Thorns of Glory, page 56
And yet . . . it was also . . . different.
What I saw flummoxed me. It disturbed me because . . . well, perhaps because I’d been convinced that I’d seen it all—every shade and nuance of human suffering. When I was nine, my father had forced me to watch a criminal tortured in the palace square. In retrospect, I doubt the man was even guilty. He was just an agitator. A disturber of the peace. Akish was punishing him for treason. We were brought to the steps—me and each of my siblings. Nimrah was only six, but he’d ingested the sight with peculiar fascination. I will not describe my father’s torments, but . . . the victim screamed and screamed. I’d turned away, but Akish seized my face so I could only see straight ahead.
“Witness it,” he growled. “Watch every moment.”
What was the point? Why constrain me to watch this gruesome event? My father’s objective, I later deduced, was desensitization. He wanted his children to stomach such scenes without squeamishness or revulsion. This was because such events in his kingdom were destined to become commonplace. Indeed, they did practically become daily affairs. Eventually, ultimately, that man in the square had died. All of them had died. Akish would have tolerated no other outcome. I never again averted my gaze, but I learned to blear my vision. I focused on things close, things far away. I played whatever mind game I could conjure up to obfuscate those hideous spectacles.
So yes, I knew what suffering looked like. I felt I’d witnessed every variation and novelty when it came to how men and women responded to suffering. I could recount instances of incredible bravery and stoicism. Also bowel-loosening terror and contemptible groveling. Yet through it all I’d never witnessed something . . . quite . . . like . . . this.
Jesus was suffering. Assuredly. Undoubtedly. He was suffering to a degree and extent that I’d never before . . . The real question was why was He suffering? What was He suffering from? No lash flayed His flesh. No firebrand scorched His limbs. What was causing this . . . exhibition of pain? Was He stricken by acute nausea, a fit of epilepsy, or some other avalanche of illness? I couldn’t identify it. In spite of everything I’d ever witnessed or endured . . . this wasn’t the same. It made no sense. It was as if . . . His suffering originated from without. Not from within. As if that same phenomenon—fragrance—in the garden of the olive press that had lulled His disciples to sleep was, to Him, an excruciating toxin. How was that possible? This scene, I had to admit, was very difficult to watch. Just like when I was a child, my focus bleared and shifted.
Still its intensity did not explain the most pressing mystery: Why, if He was a God, did He willingly endure it? Why not declare a halt? Why not stop it? Terminate this horrendous suffering immediately? He continued, twisting and writhing, betimes rising up on His hands, but mostly remaining prone, face to the ground.
After a period of time—I couldn’t say how long—He uttered more words, soft, enervated, broken-voiced. I wasn’t entirely sure what He said. I think it was, “Nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt.”
A quaver erupted in my chest, entered my marrow, infused every muscle. Was it in the realm of reason to think this suffering was . . . ? Was it possible that Father God was the source of this pain? Was the Supreme Being of the universe capable of inflicting such suffering? I dismissed the notion. Unthinkable! No being that inhabited earth or in heaven and possessed even a thread of compassion could possibly . . . in particular, no Father could ever afflict His own Son—His only Son—with this kind of . . .
But if Father God was not the cause, what was?
At last, Jesus grasped the rim of the oil press. Tremulously, He pushed Himself to His feet. Unsteadily, Jesus turned around. A gasp escaped my throat. He looked ghastly. Pale, contorted, drenched in sweat. He tried, almost in vain, to summon His strength. Finally, He released the rim and took several uneasy steps toward His disciples on the bench.
Did my eyes deceive me? All three men had fallen back asleep! I was incensed. He’d specifically asked them to watch—to stay alert. I glanced at Sabrina, Joshua, and Melody. One or two of them had also drifted off. As Jesus spoke, they snapped back to full consciousness.
I heard Him clearly as He addressed Peter: “Simon, why are you sleeping? Were you not strong enough to watch with me one hour?” He included John and John’s brother, voice brittle with emotion. “Be watchful and pray that you may not enter into temptation: the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
The three men regarded His appearance with great concern. Peter nodded in response to Jesus, visibly ashamed. None of them spoke to Him. They didn’t seem to know what to say. They straightened themselves, more determined now to honor their Master’s plea. Jesus wandered back to the very same spot of ground as before. Again His muscles failed; His body buckled.
