Hear Me, Pilate!

Centurion Cornelius pointed to a horseman hurrying toward them along the narrow road east of the river. “The advance guard must have run into trouble, maybe Bar Abbas and his gang or some other waylaying zealots.”

“Then you’d better send out a patrol to overtake and destroy them,” Herod Antipas scowled. “I have no patience with those rebel cutthroats.”

The caravan trudging up the deep trough of the Jordan had paused for the midday refreshment. Four days ago it had descended the Jericho road from Jerusalem to encamp for the night on the plain before the city. Horses had been provided for the Tetrarch and certain of his household, but the soldiers of the century, with the exception of the small advance and rear patrols, were on foot. Heavily loaded carts and donkeys transported the supplies, gear, and tents. The journey had been made without incident; another day of uninterrupted progress would bring the caravan to the Sea of Galilee, or, if they were lucky, perhaps even as far as Tiberias.

Cornelius stood up and signaled the approaching rider. The horseman rode straight up to him, reined in his mount, and saluted. “Centurion,” he reported, “up ahead at the river crossing there’s a motley crowd of about a hundred persons, most of them men. Judging by their appearance, they must have traveled a long way. They appear to be peaceful, but there’s a wild-looking, hairy fellow haranguing them, and they’re drinking in his every word; they hardly noticed me when I joined them.”

“What was the fellow saying, Lucilius?”

“I couldn’t understand him, Centurion. I’m not familiar with the speech of this region, which I presume it was. But I thought he might be one of those Galilean revolutionaries trying to incite the crowd against our Roman rule.”

“One of those zealots, you mean? No, hardly, Lucilius. Those rebels don’t stand up delivering speeches; their way is to thrust a knife between somebody’s ribs and then slink quickly away. More than likely this fellow’s a religious fanatic, and I would guess his language is Aramaic. There’s probably no harm in him, but you did well to report. I understand Aramaic; I’ll return with you and investigate.”

“I believe I know who the man is, Centurion,” the Tetrarch volunteered. “There was a desert fellow from the Wilderness country beginning to cause a stir here when I was leaving for Rome. I had reports then that he was thundering invectives against everything, even the Tetrarch and his house. He may be inciting the people against Rome. At any rate, I want to hear him, and perhaps you should, too.”

Mary of Magdala, seated near-by, had overheard. “I, too, would like to hear the strange prophet.”

“But surely even your irresistible charms would not tempt this mad Wilderness preacher.” Antipas winked at the centurion.

“I am not interested in charming him. But if this is the man you think he is I have heard much about him. I would like to observe him for myself.”

Cornelius turned back to Antipas. “If the Tetrarch wishes, I’ll send up a patrol to be near-by in case of any trouble. But I think, Sire, you should disguise yourself. Then you will be able to mingle safely with the throng, and the preacher, not knowing the Tetrarch is hearing him, will talk freely.”

Antipas, agreeing, quickly exchanged his purple mantle for the simple Galilean garment of one of his servants and wrapped about his Roman-style cropped head a bedraggled scarf to form an effectively concealing headdress. The servant cut a reed to serve as a walking staff. Mary, too, changed garments and veiled her face in the manner of a Galilean peasant woman.

Cornelius sent a patrol ahead. “Stop this side of the ford,” he instructed Lucilius, “and try to avoid being noticed by the throng down there. But keep on the alert for any commotion that might develop.” Then he, Antipas, and Mary all mounted horses and rode toward the place where the multitude had assembled. At a bend in the road some two hundred paces from the ford the three riders dismounted behind screening thick willows that came up from the river bank; from there they quietly made their way down to the ford and slipped unobtrusively into the crowd.

Every burning dark eye seemed to be focused on the gesticulating, fiercely intent preacher. He stood in the center of the circled throng on the river bank, and his words came to them clear and sharply challenging, angry and pleading, denunciatory and promising.

