Fifteen

For a considerable time, Matthew was occupied with a discovery he had made in the course of the previous conversation: that one of the keys to unlock the Master's purpose in his sayings was that one should look only at oneself and one's relation to God, and not try to evaluate one's place in relation to others. He took out a sheaf of papyri he carried with him, on which he often scribbled the gist of the Master's sayings, and began poring over the pages, testing them, as it were, to see if they made sense from this new point of view.

Mary asked him about the pages at one time, and he said, "Well, you see, I do not trust my memory as much as some of the younger ones; and since I can write--though a good many of them also can, you would be surprised--I decided quite early that it would be a good idea to have the sayings in written form, so that I could refer to them afterwards. Who knows? One day, when he becomes King, he may want someone to write his life, as Caesar has done. I am becoming quite adept at it; I even asked Demetrius, whom I used to use as my scribe, if he would teach me the system of rapid writing that they have; he claims to have learned it from Cicero's slave, who invented it."

"Cicero?" said Mary.

"An orator of a generation back, in Rome. He spoke quite rapidly, they say, but brilliantly, and the scribes had to find a way of keeping up with him. It is rather ingenious, actually."

In any case, Matthew was unavailable to Mary for a while, and since no one else came to speak to her unless he was there, she remained by herself. But it turned out that she was beset with her own problem, which was Judith.

She had been neglecting her, not really indeliberately, because she thought it was not good for Judith to be too preoccupied with her; she should be among the other women, some of whom would be skilled in putting her together with a man. Unfortunately, it was not succeeding. The other women could see that she was but a servant, however much Mary might protest that she was a companion and nothing more; and they would have little to do with her. If she were to find a husband, especially one of the sort she deserved, she would somehow have to be removed from here.

And the fact was that Judith had fallen into a state where she had lost interest in everything; Susanna even came up to Mary once and mentioned that at times she even failed to eat, and that the tasks she was assigned did not get done unless she was prodded verbally several times.

It was this that made Mary think that matters were serious, since it was so completely unlike the Judith who had been her servant, undertaking the most degrading and even disgusting tasks without more than a word that they needed to be done. And as soon as Mary heard what was happening, she realized what the problem was: Judith had been wearing herself out earlier because she was necessary, not only for her mother, but for Mary, whose house would have been a shambles unless Judith came by every day to put it in order. Mary was not neat even when she was in possession of herself in those days--she was not exactly neat now, though she made an effort so as not to incur still more wrathful stares.

But the fact was that both of the people who depended on Judith could now do without her, and in fact were doing without her. Her mother was well, and while the two saw each other upon occasion, it was clear that the mother was not only managing but acting like a tree too early shorn of its leaves and putting out new ones in the autumn; she spoke of her friends and her new-found interest in sewing and embroidery, "which was once again beginning to come into demand from those who appreciated very careful work"--and Mary had deliberately refrained from giving Judith any menial tasks for herself, to avoid the stigma of her being Mary's servant, and yet did not appear to be any the worse for it. And there was the fact that, with the chores of the group, if Judith neglected to do anything, it would be done by someone.

But Mary could see that what hurt Judith most was that her ideal paid no attention to her--and yet she could not complain of neglect, because she obviously felt that she deserved no attention.

There was also the fact that, from the very beginning, the Master and his teachings held no interest for her. She was not metaphysically inclined--far from it--and puzzling out his enigmatic stories was in her mind simply a waste of time, though she did listen to them as a child listens to tales. As far as the cures were concerned, she had no interest in any but those which affected herself, and those--Mary's and her mother's--she rather resented, Mary suspected, because they took away her reason for living. She would have been shocked to have been accused of this, because she was certainly grateful to the Master for restoring the lives of those she cared more about than herself; but facts were facts, and she could see nothing to life now beyond continuing to breathe.

Of course, the solution was as obvious as the problem: she needed a man, someone who would need her. But it was also perfectly clear that, at least with David out of contention, this group was not the place for her to find one. True, many others in the group, including young John, who would be ideal, were single, and all, and especially John, were valiant in their efforts to be virtuous and considerate of others. But they were all, and again especially John, obsessed with the Master to the exclusion of everything else; and Judith needed someone who could spare a bit of obsession for her.

