Eighteen

The next morning, they set off for Galilee again, taking a more direct route through Samaria. Jesus stopped for a while by a well near the town of Sychar, and was immediately met by a group of townsfolk who welcomed him. Apparently, he had been there before, and had done something-or-other which made them firm followers of his. But Jesus did not spend a great deal of time among them, since he said that his mission was to the children of Israel. Matthew was impressed, however, by how friendly these mortal enemies of the Judeans were--after all, they were the descendants of the Philistines, whom the Israelites had driven off their land.

When they reached Mount Tabor, Jesus told them to wait at the foot, and climbed the mountain himself with the Rock, James, and young John. Matthew was reminded of Moses going up Mount Sinai with Aaron, and he half expected to see the top burst into flames, smoke, and lightning.

But nothing spectacular happened, it seemed, except that when Jesus and the three others came down considerably later, the three were as if in shock. "What happened?" everyone asked, crowding around.

"We are not to speak of it," said the Rock. "At least, not until . . . something happens which I do not understand." He looked over at Jesus with awe and a kind of terror in his eyes. No one could extract any more from him. Whatever it was they had seen, it made them aware that this man they had been so familiar with was far, far beyond anything they could have imagined.

They walked along, by themselves for a change, since the crowds realized they had gone to Judea and were not expecting them back as yet. On the way, they paused, and Jesus told them, "Attend carefully to this: The Son of Man is going to be surrendered into human hands, and they will kill him; and on the third day after that, he will return to life."

No one could think of anything to say. Matthew found himself struggling to breathe. He had abandoned everything and relied solely on Jesus; and now Jesus was saying that he was going to be killed! He would be left with nothing! Nothing!

--And then he remembered the jewels in the secret chamber. All was not lost. He could live very well on them. Of course, they were not his, technically, but . . . His breath came back to him.

As they walked in silence for a while, Matthew, still somewhat in shock, turned to the one beside him, who happened to be James the son of Alpheus. "What could he possibly have meant?" he asked, hoping for some reassurance that this was another of Jesus' figurative ways of speaking..

"I know not." He cleared his throat with a little "hem," a habit he had, which Matthew personally found annoying. "It must be important, because now is the second time he has said it. (Hem) But none of us could fathom it the last time either."

"When was this last time?" said Matthew. "I had not heard it."

"Do you not remember? (Hem) It was just after he called Simon the Rock."

"Ah. I was not there."

"Well, he said practically the same words. And (hem) the Rock went up to him and said, 'Far be this from you, Rabbi,' or some such thing, and the Master turned on him, (hem) and said, 'Get behind me, Satan! You are thinking as men think, not as God thinks!' We all thought it was (ha) rather harsh, and so no one dared ask him anything further about it. (Hem, hem)"

Matthew realized that there was no help in that quarter, and looked around for Judas, but did not see him; and so he went up to Thomas, as the next most promising source of enlightenment. "Have you any idea what this is about? What does Judas say?"

"It is certainly something significant, or he would not have stressed it as he has. It sounds (chop) as if he is saying that the Romans are going to capture him, or perhaps the priests are going to hand him over to the Romans, and they will kill him--or nearly kill him, perhaps, because he says he will come back on the third day after this happens, (chop) whatever it is. He said that about returning to life both times, if you will recall, so it is important.

"Judas thinks he is actually speaking of being killed--which is something the Judeans would dearly love to accomplish, of course--and he (that is, the Master)(chop) thinks he will be able to come back out of the grave; but Judas believes that he is suffering from a delusion there."

"A delusion! If there ever was anyone who did not suffer from delusions, it is the Master!"

"You must question Judas about it. He has a whole theory worked out--which I confess I do not subscribe to (chop)--but it makes for fascinating listening. I myself see two or three possibilities: Either the whole thing is a metaphor for something that makes no sense now but will become clear as events unfold, which is by far the most likely, it seems to me, given all the analogies and stories he has been telling lately, or, based on the mounting opposition the authorities are raising against him, he may actually be captured--or handed over somehow--Is there a traitor in our midst?(chop)--and instead of simply disappearing as he does, he will let himself be taken, and perhaps imprisoned for a couple of days, until he simply walks free. In that case, 'being killed' (chop) is a kind of metaphor for being in prison. I certainly hope it is some such thing."

