The Last Temptation of Christ

Chapter Seventeen

THE SUN CAME out of the desert like a lion and beat at all the doors of Israel. From every Jewish home the savage morning prayer rose up to the stiff-necked God of the Hebrews: “We hymn you and glorify you, our God and God of our fathers. Almighty and terrible, you are our help and support. Glory to you, Immortal, glory to you, defender of Abraham. Who can vie with you in strength, O king, with you who slay, resurrect and bring deliverance? Glory to you, Deliverer of Israel! Destroy and crush and scatter our enemies, but quickly, while we are still alive!”

Sunrise found Jesus and John the Baptist sitting above the Jordan in the hollow of a precipitous rock. All night long the two of them had held the world in their hands, deliberating what to do with it. Sometimes one took it, sometimes the other. The one’s face was severe and decisive: his arms went up and down as though he were actually holding an ax and striking. The other’s face was tame and irresolute, his eyes full of compassion.

“Isn’t love enough?” he asked.

“No,” answered the Baptist angrily. “The tree is rotten. God called to me and gave me the ax, which I then placed at the roots of the tree. I did my duty. Now you do yours: take the ax and strike!”

“If I were fire, I would burn; if I were a woodcutter, I would strike. But I am a heart, and I love.”

“I am a heart also, that’s why I cannot endure injustice, shamelessness or infamy. How can you love the unjust, the infamous and the shameless? Strike! One of man’s greatest obligations is anger.”

“Anger?” said Jesus, his heart objecting. “Aren’t we all brothers?”

“Brothers?” the Baptist replied sarcastically. “Do you think love is the way of God-love? Look here-” He stretched forth his bony, hairy hand and pointed to the Dead Sea, which stank like a rotting carcass. “Have you ever bent over to see the two whores, Sodom and Gomorrah, at her bottom? God became angry, hurled fire, stamped on the earth: dry land turned to sea and swallowed up Sodom and Gomorrah. That is God’s way-follow it. What do the prophecies say? ‘On the day of the Lord blood will flow from wood, the stones of the houses will come to life, will rise up and kill the house-owners!’ The day of the Lord has set out and is coming. I was the first to discern it. I uttered a cry, took God’s ax, placed it at the root of the world. I called, called, called for you to come. You came, and now I shall depart.”

He grasped Jesus’ hands as though he were placing a heavy ax in them. Jesus drew back, frightened. “Be patient a little longer, I beg of you,” he said. “Don’t hurry. I shall go speak to God in the desert. There his voice can be heard more clearly.”

“So can the voice of Temptation. Take care-Satan is lying in wait for you, his army all in order. He knows very well that you mean life or death for him. He shall fall upon you with all his wildness and all his sweetness. Take care. The desert is full of sweet voices-and death.”

“Sweet voices and death cannot deceive me, friend. Trust in me.”

“I do. Alas, if I didn’t! Go, talk with Satan, talk with God too, and decide. If you are the One I have been awaiting, God has already made the decision, and you cannot escape. If you are not, what do I care if you perish? Go ahead, and we’ll see. But quickly; I don’t want to leave the world all alone.”

“The wild dove that beat its wings above me while I was being baptized: what did it say?”

“It was not a wild dove. The day will come when you shall hear the words it pronounced. But until then, they will hang over you like swords.”

Jesus rose and held out his hand. “Beloved Forerunner,” he said, his voice shaking, “farewell-perhaps forever.”

The Baptist pressed his lips to Jesus’ lips and held them there. His mouth was a live coal, and Jesus’ lips were scorched. “It is to you I finally render my soul,” he said, tightly squeezing Jesus’ tender hand. “If you are the One I’ve been waiting for, hear my last instructions, for I think I shall never see you again on this earth, never again.

“I’m listening,” Jesus whispered, shuddering. “What instructions?”

“Change your expression, strengthen your arms, make firm your heart. Your life is a heavy one. I see blood and thorns on your brow. Endure, my brother and superior, courage! Two roads open up in front of you: the road of man, which is level, and the road of God, which ascends. Take the more difficult road. Farewell! And don’t feel afflicted at partings. Your duty is not to weep; it is to strike. Strike! and may you have a steady hand! That is your road. Both ways are the daughters of God, do not forget that. But Fire was born first and Love afterward. Let us begin therefore with Fire. Forward, and good luck!”

The sun had already risen high. Caravans from the Arabian desert appeared, bringing new pilgrims with multicolored turbans on their shaven heads. Some had crescent-shaped talismans made from boars’ teeth, which they wore suspended around their necks; others had tiny bronze goddesses-all hips; and others, necklaces made from the teeth of their enemies. They were wild beasts of the east who had come to be baptized. The Baptist saw them, uttered a piercing cry and rushed down from the rock. The camels knelt on the mud of the Jordan, and the voice of the desert was heard to resound mercilessly: “Repent, repent. The day of the Lord has come!”

Meanwhile, Jesus found his companions. They were sitting on the river bank, silent and afflicted, waiting for him. It was now three days and three nights that he had not appeared, three days and three nights that the Baptist had abandoned his baptizing to talk to him. He spoke on and on, and Jesus listened with bowed head. What was he saying, bearing down over him like a vulture; and why was the one so wild and the other so sad? Judas paced up and down in a rage, puffing. As soon as night fell, he secretly approached the rock to hear. The two of them were talking, cheek to cheek. Judas cocked his ear but could distinguish only a murmur, a rapid murmur, as from running water. One was giving, the other receiving, being filled, as though the son of Mary were a jug propped up under a tap. The redbeard slid down from the rock in a frenzy, and once more began to pace in the darkness. “Shame on me, shame on me,” he grumbled, “to let them deliberate about Israel while I am absent! The Baptist should have entrusted his secret to me, should have given me the ax. I am the only one who feels Israel ’s pains. I am able to use the ax; he, the clairvoyant, is not. He shamelessly proclaims that we are all brothers, injured and injurers, Israelites and Romans and Greeks, devil take them!”

