Thirty-three

During the Sabbath, there was a good deal of discussion as to whether or not it was legal to enter the tomb the next day and clean and dress Jesus for a proper burial. Some said that it should not be done, but others, led by Joanna, insisted that, unless there was some explicit provision in the Torah against it, then it most certainly would be done. When Nicodemus began citing rabbis who interpreted the Law, she cut him off with, "Give me none of your 'interpretations!' If you cannot find it in the very words of Moses, then I will hear none of it! Has not the Master himself said that these 'interpretations' have made the Law a prison instead of the joy it was supposed to be? Tell me not what your 'interpreters' think!"

In spite of herself, Mary felt a grudging respect for Joanna. It seemed that there was a core of sense and of justice inside the pettiness after all. She could not decide whether to join the women who had rallied round Joanna or not; her presence might be more disruptive than helpful.

The cold, raw day passed only because days must; but each hour prolonged itself into an eternity in its own right. After the initial discussions about Jesus's body, the little group in the upper room lapsed into moody silence, some rising periodically to look out the window, fearful that the authorities would come to put an end to the students as well as the teacher.

When bread and water was passed around, Mary realized dully that she had not eaten at all the previous day; but she could only with difficulty force down a small portion and a bit of water. No one evinced any interest at all in food, even to make the time pass. If good was to come of this, it was difficult to see how. What were they to do? Carry on Jesus's teaching, now that he had been so thoroughly disgraced? Who would listen to the words of a criminal, however unjustly condemned?

And what was his teaching? It all centered, did it not, upon the coming Kingdom of God, in which--what? In which there would be no pain, suffering, or death? With the King dead, and not only dead, but degradingly, horribly, tortured to death! Who would believe that there was no basis to the death beyond manipulation of a fickle mob, especially since it was the Romans, not the mob, who had actually killed him; and the Romans were noted for their justice, even in their treatment of subject peoples. Pay taxes, and be treated fairly; and by and large it was true.

And yet. And yet it had been prophesied, and he himself had called attention to the prophesies--and certainly he could have escaped had he chosen to do so. Mary fully believed that the twelve legions of angels were there, ready to be summoned into service at the slightest hint; but he had refused.

Various pieces of the events of the day came out from time to time. John, who had been inside the chief priest's palace, told of what he heard at the preliminary trial before the former chief priest Annas, to which he had been invited as a courtesy; and Nicodemus gave an account of the trial before the Sanhedrin at dawn, in which Jesus had once again replied "I AM" to the chief priest's question of whether he claimed to be the Prince God anointed and his very son--and to make things unambiguous, he had added that he would one day be seen coming on the clouds--quoting Daniel, Nicodemus added.

"Why did they not stone him then and there?" asked Philip, and Thomas answered, "Because there would have been a riot. They had to have him executed by Rome for several reasons: first, not to make it appear that they were the ones who did it, or we brave, intrepid followers of his would--"

"You ran off as fast as anyone else!" cried Philip.

"I am all too painfully aware of that," he replied. "They had nothing whatever to fear from us, as was so blatantly demonstrated; but they did not know that. Second, they had to discredit him; and stoning would make him look like one of the other prophets, and would certainly not endear them to the people who had heard him denounce them as the descendants of those who had stoned his predecessors. But crucifixion--well, you saw it, and you heard what people were saying. How could anyone respect a person who had been through that? How could anything he said carry any authority after everyone saw him hanging there, stark naked! Pleading for a drop of water! I cannot bear it!"

He paused and took a breath. "You see? It was brilliantly done. The whole council would be in favor of it, because he had shown to their faces that he was a blasphemer--"

"He was not a blasphemer! It was true! He is the Son of God! Still!" cried Philip.

"You believe that, and, in spite of what you think, so do I--I think--I know not. I know nothing now. Pleading for a drink! . . . But you see my point. If even we doubt it because we saw him there, how would anyone else ever be convinced?"

