Luz: book i: comings and goings (Troubled Times 1) (33 page)

No, Rigo no longer existed. Not as I read through the Gospel of Matthew and noticed how he wrote from the Jewish point of view. Matthew depicted Jesus as the royal Messiah. He frequently cited Old Testament prophecies and
concentrated on Christ's teachings regarding the true kingdom of God.

No, Rigo no longer mattered. Not as I raced through the Gospel of Mark and flipped easily through his matter-of-fact style. Mark seemed to be writing for the Gentiles and possibly even the Romans, and concentrated on Christ's power to save as shown in his miracles. His account was surprisingly short and even seemed rushed at the end. Still, I learned much. Still, I enjoyed it. But not as much as I enjoyed the Gospel of Luke and his lush, lyrical writings.

No, Rigo no longer meant anything as I easily sailed through the narration. I must admit that Luke’s was my favorite. His Gospel was a pure joy to read. How rhythmic I found it, how smoothly it flowed. I lingered through the pages of Luke lovingly, meandering through them much as a person strolls along the shore just to hear the lull of the waves rushing back and forth. Luke depicted Jesus as a gracious savior who exhibited his favor to the fallen, the outcast, and the poor. How I longed for this journey to continue. I didn’t want any portion of it to end. Not even when it meant encountering several of its wonders more than once. Each time an account in one gospel resurfaced in another, I found it not repetitive, but reassuring—comforting and familiar.

On and on I read. On and on I critiqued. I finally felt I was enrolled at the university. Not the University of Havana, but the University of Heaven. I didn’t know whether morning had come, or whether I lay encased in some plush eternal night. I didn’t know if I had read through the insomnolent layers of darkness, or their slow unmaking of the dawn. I cared not whether morning had emerged in the sultriness of sunlight, or whether afternoon had sprinkled the faint droppings of dusk. If I cared about time at all, Mamá functioned as my clock, my calendar and compass even. Our daily apagones alerted me to eight o’clock at night; Mamá’s voice to eight o’clock in the morn. But I cared not about time. It no longer mattered or existed. Rigo no longer mattered or existed. Every so often came the familiar knocking outside my door. Every few hours or so came the faintly familiar call
from outside my vault.

“Clara!” the voice began. “Open the door, mija! When are you going to eat something? Stay in there as long as you like, but please, let me make you something to eat! How about some coffee hija? You must be dying for a cafesito.”

But I wasn’t. I cared not for coffee or anything else. I wasn’t the least bit hungry, and I didn’t understand why. The very thought of food turned my stomach; the mere thought of coffee repulsed me.

“No, Mamá, I’m fine. Just leave me alone, please.”

“But Clara,” the voice still pleaded, in what seemed minutes later but was hours gone by. “Open the door, mija. Do you know how long it’s been since you've eaten anything? Let me make you some
arroz con huevo
, hija. You know it’s your favorite.”

But the thought of that swollen egg yolk, punctured and bleeding and mashed into a blanket of white, and only to turn into a sticky yellow concoction, revolted me like nothing else.

“
No, Mamá!
I’m fine, I told you. Just leave me alone, will you!”

“But what’s happening, mija? What are you doing in there? What are you accomplishing by locking yourself in there all this time?”

Good question. And I wished I could tell her. It seemed that, if anybody would understand, Mamá would, being as religious as she was, given her devotion to the Virgin and the saints. But I knew the hour had not yet come, the time to involve her or share any of this with her. How could I possibly convey all the wonders of this sacred journey? All I was understanding and learning for the first time in my life? Mamá may have been a woman steeped in religion, but this was more revelation than religion. This was more epiphany than explanation. How would she understand this personal quest to conquer my own inner demons and embrace courage? How could she comprehend embarking upon a path that offered no passage back? And how would she
understand the inner peace I knew now simply from encountering all the lives this man had touched?

There was no explaining it, no elucidating the effect of a charisma that mesmerized and entranced and left me basking in a new awakening. I could explain none of it, especially this new understanding of life itself, and how, suddenly, my everyday foibles and petty concerns meant absolutely nothing in the large scheme of things, in the realm of some mysterious master plan.