He lay down at the foot of the rock, far from the other companions, whom he did not wish to see. For a moment he fell asleep and seemed to hear the Baptist’s voice and scattered, disparate words: “Fire,” “ Sodom and Gomorrah,” “Strike!” He jumped up. Once awake, however, he heard nothing but the night birds and the jackals and the murmur of the Jordan in the reeds. He went down to the river and plunged his flaming head into the water to extinguish the fire. “He’ll come down from the rock, won’t he?” he murmured. “He will, and then I shall learn his secret, whether he likes it or not!”

When he saw Jesus approach, therefore, he jumped up, as did the other companions. They ran out joyfully to receive him, touched his shoulders, his back, caressed him; and John’s eyes filled with tears-a deep wrinkle was now engraved in the middle of the master’s forehead.

Peter could not contain himself. “Rabbi,” he said, “why did the Baptist talk to you for days and nights? What did he tell you to make you so sorrowful? Your face has changed.”

“His days are few,” answered Jesus. “Stay with him, all of you, and be baptized. I am leaving.”

“Where are you going, Rabbi?” cried out Zebedee’s younger son, taking hold of Jesus’ tunic. “We’ll all come with you.”

“I am going by myself to the desert, where no company is needed. I’m going there to speak with God.”

“With God?” said Peter, covering his face. “But then you’ll never return!”

“I shall return,” said Jesus with a sigh. “I must return. The world is suspended by a single thread. God will give me instructions, and I shall return.”

“When? How many days will you be absent again? Look how you’re leaving us!” they all shouted, holding on to him so that he would not go.

But Judas stood apart, silent, and looked at them with scorn. “Sheep… sheep…” he grumbled. “I thank the God of Israel that I am a wolf.”

“I shall return when God wishes, brothers. Farewell. Stay here and wait for me. Until then, goodbye!”

The brothers stood petrified and watched him move slowly toward the desert. He did not walk now as before, when he hardly touched the ground, but heavily, thoughtfully. He picked a reed to lean upon, mounted the arched bridge, stopped at its middle, and looked down. On all sides he saw pilgrims immersed in the muddy current of the river, their sun-blackened faces shining happily. Opposite them, on the shore, others still beat their breasts and confessed their sins to the air, watching with inflamed eyes for the Baptist to signal their turn to plunge into the holy water. Sunk hip-deep in the Jordan, the wild ascetic baptized the people in whole flocks, then, angrily, without love, pushed them toward the shore whence new flocks followed behind them. His pointed, jet-black beard shone in the sun, as did his fuzzy hair, which had never been cut; and continued shouts came from his wide, massive, eternally opened mouth.

Jesus swept his eyes over the river, the people, and in the distance the Dead Sea, the mountains of Arabia, the desert. He leaned over and saw his shadow undulating with the current toward the Dead Sea.

How nice it would be, he thought, to sit at the edge of the river and watch the water flow toward the sea with the trees, birds, clouds and at night the stars all reflected in it and flowing too; how nice if I could roll along also and not be devoured by this care for the world.

But he shook himself, banished the temptation, pulled himself away from the bridge and, descending with quick steps, disappeared behind the bleak rocks. The redbeard stood on the shore keeping constant watch over him. He saw him disappear and, fearing that he might escape, rolled up his sleeves and followed behind, overtaking him just as he was about to enter the endless sea of sand.

“Son of David, stop!” he called to him. “Why are you leaving me like this?”

Jesus turned. “Judas, my brother,” he said supplicatingly, “do not come farther. I must be alone.”

“I want to learn your secret!” said Judas, advancing.

“Don’t be in a hurry. You will learn it when the time comes. But I’ll tell you this much, Judas, my brother: be happy, everything is going well!”

“ ‘Everything is going well’ is not enough for me. A wolf’s hunger is not appeased with words. Maybe you don’t know that, but I do.”

“If you love me, be patient. Look at the trees. Are they in a hurry to ripen their fruit?”

“I’m not a tree, I’m a man,” the redbeard objected, coming closer. “I’m a man, and that means a thing which is in a hurry. I go by my own laws.”

“The law of God is the same, whether for trees or men, Judas.”

The redbeard ground his teeth. “And what is that law called?” he asked sarcastically.

“Time.”

Judas stood still and clenched his fist. He did not accept this law. Its pace was excessively slow, whereas he had not a moment to lose. The depths of his being held to another law, his own, opposite to that of Time.

“God lives for many years,” he shouted. “He is immortal; he can be patient therefore and wait. But I’m human, a thing, I tell you, that’s in a hurry. I don’t want to die before I see what I have now only in my mind-not only see it, but touch it with my hands!”

“You shall see it,” answered Jesus, waving his hand to calm him. “You shall see and touch it, Judas, my brother-have faith. Goodbye! God is waiting for me in the desert.”

“I’ll come along.”

“The desert is not big enough for two. Go back.”

The redbeard growled and bared his teeth like a sheep dog that hears his master’s voice. Head bowed, he turned around and marched heavily over the bridge, talking to himself. He remembered when he roamed the mountains with Barabbas-God bless him!-and the other rebels. What an atmosphere of ferocity and freedom! What a splendid leader of cutthroats was the God of Israel! That was the kind of leader he needed. Why did he follow this clairvoyant who was scared of blood and shouted “Love! Love!” like a panting young girl? But let’s be patient, Judas reflected, and see what he brings back from the desert!