"He will come back! He said he would! How can you doubt?"

"Philip, Philip, do not--it is time to grow up, Philip. You will finish by giving these poor women hysterical illusions. His spirit will return, and when we recover from this ghastly time--if it is ever possible--we, at least, will be able to live by his precepts, and that will return him to life in us. That was what he meant. Did he not pray that we were to be one thing in him, just as he was one thing in the Father? And that he would be in us just as the Father was in him? That is the return to life that he promised. We need conjure up no mad visions of him walking about to compound the horror of what we have been through."

"It is not a mad vision! He will return. You are the one who are mad! How can you say such things?"

"Philip, he himself said that he was leaving to send us his Spirit from the Father."

"And he said he would come back! He said it!"

"--I cannot bear more of this. I am leaving. --Fear not, Nicodemus, I will not go father than a Sabbath's walk. But I will go mad if I stay here another instant!"

Philip looked at him with a mixture of anger and disdain, but said nothing further. He left.

"I know where he is going," said Nathanael, shaking his head sadly. "I am tempted to go myself."

Mary looked at Nathanael, wondering what he meant. But she was grateful that the discussion had ended. Thomas had voiced more or less what Mary had been thinking, but when she heard it spoken, it did sound remarkably thin. If Jesus had not come to establish a Kingdom, why had he come? To ransom us, his mother had said. She looked over at her, sitting in the corner, her eyes closed in her own private world of pain. But then how would their belief in his teaching--there was no belief in his teaching! It was belief in him, and that was what he demanded! And that was what none of them, except Philip--and his mother, and his mother, she could see--was willing to give him!

Even Mary. With all that she had seen him do, how could she assess what had happened yesterday as anything but total failure? Thomas was right; it was brilliantly brought about by the chief priests--and with their view that he was a blasphemer claiming to be God, it had to be said, justly so. But Mary could no longer believe that the claim was false, and so it was Philip who was really right, not Thomas. But what he could do from the grave she could not see.

Would they be somehow inspired? Inspired to do what? To say that we were ransomed from our sins by a man crucified by the Romans? Such a thing would do nothing but shock any Jew, and would be ludicrous to anyone else. What? Would we be going about like him and healing the lepers and raising the dead?

It was possible. It would require something of the sort, she supposed. But it would also require something else, something spectacular, she thought, looking around, to make this ragtag group of nonentities able to perform on their own the feats they had performed when their leader dominated everything about their lives.

Well, if he was God--and she noted with chagrin that she had said if--he would find a way somehow.

Matthew came over and sat beside her, for a long while in silence, though she could see he wanted to speak to her. She noticed something odd, and realized that David, who was Matthew's shadow, was nowhere to be seen. She looked a question at him and he said, "I see you came here instead of going with the others."

"Yes," she said.

"I am surprised that Martha is not here."

"Lazarus pulled her after him. I--" She stopped. "He was not near enough to hold me, and--" She stopped again, looking at the floor, seeing Judas's face there, less horrible now because of the greater horror she had been enduring that afternoon.

"Did you find him?" he asked gently. She felt a shock go through her and snapped her head suddenly up to look at him. He had a strange expression on his face. He knew. Of course, he must have known. They all must--anyone who had ever looked at her whenever Judas came within range of her vision. Even Joanna had noticed, the very first time.

"Yes," was all she said.

"I was certain you would seek him." He in his own turn paused, and then said, "Tell me, did he cast you aside?"

"No," she said, looking again into the kindly face, which was more enigmatic than ever. It seemed her answer was important to him. "No, he would not have done that. I am sure that I could have--but it is of no consequence now." The expression turned to puzzlement, and she said, "You see," she began, and found she could not say it directly to him. She looked once more at the floor. "You see," she repeated, "he hanged himself. I was too late."