“You generation of vipers!” he thundered, shaking a gnarled fist in their teeth, “have I not warned you to escape from the wrath that is coming? Do you contend that because you are Abraham’s seed you are secure from the judgment of a righteous God?” He lowered his voice, strode two steps forward, and dramatically wheeled about. “What are Abraham’s descendants to God? Could he not raise up from these very stones”—he pointed toward the smoothly rounded small rocks lining the water’s edge—“children for Abraham? And is not the ax ready at the foot of the tree to cut down every one that does not bear fruit?”

Cornelius nudged a bent Jew, his face streaked with perspiration that ran down in soiled small beads into his grizzled beard, his whole frame seemingly so absorbed in the speaker’s thundering words that he had not even noticed the centurion’s arrival beside him. “That man, who is he?”

The old fellow turned incredulously to stare. “Soldier, you have been in Galilee long enough to speak our tongue, and yet you do not know him?”

“But for many weeks I have not set foot in Galilee,” Cornelius replied. “I am just now returning, by way of Jerusalem, from Rome.”

“He is the Prophet John, soldier, the one sent of God to warn Israel to repent and be baptized.” The old man turned back to give his attention for the moment to the preacher. Then, his face earnest, he confronted Cornelius again. “He is not concerned with Rome, soldier. He preaches only that men should cleanse their hearts of evil and walk in the way of our Yahweh.” Once more he turned to stare at the prophet whose eyes were wildly flaming in his burnt dark face; ignoring Cornelius, the old man leaned forward and raised a knotted hand to cup his ear.

John was tall, and his leathery leanness accentuated his height. The prophet, it was immediately evident to the centurion, was not a man of the cities and the synagogues; he was a son of the desert and the wastelands of Judaea, and the sun and wind had tanned his skin to the color and hardness of old harness. Nor did he appear any more afraid of the proud and opulent Pharisees and Sadducees who confronted him with their disdainful smiles than he must have been of the wild animals of his Wilderness haunts.

“Repent! I say unto you. And bring forth fruits worthy of repentance. Try not further the patience of God. Forswear evil and do good.”

“But what are for us fruits worthy of repentance? What must we do?”

The questioner, his countenance heavy with pain, stood at the river’s edge facing the prophet. His garb revealed him to be a man of means, but it was evident also that the thundering words of the baptizer had stirred him deeply and that he had asked the question in all humility.

John thrust forth a lean forefinger and shook it sternly. “You are of a calling unloved in Israel, and justly so. You have sold your birthright as a son of Israel to join your heel to the conqueror’s to grind Abraham’s seed into the earth. You are a publican; I know you, and I know the publican’s heart.” His voice was almost a hiss, and around the clearing beards nodded in agreement with the prophet’s harsh appraisal. “I call upon you to repent!”

“But what, Rab John, are the fruits of my repentance?” The perspiration was running freely down the man’s face and dripping into his beard. “What must I do?”

“Demand only that which is legally due you.”

“I swear that this I shall henceforth do, Yahweh being my helper. By the beard of the High Priest, I swear it.” The man sighed deeply, and from the fold of his robe pulled forth a kerchief with which he mopped his forehead, his whiskered cheeks, and the dampened long beard.

“But we are not great ones,” ventured a gnarled and grizzled fellow who leaned twisted on his staff, “neither are we publicans. We are the plain and the simple and the poor of Galilee. What shall we do worthy of repentance?”

“You have two coats, though they be worn and patched with much wearing? Then give one to him who has none. And you have food, though it be coarse and not plentiful? Share what you have with him who is hungry.”

Cornelius had noticed, standing not far from the prophet but somewhat withdrawn from the throng as if to avoid contamination with these men of earth such as the one who had just questioned John, a knot of resplendently robed Israelites, their beards oiled and combed and carefully braided, their fingers heavily ringed. Now one of these men, his hands clasped in front of his rounded, sagging paunch, stepped forward a pace and bowed. “Rabbi, we are priests and Levites sent by the rulers in Jerusalem to hear and observe your teaching. We perceive that you speak with great authority. Tell us, Rabbi”—his smile was as unctuous as his beard was oiled—“are you that great One for whom we are looking?”