Jesus had now entered the desert. The more he advanced, the more he felt he had gone into a lion’s cave. He shuddered, not from fear, but from a dark, inexplicable joy. He was happy. Why? He could not explain it. Suddenly, he remembered, remembered a dream he had one night when he was still a child hardly able to talk. It seemed thousands of years ago: the earliest dream he was able to recall. He had worked his way into a deep cave and found a lioness who had given birth and was suckling her cubs. When he saw her, he grew hungry and thirsty, lay down and began to suckle with the lion cubs. Afterward it seemed that they all went out to a meadow and began to play in the sun, but while they were frisking, Mary, his mother, appeared in his dream, saw him with the lions and screamed. He awoke and turned angrily to his mother, who was sleeping at his side. Why did you wake me up? he shouted at her. I was with my brothers and my mother!

Now I understand why I am happy, he reflected. I am entering my mother’s cave, the cave of the lioness, of solitude…

He heard the disquieting hiss of snakes, and of the burning wind which blew between the rocks, and of the invisible spirits of the desert.

Jesus bent over and spoke to his soul. “My soul, here you will show whether or not you are immortal.”

Hearing steps behind him, he cocked his ear. There was the crunching of sand. Someone was walking toward him, calmly, surely. I forgot her, he thought, shuddering, but she did not forget me. She is coming with me; my mother is coming with me… He knew very well that it was the Curse, but he had been calling her Mother to himself now for such a long time.

He marched on, forcing his thoughts elsewhere. He recalled the wild dove. A savage bird seemed to be imprisoned within him-or was it his soul rushing to escape? Perhaps it had escaped; perhaps the wild dove which chirped and flew circles over him the whole time he was being baptized was his soul, not a bird or a Seraph, but his own soul.

This was the answer. He started out again, calm. He heard the footsteps behind him crunching the sand, but his heart was steady now; he could at last endure everything with dignity. Man’s soul, he reflected, is all-powerful; it can take on whatever appearance it likes. At that instant it became a bird and flew over me… But as he marched tranquilly along, suddenly he cried out and stopped. The thought had come to him that perhaps the dove was an illusion, a buzzing in his ear, a whirling of the air-because he remembered how his body had gleamed, light and omnipotent, like a soul, how whatever he wanted to hear he had heard, whatever he wanted to see he had seen… He had built castles in the air. “O God, O God,” he murmured, “now that we shall be alone, tell me the truth, do not deceive me. I am weary of hearing voices in the air.

He advanced and the sun advanced with him. It had finally reached the top of the sky, directly above his head. His feet were burning in the fiery sand. He spied around him to find some shade, and as he did so, he heard wings flapping above him and saw a flock of crows rush into a pit where there was a stinking black object in the process of decay.

Holding his nose, he approached. The crows had fallen upon the carcass, planted their claws in it, and begun to eat. When they saw a man approach they flew away angrily, each with a mouthful of flesh in its talons. They circled in the air, calling to the intruder to go away. Jesus leaned over, saw the opened belly, the black, half-stripped hide, the short knotted horns, the strings of amulets around the putrid neck.

“The goat!” he murmured with a shudder. “The sacred goat that bore the people’s sins. He was chased from village to village, mountain to mountain, and finally to the desert, where he perished.”

He bent over, dug in the sand as deeply as he could with his hands, and covered the carcass.

“My brother,” he said, “you were innocent and pure, like every animal. But men, the cowards, made you bear their sins, and killed you. Rot in peace; feel no malice against them. Men, poor weak creatures, have not the courage to pay for their sins themselves: they place them upon one who is sinless. My brother, requite their sins. Farewell!”

He resumed his march but stopped after a few moments, troubled. Waving his hand, he called, “Until we meet again!”

The crows began to pursue him maniacally. He had deprived them of the tasty carcass and now they were following him, waiting for him to perish in his turn and for his belly to split open so that they could eat. What right did he have to do them this injustice? Had not God designed crows to eat carcasses? He must pay!

Night was coming at last. Tired, he squatted on a rock which was as large and round as a millstone. “I shall go no farther,” he murmured. “Here on this rock I shall set up my bulwark and do battle.” The darkness flowed abruptly down from the sky, rose up from the soil, covered the earth. And with the darkness came the frost. His teeth chattering, he wrapped himself in his white robe, curled up into a ball and closed his eyes. But as he closed them, he grew frightened. He recalled the crows, heard the famished jackals begin to howl on every side, felt the desert prowling around him like a wild beast. Afraid, he reopened his eyes. The sky had filled with stars, and he felt comforted. The Seraphim have come out to keep me company, he said to himself. They are the six-winged lights which sing psalms around God’s throne, but they are far away, so very far away that we cannot hear them… His mind illuminated by starlight, he forgot his hunger and cold. He too was a living thing, an ephemeral beacon in the darkness; he too sang hymns to God. His soul was a small pharos, the humble, poorly dressed sister of the angels… Thinking of his high extraction, he took heart, saw his soul standing together with the angels around God’s throne; and then, peacefully and without fear, he closed his eyes and slept.

When he awoke he lifted his face toward the east and saw the sun, a terrible blast furnace, rising above the sand. That is God’s face, he reflected, putting his palm over his eyes so that he would not be dazzled. “Lord,” he whispered, “I am a grain of sand; can you see me in this desert? I am a grain of sand which talks and breathes and loves you-loves you and calls you Father. I possess no weapon but love. With that I have come to do battle. Help me!”

He rose. With his reed he inscribed a circle around the rock where he had slept.

“I shall not leave this threshing floor,” he said loudly, so that the invisible forces which were lying in wait for him could hear, “I shall not leave this threshing floor unless I hear God’s voice. But I must hear it clearly; I won’t be satisfied with the usual unsteady hum or twittering or thunder. I want him to speak to me clearly, with human words, and to tell me what he desires from me and what I can, what I must, do. Only then will I get up and leave this threshing floor to return to men, if that is his command, or to die, if that is his will. I’ll do whatever he wishes, but I must know what it is. In God’s name!”

