The Last Temptation of Christ

Chapter Twenty-Two

ROME SITS upon the nations with her all-powerful insatiable arms spread wide and receives the boats, caravans, gods and produce of all the world and all the sea. While believing in no god she fearlessly and with ironic condescension receives all gods into her courts: from faraway fire-worshiping Persia, Mithras the sun-faced son of Ahuramazda, mounted on the sacred bull which is soon to die; from the many-uddered land of the Nile, Isis, who in springtime upon the blossoming fields seeks the fourteen pieces of her husband and brother Osiris, whom Typhon dismembered; from Syria, amid heart-rending lamentations, exquisite Adonis; from Phrygia, stretched out on a bier and covered with faded violets, Attis; from shameless Phoenicia, Astarte of the thousand husbands: all the gods and devils of Asia and Africa; and from Greece, white-topped Olympus, and black Hades.

She receives all the gods; she has opened roads, freed the sea of pirates and the land of bandits, brought peace and order to the world. Above her is no one, not even God. Under her-everyone. Gods and men: all are citizens and slaves of Rome. Time and Space are richly illuminated scrolls rolled up in her fist. I am eternal, she vaunts, caressing the two-headed eagle which, having folded its blood-stained wings, reposes at the feet of its mistress. What splendor, what irremovable joy to be omnipotent and immortal, thinks Rome; and a wide fat smile flows over her fleshy rouged face.

Contented, she smiles… and forgets. For whom has she opened up the routes of land and sea, for whom has she toiled for so many ages to bring safety and peace to the world? This never even crosses her mind. She conquered, made laws, became rich, stretched herself over the entire universe-for whom, for whom?

For the barefooted man who at this moment, followed by a swarm of ragamuffins, is proceeding along the deserted road from Nazareth to Cana. He has nowhere to sleep, nothing to wear or eat. All his larders, horses and rich silks are still in heaven-but they have begun to descend.

Holding his shepherd’s staff he marches with bloody feet amid dust and stones. Sometimes he halts, leans on the staff and without speaking sweeps his eyes along the mountains and then above the peaks to a light: God, who sits on high and keeps watch over men. He raises his staff, salutes him, and then resumes his journey…

They finally reached Cana. At the well outside the village a pale young woman with swelling womb was happily drawing water and filling her jug. They recognized her. It was the girl whose marriage they had gone to in the summer. They had expressed their wish at that time that she might have a son.

“Our wish has been fulfilled,” Jesus said to her, smiling. She blushed and asked if they were thirsty. They were not, so she put the jug on her head, went into the village and disappeared.

Peter took the lead and began to knock at all the doors, running from threshold to threshold. A mysterious drunkenness had swept him away. Dancing, he shouted, “Open up! Open up!”

The doors opened and women appeared. Night was falling; the farmers were returning from their fields. “What’s up, friend?” they asked, surprised. “Why are you pounding on the doors?”

“The day of the Lord has come,” Peter answered. “The deluge, men! We carry the new ark. All believers: enter. Behold! the master holds the key. Step lively now!”

The women became frightened. The men approached Jesus, who was sitting on a rock now and inscribing crosses and stars in the soil with his staff.

The sick and the lame from the whole village gathered around him.

“Rabbi, touch us so that we may be healed. Say a kind word to make us forget that we are blind, crippled and leprous.”

A tall, aristocratic old lady dressed all in black cried, “I had a son and they crucified him. Raise him from the dead!”

Who was this noble old woman? The astonished farmers turned. No one from their village had been crucified. They looked to see where the voice came from-but the old lady had disappeared into the twilight.

Bowed over the soil, Jesus inscribed crosses and stars and listened to a trumpet of war which was descending the hill opposite. Heavy, rhythmic marching was heard, and suddenly bronze shields and helmets flashed in the light of the evening sun. The villagers turned; their faces grew dark.

“The confounded hunter is returning from the chase. He’s gone out again to catch rebels.”

