Across Palestine, from the hills of Galilee, to the
gates of Jerusalem, the Jews are a people lamenting their station and yearning
for a better day. One that they worry may never come. Each morning the cry goes
out for the coming of the Messiah. As prophets arise (and are subsequently
cut-down), the hopes of a nation are given brief flight—only to be dashed. “How
long, lord? How long?”
Within a humble home in Nazareth resides Jesus,
the only son of Mary and Joseph the carpenter. Reclusive and seemingly haunted,
he is known throughout the region only for supplying the crosses for the
crucifixions of zealots and prophets who challenge the glory and the rule of
Rome. Hardly the firebrand that Simeon the rabbi, or Judas the blacksmith,
expect to hew the tree of the old world order, the Son of Mary spends his
nights sleepless, wandering the highways and the hills in search of a rest that
will never come. In the hidden depths of his heart, Jesus knows that he is
called by the Lord to set the world ablaze with the holy word. But he is
afraid.
Thus does Kazantzakis set the story of Jesus. From
his humble beginnings to his Last Temptation on the cross, the Christ we meet
evolves from solitary dreamer and uncertain wanderer, to saviour terrible to
behold. It is his calling, and his love for men, that eventually will give him
the voice he needs. In his conflicted nature, seemingly schizophrenic at times,
Jesus in fact reminds us most of the God of the Old Testament, both friend of
the family and merciless warrior, lord of hosts and simple pilgrim striving to
be understood in the world. Within the multitudes of personality many of the
faithful can find solace and protection, but taken as a whole his evolution is
both striking and, at times, off-putting. Because many of his revelations and
conversations with God occur away from the reader’s inquiring gaze, we are
seemingly met with a new wholly-formed Messiah, from time to time. Why must the
sword, the ax, replace Jesus’ message of kinship and love, the reader is left
to wonder.
In its summation, the faith that this Jesus asks of
men most resembles a cult of death. Why must we blindly look beyond this world
to an uncertain kingdom of God? While Jesus at once seems most at peace
contemplating the lilies of the field, or amongst the birds and the animals, he
conversely threatens to reduce the world to ash. A grand and vast illusion? Who
would encase the spirit in such a prison? Many of the questioning of Israel and
Palestine remain unconvinced. Kazantzakis has done much to ground Jesus in the
world of men, so that we might see ourselves in him, and he in us. However, the
disparities between this world and the next remain unresolved. Was Judas right?