He knelt on the rock with his face toward the sun, toward the great desert. He closed his eyes, remassed those of his thoughts which had lingered at Nazareth, Magdala, Capernaum, Jacob’s well and the river Jordan, and began to put them in battle array. He was preparing for war.

With his neck tensed and his eyelids closed, he sank within himself. He heard the roar of water, the rustling of reeds, the lamentations of men. From the river Jordan came wave after wave of cries, terror and faraway visionary hopes. First to stand up in his mind were the three long nights he had spent on the rock with the wild ascetic. In full armor, they rushed to the desert to enter the war at his side.

The first night jumped down on top of him like a monstrous locust with cruel wheat-yellow eyes and wings, breath like the Dead Sea and strange green letters on its abdomen. It clung to him; its wings began furiously to rend the air. Jesus cried out and turned. The Baptist was standing next to him with his bony arm pointing in the heavy darkness toward Jerusalem.

“Look. What do you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? In front of you is holy Jerusalem, the whore. Don’t you see her? She sits and giggles on the Roman’s fat knees. The Lord cries, ‘I do not want her. Is this my wife? I do not want her!’ I too, like a dog at the Lord’s feet, bark, ‘I do not want her!’ I walk around her towers and walls and bark at her, ‘Whore! Whore!’ She has four great fortress gates. At the first sits Hunger, at the next Fear, at the third Injustice, and at the fourth, the northern one, Infamy. I enter, go up and down her streets; I approach her inhabitants and examine them. Regard their faces: three are heavy, fat, over-satiated; three thousand emaciated from hunger. When does a world disappear? When three masters overeat and a people of three thousand starves to death. Look at their faces once more. Fear sits on all of them; their nostrils quiver; they scent the day of the Lord. Regard the women. Even the most honest glances secretly at her slave, licks her chops and nods to him: Come!

“I have unroofed their palaces. Look. The king holds his brother’s wife on his knee and caresses her nakedness. What do the Holy Scriptures say? ‘He who looks at the nakedness of his brother’s wife-death!’ It is not he, the incestuous king, who will be killed, but I, the ascetic. Why-because the day of the Lord has come!”

The whole of that first night Jesus sat at the Baptist’s feet and watched Hunger, Fear, Injustice and Infamy go in and out of Jerusalem ’s four opened gates. Over the holy prostitute the clouds were gathering, full of anger and hail.

The second night the Baptist once more stretched forth his reed-like hand and with a thrust pushed through time and space. “Listen. What do you hear?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing! Don’t you hear Iniquity, the bitch who has climbed shamelessly up to heaven and is barking at the Lord’s door? Haven’t you been through Jerusalem, haven’t you seen the yelping priests, high priests, Scribes and Pharisees who surround the Temple? But God endures the earth’s impudence no longer. He has risen; he is tramping down the mountainsides and coming. In front of him is Anger; behind him are heaven’s three bitches, Fire, Leprosy and Madness. Where is the Temple with the proud, gold-inlaid columns which supported it and proclaimed: Eternal! Eternal! Eternal! Ashes the Temple, ashes the priests, high priests, Scribes and Pharisees, ashes their holy amulets, their silken cassocks and golden rings! Ashes! Ashes! Ashes!

“Where is Jerusalem? I hold a lighted lantern, I search in the mountains, in the Lord’s darkness; I shout, ‘ Jerusalem! Jerusalem!’ Deserted, completely forsaken: not even a crow answers-the crows have eaten, and left. I wade knee-deep in the skulls and bones; tears come to my eyes, but I push the bones away and banish them. I laugh, bend down and choose the longest one, make a flute and hymn the glory of the Lord.”

The whole of the second night the Baptist laughed, stood in God’s darkness and admired Fire, Leprosy and Madness. Jesus grasped the prophet’s knees. “Cannot salvation come to the world by means of love?” he asked. “By means of love, joy, mercy?”

The Baptist, without even turning to look at him, replied, “Haven’t you ever read the Scriptures? The Saviour crushes our loins, breaks our teeth, hurls fire and scorches the fields-all in order to sow. And he uproots the thorns, stinkweeds and nettles. How can you wipe out falsehood, infamy and injustice from the world if you do not eradicate the liars, the unjust, the wicked? The earth must be cleansed-don’t pity it-it must be cleansed, made ready for the planting of new seed.”

The second night passed. Jesus did not speak. He was awaiting the third night: perhaps the prophet’s voice would sweeten.

The third night the Baptist twisted and turned upon the rock, uneasy. Without laughing, without talking, he examined Jesus with anguish, searched his arms, hands, shoulders and knees, then shook his head and remained quiet, sniffing the air. Illuminated by the starlight, his eyes stood out, glistening sometimes green, sometimes yellow; and sweat mingled with blood ran from his sun-baked forehead. Finally at daybreak, when the white dawn fell upon them, he took Jesus’ hand, looked into his eyes, and frowned. “When I first saw you emerge from the reeds by the Jordan and come directly toward me,” he said, “my heart bounded like a young calf. Can you think how Samuel’s heart leaped up when he first saw the red-haired beardless shepherd, David? That is how my heart leaped. But the heart is flesh and loves the flesh, and I have no faith in it. Last night I examined you, smelled you as though seeing you for the first time, but I could not find peace. I looked at your hands. They were not the hands of a wood-chopper, of a saviour. Too soft, too merciful. How could they swing the ax? I looked at your eyes. They were not a saviour’s eyes-too full of sympathy. I got up and sighed. Lord, I murmured, your ways are dark and oblique; you are capable of sending a white dove to burn up the world and turn it into ashes. We watch the heavens, expecting a thunderbolt, an eagle or a crow-and you give us a white dove. What use is there of questioning, of resisting? Do what you like.” He spread out his arms and hugged Jesus, kissed him on his right shoulder, then on his left. “If you are the One I’ve been waiting for,” he said, “you have not come in the form I imagined you would. Was it all for nothing then that I carried the ax and placed it at the root of the tree? Or can love also wield an ax?” He reflected for a moment. “I cannot judge,” he murmured finally. “I shall die without seeing the result. It does not matter, that’s my lot: a hard one-and I like it!” He squeezed Jesus’ hand. “Go, and good luck. Go talk with God in the desert. But come back quickly, so that the world will not remain all alone.”