Mamá was caring and sensitive, but she was not spiritual. She would understand none of this. Not when all she cared about was feeding me physically. And true, I had not eaten anything in who knew how long, but I remained not the least bit hungry. Nor was I tired. How could I be hungry or tired when I was being supplied with a food that nourished, if not the body, then certainly the mind and spirit? So she need not worry. I not only knew exactly
what
I was accomplishing, but what I
hoped
to accomplish: something she could not yet understand, something beyond her curative Cuban cooking. I had some questions of my own for her. What had
she
hoped to accomplish? Where had
she
been the night of the visitation? I hadn’t forgotten the Angel’s admonishment.
“Tell your mother not to waste time anymore with what she did tonight.”
But I shrugged this off. I was sure that, in due time, I’d discover that, just as I’d discover this.

It was not sustenance I needed then, but answers. So my quest continued. The critic in me pored on, studying and scouring and scraping my way through the scriptures, pondering their content page after page, analyzing the characters of each and every chapter. Dissecting the subtleties of verse after verse and trying to memorize one memorable quote after another. My eyes traveled feverishly down one column and darted up the next. My fingers turned one page after another and resumed the process all over again.

How profound his ability to sum up a situation. What precision Jesus employed in cutting right to the heart of a matter. He was the architect of argument, the master of critical thought. All the while, I overlooked certain details
that would hit me later on, even crucial observations, one might say. But that was all right. For now I was too caught up in the hunt for clues, too wrapped up in uncovering every inlaid hint. On and on the journey unfolded, and for endless stretches of time, for an infinite array of hours.

I had begun with the highest of expectations, but by the end of that lyrical Gospel of Luke I was no better off than when I started. After all the hours of self-imposed exile and contemplation, I had unearthed nothing, no viable reason as to why God would possibly be having another child. Not when the Creator had already fathered so perfect a child. Not when Jesus of Nazareth had made such an exemplary son. And not when “son” was anywhere near
all
that he amounted to. Minister and Teacher. Miracle Worker and Healer. Protector and Philosopher. Rebel and Revolutionary. Yes, even revolutionary. And Brother now too. But where was it in the text? Where was it in the scripture? Nowhere I could see. Nowhere. Yet what a wonderful older brother Jesus of Nazareth would make. If some miracle child really did emerge from this, what a marvelous role model for a younger sister.

I had come against a brick wall, but only from my own inner obstacles, my own private demons. The answer was in there; I just didn’t know it yet. I couldn’t see it. I would later on, after much else had happened. For now there was no scaling this wall or knocking it down. Not since my journey took a disarming turn when I came to the Gospel of John. This fourth gospel differed completely from the first three, its emphasis being on the words that Jesus spoke and on those intent on destroying him.

Before I begin on that, let me explain what a completely different image I now had of this Jesus of Nazareth. How much more real he became in my heart and mind. How all the more palpable. For so long, the little I knew about him rested on a foundation of the perfunctory and superficial, underscored by those mild storybook images that parents usually fed their children—that of a holy being who, although he walked among man, was far different from man, set above
the ordinary mortal and perfect in every way. He was the Son of God, after all—delegated extraordinary powers here on earth, granted boundless insight and knowledge. These traits remained firmly rooted as I galloped across the open fields of the Gospels, but this persona of mild pacifist was the first notion to be dispelled.

Jesus may have been a miracle worker, but he was neither meek nor mild. He preached a philosophy of forgiveness and “turning the other cheek,” but his words could be cutting and offensive, openly confrontational, especially against hypocrites. How he loathed hypocrisy. Jesus called things exactly as they were, and if the recipients of his diatribe didn’t like it, too bad. This was where the Gospel of John opened my eyes and made me apprehensive.