“He brought his paralyzed daughter to our village to be cured, so he says, by the pure air. But the God of Israel keeps a ledger and records and does not forgive. The soil of Cana shall bury her!”

“Don’t shout, wretches-here he is!”

Three horsemen passed before them. In the middle was Rufus, the centurion of Nazareth. Spurring his mount, he approached the crowd of peasants. “Why have you assembled?” he shouted, lifting his whip. “Disperse!” His face was afflicted. In several months’ time he had grown old; his hair was turning gray. He had been broken by his pangs of grief for his only daughter, who one morning had suddenly found herself paralyzed in her bed. As he charged and dispersed the villagers, he glimpsed Jesus sitting off to one side on a stone. Suddenly his face lighted up. He spurred his horse and approached him.

“Son of the Carpenter,” he said, “you have come from Judea -welcome! I’ve been looking for you.”

He turned to the villagers. “I have something to say to him. Go away!”

He saw the disciples and paupers who had followed from Nazareth, recognized several, and frowned.

“Son of the Carpenter,” he said, “you have helped crucify others; take care you don’t get crucified yourself. Do not touch the people; do not put ideas into their heads. My hand is heavy, and Rome is immortal.”

Jesus smiled. He knew very well that Rome was not immortal, but he did not speak.

The grumbling farmers had dispersed. They stood off at a distance and stared at the three rebels-a tall old man with a forked beard, and his two sons-who had been captured by the legionaries and were now being transported, loaded in chains. All three, with heads held high, gazed over the Roman helmets, trying to see the crowd, but they saw nothing, nothing except the God of Israel, erect in the air, and angry.

Judas recognized them. He had once fought side by side with them. He nodded, but they, blinded by God’s splendor, did not see him.

“Son of the Carpenter,” said the centurion, bending low while still mounted on his horse, “there are gods who hate and kill us, others who do not deign to look down and see us, still others who are well disposed and exceedingly merciful, and who heal the sicknesses of unfortunate mortals. Son of the Carpenter, to which of these categories does your God belong?”

“There is one God,” Jesus answered. “Do not blaspheme, centurion!”

Rufus shook his head. “I don’t intend to enter into a theological discussion with you,” he said. “I detest the Jews and if you don’t mind my saying so, all of you harp on God incessantly. The only thing I wanted to ask you was this: Can your God…”

He stopped. He was ashamed to condescend to ask a favor of a Jew.

But straightway a narrow, virginal bed arose in his mind and lying upon it, motionless, the pale body of a young girl with two large green eyes which looked at him, looked at him, and implored him…

He swallowed his pride and leaned even farther over on his saddle. “Son of the Carpenter, can your God heal the sick?”

He looked agonizedly at Jesus. “Can he?” he asked again, seeing Jesus silent.

Jesus slowly rose from the rock where he was sitting and approached the rider. “ ‘The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.’ Such is the law of my God.”

“Unjust!” shouted the centurion with a shudder.

“No, just!” Jesus contradicted him. “Father and son are of the same root. Together they rise to heaven, together they descend to hell. If you strike one, both are wounded; if one makes a mistake, both are punished. You, centurion, hunt and kill us, and the God of Israel strikes down your daughter with paralysis.”

“Son of the Carpenter, those are heavy words. I happened once to hear you speak in Nazareth, and your words then seemed sweeter than what would be suitable for a Roman. But now…”

“Then the kingdom of heaven was talking, now the end of the world. Since the day you heard me, centurion, the just judge seated himself on his throne, opened his ledgers and called for Justice, who came, sword in hand, and stood next to him.”

“Is yours, then, one more God who goes no further than justice?” shouted the exasperated centurion. “Is that where he stops? What then was the new message of love you proclaimed last summer in Galilee? My daughter doesn’t need God’s justice; she needs his love. I seek a God who surpasses justice and who can heal my child. That’s why I’ve moved every stone in Israel to find you… Love-do you hear? Love, not justice.”

“Merciless loveless centurion of Rome: who puts these words into your savage mouth?”

“Suffering, and my love for my child. I seek a God who will cure my child, so that I may believe in him.”

