Turning Tables

 
In this season of bright sadness
a voice in the dark says:

"Go. There is nothing left

for you here," all is madness

We go. In silence we slide

out into the night,

round moon slicing the sky

above, its sadness bright

The table is turned,

the wine swallowed burned

its way down inside

now part of us, blood of Christ

Christ, bloody and torn

turns universe-tables,

Son of Man crowned with thorns

endures epithets, labels of scorn

Dark sun shades that day

we remember as this weekend

crawls on toward the ember

of new fire, night turning grey

Ashes of sadness form a nest

for Heaven's Fire to rest

before He leaps upward

in life—excelling mythic-bird

There is nothing left

here in the tomb—death bereft

of corpse and terrible sting,

Life holds in hand the final victory

The Fullest Extent of Love 

exited the grave on His own two feet,

turning the sadness of sorrow sweet. . .

Caiaphas Bows to Bentham

How they had waited, constantly plotting

To remove that rabble-rouser from the streets;

His uprising had led to blood-shedding,

Now he was in a cell, his own blood clotting

From wounds he had received—

Death soon would be his reward;

Another disappointing zealot, rotting

So, the leaders went on about their feast,

Their underhanded work done by Roman law,

As the lamb was chosen for the Passover

And those same rulers devoured the beast,

They began scheming to trap their next victim,

That bold, would-be-messiah the people favoured,

Treated like a king, turning them from the priest

Long had they sought to catch that pest

In word or deed, yet always he managed to hide,

Or to walk away from their upraised stones

Having exposed the sins their own hearts caressed,

Leaving them in consternation over this and

Much more, forgiving sinners as if he were God—

Surely for blasphemy they could make an arrest

Now, in the confluence of time and place,

During the Passover supper, the moment came,

One of the rabbi's followers could be bought,

He was willing to sell his master without a trace

Of remorse or guilt as the silver crossed his palm—

At last the trap had sprung! The messiah-king

Would no more be a threat to the Jewish race

"It is imperative to sacrifice one to save all,"

So the high priest had said, a grimace on his face;

Now they had removed the rabble-rousing rabbi

From before Caiaphas, to deal with the Roman law—

His beard plucked out, his back shedding blood;

How little they knew they had sent the Lamb

To be slaughtered, the Sacrifice, once for all

To their chagrin, Pilate offered a deal,

The zealot-murderer, or this taciturn king,

One he would free during the feast, one condemn,

He asked the people which sentence to repeal,

And to his horror and disbelief, as one they chose

The militant man, to be released into their midst

A man who was known to cause strife and to steal

The religious men shook upraised fists,

Unable to have both firebrands extinguished—

Still, it was expedient that one man might die

Not the whole race, so there hung Jesus by his wrists

The very Lamb of God, Who takes away all sins

The only One who could possibly save all men—

Priest and Sacrifice, Servant and King—very God he is.

___________

*About the title: Bentham is the founder of modern Utilitarianism

Betrayer

Hushed conversation is weaving itself all around me, yet I am nothing but a loose thread in the tapestry, cut off while still in the picture. A battle is waging within me, to go or stay. Do I keep my promise to the religious leaders, or keep faith with the master? If I break either faith or promise I will break into pieces. My palm craves the silver I have been offered, yet I recoil at the repercussions of my foolish pledge. I waver like the flame on the table. What will they do to the teacher if I tell them where he is? Oh, I know—I know what they have tried to do at least twice before. I've seen the stones in their hands, in their glances, in their very hearts. My own heart is mostly stone, so I should know. 

A movement interrupts my indecision; the master is handing me a bite of bread dipped in the bitter herbs. Confusedly, I receive the bread and eat. He does not now say to do this to remember him. He only looks at me and tells me to act quickly. He knows! In that split second I quiver, then recklessly plunge into my choice. Swallowing the bread, I rise to slip into my sandals, feeling something evil slip into my soul as I melt into the night. The darkness is not around me, but in me. My choice was brief, the consequences are about to reverberate into history. I walk in a do-or-die fashion to the house where the shepherds of my people are feasting on a slaughtered lamb. I rap upon the door quickly, decisively. Flickering light shines out along with a man's peering eyes. I tell him what I know, offer to lead these men where they want to go, to find another lamb to slaughter. Sooner than I planned, a throng of men have gathered with various weapons and various reasons to find the master. 

I hold out my hand, boldly saying I will not set foot toward the final destination without the bounty price. There is some grumbling—greed is always slow to let go its treasure, but hatred and envy will cow even greed to give up its store when power is within grasp. Silver rushes into my hand, satisfaction washes over me as I pocket the pieces. I turn on my heel, ready to walk the dusty, covert path to the half-hidden garden. I have given the men with me the sign they need—I will greet the master with a kiss. Then my work will be done and I can slip away from the madness.

