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CHAPTER III Deliverance
Biting coolness of the night's dark hours enhanced the intensifying harshness of events.
Passover celebrations had continued throughout the night. The house of the high-priest, being close by Herod the Great's Temple for the sake of convenience, emptied as all made their way to the chambers of the elders. There they convened again, this time for the official certification of their accusations against Jesus. The gallery filled, overflowing with onlookers. Caiaphas and the chief priests assembled in their respective designated positions. Jesus was presented before them. This was the sacred courtroom within the Temple. There would be no unruly behavior here. Outbursts would not be tolerated. One of the elders, clearly appointed for this task, stood and required of Jesus, "If you believe yourself to be the Christ, our Messiah, state it plainly for the record." The clerk sat at his desk, papyri before him, quill in hand, waiting to record the words of the accused.
"We've been through this," Jesus responded. "Clearly, you did not believe what I said then." Scratching from the clerk's pen. Jesus paused, surveying the scene. Curiously, he thought of his adventures as a child with Eben, his friend; their foray through the tunnels of the city, the time of silence in the now polluted and empty holy of holies, the debate with the elders in this very room. His eyes searched every corner of the chamber where once as a child they praised his brilliance before settling back upon the official group before him, now accusing him. "What do you think?" said he. "Am I the Christ? Am I the Jewish Messiah? Please, render your opinion." No response. "I am not surprised that you do not answer." The clerk scratched. When the scratching stopped, he spoke again. "Now hear me," said Jesus, "and let it be recorded word for word so that there be no mistake, no lack of clarity. From this day forward the Son of Man will be seated at the right hand of Almighty God." The scratching ceased. The clerk looked at Caiaphas, who nodded his assent. The clerk recorded Jesus' words.
"Are you then the Son of God?" said the interrogator.
"I am the Son of God."
This was followed by a definitive ruling from Caiaphas. "There is no need for more testimony. He blasphemes blatantly and with malicious intent in our very faces. We have heard it from his own lips, without so much as a hint of remorse or shame. He is incorrigible," shaking his head, "unredeemable."
Caiphas had seen a lot in his lifetime, but never had anyone declared such things so brazenly. "He is condemned to death! Take him to Pilate who will authorize the execution." They were confident in their ability to manipulate the Procurator. The assemblage was dismissed. They rose and led him off to Pilate.
Among those faces in the gallery of the council of elders was that of a special onlooker--Judas Iscariot. When the full import of what was happening to Jesus struck him, he was mortified and filled with paralyzing shame at what he had done. When guilt stuns a man, his heart seizes up, his mouth goes dry and there is a terrible gripping sensation in the stomach. There is also the natural tendency to find or make excuse for one's self--to actually justify horrendous, unacceptable acts. In time, however, the seesaw battle was lost with Judas. Agonized with remorse, he accosted Asher and the others to whom he had betrayed Jesus and attempted to return the amount he had been paid. "I have made a mistake," he said. "I have betrayed innocent blood." "You have betrayed innocent blood?" Asher sneered, amused. "How unfortunate, but how does that concern us?" "You are the ones who arrested him! You are the ones who gave me the blood money! If I had known what you would do I would have never . . ." Judas' words caught in this own throat. He could not continue. "We merely acted on the information supplied to us. How could we have known his blood was innocent?" They were laughing at him. "Innocent blood? Why, that does indeed seem your responsibility. If he was innocent, he is no longer. He has condemned himself." With sweaty hands, Judas squeezed the hard coins repeatedly as though they were clay, in an effort to shape them into something less--less mercenary, less saturated with shame. Rage, guilt and frustration enveloped him. With disgust, he threw the money at their feet, coins violently clinking in all directions. "Bastards!" he screamed, chest heaving, "Swine!" Abruptly, he turned and left. "He will not be back," said Asher.
Judas wandered the streets of Jerusalem for hours. Accusing thoughts prodded his conscience like white-hot needles. How many times had he taken money from what he, the disciples and Jesus had to live on? How many times had he scorned the teachings of the Lord? How many times had he been jealous and contemptuous of the attention people lavished on Jesus. Now the only contempt he felt was staggering contempt for himself. At length he found himself in a deserted part of the city. Odors of sewage and garbage wafted from the nearby valley of Gehenna. He discovered a rotting stump on which to sit in a lonely field. In this field grew a solitary and sadly gnarled tree. Its leaves were gone, and no buds of new life were apparent. The moon had descended from the night sky preparing for the appearance of the sun. Despite his tiredness, sleep eluded him. There is a vast difference between being alone and being lonely. Judas was miserable and lonely. There is no one, he thought, there is no one who cares a shekel about me . . . no one! He wanted to weep, but his eyes were dry. Tears would not come. "Is there no one to love Judas?" he whispered to the canopy of morning stars. The heavens were as silent as the response in his heart. Could God love him still? Of course not! Fool! You are no better than this vile refuse. The thought of dog excrement occurred to him. His chest heaved, seeking air with which to sob. But the sobs would not come. No freedom. No release from the terrible accusation. No release from the unbearable shame. Instead of sobs, he gagged. When he had finished retching, he saw them. Ropes. Burial ropes. Sometimes, people buried their dead in this field. There were no stones. No memorials. Nothing to indicate that lives, now ceased, were interred beneath this soil. These were ropes used to lower a human carcass--and that is what they were, carcasses--beggars, indigents, those who had been executed and those who had died without known relatives. City employees were the only ones left to pay their respects. They did this by lowering the body--carcass--carefully into its eternal resting place rather than tossing it into a forgotten hole. But forgotten they were. No graves were marked. Were it not common knowledge that this place was what it was, there would be no obvious sign of interment. Except perhaps, for these lonely ropes, inadvertently left behind from a recent burial near the city dump. Near the valley of Gehenna. Judas gazed at the ropes and then to the tree. Deliverance! The light of dawn would silhouette a macabre figure swaying in silence, from a tree in a place called Aceldema -- The Field of Blood.
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