“I am not the Messiah,” John answered evenly.

“Are you then the Prophet Elijah returned to us?”

“I am not he.”

“Then, Rabbi, who are you? We have been instructed to come and see and carry back our report to the Temple rulers. What then shall we say of you, who you are?”

“Say that I am:

“The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness,

“Prepare ye the way of the Lord,

“Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.

“Every valley shall be exalted,

“And every mountain and hill shall be made low:

“And the crooked shall be made straight,

“And the rough places plain:

“And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,

“And all flesh shall see it together: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.”

“You speak the words of the great Isaiah,” the pompous questioner declared.

“Yes,” John agreed. “And other words he said also.

“The voice said, ‘Cry,’

“And he said, ‘What shall I cry?

“‘All flesh is grass,

“‘And all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field.

“‘The grass withereth, the flower fadeth....

“‘But the word of our God shall stand forever.’”

“Then you, like we, yet look for the coming of the Messiah of God?”

John raised a lean and burnt arm and the haircloth robe slid down along it to his shoulder. He pointed a darting forefinger toward the Temple’s emissary, and his countenance was solemn. “I tell you, that One is now among us, though you have not recognized him as the Messiah of God. And though he comes after me in time, he ranks before me; indeed, I am not worthy to stoop down and unloose his sandal straps. I baptize you with water, but He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire!”

“Then, Rabbi, why do you baptize with water?” The unctuous one smiled broadly and, pleased with his cleverness, looked from one member of the delegation to another.

“It is a sign that those who enter upon it have repented and been cleansed in their hearts.” He looked the man in the eyes. “Have you repented, my brother? Is your heart changed? Are you ready for the coming of Him of Whom I have this moment spoken?” John whirled about, and his lean arm described an arc that embraced the multitude. “Repent, ye men of Israel! Ye who dwell in great houses, repent! Ye men of earth who know not where your next mouthful will be found, repent. For the clean in heart do not all dwell in palaces or attend upon the Temple worship, nor do they all go about hungry and naked and shelterless.”

As the prophet paused, he looked toward the centurion and the disguised Tetrarch, who stood beside Mary and within a few paces of the portly questioner from Jerusalem. Cornelius wondered what Herod was thinking of this strange Wilderness preacher, this fiery denouncer of evildoers. But in that same moment John resumed his discourse. “No, sin and wickedness abide in the high places; evil reigns even in the great marble pile built above the graves at Tiberias where the Idumaean pawn of the conqueror despoils and seduces the people of Israel! He, too, my brothers, even he must repent his wicked ways; he must seek the Lord while yet He may be found, or he and his evil associates will be cast into outer darkness!”

The fleeting thought came suddenly to the centurion that the prophet had recognized the large man in the soiled Galilean robe, and perhaps the notorious woman of Magdala as well. But then would he have dared utter such a denunciation? Was the desert preacher really a man of dedication and courage, as people said? Perhaps. Cornelius scrutinized Herod’s face. The Tetrarch’s normally pale complexion had turned an ugly shade of red beneath the twisted turban, while beads of perspiration ran down his heavy jowls. But Mary, though little of her face showed because of the veil, appeared more amused than angered.

The prophet’s interrogator from Jerusalem was still unsatisfied. “But, Rabbi,” he began again, “you say that the Messiah of God is already among us. Why then has he not declared himself, why has he not consumed with holy fire the Edomite who possesses us and tramples into the dust of utter subjection our ancient land?”

John’s eyes flashed angrily, but he controlled his tongue. When he spoke his voice was calm. “It is not for me to explain or defend the will and works of the Messiah. I am but His messenger who goes ahead to announce His coming, to call upon His people Israel to repent that their eyes might be whole to see Him when He comes, that their hearts might be clean to know Him!” With bronzed fist he smote the palm of his left hand, his ardor mounting. “You leaders of the people”—he stabbed a lean forefinger toward the haughty group from Jerusalem—“cleanse your own hearts; let fall from your eyes the scabs of greed and hypocrisy so that when He comes you may recognize Him!”