“Blessed are those who believe in God without requiring miracles.”

“Yes, blessed. But I am a hard man and not easily convinced. I saw many gods in Rome -we’ve got thousands locked up in cages-and I’ve had enough of them!”

“Where is your daughter?”

“Here. She’s in a garden at the highest point in the village.”

“Let us go.”

The centurion braced himself and jumped off his horse. He and Jesus marched in front. Behind them at a distance came the disciples, and farther back still, the crowd of peasants. At that instant Thomas, rapturously happy, emerged from behind the legion’s rear guard. He had been going behind the soldiers, selling them his wares at an immense profit.

“Hey, Thomas,” the disciples shouted at him, “you’re still not coming with us, eh? Now you’ll see the miracle and believe.”

“I’ve got to see first,” Thomas answered, “and to touch.”

“Touch what, you shrewd merchant?”

“The truth.”

“Does truth have a body? What’s this you’re piping, blockhead!”

“If it has no body, what do I want with it?” said Thomas, laughing. “I need to touch things. I don’t trust my eyes or my ears; I trust my hands.”

They reached the highest part of the village and entered a cheery whitewashed house.

A girl of about twelve years of age was lying on a white bed, her two large green eyes open. When she saw her father her face lighted up. Her soul shook violently, trying to lift the paralyzed body, but in vain; and the joy on her face went out. Leaning over, Jesus took the girl’s hand. All his strength assembled in his palm-all his strength and love and mercy. Without speaking, he pinned his eyes onto the two green eyes and felt his soul flow impetuously from the tips of his fingers into the girl’s body. She looked at him ardently, her lips just parted, and smiled.

The disciples tiptoed into the room, with Thomas first and foremost, his sack of wares over his back and his horn under his belt. The peasants scattered throughout the garden and narrow lane. Everyone was holding his breath and waiting. The centurion, leaning against the wall, watched his daughter and struggled to hide his anguish.

Little by little the girl’s cheeks began to redden, her chest swelled, she was permeated by a sweet tingling which passed from her hand to her heart, and from her heart to the very soles of her feet. Her entrails rustled and stirred like the leaves of a poplar caught in a gentle breeze. Jesus felt the girl’s hand beat like a heart and return to life in his grasp. Only then did he open his mouth and speak.

“Rise, my daughter!” he gently commanded.

The girl moved peacefully, as though recovering from numbness; stretched herself, as if waking up; then, propping her hand against the bed, lifted her body-and with one jump was in her father’s arms. Thomas’s swivel eyes popped out of his head. He extended his hand and touched the girl, apparently wishing to make sure she was real. The disciples were astonished and frightened. The crowd, which had swarmed around, bellowed for an instant and then, terrified, became immediately mute. Nothing was heard but the girl’s refreshing laughter as she hugged and kissed her father.

Judas approached the master, his face angry and evil.

“You dissipate your strength on unbelievers. You help our enemies. Is this the end of the world you’ve brought us? Are these the flames?”

But Jesus, hovering far away in dark skies, did not hear him. He had been frightened more than anyone else at the sight of the girl jumping out of her bed. The disciples, unable to contain their joy, formed a circle and danced around him. So-they had done well to abandon everything and join him. He was the real thing: he performed miracles. Thomas placed a scale in his mind and weighed. On one tray he put his wares, on the other the kingdom of heaven. The trays oscillated for some time and finally stood still. The kingdom of heaven was the heavier. Yes, it was an excellent risk: I give five, I might get a thousand. Forward, then, in God’s name!

He approached the master. “Rabbi,” he said, “for your precious sake I’ll portion out my wares to the poor. Please don’t forget it tomorrow when the kingdom of heaven arrives. I’m sacrificing everything to come with you, for today I saw and touched the truth.”

But Jesus was still far away. He heard but did not answer.

“I’m going to keep only my horn,” continued the former merchant, “so that I can blow it to assemble the people. We’re selling new wares, immortal ones-and free!”