Jesus opened his eyes. The river Jordan, the Baptist and the baptized, the camels and the lamentations of the people-all flared up in the air and were snuffed out. The desert now stretched before him. The sun had risen high and was burning: the stones steamed like loaves of bread. He felt his insides being mowed down by hunger. “I’m hungry,” he murmured, looking at the stones, “I’m hungry!” He remembered the bread which the old Samaritan woman had presented them. How delicious it had been, sweet like honey! He remembered the honey, split olives and dates he was treated to whenever he passed through a village; and the holy supper they had when, kneeling on the shore of Lake Gennesaret, they removed the grill, with its row of sweet-smelling fish, from the andirons. And afterward, the figs, grapes and pomegranates came to his mind, agitating him still further.

His throat was dry and parched from thirst. How many rivers flowed in the world! All these waters which bounded from rock to rock, rolled from one end of the land of Israel to the other, ran into the Dead Sea and disappeared-and he had not even a drop to drink! He thought of these waters and his thirst increased. He felt dizzy; his eyes fluttered. Two cunning devils in the shape of young rabbits emerged from the burning sand, stood up on their hind legs and danced. They turned, saw the eremite, screamed happily and began to hop toward him. They climbed onto his knees and jumped to his shoulders. One was cool, like water, the other warm and fragrant, like bread; but as he longingly put out his hands to grasp them, with a single bound they vanished into the air.

He closed his eyes and recollected the thoughts which hunger and thirst had dispersed. God came to his mind: he was neither hungry nor thirsty any more. He reflected on the salvation of the world. Ah, if the day of the Lord could only come with love! Was not God omnipotent? Why couldn’t he perform a miracle and by touching men’s hearts make them blossom? Look how each year at the Passover bare stems, meadows and thorns opened up at his touch. If only one day men could awake to find their deepest selves in bloom!

He smiled. In his thoughts the world had flowered. The incestuous king was baptized, his soul cleansed. He had sent away his sister-in-law Herodias and she had returned to her husband. The high priests and noblemen had opened their larders and coffers, distributed their goods to the poor; and the poor in their turn breathed freely once more and banished hate, jealousy and fear from their hearts… Jesus looked at his hands. The ax which the Forerunner had surrendered to him had blossomed: a flowering almond branch was now in his palm.

The day concluded with this feeling of relief. He lay down on the rock and fell asleep. All night long in his sleep he heard water running, small rabbits dancing, a strange rustling, and two damp nostrils examining him. It seemed to him that toward midnight a hungry jackal came up and smelled him. Was this a carcass, or wasn’t it? The beast stood for a moment unable to make up its mind. And Jesus, in his sleep, pitied it. He wanted to open his breast and give it food, but restrained himself. He was keeping his flesh for men.

He woke up before dawn. A network of large stars covered the sky; the air was fluffy and blue. At this hour, he reflected, the cocks awake, the villages are roused, men open their eyes and look through the skylight at the radiance which has come once more. The infants awake in their turn, the bawling begins and the mothers approach, holding forth their full breasts… For an instant the world undulated over the desert with its men and houses and cocks and infants and mothers-all made from the morning frost and breeze. But the sun would now rise to swallow them up! The eremite’s heart skipped a beat. If only I could make this frost everlasting! he thought. But God’s mind is an abyss, his love a terrifying precipice. He plants a world, destroys it just as it is about to give fruit, and then plants another. He recalled the Baptist’s words: “Who knows, perhaps love carries an ax…” and shuddered. He looked at the desert. Ferociously red, it swayed under the sun, which had risen angrily, zoned by a storm. The wind blew; the smell of pitch and sulphur came to his nostrils. He thought of Sodom and Gomorrah -palaces, theaters, taverns, prostitutes-plunged in the tar. Abraham had shouted, “Have mercy, Lord; do not burn them. Are you not good? Take pity, therefore, on your creatures.” And God had answered him, “I am just, I shall burn them all!”

Was this, then, God’s way? If so, it was a great impudence for the heart-that clod of soft mud-to stand up and shout, Stop!… What is our duty? he asked himself. It is to look down, to find God’s tracks in the soil and follow them. I look down; I clearly see God’s imprint on Sodom and Gomorrah. The entire Dead Sea is God’s imprint. He trod, and palaces, theaters, taverns, brothels-the whole of Sodom and Gomorrah -were engulfed! He will tread once more, and once more the earth-kings, high priests, Pharisees, Sadducees-all will sink to the bottom.

Without realizing it, he had begun to shout. His mind was wild with fury. Forgetting that his knees were unable to support him, he tried to rise, to set out on God’s trail, but he collapsed supine onto the ground, out of breath. “I am unable; don’t you see me?” he cried, lifting his eyes toward the burning heavens. “I am unable; why do you choose me? I cannot endure!” And as he cried out, he saw a black mass on the sand before him: the goat, disemboweled, its legs in the air. He remembered how he had leaned over and seen his own face in the leaden eyes. “I am the goat,” he murmured. “God placed him along my path to show me who I am and where I am heading…” Suddenly he began to weep. “I don’t want… I don’t want…” he murmured, “I don’t want to be alone. Help me!”