He was silent. After a time, she looked up at him, half expecting to find triumph in his eyes, but it was not so. He seemed gripped by something--almost, it appeared, a kind of excitement. But when he spoke, it was still with gentle sympathy, which was remarkable, considering his attitude toward Judas the previous night. "Now that I think of it, I suppose that is what he would have done," he said. "A priest I know, who is secretly one of us, told me that last night shortly after the Master--" He paused to recover the ability to speak. "That he came to the Temple raving like a madman that he had sinned in betraying innocent blood, and flung a number of coins into it and rushed off."

She kept looking into Matthew's face as he spoke, and suddenly, in a flash of insight that reminded her of her experience with Judas in the Temple, she understood everything, even why he had so often in the past looked at her strangely. How could she not have seen it earlier? Because she was so obsessed with Judas. Dear God! Matthew had fallen in love with her!

And he was now daring to hope that since there now was no Judas to blind her to everything else, she might one day care for him! Her face suddenly turned scarlet, and she looked away, but not before she saw him also color.

What could she do? What could she say? How could she tell him that it was impossible, that even if Judas were not still there, as he would always be, in the forefront of her mind, what she was would keep her forever from making a decent man happy. She finally said, "So he did repent, then. If only--Well, it matters little now, I suppose." And then, choosing her words carefully, she went on, "Except that he will forever be a part of me. No matter what he did, no matter that he lives no more, I somehow belong to him. What happened is--It is for the best, for me, I suppose; but I will be only half a person as long as I live--not that I ever was much of one at any time."

He made no reply for a long time, and then managed to say, "I understand. I do not share your--affection--for him, but I understand."

She saw the despair in his face--despair that was the mirror of her own. Total, complete, unmitigated despair. To let him know that she knew what he meant, but could do nothing about it, she said, "You seem to."

"Oh yes," he answered. And, in what she realized was his attempt to make her know what she actually knew, he added, "At least, I know what it is to have a love that never can fulfill itself." he stared off into the distance somewhere out the window, and then he continued, unable to keep a certain bitterness from his tone, "In my case, it is to love one who totally belongs to someone else." His voice almost broke, but he managed to finish what he was saying. His eyes glistened with the tears that he was fighting to keep from falling.

The two lapsed into silence, each lost, not in thought, but contentless misery, Mary's compounded by the guilt that once again she had brought someone she cared about into bitter, bitter agony. But what could she do? Judas would be with her forever, as would Jesus. And she had lost both. And now Matthew also! She could not bear it!

But one bears what one cannot bear, because one continues to breathe, however hateful each breath is. She found herself counting these breaths--she could think of nothing else--wondering in the back of her mind if she would continue to do so every moment of the years that stretched in front of her. She ached to be alone so that she could at least have the relief of screaming and wailing once again and beating her fists on the ground, and she could see that part of Matthew's pain also was this same torture of hiding his torture. But what could one do?

The Master had once said, had he not, that sometime every tear would be wiped away? She thought ironically that even that prophesy had been fulfilled, since her pain now was so far beyond tears.

Eventually, after what seemed years and years, that interminable day did pass, and the even longer fretful, sleepless night. When the sky began to separate itself from the land, Joanna quietly woke two or three of the women, who during the night, as soon as the Sabbath had ended, had been preparing another batch of spices, and who had made water-jars ready and cloths to clean the body. The stirring woke some of the other women, and Mary, who had not really fallen asleep, also rose, but kept herself apart. Jesus' mother was sleeping.

The women quietly crept out of the house, leaving Susanna behind inside to lock and bar the door. Mary slipped out last of all, and Susanna wished her God's blessing in a whisper. "It should not take long," said Mary.

None of the other women realized that she was trailing after them. The sky had not yet really turned light, but the night was clearly over. They were discussing how to unwrap the body, and whether it would have begun to decay. "I think not," said Clopas's Mary; "it has been so cold these past two days. The real problem is how we remove the stone."