Time is doing something I can't comprehend. It warps and swivels in and out, quick then slow. How have we come so far so fast? My heart thuds and breath is hard to slide into my lungs, we are here—any minute now I will see the master. I must remember to greet him as planned. There! That rag-tag band of bumblers I have spent the last three years wandering with are up ahead. Ah, there is the master, steely-eyed, hard, always seeing through me. I walk toward him, thinking of all those times I was supposed to give money to the poor and had pocketed it instead. I suddenly knew clearly that all along the master knew that the money was ending up in my account. He always knew. Even now his knowing eyes fell upon me, and he told me—unflinchingly—to do what I had come to do. Through dry lips I greeted him, kissed his cheek, and kissed my sham-life goodbye. 

There was an exchange of words between the guards with us and the teacher. Suddenly, all the Jews around me fell facedown. What had he said? I heard the guard repeat the question, clearly hearing the reply this time: "I have already said that I am he." Even the darkness inside of me trembled at the power and authority in this claim, in that voice. The teacher was calling himself God Most High. The man was crazy! A scuffle—some words—the teacher touching a servant's ear—and then he was being dragged away. I blinked in the darkness as the torchlight disappeared around the bend and bushes. The others were gone, pelting in every direction but toward their master. Darkness settled upon me like a cloak. With a start, I realised I was free to go where I pleased. I had my time to myself, a pocket full of silver, and I no longer needed to pretend about who I was.

Just who am I? I wondered, as I walked toward the city. And what will I do now? I shrugged—it didn't matter. I was my own master with my own money. And my own conscience, I added. But who was I to worry about that? Had I even allowed my conscience one twinge since the time I began to look for a way to hand the teacher over to those religious men? Nope. If my conscience had ever even so much as twitched over anything, it was so long ago it was forgotten. 

Exhaustion caught up with me, laying me down in a quiet spot until the sun had winked open its eye and the noise of confusion dragged me awake. How had I ended up so close to the home of the priest and the temple? The further away I could get from that place, the better. Curiosity welled up inside me, however, and I nervously walked closer to the knot of men arguing and jeering. There was the teacher, haggard and bruised, being taken somewhere else. But what caught my eye was that impetuous jughead, Peter. He looked horrible. He was grubby, his eyes were bloodshot, and the tell-tale tracks down his face said he had been weeping, not merely sniffling. 


Almost before I knew what I was about, I slid next to Peter and demanded what was wrong with him. He turned toward me with a strange look of disdain, consternation, and pity co-mingled. Without any preliminaries he whispered something to me. I leaned in to catch his words, "I know," he said in a broken voice. "I know now what it feels like to be a betrayer." He turned away to follow his master, leaving me reeling and alone. I began to pace to and fro for quite some time. All I could hear were those words, echoing: I know now what it feels like to be a betrayer. That's what I was, a betrayer. Betraying the teacher. Betraying Peter and all the rest, too. A betrayer. All you are is a bastard betrayer! I shook away the accusation, turning my attention to anything but my roiling thoughts. I surfaced into the last half of a comment being made, something about the blasphemer getting his own. Wasn't it just like the people to betray their king? Last week they were shouting Hosanna, save us—today they were screaming to crucify their so-called saviour. The speaker slapped his companion on the back as if it were a good joke, then the pair sauntered away to hear the next round of gossip. 

I stood rooted to the earth, one phrase ringing in my ears, Isn't it just like the people to betray their king? Betray. Betray....Betray. The word haunted me, jarred on all my senses. Then, like a thunderbolt, another word swooped into my brain—crucify. How long had I been pacing? In that amount of time the teacher had been brought before some Roman who had the power to crucify him. I knew that news and rumours ran rampant, intertwining, making it hard to tell fact from fiction. Crucify. The word clawed at me, eating away all the grand lies I had fed myself. I had known all along about the stones those religious ragbags had held once-upon-a-time. What did I think they were going to do once they had the teacher in their grasp? But crucifixion...? Crucifixion was barbaric. I felt sick all the way to the pit of my stomach. I felt hot and cold and rash. Betrayer, my thoughts mocked as I stalked toward the temple.

Heads swung up from prayers, eyes opened wide when my wrathful gaze scoured anyone in my path. Where were those deplorable holy men? There! Before the eyes and ears of bewildered onlookers I spat out words I never dreamed of saying, "I have sinned." I what? Those grey-beards were startled, too. "I have—" I faltered at the word, "...betrayed an innocent man." Their eyes narrowed into little slits, like snake's eyes. "That's your problem—you deal with it," one retorted. I clenched my fist around a heavy burden—slivers of silver. I screamed a curse and threw a handful of those wretched coins at the feet of the rattled men in front of me. Again, and a third time, I pulled those bits of metal from my pocket and slammed them into the ground. Deliberately, I turned my back on them and walked away. Betrayer. I heard the word ripple through the men interrupted from their prayers. I walked outside, shattered. I had chosen to break faith—and now I had been broken by empty promises and deceitful men. The betrayer had been betrayed...

...Then he threw down the pieces of silver in the temple and departed, and went and hanged himself.  —Matthew 27:5