And then, while he was bowed over and weeping, a pleasant breeze blew, the stench of the tar and the carcass disappeared and a sweet perfume pervaded the world. The eremite heard water, bracelets and laughter jingling in the distance and approaching. His eyelids, armpits and throat felt refreshed. He lifted his eyes. On a stone in front of him a snake with the eyes and breasts of a woman was licking its lips and regarding him. The eremite stepped back, terrified. Was this a snake, a woman, or a cunning demon of the desert? Such a serpent had wrapped itself around the forbidden tree of Paradise and seduced the first man and woman to unite and give birth to sin… He heard laughter and the sweet, wheedling voice of a woman: “I felt sorry for you, son of Mary. You cried, ‘I don’t want to be alone. Help me!’ I pitied you and came. What can I do for you?”

“I don’t want you. I didn’t call you. Who are you?”

“Your soul.”

“My soul!” Jesus exclaimed, and he closed his eyes, horrified.

“Yes, your soul. You are afraid of being alone. Your great-grandfather Adam had the same fear. He too shouted for help. His flesh and soul united, and woman emerged from his rib to keep him company.”

“I don’t want you, don’t want you! I remember the apple you fed to Adam. I remember the angel with the scimitar!”

“You remember, and that’s why you’re in pain and you cry out and cannot find your way. I shall show it to you. Give me your hand. Don’t look back; don’t recall anything. See how my breasts take the lead. Follow them, my spouse. They know the way perfectly.”

“You are going to lead me also to sweet sin and the Inferno. I’m not coming. Mine is another road.”

The serpent giggled derisively and showed her sharp, poisonous teeth. “Do you wish to follow God’s tracks, the tracks of the eagle-you worm! You, son of the Carpenter, wish to bear the sins of an entire race! Aren’t your own sins enough for you? What impudence to think that it’s your duty to save the world!”

She’s right… she’s right… the eremite thought, trembling. What impudence to wish to save the world!

“I have a secret to tell you, dear son of Mary,” said the snake in a sweet voice, her eyes sparkling. She slid down from the rock like water and began, richly decorated, to roll toward him. She arrived at his feet, climbed onto his knees, curled herself up and with a spring reached his thighs, loins, breast and finally leaned against his shoulder. The eremite, despite himself, inclined his head to hear her. The snake licked Jesus’ ear with her tongue. Her voice was seductive and far away: it seemed to be coming from Galilee, from the edge of Lake Gennesaret.

“It’s Magdalene… it’s Magdalene… it’s Magdalene…”

“What?” said Jesus, shuddering. “What about Magdalene?”

“… it’s Magdalene you must save!” the snake hissed imperatively. “Not the Earth-forget about the Earth. It’s her, Magdalene, you must save!”

Jesus tried to shake the serpent away from his head, but she thrust herself forward and vibrated her tongue in his ear. “Her body is beautiful, cool and accomplished. All nations have passed over her, but it has been written in God’s hand since your childhood that she is for you. Take her! God created man and woman to match, like the key and the lock. Open her. Your children sit huddled together and numb inside her, waiting for you to blow away their numbness so that they may rise and come out to walk in the sun… Do you hear what I’m telling you? Lift your eyes, give me some sign. Just nod your head, my darling, and this very hour I shall bring you, on a fresh bed-your wife.”

“My wife?”

“Your wife. Look how God married the whore Jerusalem. The nations passed over her, but he married her to save her. Look how the prophet Hosea married the whore Gomer, daughter of Debelaim. In the same way, God commands you to sleep with Mary Magdalene, your wife, to have children, and save her.”

The serpent had now pressed its hard, cool, round breast against Jesus’ own and was sliding slowly, tortuously, wrapping itself around him. Jesus grew pale, closed his eyes, saw Magdalene’s firm, high-rumped body wriggling along the shores of Lake Gennesaret, saw her gaze toward the river Jordan and sigh. She extended her hand-she was seeking him; and her bosom was filled with children: his own. He had only to twitch the corner of his eye, to give a sign, and all at once: what happiness! How his life would change, sweeten, become more human! This was the way, this! He would return to Nazareth, to his mother’s house, would become reconciled with his brothers. It was nothing but youthful folly-madness-to want to save the world and die for mankind. But thanks to Magdalene, God bless her, he would be cured; he would return to his workshop, take up once more his old beloved craft, once more make plows, cradles and troughs; he would have children and become a human being, the master of a household. The peasants would respect him and stand up when he passed. He would work the whole week long and on Saturday go to the synagogue in the clean garments woven for him of linen and silk by his wife Magdalene, with his expensive kerchief over his head, his golden wedding ring on his finger; and he would have his stall with the elders, would sit and listen peacefully and indifferently while the seething, half-insane Scribes and Pharisees sweated and shivered to interpret the Holy Scriptures. He would snigger and look at them with sympathy. Where would they ever end up, these theologians! He was interpreting Holy Scripture quietly and surely by taking a wife, having children, by constructing plows, cradles, and troughs…

He opened his eyes and saw the desert. Where had the day gone! The sun was once more inclining toward the horizon. The serpent, her breast glued to his own, was waiting. She hissed tranquilly, seductively, and a tender, plaintive lullaby flowed into the evening air. The entire desert rocked and lullabied like a mother.