The centurion, holding his daughter in his arms, came up to Jesus. “Man of God,” he said, “you revived my daughter. What favor can I do for you?”

“I freed your daughter from the chains of Satan,” Jesus answered. “You, centurion, free those three rebels from the chains of Rome.”

Rufus bowed his head and sighed. “I cannot,” he murmured sadly, “truly, I cannot. I took an oath to the Roman Emperor, just as you took an oath to the God you worship. Is it right to betray our oath? Ask me any other favor you desire. I’m leaving for Jerusalem the day after tomorrow, and I want to do this favor for you before I go.”

“Centurion,” Jesus replied, “one day we shall meet in holy Jerusalem at a difficult hour. I shall ask the favor of you at that time. Until then, be patient.”

He placed his hand on the girl’s blond hair and kept it there for a long time. He closed his eyes, felt the warmth of the head, the softness of the hair, the sweetness of womanhood.

“My child,” he said at last, opening his eyes, “I am going to tell you something which I don’t want you to forget. Take your father by the hand and lead him to the true road.”

“Which is the true road, man of God?” the girl asked.

“Love.”

The centurion gave orders. Food and drink were brought, tables set.

“Be my guests,” he said to Jesus and the disciples. “Tonight you shall eat and drink in this house, for I celebrate my child’s resurrection. I have not been happy for years. Today my heart is filled to overflowing with joy. Welcome!”

He leaned over to Jesus. “I owe a great debt of gratitude to the God you worship,” he said. “Give him to me so that I can send him to Rome along with the other gods.”

“He will get there on his own,” Jesus answered, and he went out to the yard in order to breathe.

Night fell. The stars began to mount the sky. Below in the tiny village the lamps were lighted and the eyes of the people gleamed. This evening their everyday talk rose one degree higher than usual, for they sensed that God, like a kind lion, had entered their village.

The tables were set. Jesus sat down among his disciples and divided the bread but did not speak. Within him, his soul still anxiously flapped ‘its wings as though it had just escaped an immense danger or completed a great and unexpected exploit. The disciples around him did not speak either, but their hearts bounded for joy. All these ends of the world and kingdoms of heaven were not dreams and mere excitement, they were the truth; and the dark-complexioned, barefooted youth next to them who ate, spoke, laughed and slept like other men was truly the apostle of God.

When the meal ended and all the others lay down to sleep, Matthew knelt below the lamp, drew out the virgin notebook from under his shirt, took his quill from behind his ear, leaned over the blank pages and remained meditating for a long time. How should he begin? Where should he begin? God had placed him next to this holy man in order that he might faithfully record the words he said and the miracles he performed, so that they would not perish and that future generations might learn about them and choose, in their turn, the road of salvation. Surely, that was the duty God had entrusted to him. He knew how to read and write; therefore he had a heavy responsibility: to catch with his pen all that was about to perish and, by placing it on paper, to make it immortal. Let the disciples detest him, let them not want to frequent his presence because once he was a publican. He would show them now that the repentant sinner is better than the man who has never sinned.

He plunged his quill into the bronze inkwell and heard a rustling of wings to his right. An angel seemed to come to his ear and dictate. With a sure, rapid hand he started to write: “The Book of the Generation of Jesus Christ, son of David, son of Abraham. Abraham begot…”

He wrote and wrote until the east began to glow bluish-white and the first cock was heard to crow.

They departed, with Thomas and his horn in the lead. He sounded it, and the village awoke. “Farewell,” he shouted, “see you soon in the kingdom of heaven.” Jesus came from behind with the disciples and the mob of ragamuffins and cripples from Nazareth, who still followed him, augmented now by new ones from Cana. They were waiting. He can’t possibly forget us, they said to themselves. The blessed hour will come when he’ll turn toward us too, and rid us of hunger and disease… Today Judas remained at the end of the procession. He had found a set of large traveling bags and he halted before each door and spoke to the housewives in a half-beseeching, half-threatening voice. “On our side, we work for you, poor things, so you can be saved. On your side, you can help us-keep us from starving to death. You must know that even saints have to eat to get strength to save mankind. Some bread, cheese, raisins, dates, a handful of olives: no matter what it is, God writes it down and repays you in the next world. You give one split olive and he’ll repay you with a whole orchard.”