"Yes, well, whatever interpretation one gives to it, it sounds dreadf--what is this?"

It was evening, and as the group was on the road near Magdala by the "Sea" of Galilee, and Jesus had suddenly shouted "Stop!" at a woman who had just emerged from the shadows, and looked as if she might fall off the cliff.

There was a brief pause, where everything was frozen, and then the woman said, in a rasping man's voice, "What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? She is ours!"

Then the woman slowly approached Jesus, as if she were being dragged toward him. Matthew could not help noticing how startlingly beautiful she was, with a face that seemed a paragon of innocence. And yet she had spoken with that diabolical voice. Everyone moved aside in fear, giving her a wide berth.

" µ !" she said in that same male voice, and Jesus snapped, "Be silent! You will answer only when spoken to, no more; you will speak the truth for once, and only in Aramaic." Matthew thought, recognizing the Greek, "Obviously, it is a devil talking, because he calls him the Son of the Supreme God as he begs for mercy."

"Yes, Master. Good master," answered the voice. It could not possibly be that beautiful woman's voice. And she fell down at the feet of the prophet and began groveling in the dust like a dog awaiting punishment. She was obviously struggling to prevent herself from doing this, but could not control her body. Whatever was speaking had her totally in its power.

"Refrain from calling me good." barked Jesus. "What do you know of good? How many are you?"

"We are seven, Master, only seven."

"Does she know you?"

"Oh, yes, merciful Master. She invited--"

"You lie."

She cringed and groveled again in the dirt of the roadway, "It was not truly a lie, merciful Master. She did not refuse us--"

"I will engage in no disputations with you. Is she listening now? Can she hear us?"

"Yes, Master."

"She is to know how you entered her. Explain it."

"As I said, Master, she did not refuse us. It was our right, and we were not forbidden, as happens so often with us. She--"

"Stop! In your description of how you entered her, you are to speak in such a way that she alone will understand what you did to her. These others need not know--and are not to know--what she did."

"But it was her cursing God that opened the door. We could not have entered without it, Master. You know that."

"Let that suffice. What she had done and what had happened to induce her to curse God is not to be mentioned. Continue."

"It is only that when she did so, one of us tried to enter and she did not refuse. That is all, Master. And then came the others."

"What did you tell her?"

"Only that she was evil, something that she knew very well, most merciful Master, and whether she wanted to learn what evil really was, so that she could understand what had happened to her."

"As if, in other words, it meant that she would understand the evil that had been done to her, not in what way she herself was evil."

"It could have been interpreted in that way, one supposes."

"One supposes! You knew perfectly well that that would be the only way in which she would interpret it."

"You know, trebly merciful Master, that we cannot be certain of such things."

"I will play no games with you. We both know what you knew and how well you knew it. So she accepted having you enter in order to discover exactly how she had been wronged."

"But she did accept, Master, and so she must have at least suspected the truth and been willing to accept that, because in fact we were allowed to enter, and you know that we cannot enter a person who has been totally deceived. Why do you torment us in this way?"

"You would speak to me of tormenting someone? But is it not the case that the 'knowledge' you gave her of the malice and deceit of others was in fact your malice and deceit--it had no relation to reality?"

"Master, merciful Master, you know that sometimes it was true--often and often it was true! Spare us!"

"But when it was true, it was true by accident. Is it not so that she thought it was true, not because of something she discovered, but because you made her believe it true, whatever the facts happened to be."

"I cannot lie, Master. I admit that."

"You cannot lie! You! You cannot lie to me, certainly, because I know the truth beforehand. I say this, however, so that she will understand that you have been lying to her from the beginning, and so that she will no longer trust anything she thought she knew up to now."

Matthew put his hand over his mouth in horror. In the past, when Jesus (or anyone else) had driven out a devil, he had never seen a prolonged conversation. Ordinarily, Jesus would silence them immediately, since most tried to call him the Son of God, and previously he did not wish to have this known. Now things had changed. But what struck Matthew the most was the ingenuousness of the woman's countenance and the venom that was coming from that voice, though it was her own lips that spoke. She made a perfect picture of what "possession" really meant.