God in heaven! This isn’t over yet? There’s more??
Sabrina had walked away. Baby Gid had started fussing. To assure that the infant would not disturb the proceedings, she ostensibly sought out the shadow of the tree and was soon swallowed by other shadows. Clearly Gid’s cries were not the only reason she’d withdrawn. I could hear her gulping tears of her own. Stomach turning. Heart-rending. Joshua’s aunt had witnessed enough.
Like me, and perhaps like Jesus’s three nearest disciples, Melody and Joshua also seemed determined to remain alert, perhaps as an act of solemnity. Or sheer willpower.
If it was possible, Jesus’s suffering there on the ground redoubled. His body heaved and convulsed. Melody capitulated and buried her face in the bark of the tree, fighting to suppress her own sobs.
Again I heard Him say: “My Father, if this cup cannot be taken away unless I drink from it . . . Thy will be done.”
I was mystified. For the second time He seemed to imply that Father God was the author of His suffering.
I could not resist asking aloud, “What causes His torment? Why does Father God afflict Him?”
Joshua turned to me, cheeks moist but eyes perplexed. “You think His Father is causing this? No, Hamira. We are. You and me. All of us. We’re causing it.”
I gaped as Joshua held my gaze. He looked as if he might explain further. I waited. I needed further explanation. His words made no sense. How did we cause this? Josh turned back, opting, I guessed, to explain later. I wanted to clasp his arm, insist that he explain it to me now.
Then . . . I’m not sure . . . not sure how it happened. All at once, I got it. Like a thunderbolt.
Messiah. Savior. This was His purpose. It was who He was. It was the very reason He was here. He was experiencing it all—the pangs, depths, and sorrows of hell itself. What I was witnessing was deliverance. Salvation. And it was voluntary. The suffering . . . He didn’t have to do it. He could have ended it at any juncture. Any instant. But He didn’t. It was a choice and He chose otherwise. My comprehension of it seemed watery, as if I might readily overthink or underthink it and the epiphany would vanish. Father God, don’t let it fade! The thought that it might disappear panicked me. The idea that I could forget, that confusion could return, invade, and eclipse my mind. Make me doubt. I could not have fathomed its meaning any better than I fathomed it now. I perceived, internalized, that what He endured, what He suffered . . . was about love. Perhaps that doesn’t make sense. Yet this feeling overwhelmed me. The Messiah suffered, He drank willingly of the bitter cup, because He loved us. He loved me.
My vision clouded. I wiped my eyes with the sleeves of my gown. I peered through a dewy veneer. It became requisite to clear my sight with the gown’s abundant hem. The material was not especially absorbent and my tears wouldn’t staunch.
When I reacquired some level of focus, the Savior was again standing before His disciples. If He said something to them, I couldn’t hear it. Oh well. His latest entreaty, whatever it was, failed entirely to rouse them. Want of sleep pressed down upon His followers like the gravity of worlds.
* * *
Joshua
He returned to that same place beside the olive grinder. He fell again, perspiration drizzling from His locks. Not just perspiration. It was . . . thicker.
My heart rate, breathing, nerves, sinews—all was on edge. I realized I was squeezing my fists. And my jaw. Every part of my frame was rigid, chest clenched tightest of all. Even from this distance this was an unendurable sight. I didn’t blame Sabrina or Melody for turning away. Why didn’t I do the same? Why did I keep watching? I wasn’t sure. Something about this episode echoed with a tremor of déjà vu. I’d been here before. I’d observed this before. In another life. A former existence. That memory had been wholly stripped away, except for . . . a sense that the first time I’d seen it, I’d only vaguely understood. Not completely. At least, not its application, how it directly affected me. What it meant. How desperately I needed it.