Mary had more or less worked out for herself in some of her lonely walks in the woods that she would have to leave here, and presumably go back to Bethany, at least temporarily, and enlist Martha's help--because it was as certain as tomorrow's sunrise that Judith would not leave as long as Mary stayed, and would not even accompany her unless Mary could concoct a reason why she could not do without her when she went.

Around this time, Matthew had apparently come to some sort of resolution of his own difficulty--or theory, or whatever it was--about what the Master was all about, because she saw him one evening talking alone earnestly with Judas, evidently testing his new-found idea. This was too much for her; she was not only interested in what he had arrived at, but simply could not escape the lodestone influence of Judas's being there; and so she went over wordlessly and sat down.

Judas glanced up in her direction once, seemed a trifle surprised, and then, with the slightest frown of annoyance, resumed the discussion with Matthew and acted from then on as if she did not exist. Mary's face flamed, but she could not leave.

"--agree, Matthew, that he is saying that we ought to be willing to be treated unjustly. But I think your explanation does not go deeply enough. What is behind almost everything he says is that we should not consider ourselves as of any importance whatever. The question is why."

"Well, why, then, according to you? I told you what I think."

"Quite simply, because from God's point of view, we have no importance. He made us, but he has no need of us. How could he? The whole cosmos is a game, from God's point of view; he is completely self-sufficient, from which it follows that each and all of us, and in fact all of everything but himself is completely superfluous.

"This, of course, is nothing very new, though the Master did not learn it from the philosophers who have worked it out, especially in Greece--but there are some good Roman ones also. The Master's genius--or I suppose I should say, his gift from God, since that is what it is--is to amalgamate Stoic philosophy with the Hebrew creator-God; and not only to do it seamlessly, as he has, but in such a way that it seems the logical consequence of Hebrew theology, not Gentile philosophy. He seems to be indicating that it will spread the Hebrew theology over the whole world; and he might just be correct."

"But . . .--I do not understand. What of God's choosing Abraham and Moses, and all the rest of it?"

"Ah, Matthew, I am a bit surprised at you. You are so astute at untangling the sayings of the Master, and you do not realize that Abraham and Moses and the Exodus and the Judges and so on are stories rather like what the Master tells; they may have something to do with what happened--I suspect that there really was an Abraham, and a Moses, of course--but a Moses who was reared to be a Prince of Egypt, and who only began to lead the people out when he was eighty years old? This alone should tell you that they are myths written to make a point to people who were too primitive to understand the truth unless it is encapsulated in a story.

"It is only now, when we have come in contact with the greatness of the Gentile civilizations, however humiliating it may be politically, that we are sophisticated enough to be able to grasp the truth of the world God made."

"But then," said Matthew, "if we are of no importance to God, why did he choose his people? And why did he bother to send the Master?"

"To show through us the way to peace. If you do not consider yourself or anything concerning yourself to be of any importance, then no pain, no suffering, no reverses or humiliations can touch you. You are totally free. 'The truth will set you free,' he said recently, remember.

"But I think Matthew, you are interpreting 'sent by God' a little too literally. The Master was certainly 'sent by God' in the sense that he learned what he knows, not by studying, but by a kind of instinct for the truth; he is in contact with the Creator of this world in some intimate way that I do not understand--and no doubt he does not either--but that I have heard about, and which has occurred earlier, but less spectacularly, in the prophets, and especially Moses."

"You think he is another Moses."

"No, I think he is even greater than Moses. What I do not think is that it means that God looked down and saw him and said, 'I choose you, because I care about these fools down there, and I want to send a message to them through you for their own good.' Jesus was 'sent' in the sense that the Power that created the world flows through him and into his consciousness; and he can put into words--words not always easy to understand, not surprisingly--how this Power relates to the world he has created, and how we should behave to be consistent with our place in it."

"But then what is the meaning of all his talk about everlasting life?"