“I’m waiting… I’m waiting…” the snake hissed salaciously. “Night has overtaken us. I’m cold. Decide. Nod to me, and the doors of Paradise will be opened to you. Decide, my darling. Magdalene is waiting…”

The eremite felt paralyzed with fear. As he was about to open his mouth to say Yes, he felt someone above looking down on him. Terrified, he lifted his head and saw two eyes in the air, two eyes only, as black as night, and two white eyebrows which were moving and signaling to him: No! No! No! Jesus’ heart contracted. He looked up again beseechingly, as if he wished to scream: Leave me alone, give me permission, do not be angry! But the eyes had grown ferocious and the eyebrows vibrated threateningly.

“No! No! No!” Jesus then shouted, and two large tears rolled from his eyes.

All at once the serpent writhed, unglued herself from him and with a muffled roar exploded. The air was glutted with the stench.

Jesus fell on his face. His mouth, nostrils and eyes filled with sand. His mind was blank. Forgetting his hunger and thirst, he wept-wept as though his wife and all his children had died, as though his whole life had been ruined.

“Lord, Lord,” he murmured, biting the sand, “Father, have you no mercy? Your will be done: how many times have I said this to you until now, how many times shall I say it in the future? All my life I shall quiver, resist and say it: Your will be done!”

In this way, murmuring and swallowing the sand, he fell asleep; and as the eyes of his body closed, those of his soul opened and he saw the specter of a serpent as thick as the body of a man and extending in length from one end of the night to the other. She was stretched out on the sand with her wide, bright-red mouth opened at his side. Opposite this mouth hopped an ornate, trembling partridge struggling in vain to open its wings and escape. It staggered forward uttering small, weak cries, its feathers raised out of fear. The motionless serpent kept her eyes glued on it, her mouth opened. She was in no hurry, for she was sure of her prey. The partridge advanced little by little directly toward the opened mouth, stumbling on its crooked legs. Jesus stood still and watched, trembling like the partridge. At daybreak the bird had at last reached the gaping mouth. It quivered for a moment, glanced quickly around as though seeking aid; then suddenly stretched forth its neck and entered head first, feet together. The mouth closed. Jesus was able to see the partridge, a ball of feathers and meat and ruby-colored feet, descend little by little toward the dragon’s belly.

He jumped up, terrified. The desert was a mass of swelling rose-colored waves.

The sun was rising. “It is God,” he murmured, trembling. “And the partridge is…

His voice broke. He did not have the strength to complete his reflection. But inside himself he thought:… man’s soul. The partridge is man’s soul!

He remained plunged in this reflection for hours. The sun came up, set the sand on fire; it pierced Jesus’ scalp, went inside him and parched his mind, throat and breast. His entrails were suspended like bunches of left-over grapes after the autumn vintage. His tongue had stuck to his palate, his skin was peeling off, his bones emerging; and his fingertips had turned completely blue.

Time, within him, had become as small as a heartbeat, as large as death. He was no longer hungry or thirsty; he no longer desired children and a wife. His whole soul had squeezed into his eyes. He saw-that was all: he saw. But at precisely noon his sight grew dim; the world vanished and a gigantic mouth gaped somewhere in front of him, its lower jaw the earth, its upper jaw the skies. Trembling, he dragged himself slowly forward toward the opened mouth, his neck stretched forward…

The days and nights went by like flashes of white and black lightning. One midnight a lion came and stood in front of him, proudly shaking its mane. Its voice was like a man’s: “Welcome to my lair, victorious ascetic. I salute the man who conquered the minor virtues, the small joys, and happiness! We don’t like what’s easy and sure; our sights are on difficult things. Magdalene isn’t a big enough wife for us: we wish to marry the entire Earth. Bridegroom, the bride has sighed, the lamps of the heavens are lighted, the guests have arrived: let us go.”

“Who are you?”

“Yourself-the hungry lion inside your heart and loins that at night prowls around the sheepfolds, the kingdoms of this world, and weighs whether or not to jump in and eat. I rush from Babylon to Jerusalem, from Jerusalem to Alexandria, from Alexandria to Rome, shouting: I am hungry; everything is mine! At daybreak I re-enter your breast and shrink; the terrifying lion becomes a lamb. I play at being the humble ascetic who desires nothing, who seems able to live on a grain of wheat, a sip of water and on a naïve, accommodating God whom he tries to flatter with the name of Father. But secretly, in my heart, I am ashamed; I grow fierce and yearn for nightfall when I can throw off my sheepskin and begin once more to roar, roam the night and stamp my four feet down on Babylon, Jerusalem, Alexandria and Rome.”

“I don’t know who you are. I never desired the kingdom of this world. The kingdom of heaven is sufficient for me.”

“It is not. You deceive yourself, friend. It is not sufficient for you. You don’t dare gaze within yourself, deep within your loins and heart-to find me… Why do you look askance and think ill of me? Do you believe I am Temptation, an emissary of the Sly One, come to mislead you? You brainless hermit, what strength can external temptation have? The fortress is taken only from within. I am the deepest voice of your deepest self; I am the lion within you. You have wrapped yourself in the skin of a lamb to encourage men to approach you, so that you can devour them. Remember, when you were a small child a Chaldean sorceress looked at your palm. ‘I see many stars,’ she said, ‘many crosses. You shall become king.’ Why do you pretend to forget? You remember it day and night. Rise, son of David, and enter your kingdom!”

Jesus listened with bowed head. Little by little he recognized the voice, little by little he recalled having heard it sometimes in his dreams and once when he was a child and Judas had thrashed him, and one other time when he had left his house and roamed the fields for days and nights pinched by hunger, then returned shamefully home, to be greeted with hoots by his brothers, lame Simon and pious Jacob, who were standing in the doorway. Then, truly, he had heard the lion roar inside him… And only the other day, when he carried the cross to the Zealot’s crucifixion and passed before the stormy crowd, everyone looking at him with disgust and moving out of his path, the lion had again jumped up within him, and with such force that he was thrown down.