There was a poison still bubbling inside me: the venom of Coriantumr’s sword. And other malignancies. These caustic substances would never go away. Nothing could flush them. That is, nothing except this—this incomprehensible pain. A sinless man. An all-encompassing sacrifice. My poisons were too strong. Too virulent. Nothing could heal me. No amount of purging, praying, or pleading could make me whole again. This stain was permanent. I was a ruined, decrepit soul, doomed to extinction. Except for this. The price He’d paid—was presently paying. And payment wasn’t yet satisfied. It had only begun.
Although He convulsed and shuddered, wracked by horrors I couldn’t imagine, I discerned something—or I think I did. He wasn’t alone. Not entirely. Something—someone—held Him. Cradled Him. Comforted Him. I couldn’t see this force, this person. I couldn’t have described what it was. Or even if it ultimately helped Him. Or made any difference. I suppose the “presence” comforted me: the knowledge that this “something,” whatever it was, was permitted for a little while to attend to Him.
My resolve was to witness it all. I needed to see it all. Nevertheless, at some point—not sure when—I yielded. I couldn’t watch anymore. I let my face fall into my hands. Hamira had turned away as well. Our limit had been reached. Any person who judges the eleven—His Apostles—for failing to keep watch doesn’t know what they’re saying. I’m not sure if Christ Himself entirely discerned what He had asked of them. It’s not enough to say they were overcome by the intoxication of sleep. There was a threshold, and they had attained it. So had we. Moreover, we were not Him. We did not possess His strength and endurance, even to watch His suffering to the end.
I heard His voice before I had the power to raise my eyes. His tone was very different from what it’d been. Spent but calm. Reassuring and benevolent.
“Sleep for the time that remains and rest.” He’d arisen and returned to His disciples. “The hour approaches that the Son of Man will be betrayed . . .” There was more to this sentence, but the last part was softly uttered.
Still, I’d heard enough. I heard the word “betrayed.” A chill seeped into my soul. I perceived no hint of urgency from His disciples. Either they hadn’t heard the same thing I’d just heard, or . . . Well, let’s face it: I knew the future. I knew what was coming. They did not. Despite all that the Savior had revealed, they had no inkling what to expect.
He rested with them. That is, He sat among them. He did not sleep. His eyes remained open, alert. He calmly blotted His face and shoulders with a towel. His behavior seemed odd. He surely knew what was coming, yet He looked unconcerned. As for me, my heart was thundering. Whatever calmness I’d previously felt had dissipated. I was terrified.
“What’s happening?” Hamira whispered.
Melody was also watching again. Sabrina had returned with Baby Gid. The infant was awake, but complacent. I gave Hamira no reply, just continued to observe.
Jesus glanced in turn at each disciple. Most continued to slumber, but Peter and James had roused. They were making a half-hearted effort to arouse others. I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the Savior. I tried to glean His thoughts. I imagined that He was pondering their future—the fate of those eleven men surrounding Him. Perhaps He contemplated the frightful events that were about to unfold. Who could tell? His expression was inscrutable. I concluded only that He appeared content. A better word might be resigned. This was disconcerting because my own mind was a cyclone of anxiety.
Suddenly He stood. Not sure why I characterize it as “suddenly.” Nothing had startled Him. He came to His feet in a smooth, fluid motion. As His legs and spine straightened, He peered directly ahead, focusing beyond the olive and cypress groves to an infinite distance.
I tried to follow His gaze. Nothing was there. Nothing out of the ordinary. The full moon lent the knotted, flowing olive boughs their familiar shiny, bluish sheen, like weapons or banners across a battlefront. A single command and those considerable defenses might have sprung into action, forming an impenetrable phalanx to insulate this place and its inhabitants against any weapon or tendril of darkness that might have been mustered against it. This instantaneous fortification required only the slightest hushed command.
Beyond the slopes of Olivet, Jerusalem’s lamps and campfires projected upward to create a creamy, smarmy light: beckoning, boastful, cajoling—daring us to make our way home.
My throat ached like the demon—that days-old wound from Akish’s noose. I touched the scab. This seemed to accentuate the rasp in my lungs, drawn-out, scraping, like a gut-stabbed soldier, obsidian lodged in his breast.