The first three Gospels were marked by a pervasive image of ‘the multitudes’: the multitudes who flocked adoringly to Jesus and followed him in throngs; everyday people in awe of his every act and word. But John painted his Gospel in adversarial brushstrokes, where the focus shifted to the chief priests and the church elders, to the scribes and rulers who hated Jesus and forever challenged him, constantly trying to trap him with his own words and even conspiring to kill him. They liked it not that Jesus defied their views and authority. They found it not amusing that he had torn through the strands and seams of their sanctimoniously woven society. And certainly they grew irritated that, this Son of God, as he claimed to be, delighted in ripping apart their laws: laws they painstakingly adhered to and which wove together the frayed fabric of their ways. Jesus not only seemed to relish undermining these laws, but in undoing each and every stitch.

I’d had no idea. Honestly, I hadn’t. He was an insurrectionist, an upriser and rebel, truly he was. No wonder he made so many enemies. No wonder so many men felt threatened by this Jesus of Nazareth, Son of God. I had no idea of his boldness and bravery, that he could be so candid and blunt. I knew that, even in his lifetime, his influence had been wide and far-reaching. But I had no idea of just how
extensive the plots against him, how fierce the determination to do him in. Now I understood why. How many times had Jesus heaped scorn and contempt upon those in power? Upon the Pharisees who relied on custom and ritual more than spirituality. Upon the scribes and elders who were interested only in maintaining their high station in the synagogue rather than being at one with the people. How many times did Jesus single out such hypocrisy right to their faces? In how many ways did he threaten social status by challenging narrow interpretations and misguided views? And how many times were those in authority forced to remain silent because, in answering Jesus, they betrayed their own falseness and ignorance?

It happened during this last Gospel of John, when I saw the light about Jesus and the story of his life: how political he was, how political a tale this all was. Yes, political. Not only the politics of governance, but the politics of getting along. Not only the politics of spirituality, but the politics of status quo. What a twist in the tale. What a turn in this journey. All this time the inner tube that was this Bible had coasted along smoothly and safely. But now I was slipping through its center, sliding into the depths. I knew that Jesus had made enemies, and I knew these enemies had orchestrated his crucifixion, but never had I seen his death through the prism of politics. I had always viewed it as strictly religious and preordained, a criteria for salvation and the ultimate punishment for the commission of blasphemy. But now I saw his death in full light. It had less to do with blasphemy and betrayal than the preservation of order. His death was all about the subjugation of the spirit, both human and divine.

I couldn’t stop reading now even if I wanted to. More than ever all sense of time twisted and tossed and turned on itself so that I couldn’t tell day from night or minutes from hours. And I couldn’t dispel the biggest eye-opener of all: how political this Son of God had truly been, how
politically
incorrect. No one could deny that the carvings of his life were etched in spirituality and salvation, in the concept of eternal life. But never had I known the political backdrop of the tale. Never had I realized the biggest threat Jesus posed in his
lifetime was a political one. He was a threat to leadership, a threat to authority, a threat to order. Hadn’t the Pharisees gone after him because he threatened their status with the Jews? Even at the time of his birth, hadn’t Herod ordered the killing of all males under two because this future king threatened his own ability to govern? Later on, in that Gospel of Luke that I loved so much, hadn’t Herod's successor mocked and ridiculed Jesus when he failed to perform any “tricks” at the time of his arrest? Kings. Tetrarchs. Governors and Elders. Priests and Scribes. Those in power. Those in authority. They were the most threatened by this Jesus. They were the reason he was ultimately put to death. And it all came to light in the deep dark tones of this fourth gospel. It all came to light in this introspective and confessional Gospel of John.

Sadly, tragically, it ended just then—the spell, the trance. That simply. That uneventfully. No longer was I rapt by these incantations. No longer was I entranced by the tales of this New Testament. The shadowy confessionals of this fourth gospel reeled me back to reality with a forceful crash, frightening me, preoccupying me. Even the images of John differed vastly from those contained in the previous testimonies. The other three focused on water and land, on the symbols of earth and sky and nature. But the recurring imagery in John concentrated on light and darkness, on psychological warfare and sedition, even on stoning when, on numerous occasions, Jesus ran away to avoid being stoned by the Jews. The priests and elders chastised the people for listening to him and accused Jesus of being mad, even claiming he had a devil inside him. He was an insurrectionist all right, truly he was. Now I understood the nature of his arrest for the politically motivated act history intended.