Curiosity

A Patchwork Investigation — Part 2: Jesus

Jesus of Nazareth, sitting cross-legged, reached for a small stick and scribbled something in the sand, something he damaged to nonsense with the same stick just moments later, before Judas had a chance to see what Jesus might have written or drawn.

Tossing the stick aside, Jesus looked up at him again.

They were alone, a little outside the immediate glow of fire, the other eleven sleeping soundly. “Can you keep a secret?” asked Jesus.

“You know I can,” replied Judas.

“You might be the only one not to doubt me,” said Jesus.

Judas regarded Jesus for some breaths but said nothing, then looked up at the stars. It was a clear night. A soft and cool wind swept across the lake and touched them gently. The wind sparkled the lake with starlight.

“I am not the son of God,” said Jesus.

Judas left the stars to their fate and turned to face Jesus again, “I know.”

“Nor am I of this world.”

“I know that too.”

“Yes, I guess you would.”

The two men could hear the soft crackle of the dying fire along with the brush of wind and the occasional snore from the sleeping men surrounding them.

“You are familiar with the Buddha,” said Jesus.

“Gotama.”

“Yes, Gotama.”

After a short silence Jesus drew breath to speak, but said nothing. He drew breath again: “We are one and the same.”

“I know,” said Judas who sometimes still thought of himself as Ananda, the Buddha’s once personal attendant.

“How long have you known?” Though Jesus did not seem surprised.

“Ever since you called on me.”

Jesus smiled. “And you said nothing.”

“It was not my place to speak of that.”

“Ever the perfect attendant,” said Jesus.

Judas nodded. “Perhaps, yes.”

“They will not believe me,” said Jesus, indicating the sleeping men.

“They might,” said Judas. “Peter and John might.”

“Their view of God my Father runs deep. They have embraced him, heart and mind. As they have embraced me as His son.”

“It’s not as if you haven’t stoked those embers,” observed Judas.

“It’s not as if I haven’t stoked those embers,” agreed Jesus. Then, “It is the right message for this time and place.”

“I know that,” said Judas.

“You know they’re going to crucify me for this.”

Judas studied Jesus for a handful of heartbeats, then return his gaze to the stars. Then said, eyes still skyward, “You are threatening the vested interests. You’ve stepped on many toes. What did you expect?”

“Not this, to be honest.”

Judas did not answer.

“I hear Pontus Pilate has called my trial.”

“I hear the same.”

“I hear Rome has given him his marching orders. I’m guilty even before the trial begins. Condemned to the cross.”

Again, Judas said nothing.

“What should I do, do you think?” said Jesus. “Make a run for it, return to Tusita Heaven and re-think things?”

“You have nowhere to run,” said Judas. “Even now, I am sure there are many pairs of eyes in Pilate’s employ, trained on you. You’ll be caught before you’re even on your way.”

Jesus sighed. “Yes, you’re right.”

“You have no choice,” said Judas. It will happen. The cross. And it will do wonders for your ministry. People love martyrs, and you’ll make a stellar one.”

It was Jesus’ turn not to answer.

“Whatever you do,” said Judas, “to keep this ship intact and on course you must say nothing about the Buddha. Nothing about rebirth. Not in these waters. And don’t mention Tusita Heaven.”

Jesus nodded slowly. He looked over to his right and out across the still rippled water, then at the fire — dying by its small, small degrees, then at the remaining eleven. Yes, he saw the wisdom of Judas’ advice. Best to play along and say nothing about those matters.

He was not looking forward to the next few days.

As a young child (he was five, almost six years old at the time), early one July morning, Sam remembered being shot.

The shooter was German and was bleeding from several wounds: chest, left arm, shoulder. But he was right-handed and still had the strength to fire his Luger. He wore no helmet and his hair was blond, though darkly caked in two places from head wounds. He could barely stand, but even in pain and now weakening, the soldier was a good shot, and his aim was true. Sam, who had run out of ammunition and could not defend himself from this distance could feel the bullet enter his chest and pierce his heart. He never heard it. It did not hurt.

The terrible vacuum that raced through his mind brought him back to the little alcove at his grandmother’s where he slept during his summer visits.

Sam, soon to be six, screamed and screamed.

Within not many seconds adults arrived. First his grandmother Clarice, then her sister Cora, then his own mother Janet. Then his two cousins, both older than Sam, but not by so much. Why is Sam screaming?

“What’s the matter, Sam. Tell me, tell me,” said Clarice.

“What’s the matter, Sam,” echoed Core.

Lisbeth said nothing but was clearly concerned.

“He shot me,” said Sam.

Clarice turned to Cora and Lisbeth. “A bad dream,” she said, loudly enough for Sam to hear.

