Chapter 4 of 15
And so it came to pass that we went out to arrest Jesus the very next evening, which was the first night of Passover. Caiaphas selected a contingent of priests and elders; I gathered a group of slaves from the household and from the temple. Caiaphas sent a few guards with us, armed with swords, to defend us in the event that we met with resistance from Jesus and his followers. I feared that the guards might provoke a confrontation, and that Jesus might be slain rather than arrested. I conveyed my concern to my master, but the priest merely shrugged. "Either we will bring Jesus to justice," he said, "or we will bring justice to Jesus."
Judas met us in front of the temple, and so we set out as planned. As we marched through Jerusalem we were joined by scores of people who followed along with great excitement. They reminded me of those who drop their work to run to a burning house, not to help quench the flames, but to revel in the spectacle and the destruction. By the time we passed through the gates of the city we had attracted a great crowd; many muttered angrily and brandished clubs, although most knew not from what they might need protection, nor even where they were going.
Judas refused to engage in conversation with the priests or the elders, but he spoke freely with me, perhaps because I was a mere slave. He spoke of his master with such great love that I was led to wonder why he was causing Jesus to be arrested, but I thought it best to keep that question to myself. He alone of the disciples was a Judean, he told me – and I believed him to be saying that he alone was capable of understanding the teachings of his master, who often spoke in obscure parables and cryptic prophecies. Judas spoke contemptuously of the other disciples, saying that they were Galileans, rough and unsophisticated, steadfast and loyal but not smart or disciplined. "I'll wager you a piece of silver that they'll be sleeping instead of guarding the master when we arrive," he said, but I lacked the silver to accept his wager.
And as it happened, it was a wager that I would have lost. Judas led us to a garden called Gethsemane where, as he had predicted, a group of men lay sleeping on the ground. Only one man was awake, and he appeared to be trying to rouse the others, perhaps having heard our approach. Judas went to the man who was waking the others and greeted him with a kiss, which was the signal that we had chosen so that we would know which of the men was Jesus.
What happened next was confusing at the time and is still confused in my memory, my brother, so I beg your indulgence if this part of the account lacks my usual clarity.
Because I walked with Judas, I was closest to Jesus of any of the group who came to arrest him. I was preparing to turn away so that the guards could perform their duty, according to the plan, when someone drew a sword and began to swing it wildly. I know not who it was, but I believe that it was one of the disciples. I remember thinking that Caiaphas had been wise, that we did need weapons after all. Then I remember thinking that not only was there a sword being swung dangerously, there was a sword being swung dangerously close to my head.
Just as I had that thought, the blade struck me. I was filled with such pain that my legs became unsteady and my eyes grew wet and cloudy. My mind nearly ceased its working. I have a vague memory of being surprised not only that I was still standing but that I was still alive. I remember thinking that I must have been struck with the flat of the blade, rather than its edge. I believe that I heard Jesus commanding the disciple to put up his sword. And then, as my legs began to steady and my vision began to clear, I saw that Jesus was standing right in front of me, looking into my eyes with great concern. He reached up to the side of my head where the sword had struck me. I wanted to tell him that I was in too much pain for him to touch me, but I was in too much pain to speak.
And when he did touch me, my brother, all the pain went away.
I cannot tell you if the pain went away because Jesus was a powerful healer, as he was reported to be. Perhaps I was struck with only a glancing blow, and the pain stopped by itself after a short time. I do know that, when I saw my reflection in a glass later that evening, I realized that my ear was speckled with dried blood, and that blood from my ear had actually streamed down my neck and stained my collar. You can draw from that whatever conclusions you will.
Now I must tell you, my brother, that I have heard the story of "Jesus and the Slave in the Garden of Gethsemane" many times since that night, as scores of people (none of whom was there in the garden) have related the story to me, not knowing that I was the slave in the story. In most tellings, my ear was bleeding until Jesus touched and healed it – and although I cannot confirm that version of the events, neither can I contradict it. But more recently I have heard tell that the sword completely severed the ear of the slave, and that Jesus picked up the ear and reattached it to the slave's head!
When I hear these stories, I do not reveal that I was the very slave, because I am embarrassed that I can neither confirm nor deny any of them, as my thoughts were scattered and confused – and in my pride, I do not wish to sully my reputation as a reliable witness. And so I am forced to wonder what happened, just as if I were not there, just as if it had not happened to me. I know only that I was struck by a sword, that my ear was bleeding, that I was in great pain, that Jesus touched me – and that then my ear was no longer bleeding and the pain was gone.
Did Jesus of Nazareth pick my ear up from the ground and reattach it to my head? I'm afraid, my brother, that everyone seems to know the answer to that question but me.
| Next |  |
[ Enoch Home Page | Selected Writings ]
©2004 Henry Charles Mishkoff