"Do you deny," Jesus "that as long as you are within her, she can trust nothing she thinks to be the truth?"

She writhed again on the ground like a serpent. "We cannot know what she is thinking. We do not know whether she knows the truth."

"But you can distort her perceptions; you can create illusions at your pleasure. Is that so or is it not?"

"It is so, Master. You know that."

"And so whether you can know what she is thinking makes no difference. She cannot know when you are deceiving her--when her own eyes and ears are deceiving her--and when you are not."

"We cannot deceive her about her own thoughts, Master. And we believe she has discovered that already."

"Yes, you cannot control her thoughts, and you would not, because that would take from her the power to sin. But you will not lead me astray. Tell me whether there is any time she can be sure that what she seems to be perceiving is accurate and not the result of your deception."

"She can be sure now, Master."

"But at no other time."

"She cannot be certain, Master. But we do not always deceive, as you know. Often and often we tell the truth."

"But only when it suits your aims. But she cannot know when it suits your aims."

He waited as if for a reply. No word came from the abject mass at his feet.

"Can she?"

"Forgive me, Master. I did not know you were asking a question."

"Continue trifling with me thus at your peril! Can she know when you are deceiving her and when you are not? Except now?"

"No, Master, merciful Master. Do not hold this against us, Master. We meant no trifling--"

"Be silent. I would speak to her now. Allow her to speak."

The woman looked up from the dust of the roadway, with her hand clutching convulsively at a root that grew across a rut. She saw Jesus' face and shrieked in terror. She looked as if she had just peered into the pit of hell.

He reached down and touched her back, and she seemed to change. Her eyes went down to the ground before her face once again; and she fought to keep her gaze fixed there, but in spite of herself, she found herself being raised to her feet by his hand, and standing up. Then she looked at herself, seeming to realize how she must appear, with her eyes modestly cast down in front of everyone like a repentant sinner, and suddenly tilted her head back and stared defiantly straight into the eyes of Jesus.

Matthew in his imagination tried to see him as she did. She was looking into the face of a man not quite at middle age, but certainly beyond the initial flush of maturity; a man somewhat taller than average, physically strong, a man who had worked with his hands, not a delicate Pharisee, but not a man striking in beauty, or indeed in any particular way: the sort of man one passed hundreds of times every day and ignored. Neat, but not over-groomed; well-dressed, but not foppish; the tassels on his cloak of average length. There was nothing remarkable about him.

Nothing, that is, until one began to notice him. In that good-looking but not overly handsome face could be discerned a face that could command devils, a face that hid a blinding light. Anyone who cared to look, as she was looking, would find in that countenance material enough for absolute terror or absolutely unshakeable hope, depending on the circumstances.

There was nothing gentle, Matthew reflected, nothing tender, about that face; but at the same time, there was nothing harsh or cruel about it. It gave the impression that its owner not only ruled himself, but that there was nothing in his world that dared refuse to obey him--and it was clear that anything that looked upon that face belonged to his world.

But even while making it clear that he was master and knew it, and that everything and everyone else was his slave and he know this also and could make anyone he chose know it, there was respect in his face. Not tenderness, respect. He would never exercise his sovereignty except as sovereignty was meant to be exercised: to serve those one commanded. He would submit to those who must perforce submit to him.

It was this that made hope a possibility as one looked at him; the knowledge, the absolute certainty, that in spite of his power, he respected one's reality absolutely, and would never force his will upon anyone.

Matthew was astounded that he had noticed all of this before. He almost took on the look that the Rock, James, and John had when they came down the mountain earlier.

"Do you understand your situation?" he asked, and she reacted at first as though he had stung her; but then immediately put on an insolent expression.

He was looking at her as if nothing had happened; as if her reaction made no difference to him. He had asked her a question, and was waiting until it registered, and she got round to making an answer.

She paused a considerable time, pondering the question.

And nodded, still defiantly obeying him.