And now, in this forsaken midnight-look! The bellowing lion inside him had come out and stood before him. It rubbed itself against him, vanished and reappeared, as though going in and out of him, and playfully tapped him with its tail… Jesus felt his heart grow more and more ferocious. The lion is really right, he thought. I’ve had enough of all this. I’m fed up with being hungry, with wanting to play at humility, with offering the other cheek only to get it slapped. I’m tired of flattering this man-eating God with the name of Father in order to cajole him to be more gentle; tired of hearing my brothers curse me, my mother weep, men laugh when I go by; sick of going barefooted, of not being able to buy the honey, wine and women I see when I pass by the market, and of finding courage only in my sleep to have God bring them to me, so that I can taste and embrace the empty air! I’m sick of it all! I shall rise, gird myself with the ancestral sword-am I not the son of David?-and enter my kingdom! The lion is right. Enough of ideas and clouds and kingdoms of heaven. Stones and soil and flesh-that is my kingdom!

He rose. Somewhere he found the strength to jump up and gird himself, gird himself interminably with an invisible sword, bellowing like a lion. He was ready. “Forward!” he cried. He turned, but the lion had disappeared. He heard pulsating laughter above him and a voice: “Look!” A flash of lightning knifed through the night and stood fixed, motionless. Under it were cities with walls and towers, houses, roads, squares, people; and all around, plains, mountains, sea. Babylon was to the right, Jerusalem and Alexandria to the left, and across the sea was Rome. Once more he heard the voice: “Look!”

Jesus raised his eyes. A yellow-winged angel dropped headfirst from the sky. Lamentations were heard: in the four kingdoms the people lifted their arms to heaven, but their hands fell off, gnawed away by leprosy. They parted their lips to cry Help! and their lips fell, devoured by leprosy. The streets filled with hands and noses and mouths.

And while Jesus cried with upraised arms, “Mercy, Lord, have pity on mankind!” a second angel, dapple-winged, with bells around his feet and neck, fell headfirst from heaven. All at once laughter and guffawing broke out over the entire earth: struck down by madness, the lepers were running helter-skelter. Whatever remained of their bodies had burst into peals of laughter.

Trembling, Jesus blocked his ears so that he would not hear. And then a third angel, red-winged, fell like a meteor from the sky. Four fountains of fire rose up, four columns of smoke, and the stars were extinguished for want of air. A light breeze blew, scattering the fumes. Jesus looked. The four kingdoms had become four handfuls of ashes.

The voice sounded once more: “These, wretch, are the kingdoms of this world which you are setting out to possess; and those are my three beloved angels: Leprosy, Madness and Fire. The day of the Lord has come-my day, mine!” With this last clap of thunder the lightning disappeared.

The dawn found Jesus with his face plunged in the sand. During the night he must have rolled off his stone and wept and wept, for his eyes were swollen and smarting. He looked around him. Could this endless sand be his soul? The desert was shifting, coming to life. He heard shrill cries, mocking laughter, weeping. Small animals resembling rabbits, squirrels and weasels, all with ruby-red eyes, were hopping toward him. It is Madness, he thought, Madness, come to devour me. He cried out, and the animals disappeared; an archangel with the half moon suspended from his neck and a joyous star between his eyebrows towered up before him and unfurled his green wings.

Jesus shaded his eyes against the dazzling light. “ Archangel,” he whispered.

The archangel closed his wings and smiled. “Don’t you recognize me?” he said. “Don’t you remember me?”

“No, no! Who are you? Go farther away, Archangel. You’re blinding me.”

“Do you remember when you were a small child still unable to walk, you clung to the door of your house and to your mother’s clothes so that you would not fall, and shouted within yourself, shouted loudly, ‘God, make me God! God, make me God! God, make me God!’ ”

“Don’t remind me of that shameless blasphemy. I remember it!”

“I am that inner voice. I shouted then; I shout still, but you’re afraid and pretend not to hear. Now, however, you are going to listen to me, like it or not. The hour has come. I chose you before you were born-you, out of the whole of mankind. I work and gleam within you, prevent you from falling into the minor virtues, the small pleasures, into happiness. Behold how just now when Woman came into the desert where I brought you, I banished her. The kingdoms came, and I banished them. I did, I, not you. I am reserving you for a destiny much more important, much more difficult.

“More important… more difficult…?”

“What did you long for when you were a child? To become God. That is what you shall become!”

“I? I?”

“Don’t shrink back; don’t moan. That is what you shall become, what you have already become. What words do you think the wild dove threw over you at the Jordan?”

“Tell me! Tell me!”

“’You are my son, my only son!’ That was the message brought you by the wild dove. But it was not a wild dove; it was the archangel Gabriel. I salute you, therefore: Son, only son of God!”

Two wings beat within Jesus’ breast. He felt a large, rebellious morning star burning between his eyebrows. A cry rose up within him: I am not a man, not an angel, not your slave, Adonai-I am your son. I shall sit on your throne to judge the living and the dead. In my right hand I shall hold a sphere-the world-and play with it. Make room for me to sit down!

He heard peals of laughter in the air. Jesus gave a start. The angel had vanished. He uttered a piercing cry, “Lucifer!” and fell prone onto the sand.

“I shall see you again,” said a mocking voice. “We shall meet again one day-soon!”

“Never, never, Satan!” Jesus bellowed, with his face buried in the sand.

“Soon!” the voice repeated. “At this Passover, miserable wretch!”

Jesus began to wail. His tears fell in warm drops on the sand, washing, rinsing, purifying his soul. Toward evening a cool breeze blew; the sun became gentle and colored the distant mountains pink. And then Jesus heard a merciful command, and an invisible hand touched his shoulder.

“Stand up, the day of the Lord is here. Run and carry the message to men: I am coming!”