"Ah, that! That simply means a life different from the one we live ordinarily; it is a life like his, in contact with the Creator, and at peace with itself and with everything around it, removed from the cares and sufferings of this world. It is 'everlasting' because it is the same kind of life, as it were, that the Creator himself lives--and his is everlasting, of course. It does not mean that we will never die. We will not, naturally, be concerned about death or dying, if we 'change our thinking,' as he demands we do; if you care nothing about anything that happens to you, why would it concern you whether you live or die, or how? So it is a life not preoccupied with death, that is all. You see?"

"I see what you are saying, Judas, and it makes a good deal of sense. A great deal. But . . . I do not want to believe it."

"I can see that. We would all like to be like that child Philip, and simply take everything literally, swallowing contradictions as though they were pieces of bread. Or would you rather be like Simon the Revolutionary, and have to twist the Master's profundities into silly plans for the conquest of Rome? Your problem, Matthew, is that you have a mind, and a mind that can reason. Be glad you have that kind of mind, and not one like the Master's."

"What do you mean? How could I compare my mind with the Master's?"

"You cannot. And that is your salvation. He can save you; but I will tell you a secret. I am afraid he might not be able to save himself."

"What are you saying?"

"Even he sees it, I think. Have you noticed how he has more and more often been dropping hints about how he is going to be killed?"

"How could I not have done? I have been hoping and praying that it is just another metaphor."

"I fear it is not. He does not know why he will be killed, I think--or rather, he does know, but since it deals with him, he is misinterpreting it.

"You see--I have been noticing this for some time, and with increasing pain and sorrow--this power flowing through his body is driving him insane."

"Insane!"

"Yes, Matthew, I fear. You have no idea how much it grieves me to say this--to think it!--and I have spoken not a word about it up to this moment to anyone. But you have a mind and a tongue which can be discreet, and I simply must tell someone."

Mary was aghast. Judas and Matthew had both completely forgotten about her. She did not dare to speak or even move, for fear they would notice her and cease speaking, and she simply had to hear more.

"--first time I noticed anything of the sort was when he named Simon the Rock, do you remember? Simon called him the Prince, which he certainly must be if there is to be one, and which we all knew; but Simon also said, if you recall his exact words, 'The Prince, the Son of the Living God.' Do you remember how surprised he looked?"

"I remember. I took it that he was surprised that it was Simon who said it."

"Most of us did. I think he was surprised at what he said, because I think that at that moment, it occurred to him for the first time to believe that it was true; that he was in fact the Son of God.

"That is, since God is inside him, inspiring him all the time, and giving him the power to cure and even to bring the dead back to life--I personally think, if they have not been dead long--he seems to have begun thinking of this sonship a good deal more literally than we imagine. Notice how he has been acting lately. He now calls himself the Son of Man, as if he were something else that took this upon himself, so to speak; and notice how secretive he has become with some of the more spectacular cures. It is as if he does not--yet--want people to know something."

"But what?"

"But what? Exactly. That he is a prophet, and God is with him? No, everyone knows that. No. What he does not want people to know just yet is that he is God Himself!"

"No!"

"Yes."

"But that is impossible! It is blasphemy! It is--"

"Insane. Perfectly understandable, but insane. And, of course, it is blasphemy. He thinks that it is true; but he is astute enough to realize that everyone else is going to think that it is blasphemy. No one is going to believe that the God of Abraham is another one in the Greek pantheon who comes down as a bull and rapes a beautiful maiden, having a son by her who is half-divine, half-human. It is unthinkable. God is not that sort of thing. Those gods do not exist and cannot exist. Our God is the only God there is, and he is a spirit, not a male in heat."

"Of course. But then, what are you driving at?"

"Simply that, since he believes that he is God--God the Son, if you will, since he does not believe he is some kind of hero like Hercules; he knows too much about God for that--he is looking for the right moment to inform people of it, and some day, he will find it, and the people . . . will kill him. He foresees it himself."

Even if Mary would have spoken, she was too shocked to be able even to breathe.

"But this is terrible! Dreadful!" said Matthew.

"It is tragic! He is without question the greatest man, and the holiest man, who ever lived. No one has ever been in closer contact with God; but the very source of his greatness is destroying him, little by little, every day. I know not what to do about it; as I said, I have no uttered a syllable of my fears until today. If I were to so much as suggest it to anyone but you, I would probably be killed myself!"

"I cannot believe it."

