, I am leaning on Jesus; with his right arm round me he keeps me from falling. I feel the strength in him rising like a column. In the morning sunlight rises the smoke from the synagogue. The fire crackles, the flames are pale in the bright morning. Suddenly there is so much space between the Jewish quarter and the rest of the town! Suddenly the Christian roofs are sharp and distant, they are looking away. In the great space all round the synagogue the bodies of the dead are vivid, the blood fresh and dark on the cobbles that seem to have put themselves into patterns I have not noticed before: there are twisting serpents, shifting pyramids, I see the face of a lion that comes and goes. There are many Jews flattened to the earth, limbs all asprawl, mouths open. The children are just as dead as the grown-ups, it seems precocious. It is a very informal gathering, there have been scenes of intimacy with no attempt at privacy. Here among a scattering of random guests and witnesses is an impromptu bride of the soldiers of Christ. White thighs, black hose, skirt flung over her face. Did they call her thou?

‘Thou Jew,’ I say to Jesus, ‘tell me about this conversion of the Jews.’

‘What conversion?’ says Jesus.

‘From life to death,’ I say. ‘Why does it keep happening? Why is it God’s will?’

Jesus turns his face to me and opens wide his eyes. There come upon me such a shuddering and a blackness, such an expanding pleroma, such an intolerable fullness that I am filled to bursting with it. I open, open, open but cannot contain it, I explode in all directions to infinity, I contract to a point, I explode again from the point, I come back together and return shuddering and full of terror.

‘Forgive me, Lord,’ I say.

There come into my mind thunders and lightnings and a thick cloud on the mountain and the voice of a trumpet exceeding loud. There comes into my mind the sanctified mountain that might not be touched, neither by beast nor man. There comes into my mind a voice saying in Greek:

For not ye have approached to a mountain being felt and having been ignited with fire and to darkness and to deep gloom and to whirlwind and of trumpet to a sound and to a voice of words, which the ones hearing entreated not to be added to them a word; not they bore for the thing being charged: If even a beast touches the mountain, it shall be stoned; and, so fearful was the thing appearing, Moses said: Terrified I am and trembling …

Jesus says, ‘Can you contain even the expectation of the full reply of me to you? Can you contain even the silence before my answer to you?’

I say, ‘No, Lord, I cannot contain it.’

Jesus says, ‘Can you contain even the thought of knowing the will of God? I speak not of the knowing; I speak only of the very thought of knowing.’

I say, ‘No, Lord, I cannot even contain that thought.’

Jesus says, ‘If it be God’s incomprehensible will that the universe shall flower to the end of all things and from that end of all things seed itself anew, will you question the slaughter of Jews? You see on the cobbles the dead who were alive, who sprang from the leap of the lightning that cleaves the dark that waits for the leap after the stillness, the stillness after the leap. You see the dead: backward into their life and forward into their death extends the black-body spectrum of their being; their diffraction is as yours. Will you offer an opinion?’

I say, ‘I have no opinion, Lord.’

Jesus incorporates me in his glance and I begin to see him in more than one way. Jesus is the great dead Lion of the World and in his mouth is the live black body of Christ Radiant. The great dead lion is walking the rocks and desert, walking the mountains and the high ground, looking down on deep gorges where rivers serpentine, and in his mouth the live black body of him the one radiant, him the Christ flickering his black-body spectrum, flames all dancing on the live black body of him in the mouth of the great dead lion of himself. The black body opens, it is a sky of lightning, a sea of fire, mountains of ice. The sky grows tiny, contracts to one black dot, absorbs the sea of fire, the mountains of ice. The black dot opens out into the great live Lion of the World. In his mouth the tiny dead golden body of Christ. In the mouth of the tiny dead golden body of Christ is the world, the sun, the moon, the stars, the wheeling heavens of night. Far and far the thunder of his silence rolls, the lion roars, the stars shake, flicker, burn to paleness and morning.

Silence. The lion is a great paper kite, blue and yellow, the paper fluttering in the morning wind. Far, far down goes the string to Jesus winding in the kite. The lion-kite bursts into flame, the flame runs down the string, Jesus is on fire.

All round the three hundred and sixty degrees of the horizon dance the avatars of Burning Jesus, Christ as fire in perfect silence dancing. One for every degree of the circle, three hundred and sixty avatars of Burning Jesus dancing the colour of Jew, dancing the full black-body spectrum of Jew. One by one the emissions cease, one by one the colours disband, the burning avatars rejoin each one the next and all go back to one, the live black body of Christ Radiant in the centre of the great circle of fire, the burning world-circle. The motion of the dance continues, it is bursting the skin of the sky. The colour of Jew is rent with a great ripping down the centre of the sky.

Leaning on Jesus and held up by him, suddenly I rage at him. Feeble, unmanned, weak from loss of blood I rage at him the Christ, him the anointed one. ‘Who are you to put these pictures in my eyes!’ I say to him. ‘Thou Jew! Hear, O Israel! the Lord our God, the Lord is One! The Lord is not three and you are not the One. What kind of a Jew are you to turn the world against your people? Images are worshipped in your name! In your name Jews are slaughtered!’

‘Whatever I am,’ says Jesus, ‘I’m the one you talk to from now on.’