And if any housewife dallied in opening her larder, he shouted at her, “Why so tight-fisted, lady? Tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, or even tonight, the heavens will open, fire will fall and of all your goods nothing will be spared except what you give to us. If you’re saved, you miserable creature, you’ll owe it to the bread and olives and bottle of oil you gave me!”

The frightened women opened their larders, and by the time Judas reached the edge of the village his sacks were overflowing with alms.

Winter had begun; the earth shivered. Many trees, standing completely bare, were cold. Others-the olive, date, cypress-were blessed by God and retained their finery intact summer and winter. Similarly with men: all the poor were cold, like the bald trees… John had thrown his woolen robe over Jesus and now, shivering, was in a hurry to reach Capernaum in order to open his mother’s trunks. Old Salome had woven many things in her lifetime, and her heart was noble and generous. He would portion out warm clothes to the companions, and devil care if old lickpenny Zebedee grumbled. It was Salome, with her obstinacy and sweetness, who governed the house.

Philip was hurrying too, his thoughts on his bosom friend Nathanael, hunched over as he was all day long in Capernaum, sewing up and patching sandals and slippers. His life was being lost in this way. Where could he find time to lift his mind to God, to lean Jacob’s ladder against the heavens and mount! Oh, when will I get there, Philip thought, to unveil the great secret to the poor wretch, so that he too can be saved!

They took a turning, leaving Tiberias behind them on their left-Tiberias, despised by God, with its Baptist-murdering tetrarch condemned to the fires of hell. Matthew approached Peter to ask him everything he remembered about the river Jordan and the Baptist, so that he could write it all down event by event; but Peter recoiled and turned his face aside to avoid inhaling the publican’s breath. Saddened, Matthew wedged the partly filled notebook under his arm. He lagged behind and, finding two Garters who went to and from Tiberias, questioned them in order to learn-and to set down in his book-how the wicked murder took place. Was it true that the tetrarch became drunk and that his stepdaughter Salome danced before him naked? Matthew had to learn all the details in order to immortalize them in writing.

They had by this time arrived at the large well outside Magdala. Clouds had covered the sun: a pale darkness fell over the face of the earth. Black threads of rain hung down, joining sky and soil… Magdalene lifted her eyes to her skylight and saw the heavens blacken. “Winter is upon us,” she murmured; “I must move quickly.” She twirled the bobbin and began with great speed to spin the choice wool she had found. She intended to weave a warm cloak for her beloved so that he would not be cold. From time to time she glanced toward the yard and admired her grand pomegranate with its burden of fruit. She was guarding the pomegranates and not cutting them, for she had vowed them all to Jesus. God is exceedingly merciful, she reflected. One day my beloved will again pass through this narrow street, and then I shall fill my arms with pomegranates and place them at his feet. He will bend over, take one and refresh himself… While spinning, and admiring the pomegranate tree, she turned her life over in her mind. It began and ended with Jesus, the son of Mary. What sorrow, what joy she had had! Why had he left her, opening her door on that final night to flee like a burglar? Where had he gone? Was he still wrestling with shadows instead of digging the soil, fashioning wood or fishing the sea; instead of having a wife (women were God’s creatures too) and sleeping next to her? Ah, if he would only pass once more through Magdala so that she could run and place her pomegranates at his feet, to refresh him!

While she meditated on all this and rotated the bobbin with her quick, skilled hand, she heard cries and tramping in the street and the sound of a horn-halloo! wasn’t it cross-eyed Thomas the peddler-and then she heard a shrill voice.

“Open, open your doors. The kingdom of heaven is here!”