The others remarked that they had not thought of that. "Will all of us be strong enough?" they asked each other. "We can but try," said one, and Joanna said, "We will move it. If we care enough, we will be able to make it move!" Mary went forward, and then dropped back again. Well, if they needed her, she would be there.

As soon as she entered the little garden, she saw what the other women saw: the stone had already been rolled away. During the night, or was it some time during the previous day? Why had no one come? Why had they cowered there together? Or did it already happen the previous night? Had someone stolen the body? Why?

She ran off. The students must be informed of this immediately. They had taken the body out to desecrate it further and to make certain that no one would return to show it any respect! Whoever did this must be found, and the body recovered!

As she was running, she spied two men, who looked like the Rock and John. She dashed over to them, and, barely able to breathe, cried, "They have--taken the--Master away--and we know not--where they have put him!"

They ran off to the tomb, John easily outdistancing the older Rock. She followed at a walk, half-expecting to see the other women, and then realized that she had instinctively taken the rougher, shortest route back, not the way they had come, encumbered as they were with the water-jars and the spices. They must have returned as they came.

When she arrived once again at the tomb, she saw the Rock and John emerge, carrying a large cloth--carrying what seemed like the shroud Jesus had been buried in. They were looking at it as they walked slowly down the path, John pointing to something on it and expostulating, and the Rock shaking his head in wonder and puzzlement. Had someone actually taken the body out of its wrappings? But why? And why this further desecration of the body? Had they not done enough? She burst into a flood of weeping, kneeling by the entrance of the tomb.

Through her tears, she looked into the tomb, and saw two angels standing there, one at the head and one at the foot of where Jesus' body had been laid. "Why are you crying, Madam?" they asked.

"Because they have taken my Master away," she sobbed, "and I know not where they have put him!"

She turned aside, and saw someone standing behind her. "Why are you crying, Madam?" he asked. "Who is it you are looking for?"

Thinking it was the gardener, she said, "Oh sir, if you have taken him from here, tell me where you have put him and let me have him--"

"Mary!"And there followed a burst of laughter--loud, long, hearty, familiar, laughter!

Stunned, she turned around, and nearly fainted. "Rabbuni! Oh, my teacher!" she cried, and fell at his feet, once again drenching them with tears, but now tears of incredulous joy. She could see the beloved feet, through the river of her tears, covered with sandals decorated with rubies. It was too good to be true! He really did return to life! It was not possible!"

"Now do not be hanging on," he laughed, rasing her to her feet, "I have not risen to my Father just yet." He held her shoulders as she looked into his clean, intact, spotless, glowing, radiant face. His hair and beard had turned blindingly white. He laughed once again. "If you could have seen yourself! 'Oh, Sir, tell me where you have put him and let me have him!'"

She laughed an embarrassed laugh with him, and reached up and grasped his forearms, taking his hands from her shoulder, still not able to believe that it was actually he. She let her hands slip down his arms to grasp his hands--and saw his wrists. She gasped and dropped his hands, backing away. She looked down at his feet. Those were not rubies, they were the nail-holes!

He took her hands in his. "What, are you afraid of me now? I am what I always was. I thought I would keep these, so that all of you would know that it was not simply women's hysteria or mad visions of me walking about. Visions do not have flesh and blood. Mary, I told you all this would happen, but none of you would believe it--except Philip. You see why I told you you had to become like children? What little faith all of you have! Even now! But it does not matter. Especially not now."

After the initial shock, The Question immediately forced its way to her lips. "Did Judas . . . ?"

"What you wish to know is not for you to know on your side of the grave, because you could not now understand it. But I can tell you this much. Judas, like everyone else from the beginning of time, is now and forever will be exactly what he wanted to be; he has received everything he was willing to accept."

Mary did not understand, but it was not for her to question. "But come," he added. "I wish you now to go to my--brothers!"--with a look of triumph--"and tell them that I am going to rise up to my Father and your Father, and my God and your God!"

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