The angel of death descended around us like a mist, stirring the leaves, rustling the petals of wildflowers. A shadow alighted from a silvery branch over the Savior’s head, fluttering eastward as if in heed to a final warning. Was it an owl or a raven? It made no utterance to divulge its species until it was well clear of the grove. A mangled squawk, barely able to penetrate death’s stifling veil. Raven, I decided. Scavenger. Definitely not a bird of prey.
“Rise up.” The Master’s voice scattered the descending darkness, agitating its particles, reanimating the grove with life-giving oxygen. “Let us go. The one who betrays me approaches.”
As He finished talking, a torchlight blinked through the trees. Then dozens of bobbing lamps converged from the southwest, coupled with chattering voices and the percussion of hobnail boots. This didn’t seem to faze Jesus or His followers, who’d started along the path that’d brought them to the grove, but I saw Peter’s hand press the pommel of his sword.
Blood surged through my head, whipping, galloping. My gaze settled on Melody, her chest heaving. She knew, like me, what was about to commence. Moreover, she understood, far better than I, what this moment meant. I looked to her for guidance. She searched my eyes for the same. It was a moment of truth. A terrible decision point.
Sabrina verbalized it perfectly: “What are we going to do?”
My legs felt immobilized. I cursed inwardly. Shameful at such a moment, but I did. After all, I was a man of war. Of action. I couldn’t stand idly by and let catastrophe triumph. How should I react? What was proper? The Savior and His disciples approached the wadi that veered toward the gaping tombs that rested between us and Jerusalem’s outer wall. My feet broke from their anchors. Raging, I set off in pursuit. The others took this as their cue and followed.
Every impulse and instinct bristling inside me screamed that I must defend Him, create a distraction. I had to upset the objectives of those men swinging the lanterns. Yet I faltered, contemplating if I ought to rush the mob headlong or attempt something more strategic, hurdle these hedges, come up from behind. Except for Salomé’s tiny knife, I was unarmed, wholly lacking in armor. What options did I have?
Melody clutched my shoulders. “Joshua, what are you doing?”
“I-I don’t know,” I muttered hysterically. “Something.”
“Suicide? Do you wanna be killed?”
“Maybe!”
Sabrina took the lead. “Stay together. Hurry!”
So we would approach headlong. We’d smash into the fray behind Jesus and the others.
The mob began to take shape. Bronze-helmeted Romans with long javelins. Temple police with swords and clubs. Purple-robed priests and other Jewish elders. There might’ve been more than a hundred of these demons and scoundrels. As Jesus and His disciples halted, the forces of hell surrounded them.
A man at the center of the vanguard whispered to an officer beside him. I recognized this man. He’d been in Bethany. It was the same hunched, knotted reprobate who’d departed early from the upper room. He stepped forward and raised his lamp until he located Jesus in the group. He uttered something to his Master, though it was too far away for me to hear. The Savior considered him carefully. Time momentarily froze. The restless mob stopped shuffling. The betrayal played out differently from how I’d always imagined it. Judas leaned forward—I think with the full intent to deliver an oily, noxious kiss, but he vacillated, unable to meet Jesus’s direct gaze. That is, until the Savior spoke. I heard it, or thought I heard it, in a transient lull as armor and weapons ceased clattering.
“Judas,” said Jesus, “are you about to betray the Son of Man with a kiss?”
The betrayer stopped cold. Their eyes finally met, and it seemed to me that Judas visibly quailed. The kiss was not delivered to the Master’s cheek, though it was apparently the predesignated signal. Judas’s failure to follow through confused the mob, notably the Roman chiliarch—the officer of highest rank.
Jesus stepped forward, brushing past His betrayer as if Judas wasn’t there. It was unclear if Judas had been brushed aside or simply gave way. The Savior’s act wasn’t brusque. Jesus the Christ was undaunted, in full command of His environment.
“Whom do ye seek?” He inquired of the officer.
“Jesus of Nazareth,” the chiliarch replied, unable to imbue his voice with the expected authority.