Magdalene jumped up, her heart leaping for joy. He had come! He had come! Cold and warm shudders passed through her entire body. Forgetting her kerchief, she rushed out, her hair flowing down to her shoulders. She went through the yard and appeared on the doorstep. Then she saw the Lord. Uttering a joyous cry, she fell at his feet. “Rabbi, Rabbi,” she purred, “welcome!”

She had forgotten the pomegranates and her vow. She hugged the sacred knees, and her blue-black hair, which still smelled from its old accursed perfumes, spilled out over the ground.

“Rabbi, Rabbi, welcome,” she purred, and she dragged him gently toward her poor house.

Jesus bent over, took her by the hand and lifted her up. Bashful and enchanted, he held her just as an inexperienced bridegroom holds his bride. His body rejoiced from its very roots. It was not Magdalene he had lifted from the ground, but the soul of man-and he was its bridegroom. Magdalene trembled, blushed, spread her hair over her bosom to hide it. Everyone looked at her with astonishment. How she had pined away, lost her color! Purple rings circled her eyes, and her firm full mouth had withered like an unwatered flower. As she and Jesus walked hand in hand they felt they were dreaming. Instead of treading the earth they were floating in the air and proceeding. Was this a wedding? Was the ragged multitude which followed behind, filling the whole street, the marriage procession? And the pomegranate tree which was visible in the yard with its burden of fruit: was it a kind spirit or a household goddess, or perhaps a simple thrice-fortunate woman who had given birth to sons and daughters and now stood in the middle of her yard and admired them?

“Magdalene,” Jesus said softly, “all your sins are forgiven, for you have loved much.”

She leaned over, wonderfully happy. She wanted to say, I am a virgin! but she was so overjoyed, she could not open her mouth.

She ran, pillaged the pomegranate tree, filled her apron and made a tower of the cool red fruit at the beloved’s feet. What happened next was precisely what she had so ardently desired. Jesus bent down, took a pomegranate, opened it, filled his hand with seeds, and refreshed his throat. Then the disciples stooped in their turn. Each took a pomegranate and refreshed himself.

“Magdalene,” Jesus said, “why do you look at me with such troubled eyes, as though you were saying goodbye to me?”

“My beloved, I have been saying hello and goodbye to you every single instant since the day I was born.” She spoke so softly that only Jesus and John, who were close to her, could hear.

After a moment’s silence, she continued. “I must look at you, because woman issued from the body of man and still cannot detach her body from his. But you must look at heaven, because you are a man, and man was created by God. Allow me to look at you, therefore, my child.”

She pronounced these momentous words, “My child,” in such a low voice that not even Jesus heard her. But her own breast filled out and stirred as though she were giving suck to her son.

A murmur arose in the crowd. New invalids suddenly arrived and occupied the entire yard.

“Rabbi,” said Peter, “the people are grumbling and impatient.”

“What do they want?”

“A kind word; a miracle. Look at them.”

Jesus turned. In the turbulent air of the squall which was coming he perceived a multitude of half-opened mouths full of longing, and of eyes which were gazing at him with anguish. An old man came forward through the crowd. His eyelashes had fallen out: his eyes were like two wounds. Around his skeleton-like neck hung ten amulets, each containing one of the Ten Commandments. He leaned on his forked staff and stood himself in the doorway.

“Rabbi,” he said, his voice all grievance and pain, “I am one hundred years old. Hanging around my neck, constantly before me, are God’s Ten Commandments. I have not disobeyed a single one of them. Every year I go to Jerusalem and offer a sacrificial ram to holy Sabaoth. I light candles and burn sweet-incense. At night, instead of sleeping, I sing psalms. I look sometimes at the stars, sometimes at the mountains-and wait, wait for the Lord to descend so that I may see him. That is the only recompense I desire. I’ve waited now for years and years, but in vain. I have one foot in the grave, yet I still have not seen him. Why, why? Mine is a great grievance, Rabbi. When shall I see the Lord; when shall I find peace?”

As he spoke he grew continually angrier. Soon he was banging his forked staff down on the ground and shouting.