"Do you wish to be freed from them?" came the question.

Again she paused, and a shudder ran through her body. She looked as if in spite she was going to give a flippant answer; but

she was looking into his face, and evidently realized that this would not be acceptable.

"I wish to die," she answered, and added in a voice of scorn, "Master." Quite clearly, if she was forced to acknowledge that she was a slave, she would do it with as bad grace as possible. He opened his mouth again, and Matthew could see her quick intake of breath from her panic at his response to her insolence.

"That is not for me to grant you now. Do you wish to be free of the demons within you?"

She was obviously pondering the question seriously. At first, she seemed as if being freed would be a great blessing, but then fear of what the future life might be seemed to supervene. Matthew understood this all too well, especially now when he could not count on Jesus' not being captured and put to death, and leaving him penniless.

But then her face changed, and she glanced at Jesus with fear and scorn, as if she would only be trading one form of slavery for another. Matthew held his breath.

"They are lying to you once again," the voice broke in. "If I free you, I will send you from me; and you may stay away if you wish. In fact, I will not permit you to return before sunset tomorrow, so that you will have time to consider your life and what you truly want for yourself."

"You will not be doing me a favor."

"Possibly not."

"Then why do you torment me? You have the power. Why do you not simply do it?"

"Because it is your life, not mine."

"And therefore, I must decide! Then accept my hate and do it! I care nothing for what may happen! Do it!"

"You have heard?" said Jesus, but not to the people around him, but to those inside her. "You are to leave her and remain apart from her until tomorrow after sunset, and then you may return only if she permits you. Go!"

She emitted a gurgling sound, akin to what is called the "death rattle," after which she took in a gasping breath and screamed so that the hills rang, as she fell once more to the ground and writhed and writhed like a snake whose head had been cut off, shrieking and wailing with different voices, all in the ultimate throes of agony. Matthew almost fainted.

After an eternity of this, everything stopped. She lay exhausted on the road.

Evidently, the thought came to her that everyone was looking at her humiliation, because she glanced round and suddenly sprang to her feet, staring defiantly once again at Jesus. She tossed her head, and said, "You think you have done a good deed! You think you have saved me! You have destroyed me!"

"Perhaps so," he answered. "That will depend on you. You have a night and a day of peace to consider it."

"Consider what? Who am I? What have you left of me?"

"Whatever there was of you that they left behind. You will find that there is much. You will recognize yourself."

"I doubt it."

"If you refuse to do so, that is your choice, of course."

"So I am to consider my evil ways, and then return and beg your forgiveness, now that you have left me this torn piece of rag that I must now call myself."

"Understand this: If you wish to be forgiven, you will receive forgiveness--Do not speak; I am aware that you do not believe it possible. If you wish tomorrow evening to be forgiven, return to me."

"And then I am to learn the conditions you impose."

"The only condition is that you wish it. You must know one more thing. It will not be possible for you to kill yourself before tomorrow night."

"So you would remove from me the one blessing in this curse you have cursed me with!"

"For a time, yes. You are rash, Mary. If I did not, you would kill yourself without taking thought. And you will find that it is not now necessary."

So her name was Mary. This must be the notorious Mary of Magdala that the authorities claimed poisoned the best of the priests and Pharisees, and the one they could do nothing against, since she knew too much about too many.

Then you are master, and I am slave."

"Yes."

"Suppose I refuse to take thought. Suppose I simply wait until tomorrow night."

"I will not force you to do otherwise."

"Do you actually believe that you can control my thoughts? Not even they could!"

"It is of no consequence."

"No consequence! That you think you can control thoughts! That you can forgive sins! You claim that I was deceived by spirits within me, and you practiced magic on me to drive them out! My deception is nothing in comparison!"

"Drive her away, Master!" came a voice from one of the group. "She herself is ten times the demons you cast out of her!"

"I need no driving, kind sir," she said in a voice of withering scorn. "If the Master will dismiss me, I will leave of my own accord. May I depart, Master?"

"You may go."

"Thank you, gracious Master. Gracious, kind, generous Master! I leave you in the pleasant company of the rest of your slaves!"