Cornelius felt a gentle tug on his arm; it was Mary. “The Tetrarch is going back,” she whispered. “He’s furious at the man’s denunciation of him. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he would have had to reveal his identity in doing it, Antipas would have had him arrested. But he didn’t want those puffed toads”—she inclined her head to indicate the Jewish delegation—“carrying stories back, and he wished to avoid provoking a commotion; so he overlooked the....”

“Behold, the Lamb of God!”

Cornelius and the woman, her report to him startlingly interrupted by the prophet’s ejaculation, faced about quickly to look in the direction toward which he was pointing. In that instant the others had whirled about, too. Cornelius and Mary strained forward, trying to see above the heads of the multitude.

“He is the One of Whom I have been speaking!” shouted John. “Behold, the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world. Yonder is the Messiah of God!”

They saw coming along the path that led down from the road above the river, walking with long, easy stride as he descended the grade toward the clearing at the ford, a tall, sunburned young man, well-muscled but lithe, broad of shoulders, erect. He wore a plain, brown, homespun robe, belted at the waist with a length of rope, and coarse, heavy sandals. He was bareheaded; his reddish brown hair fell away from a part in the center of his head in locks that curled almost to his shoulders. In his right hand he gripped a long staff cut from a sapling. As he strode down the pathway and across the open space toward the prophet, he seemed deep in thought, almost insensible to the throng about him. He walked straight up to John. Cornelius and Mary could see the two talking in subdued tones, but they could understand nothing of what was being said by either man.

“What are they saying?” It was the bent old Jew; he still stood near-by, and he had cupped his palm to an ear lost in grizzled earlocks. “Soldier, can you hear them?”

“No, not a word,” Cornelius answered. “They aren’t talking loudly enough for us up here.”

At that moment a youth who had been down at the water’s edge standing a few feet away from the prophet approached them. He heard the old man’s question. “They are arguing about baptizing the tall one,” he explained. “He wants the desert preacher to baptize him, but the preacher claims it should be the other way around; he says he isn’t worthy to baptize the Messiah.”

“The Messiah!” The old man had been peering intently at the tall young man standing calmly beside the prophet. “Is that the one the prophet called the Lamb of God, the one long expected of Israel?”

“Yes, the tall one.”

“Why do you ask?” Cornelius inquired of the bent one. “Do you know the man?”

“Do I know him?” The old man chuckled. “Soldier, I come from Nazareth. Many’s the day I have worked with Joseph, that boy’s father, planing one end of a beam while he was shaping the other end. But Joseph’s dead now, been dead a long time. That boy there lives with his mother, the widow Mary.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a carpenter, too, like his father before him. And he’s a good boy and a hard-working boy, soldier. But Jesus ben Joseph the Messiah of Israel....” The old fellow, both hands braced on his gnarled stick, shook his head incredulously. “Soldier, my faith in that John the Baptizer is weakening. He must be”—he removed one hand from the stick and with bent forefinger tapped his forehead—“a little touched.”

Cornelius laughed. “I don’t know much about this Messiah business, but, I agree, he must be.” Then he turned to Mary. “Are you ready to go? I mustn’t let Herod get too far ahead. I’m responsible for his arriving in Tiberias, you know.”

They started retracing their way along the path to the road; where it joined the broader way, they turned southward. When a moment later they came out from behind a clump of shrubs grown up in an outcropping of small boulders, Cornelius glanced over his shoulder toward the ford and the throng. He caught Mary’s arm and pointed.

The haircloth mantle and the brown homespun robe had been thrown across small bushes at the river’s edge. In the center of the little stream, with the water up to their loincloths and their faces lifted heavenward, stood the gaunt Wilderness prophet and the tall bronzed young man from Nazareth.

Clyx.com