Jesus smiled. “Old man,” he replied, “once upon a time there was a marble throne at the eastern gate of an important city. On this throne sat a thousand kings blind in the right eye, a thousand kings blind in the left eye and a thousand kings who had sight in both eyes. All of them called God to appear so that they might see him, but all went to their graves with their wishes unfulfilled. When the kings had died, a pauper, barefooted and hungry, came and sat on the throne. ‘God,’ he whispered, ‘the eyes of man cannot bear to look directly at the sun, for they are blinded. How then, Omnipotent, can they look directly at you? Have pity, Lord; temper your strength, turn down your splendor so that I, who am poor and afflicted, may see you!’ Then-listen, old man!-God became a piece of bread, a cup of cool water, a warm tunic, a hut, and in front of the but, a woman giving suck to an infant. The pauper stretched forth his arms and smiled happily. ‘Thank you, Lord,’ he whispered. ‘You humbled yourself for my sake. You became bread, water, a warm tunic and my wife and son in order that I might see you. And I did see you. I bow down and worship your beloved many-faced face!’ ”

No one spoke. The old man sighed like a buffalo and, putting forth his forked staff, disappeared into the crowd. Next, a young man, newly married, lifted his fist and shouted, “They say you hold fire to burn up the world-to burn up our homes and children. Is this the kind of love you claim to bring us? Is this the justice: fire?”

Jesus’ eyes filled with tears. He pitied this newly married youth. Truly, was this the justice he brought: fire? Was there no other way to attain salvation?

“Tell us clearly what we have to do to be saved,” cried a house-owner who then elbowed his way through the gathering in order to come close for the answer, since be was hard of hearing.

“Open your hearts,” thundered Jesus, “open your larders, divide your belongings among the poor! The day of the Lord has come! Whoever stingily retains a loaf of bread, a jar of oil or a strip of land for his final hours will find that bread and that jar and that earth hanging around his neck and dragging him down to hell.”

“My ears are buzzing,” said the house-owner. “Excuse me if I leave, but I feel dizzy.”

He went off in a rage toward his rich villa. “Listen to that! Divide our belongings among the scabby rabble! Is that justice? Damn him to hell.” Mumbling to himself and cursing, he continued on.

Jesus watched him disappear. “Wide is the gate of hell,” he said with a sigh, “wide the road, and strewn with flowers. But the gate to God’s kingdom is narrow, the way uphill. While we live we may choose, for life means freedom. But when death comes, what’s done is done and there is no deliverance.”

“If you want me to believe in you,” shouted a man with crutches, “perform a miracle and heal me. Shall I enter the kingdom of heaven lame?”

“And I leprous?”

“And I with only one arm?”

“And I blind?”

The cripples moved forward in one body and stood threateningly in front of him. Losing all sense of restraint, they began to shout.

A blind old man lifted his staff. “Cure us,” he howled, “or you won’t leave our village alive!”

Peter ripped the staff out of the old man’s hands. “With a soul like yours, buzzard eyes, you’ll never see the light!”

The cripples drew together and became ferocious. The disciples became ferocious in their turn and placed themselves next to Jesus. Magdalene, terrified, put out her hand to bolt the door, but Jesus stopped her.

“Magdalene, my sister,” he said, “this is an unfortunate generation-all flesh. Habits, sins and fat crush their souls. I push away flesh, bones and entrails to find the soul, and I find nothing. Alas, I think the only cure is fire!”

He turned to the multitude. His eyes were now dry and pitiless.

“Just as we scorch the fields before sowing, in order for the good seed to thrive, so shall God scorch the earth. He has no mercy for thorns, tares or tarragon. That is the meaning of justice. Farewell!”

He turned to Thomas. “Blow your horn. We’re leaving!”

He put forth his staff. The benumbed people made way and he passed through. Magdalene ran into her house, seized her kerchief and-leaving the wool half spun, the earthenware pot on the mantel and the poultry unfed in her yard-tossed the doorkey into the middle of the road; then, without looking back, silent and tightly wrapped in her kerchief, she followed the son of Mary.