Джеймс Миченер - The Source

Yet never once does he mention Jesus Christ, the greatest Jew of his age, nor does he refer to Nazareth, although he writes extensively of cities not more than nine miles away. It is a nagging, gnawing fact that the most acute observer Palestine produced saw fit to ignore the major occurrence of his lifetime, the impact of Jesus Christ upon the world. An honest researcher like Father Vilspronck was therefore driven to ask, “Was that impact less than we have been led to believe?”

This question the priest was willing to ask, but he had an answer. “I think that Flavius Josephus consciously suppressed all mention of Jesus Christ and Nazareth, just as he suppressed facts about himself. We know he was a liar,” Vilspronck said. “Time and again we catch him in falsifications. If he says there were eighty thousand Romans, we find there were forty thousand. If he claims to have been a hero, we discover later that his behavior was despicable. In Josephus we have the case of a loyal Jew who convinced himself that Jesus never existed. He had probably seen the followers of our Lord face to face, yet he tried to erase Him from history,”

Silently the two men watched the sun sink behind the minarets of Akko, and a sense of the immensity of the problems they were discussing descended upon them. Finally Vilspronck said, “I used to hold Sigmund Freud in contempt. An enemy of my church. Now I find young priests reacting the same way to me. They feel I shouldn’t inquire into these matters. But when you start digging into a human soul, or a tell, or a historical concept, you quickly find yourself at levels of rawness you did not anticipate. But they confront you and you follow them to their conclusions.”

He rose to his full height, stalked over to Trench B and accidentally stood above the still-buried water shaft through which General Josephus had fled in the night. Turning to Cullinane he said, “The complexity of God is so profound and the mystery of Jesus so great that the addition of one more historical problem like the silence of Josephus must be a minor matter. If your faith is capable of encompassing Jesus it can certainly absorb historical contradictions.”

But he was about to be tested by an experience much more difficult to absorb than mere historical contradiction: he was to encounter an exceedingly difficult theological problem. The confrontation happened by accident. He was parking his jeep after having driven Cullinane from the administration building to the mess hall when he said, “I’d better wash up. I seem to have picked up a lot of dirt on the tell.”

Unluckily, as things turned out, his remark was heard by Schwartz, who said, “Use my room,” and he led Vilspronck into the darkness.

They had been gone only a few moments when they returned angrily and it was obvious that something serious had happened, for Vilspronck was flushed and Schwartz belligerent. An awkward silence followed, broken by the Dutchman, who said quietly, “I think I’ll skip supper tonight.” He stalked from the hall, wedged himself into his jeep and with a flurry of dust turned it around in a tight circle, a future cardinal who had been able to adjust to whatever new historical evidence the tell was producing concerning Jews in ancient Palestine or Jesus in the Holy Land, only to find himself unprepared to face the reality of either condition as exemplified in a modern kibbutz. As the jeep sped away, Cullinane shouted, “What happened?” and the big priest called back, “You’d better look at the signs in your world.”

Perplexed by this reply Cullinane returned to the mess hall and asked for Schwartz. When the secretary appeared, Cullinane asked, “What did you do to Father Vilspronck?”

“He had a ticklish digestion. Found he wasn’t hungry.”

“What did he mean—the signs in my world?”

Schwartz hesitated, not because he was embarrassed by what had happened but because he preferred not to involve Cullinane. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Something he saw in my room.”

“Maybe I’d better see it too.”

“Why not?” Schwartz asked indifferently, and he led the way to a dormitory building in which he had been allocated a one-room apartment. As an unmarried member of the kibbutz he was entitled to no more, so that even if he served as secretary for many years, he would still be allotted this one room. It was in no way unusual—desk, chair, bed, water jug, and of course the three essentials: a large bookcase jammed with publications, a record player with its stack of classical records, and a colored reproduction of a painting by Marc Chagall—except that across one wall hung a carefully lettered banner which read: We did so crucify Him.

This was the banner of younger Jews who had survived Germany and Arab invasion and who no longer cared what the rest of the world thought about them. In early 1964 their motto had become notorious, in an underground sort of way, for at that time Pope Paul VI’s visit to the Holy Land drew attention to the possibility that the Catholic Church might issue a pronouncement absolving present-day Jews of blame for the crucifixion of Jesus, and it was widely hoped that this generous gesture would remove the stigma under which Jews had suffered for nearly two thousand years. Some well-intentioned people actually thought that such a statement would deprive anti-Semitism of its moral base and would make it difficult for future hate-mongers to initiate pogroms. Throughout Israel a surge of hope attended discussion of the matter and one hopeful group had even written to the newspapers: “It will be a glorious day when the Christian Church finally exonerates us of our guilt.”

That letter was certainly not signed by Schwartz of Kibbutz Makor nor by any of his friends. They held the offer of absolution to be insulting to the Jewish people and the Pope’s visit to be an act of condescension. They drafted a different letter, which Israeli newspapers considered inflammatory and refused to publish: “It is preposterous for any Pope to come here distributing a forgiveness which is not his to dispense. For two thousand years we Jews have been abused by Christians and it is not their prerogative to forgive us. For them to do so is humiliating both to them and to us, for we are the ones who should forgive them.” As proof of their intention to remain stiff-necked, as God had commanded, Schwartz’s Jews flaunted their unyielding banner: We did so crucify Him.

“Take it down,” Cullinane said.

“Are you kidding?”

“Take it down!” the Irishman roared, unable to maintain his placid nature.

Schwartz laughed and this infuriated Cullinane, who grabbed at him as if to catch his mocking head and punch it, but Schwartz easily evaded him and the two stood facing each other. Cullinane controlled his anger and said, “Right now in Rome the bishops are meeting to correct an ancient wrong. All that you Jews hope for depends on men of good will like Father Vilspronck. And you insult him.” It was obvious that Cullinane was including himself among the men of good will who sought to improve and protect Jewish-Christian relations, and to him also the sign was offensive.

Schwartz ridiculed his well-meaning counselor and said, “Nobody takes that good-will crap seriously any more.”

Cullinane flushed and said grimly, “Then accept my ill will. Take down that sign.”

“Nobody in this room can make me.”

With a leap Cullinane reached the wall, thrusting his fingers behind the cloth and ripping it into two parts. Schwartz rushed up behind him, grabbed at his arms and wrestled with him. Finally Cullinane broke loose, but as he did so, Schwartz got his right arm free and with a wild swinging blow clipped Cullinane along the head and jaw.

The blow so astonished the men that they forgot the torn banner, dropped their arms and stared at each other. Schwartz was ashamed of what he had done and Cullinane was stunned both by the blow and by the furiousness of the struggle, yet he was unable to control his loathing for the sign, so while Schwartz watched he returned to the wall and tore the banner to pieces. “Neither of us can afford hatred,” he said.