“No,” he shrieked. “No, it was not a dream. It happened. I could see him. A soldier. I remember the man. He was a soldier.”

Lisbeth nodded to her mother. Yes, a bad dream.

How Sam understood what his mother’s nod conveyed no one could explain, but he shrieked again, “No. It was not a bad dream. I wasn’t even sleeping. I was looking out the window at the morning train pulling out of the station. At the two engines grunting and billowing their brown diesel smoke as they started up with all those freight cars. I heard them clank and creak as the engines pulled them going and then I remembered this other train. It made the same sounds as it started up but there was only the one engine and it was black and had a chimney and lots of white smoke. Not brown. I saw that train off to my right and I was bleeding. My left arm was hurting and bleeding and my shirt was almost black from all the blood. There was a soldier on the other side of the ditch and he was bleeding, too. My friend was dead. He was lying by the tree. He had been shot. I had no ammunition left. The soldier on the other side of the ditch took aim, and even though I could see his arm shake a little, he fired the bullet right at me and killed me. I didn’t hear the shot and I thought it was strange that I did not hear the shot, but only felt it. The bullet hit my chest and my heart and filled my head with a strong wind. I was as old as dad. Maybe not quite.”

“I have never heard such a thing,” said Cora, shaking her head. “Is the child ill?”

By now Clarice was shaking her head too, agreeing with her sister.

The cousins looked with saucer eyes at Sam, and then Lisa started to laugh, nervously but laughing nonetheless. Axel, on the other hand, didn’t laugh, clearly interested in the narrative. “What kind of gun did he have?” he asked.

“Axel,” said Cora. Underscoring her almost-shout with a quick slap over the boy’s head.

“I wanted to know,” said Axel, indignant.

Lisbeth sat down on her haunches and turned to her son, “It was a dream,” she said. “Please don’t go thinking, or saying that it was anything else.” Then she stood up again, turned to her mother and Cora, “He has the wildest imagination.”

“Yes,” said Cora. “We know.”

“It was not a dream,” said Sam. “I remembered.”

“You did not, said Lisbeth.

“You remembered no such thing,” said Cora.

“I just wanted to know what kind of gun it was,” said Axel, still resentful.

“Okay,” said Lisbeth, mainly to Lisa and Axel. “The fun is over. Everybody out.” Then again, since no one made to move. Louder this time, “Everybody out.”

Reluctantly, Lisa turned toward the door, pushing Axel in front of her.

“Don’t,” said Axel.

For several weeks, no matter what anybody said — including Axel who soon enough had begun accusing Sam of making the whole thing up, especially since he would not say what kind of gun it was — Sam remained absolutely convinced that he had remembered, not dreamed, being shot. He tried to convince Clarice a couple of times, but she would have none of it. Neither would Lisbeth, who was used to, and virtually immune to, Sam’s very active imagination.

A year later he wasn’t so sure after all. Yes, it had been so very, very real, just like a memory, but then, some dreams are very, very real, aren’t they?

The German soldier (as memory) returned briefly in fifth grade, when he learned about Hindus and their belief in reincarnation. He asked his teacher about it. Could it be true, like the Hindus believe, that you’re born again after you die?

The Hindus, his teacher (an old, sternly religious woman, gray hair in a severe bun) had explained, are sadly misguided. All of them. They won’t even eat their cows, for heaven’s sake. If a cow lies in the middle of the street, they walk, bicycle, or drive around her rather than disturb her. How could these people know anything? They don’t even know about Jesus in India.

That was her answer. An answer, but not an answer. He thought about asking his mom the same question but decided against it. Busy cleaning, baking, cooking, mending, ironing, never a moment’s rest for the wicked she’d say, she never seemed in the mood to be asked any sort of question, much less one about Hindus and reincarnation. Besides, she would probably agree with Mrs. Levin anyway.

So, he put it to rest. Life was busy going on all around him and he was not about to let this question get in the way of joining the fun.

But the following summer, again spent at his grandma — the last summer he would do so — turning now to religious authority, he did ask Clarice about the Hindus and their strange belief, only to discover them all to be heathens and bound for Hell as surely as the sun rises.

But didn’t they believe that the soul is reborn after you die?

No, he never asked her that question. She was a weather system in which such questions could not even be raised. Heathens, destined for eternal damnation those Hindus. Any- and every-thing they did was evil. Best leave them alone, Sam. Best not even think in their direction. That country needs a lot of missionaries to save them. Maybe you could be one of them?

Sam thought not.

Occasionally during his teens, the strange dream would resurface, but by then he would, much like Cora had smacked Axel’s head to shut him up, smack the notion of being shot by a German soldier on its head to shut it up and move on.

© Wolfstuff