What a strange state my body is in, dead to suffering but not to joy! I don’t even know if I have access to the power of the husk—it’s as if the miracle was springing spontaneously from it, my skin is alive, vibrant with happiness, and my mother gathers this quivering into her arms.
The descent from the cross is a scene that will inspire a multitude of artistic portrayals: the majority will depict this ambiguity. Mary almost always looks as if she has realized something out of the ordinary is happening, but she will not speak of it. As for my swooning, it is there every time.
This is spot-on: even the least mystical painters suspect that my death is a reward. My well-earned rest. Whether or not his soul has survived, how can we not sigh with relief on behalf of this unfortunate man whose torture has now ended?
Since I have access to works of art the world over, and for ever and ever, I like looking at the descents from the cross. I never so much as glance at scenes representing my crucifixion, nothing that reminds me of the torture. But I am very moved by those statues or paintings where I see my dead body in my mother’s arms. The precision of the artists’ gaze is striking.
Some of them, important ones at that, have captured my mother’s sudden youthfulness. None of the texts mention it, probably because it’s not meant to be important. The mater dolorosa has other fish to fry besides her wrinkles, I agree.
As a rule, it is the deceased who look younger on their deathbed. That is not the case where I’m concerned. Indeed, a crucifixion puts years on you. It looks as if my mother has been able to take advantage of the famous postmortem blush of youth. I like the way this links our two bodies.
On the Pietà at the entrance to Saint Peter’s Basilica, Mary looks sixteen years old. I could be her father. The relationship has been so strikingly reversed that my mother has become my orphan.
Whatever the case may be, representations of the mater dolorosa are always hymns to love. The mother holding her child’s body and seeming all the more enraptured, knowing it is for the last time.
She will be able to go and pray at his grave every day, but she knows that nothing can ever equal an embrace: yes, even with a dead body, all the love in the world is never better expressed than through a mother’s embrace.
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I am here. I have never stopped being here. In a different way, to be sure, but I am here.
There is no need to believe in anything in order to explore the mystery of presence. It is a common experience. How often are we here without being present? We don’t necessarily know why this happens.
“Concentrate,” we say to ourselves. What this means is “gather up your presence.” When we talk of an unruly child, we are evoking the phenomenon of a scattered presence. Being distracted is all it takes.
Distraction was never my strong point. Maybe that’s what it means to be Jesus: someone who is really and truly present.
It’s hard for me to compare. I’m like others in that I only have my own experience to go on. What has been called my omniscience has left me with a vast ignorance.
The fact remains: a truly present person is not a very common sight. My trifecta—love, thirst, and death—also teaches three ways of being incredibly present.
When you fall in love, you become phenomenally present. Subsequently, it’s not love that dissipates, but presence. If you want love to remain as strong as on the first day, you must cultivate your presence.
When you are thirsty, you’re so present it’s downright embarrassing. No need ramble on about that.
Dying is the show of presence par excellence. I cannot get over how many people hope they will die in their sleep. Their mistake is all the graver in that dying in your sleep is no guarantee you won’t notice. And why would you want to miss out on the most interesting moment in your existence? Fortunately, no one dies without realizing, simply because that is impossible. Even the most distracted person will be abruptly called back to the present upon dying.
And afterwards? No one knows.
As for me, I can sense that I am here. Some people will assert that this is an illusion of my consciousness. However, everyone has noticed how very present the dead can be. Regardless of their faith. When someone dies, it’s amazing how much we think about them. For many people, it’s actually the only time we think about them.
And then it tends to fade away. Or not. There are extraordinary resurgences. Individuals you think about for ten years, or a hundred, or a thousand years after their death. Can we deny that this is a sign of presence?
What we would like to know is whether this presence is conscious. Does that dead person know they are here? I daresay they do, but as I am dead, people will say I’m protecting my own interests. Not to mention that I’m not just any old dead person either.
But even then, I don’t know. The only dead person I have ever been is myself. Maybe all dead people feel just as present as I do.
What disappears when you die is time. And oddly enough, it takes time to notice this. Music becomes the only thing that allows you to maintain a vague notion of time: were it not for its forward movement, the dead person would no longer grasp what is passing by.
After several chants, I was placed in the sepulcher. A lot of people are in greater fear of being buried than of dying: there’s nothing the least bit absurd about such a terror. Dying, why not? But to be shut away in a tomb, possibly with other dead bodies: what a nightmare! Cremation reassures some and frightens others. A justifiable fear. People who shout loud and clear, “Do what you like with my body, I don’t care! I’ll be dead, it’s all the same to me,” have obviously not given the matter much thought. Do they really have so little respect for the pound of flesh that enabled them to go through life for so many years?
I have no suggestions regarding the issue; a rite is required, that’s all. And fortunately, there’s always a rite. In my case, it was performed very quickly, which is normal for a condemned man. An execution followed by a state funeraclass="underline" not something anyone has ever seen.
I was wrapped gently in a shroud and placed in a recess in the tomb, a sort of bunk. The people left me and closed the door to the sepulcher.
And then I experienced a moment of pure dizziness: I was alone with my death. It could have gone very badly. Is it because I am Jesus that it was so wonderful? I hope not. I would like it to be like this for as many dead people as possible. The moment the dying was finished, my party began. My heart burst, rejoicing. A symphony of jubilation resounded inside me. I went on lying there to explore the joy of it until I couldn’t take it anymore. Then I stood up and danced.
The most grandiose music of the present, past, and future poured through my breast and I knew infinity. Usually it takes time to understand the beauty of a piece of music and to let oneself be carried away. But I was able to sense the sublime from the very first time I listened. Not all of this music was human, even if much of it was: it also came from the planets, the elements, and the animals, and other sources that were not obviously identifiable.
There was also a mechanical aspect to my joy: when it comes to our states of mind, the highs tend to follow the lows. But I was touched to realize that this principle of compensation applied even after death.
When the tomb no longer sufficed to contain my exultation, I went out. There has been much debate regarding the degree to which magic helped me. To me, it seemed so natural that I cannot answer. It felt good being outside. The silence that followed the music was a delight I greatly appreciated.