I think: O God, what if he’s right? What if God’s gone and I never really had a chance to talk to him. Forgotten prayers crowd my head, I look away from Jesus, I look up to the sky. ‘Answer us, O Lord!’ I cry, ‘answer us on the Fast day of our Affliction, for we are in great trouble; turn not to our wickedness, and hide not thy presence from us, nor conceal thyself from our supplication; be near, we pray, to our cry, let thy kindness we beg, comfort us; answer us, even before we call unto thee, according to that which is said: “And it shall come to pass that, before they call, I will answer; while they are speaking, I will hear!” For thou, O Lord, art the one that answerest in time of trouble, redeemest and deliverest in all times of trouble and distress! Blessed art thou, O Lord (Blessed be he and blessed be his name!) who answerest in time of trouble. (Amen!)’

There was a long silence after my prayer, then Jesus said, ‘Did you feel that prayer going anywhere or did it just go out of you?’

‘It just went out of me,’ I said.

‘You’re shaking an empty tree,’ said Jesus. ‘You’re letting down your bucket in a dry well. There was no answer when the knife was on your flesh and there’ll be no answer now. And for what do you pray now? The thing has already been done and you are cut off from your generations.’

Thou Christ!’ I say, remembering suddenly whom I’m talking to, Thou Christ who fed the hungry, cast out demons, healed the sick and raised the dead! Surely thou wilt restore me to my manhood!’

Jesus shook his head. The fig tree stayed barren,’ he said, ‘and you will stay a eunuch; it is what you wished.’

I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right, I couldn’t believe what he was saying. When he said this we were not walking, I was in my bed, dispersed in two-dimensional sunlit patterns like an infinitely extending oriental carpet. I seemed to have been there for some time. ‘What did you say?’ I said.

Jesus said, ‘I said it is what you wished.’

I said, ‘Can you have seen Sophia and say that? I am young, the blood in me runs hot, I lust but I am unmanned. I lust, I long, I yearn, I hunger, I hum like a tuning fork, I flutter like a torn banner in the wind. That which I was I can never be again, that which I am is intolerable, that which I shall be I cannot imagine. I glimmer like a distant candle, I mottle like the sunlight on the carpet, like the shadows of leaves. I am something, I am nothing, I am here, I am gone.’

‘It is what you wished,’ said Jesus. ‘Only now do you hum, flutter, glimmer, mottle, be something, be nothing, be here, be gone with me. Only now are you tuned to me.’

‘Never did I wish to be a eunuch,’ I said, ‘and never did I wish to be tuned to you.’

Jesus said, ‘And there are eunuchs who made themselves eunuchs on account of the kingdom of the heavens. The one being able to grasp it let him grasp.’

I said, ‘I never made myself a eunuch.’

Jesus said, ‘Life moves by exchanges; loss is the price of gain. Some pay with one thing, some with another; whatever is most dear, that is my price.’

I said, ‘Why is that your price?’

Jesus said, ‘What is dear is what is held dear, and there can be no holding by those who go my road; there can be no holding by those who will be here with me and gone with me.’

I said, ‘Never did I ask to go that road, never did I wish to be here with you, gone with you.’

Jesus said, ‘Always you wished it, and most of all when you put hand and foot to that ladder of love and pleasure. In your soul you called to me, you longed for me when you climbed that ladder. With eager hands you reached for pleasure and held it fast but whoever holds on wishes to let go because attachment is not wholeness: the only wholeness is in being with everything and attached to nothing; the only wholeness is in letting go, and I am the letting go.’

I said, ‘I know nothing of all this.’

‘You will know,’ said Jesus, ‘and your knowing in time to come will make you know it now.’

‘What is between us, you and me?’ I said.

‘Everything,’ said Jesus.

‘Why me?’ I said.

‘Why not you?’ said Jesus.

I, Pilgermann, poor bare tuned fork, humming with the for-everness of the Word that is always Now. Unbearing the Unbearable, intolerating the Intolerable, being not enough for the Too-Muchness. I, poor harp of a Jew twanging incessantly in the mouth of Jesus, in the lion-mouth of Christ Pandamator, Christ All-Subduer. There is a point where pattern becomes motion; the pattern has found me and I must move, must be aware of moving, must be a motion, an action of the Word. Poor bare tuned fork.

‘Blessed are they that are tuned to me,’ said Jesus.

‘Why?’ I said.

‘Because they shall move,’ said Jesus. ‘They shall go, they shall have action.’

While he was saying that I was thinking: I, poor eunuch of my Lord, neither sheep nor goat, neither of the left hand nor of the right, subject always to Christ the redeemer, the ransom, the sacrifice, victim, torturer, murderer, bringer of death. Iesous Christous Thanatophoros. Kyrios.

Jesus said, ‘I am the light of day. Do you believe?’

‘I believe,’ I said.

Jesus said, ‘I am the energy that will not be still. I am a movement and a rest but at the same time I am all movement and no rest and you will have no rest but in the constant motion of me. Do you believe?’

‘I believe,’ I said.

‘Why do you believe?’ said Jesus.

‘No belief is necessary,’ I said. ‘It manifests itself.’

Jesus said, ‘Why in your mind do you call me bringer of death? Why in your mind am I Iesous Christous Thanatophoros?’

I said, ‘How can I not think of you as Thanatophoros? Whoever wants to kill a Jew does it in your name. In your name they kill the seed that gave you life.’

Jesus said, ‘From me came the seed that gave me life.’