"I fear that you will not have to, and quite soon. Now that I have pointed it out to you, you will see it happen yourself. It is like one of those Greek dramas. His statements about himself are becoming wilder and wilder, as he thinks we are more and more prepared by his wonderful deeds to accept them; and eventually, he will say something no one can accept--something so outrageous that no sane person can even listen to it--and he will be denounced to the Council. I know; I am a priest myself, remember, and I know that they are already looking for something that will remove him from bothering them. His lack of meticulousness about the Sabbath does not endear himself to them, especially when he makes them look foolish for objecting to it."

"So you think that he will finally say something openly blasphemous."

"I do, because he will not think it blasphemy, because he will sincerely believe it to be true. And once he says it, they will bring him to trial, and he will be too honest to deny the charge, precisely because he believes it to be true--and believes it sincerely, since he is mad. And he will die."

"You mean he will literally be crucified?"

"I fear so. Unless--unless the Power that courses through him gives him some spectacular means of escape at the crucial moment. But in a way, that might be worse, because then he will have won the conflict with the authorities, and we will be ruled from then on by a man who is convinced that he is God. But as I say, the Power, I think, enables him to save others; but I do not think it will be effective if he turns it upon himself. You see, what I consider inevitable is that the Council will find some way to twist what he says into sedition against Rome--and this will be simple if he lets Simon the Revolutionary have his way to the least extent--and once Rome comes on the stage, then it will be out of our hands, and all the force of the whole far-flung empire will be against him. He sees this too; because after all, he is saying that he will be crucified, and we do not crucify people. Yes, you will see him hanging on a cross."

"No!"

"He has said so in so many words."

"But he keeps adding that he will come back to life on the third day afterward, like Jonah."

"Ah, well, of course, he would come back if he were really God, to prove that this is what he is. But . . ."

"No! No! No! It cannot be! You are mistaken!"

"I am sorry Matthew. You have no idea how sorry. Perhaps I should not have told you."

Matthew stared at him openmouthed for what seemed forever. Finally, he said, in a calmer voice, "No, you are wrong, Judas. You must be. The Master would never allow him to perform miracles, if--"

"You must remember that the Master is more of a Power than a person--"

"Now that I cannot believe! That is blasphemy!"

"Have it your way," said Judas. "But you have quite a few of the Judean priesthood against you. I admit that there are many who would agree with you. The trouble is that facts are facts, and whether you believe that I am right or wrong makes very little difference to what the facts are."

"But that also goes for you, Judas. You are extremely intelligent, and you seem to have reason on your side, but what will happen will happen. Your thinking that you are right will not make you right, if you are wrong."

"If I am. Believe me, Matthew, I would be overjoyed to be proved wrong. I love the Master, and it crushes me that his own mind is betraying him into destroying himself--and so needlessly! But we have not long to wait, I think. If I am correct, very soon he will be making some claim about himself that only a madman can accept. And he will ask us to accept it with no compromise. I am no prophet, but I see everything converging on this."

They parted, leaving Mary sitting there, shaken to the core by what she heard.

She wandered off by herself, among the trees, and stood for a while in the dark beside a huge oak, unable to think, unable to move, unable to do anything but hear Jesus's voice in her ears saying once again, "In fact, I am the greatest danger they will ever confront--and some, I am sorry to say, will succumb, unless certain things happen, and they will not. They could, but they will not." She heard the pain and sadness in his voice as he spoke. Yes, he foresaw something, and perhaps some great defection. She stared at the bushes, shrouded in darkness now that the moon had set, and looked into the darkness that was invading her own soul.

--and then felt something brush lightly by her back. It was just a touch, and yet it went completely through her. She did not dare to turn for a moment, and then finally looked back to see Judas--Judas!--walking away down the path she had turned from, apparently totally oblivious to the fact that he had touched her.

Or was he? He had touched her so lightly that he might not have felt it at all, or not any more than he would a bush or tree he had passed by too closely. And it was dark, and she was totally immobile. She watched him go down the path, not looking back, not giving her the slightest hint of what she ached so desperately for, that he had seen her, that he had deliberately brushed against her, that he wanted her to follow him into the darkness--but she must not think of this!

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