He had come upon the church by accident, its dark interior just visible through the narrow door, beckoning him in. He’d visited other Catholic churches before, but seldom stayed long, finding the decoration excessive and the messages of the paintings and statuary unbelievable. So, now, he wondered again if this was what the Christ-figure would have wanted; and whether he would have identified with the effigies strung up on crosses or bleeding copiously from spear thrusts and thorn wounds. For sure, he thought, from what he knew of the New Testament, the Jesus of history would not have approved of the gilt crucifixes, the fantastically elaborate wood carvings and other extreme paraphernalia. But he might have welcomed the cool interior, as he would have done in the synagogues of Galilee after days of humility and ridicule.
The stations of the cross afforded a guided tour of sorts, but the artist had captured nothing with which he could empathise. Instead he was drawn to an image of the head of the Christ-figure bearing a plaque that told him it was from the school of Leonardo. The enigmatic smile held his attention – was it asking or telling, inviting shared confidences or imparting judgement? So intense did the gaze seem to become that Theodore looked behind him to see if there was another person standing there as the subject of attention. But there was no-one. He walked on, then looked back to see the painting presiding over a gaggle of schoolchildren with no interest in it whatsoever. Suffer little children… He smiled to himself and walked on.
Against his intention he stopped walking. Something in the painting was drawing him back. He retraced his steps and again confronted the image. Then he saw that what he sought lay not in the face at all but in the background. There, surely, was the Jewish Temple, with its arches and colonnades. And if this was Jerusalem – and it could be no other place – then the Christ-figure, like himself, knew he was awaiting death.
These were not thoughts he should have had. They were thoughts that would have induced self-ridicule before that fateful letter had come. He looked about him. Small though the church was in the general scheme of things, for him, now, in the late afternoon light, with the frescoed ceiling becoming fainter, it assumed a vastness that made him feel no more than a tiny worthless speck of irrelevance.
A high segment of the great stained glass west window was still taking the strength of the sun. On the floor where the light fell a perfect circle had superimposed itself upon the reciprocating patterns of the floor. Theodore suddenly thought of it as a test. He tried to clear his head of all thought that might oppose receptivity, and stepped into the circle of light. Surely, if enlightenment was to come at all, it would come now. But about him all remained still. Nothing changed. A minute later, mildly disappointed but not surprised, he stepped out of the light.
He passed the door to the corridor leading to the campanile – the great bell tower standing slightly apart from the mass of the church, higher even than the window that had offered him its light. A notice beside the door directed him to the information desk where he might buy a ticket. The young man behind the counter – from his dress and long hair most likely a student – looked up as he approached. It was a neutral look, Theodore thought, or perhaps a concealing look.
‘I would like a ticket for the campanile, please,’ Theodore said, handing the man a banknote of a rather large denomination.
‘I’m sorry, Sir. I’m afraid I’m unable to change that.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. You must have been given change all morning.’
‘That is so, but at the end of the morning the priest in charge comes to collect whatever has been given and takes it away. There’s a shop next to the church where you can get change, and there are cash machines at several places in the Piazza.’
‘But I don’t have time,’ Theodore said. ‘The light is already going and I would like to see the campanile.’
‘I’m sorry I cannot help you. I’m sure you will appreciate that I’m forbidden to allow visitors to ascend the campanile without a ticket.’
Angrily, Theodore left the church, passing the shop where – had he been so minded – he could have got change with just a small purchase. He walked into the Piazza and slumped into a chair outside one of the small cafés. He ordered a coffee and spent the next half-hour staring moodily over his cup. In the distance he could see members of his own group making their way to the hotel shuttle bus. This was his cue to get up and leave, to forget the church and its wretched campanile. He looked at his watch – still half an hour before it closed. He paid for his coffee, then stared in disbelief at the change in the bowl. There were banknotes, for sure, but on top of them were coins stacked to the exact value of the ticket for entrance to the campanile. Surely… He swept up what he might otherwise have left as a tip and walked back to the church.
Their eyes met. ‘I found some change,’ Theodore said sheepishly. And as he said it a burden of unreasonableness was lifted from him. The eyes across the counter lit up with an expression of relief and pleasure that Theodore might have guessed was beyond the possible. ‘I was truly hoping you would return,’ the man said.
And suddenly Theodore was seeing, not the face of a humble attendant, but that of the Christ-figure in the painting. He realised it was not meaningful to distinguish between those differing elements in the enigmatic smile, but instead accept that there was no conflict between conviction in the rightness of a cause and concern that it might not be fulfilled.
‘I’m closing the desk now,’ the man said, looking at his watch. ‘But if you like I can accompany you to the campanile. From the summit I can show you many things.’
Together they climbed the succession of ever-narrowing staircases and, reaching the top, stepped into the bright evening light.
NOTES ON A JERUSALEM TRILOGY
Whatever one’s interpretation of the story of the raising of Lazarus by Jesus, it is difficult to escape the conclusion that the event made it easier for Jesus’ followers to accept the concept of the resurrection after the crucifixion and the disappearance of his body from the tomb in which it had been placed. If it is not accepted that the raising of Lazarus was a miracle (i.e. that Lazarus did not actually die) it is difficult to account for Jesus’ grief, both on being told beforehand of Lazarus’ ‘death’ and, later, at the tomb before he was called to ‘come forth.’ A possible interpretation without supernatural overtones is that Jesus himself was misled and that the perpetrators – albeit innocently and with Jesus’ interests at heart – could have been Lazarus and his two sisters, Mary and Martha. In Lazarus, the story presented here, this conclusion is reached by a biblical scholar in Jerusalem, whose interest is kindled on seeing a copy of a letter by the second century church father Clement of Alexandria, discovered in the monastery of Mar Saba, near Jerusalem, by Professor Morton Smith in 1958. This letter quotes passages from an alternative version of Mark’s gospel in which there is a reference to the raising of Lazarus. (In the New Testament an account of the raising of Lazarus occurs only in John’s gospel.) Our scholar’s insightful conclusion follows a visit to the supposed tomb of Lazarus in Bethany; described as early as the fourth century CE, this could well be the authentic site.
The traditional role of Judas Iscariot in Jesus’ demise has led to his almost universal vilification. However, it is clear that by the time of the last supper Jesus knew of Judas’ intention to expose him. If, as many believe, Jesus was deliberately pursuing a path towards his own destruction it is difficult not to conclude that there was at least a degree of collusion between them. Had Jesus wished to avoid the consequences of Judas’ action he would not have awaited arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane.