Message from the Reverend Lynn Oldham
Robinett
January, 2012
”The Baptism of Jesus” — an excerpt from The Last
Temptation of Christ , by Nikos Kazantzakis
Frothing at the mouth, the south wind shaking him like a
reed, the Baptist was shouting, “Repent! Repent! The day of
the Lord has come! Roll on the ground, bite the dust, howl!
The Lord of Hosts has said: ‘On this day I shall command
the sun to set at noon; I shall crush the horns of the new
moon and spill darkness over heaven and earth. I shall
reverse your laughter, turn it into tears, and your songs
into lamentation. I shall blow, and all your finery—hands,
feet, noses, ears, hair — will fall to the ground.’ ”
Judas strode forward and took Jesus by the arm. “Do you
hear? Do you hear? Look! that’s how the Messiah speaks! He
is the Messiah!”
“No, Judas, my brother,” Jesus answered; “he who holds the
ax and opens the way for the Messiah speaks in that way,
but the Messiah does not.” He bent down, broke off a sharp
green leaf and passed it between his teeth.
“He who opens the way is the Messiah,” the red beard
growled. He pushed Jesus in order to make him emerge from
the reeds and show himself.
“Move ahead; let him see you,” he ordered. “He will judge.”
Jesus came out into the sunlight, took two hesitating
steps, stumbled, and stopped, his eyes glued to the
prophet. His whole soul had become a gaze which explored
the prophet, ran over his reed-like legs and up to his
fiery head and then still higher, to the full invisible
stature. The Baptist’s back was turned. He felt the
vehement stare ransacking his entire body, grew angry,
swung completely around and half closed his two round,
hawk-like eyes in order to see better. Who was this silent,
motionless young man dressed all in white and staring at
him? Somewhere, sometime, he had seen him. Where? When? He
struggled in agony to remember. Could it have been in a
dream? He often dreamed about men dressed similarly all in
white. They never talked to him but simply stared and waved
their hands as if greeting him or saying goodbye. Then the
cock of the dawn would crow and they would turn into light
and disappear.
Suddenly the Baptist, still looking at him, cried out. He
remembered: one day at exactly noon he had lain down on the
bank of the river and taken out the Prophet Isaiah, written
on a goatskin. All at once stones, water, people, reeds and
river vanished; the air filled with fires, trumpets and
wings, the words of the prophet opened like doors, and the
Messiah stepped forth. He remembered that he was dressed
all in white, thin, gnawed by the sun, barefooted and, like
this man, he held a green leaf between his teeth!
The ascetic’s eyes filled with joy and fear. He tumbled
down from his rock and approached, stretching forth his
gnarled neck.
“Who are you? Who?” he asked, his terrible voice trembling.
“Don’t you know me?” said Jesus, advancing one more step.
His own voice was trembling: he knew that his fate depended
on the Baptist’s reply.
It’s him, him, the Baptist was thinking. His heart thumped
furiously and he could not, dared not, decide. Once more he
stretched forward his neck: “Who are you?” he asked again.
“Haven’t you read the Scriptures?” Jesus answered in a
voice sweet yet complaining, as though he were scolding
him. “Haven’t you read the prophets? What does Isaiah say?
Forerunner, don’t you remember?”
“Is it you, you?” whispered the ascetic. He put his hands
on Jesus’ shoulders and examined his eyes.
“I have come ...” Jesus said hesitatingly, then stopped,
unable to breathe, unable to continue. It was as if he were
putting forth his foot and searching to see whether or not
he could take a further step without falling down.
The savage prophet leaned on top of him and examined him
silently. He wondered if he had ever heard the wonderful,
terrifying words which had escaped Jesus’ lips.
“I have come ...” the son of Mary repeated, so softly that
not even Judas, who was on the alert behind them with
cocked ear, could hear. This time the prophet gave a start.
He had understood.
“What?” he said, and the hairs of his head stood on end. A
crow passed over them and uttered a hoarse cry like that of
a drowning man who was mocking something, or laughing. The
Baptist became angry. He bent over to pick up a stone to
throw at the bird. The crow had flown away, but he
continued to look for it, rejoicing in the passage of
time—for in this way his mind gradually grew calm. ...
Rising, he said tranquilly, “Welcome.” He looked at him,
but there was no love in his eyes.
Jesus’ heart shook. Were his ears jangling or was it true
that the prophet had bid him welcome? If true, how
astonishing, how joyful, how frightening!
The Baptist glanced around him, swept his eyes over the
river Jordan, the reeds, and the people who, kneeling in
the mud, were openly confessing their sins. He hurriedly
embraced his kingdom and bid it farewell. Then he turned to
Jesus. “Now I can depart.”
“Not yet, Forerunner. First you must baptize me.” Jesus’
voice had become sure, decisive.
“I? You are the one who must baptize me, Lord.”
“Don’t talk so loud. They might hear us. My hour has not
yet come. Let us go!”
Judas was straining his ears to hear, but he made out only
a murmur, a joyous, dancing murmur as though from the union
of two streams of running water.
The crowd which had assembled on the shore made way. Who
was this pilgrim who, having thrown off his white robe, was
clothed in sunlight? Who was this man who, without
confessing his sins, entered the water with such nobility
and assurance?
The Baptist in the lead, they both thrust their way into
the blue stream. The Baptist climbed onto a rock which
jutted out above the face of the water. Jesus stood next to
him on the sandy river bed, the water embracing his body up
to the chin.
The moment the Baptist lifted his hand to pour water over
Jesus’ face and to pronounce the blessing, the people cried
out. The flow of the Jordan had abruptly ceased. Schools of
multicolored fish floated up from every direction, circled
Jesus and began to dance, folding and unfolding their fins
and shaking their tails, and a shaggy elf in the form of a
simple old man entwined with seaweed rose up from the
bottom of the river, leaned against the reeds, and with
mouth agape and eyes popping from joy and fear, stared at
all that was going on in front of him.
The people, viewing such wonders, were stricken dumb. Many
fell face down on the shore to hide their eyes.
Others shivered in the violent heat. One, seeing the old
man emerge from the deep all covered with mud, shouted,
“The Spirit of the Jordan!” and fainted.
The Baptist filled a deep shell and with trembling hand
began to pour water over Jesus’ face. “The servant of God
is baptized ...” he began. But he stopped: he did not know
what name to give.
He turned to ask Jesus; but just as everyone, stretched on
tiptoe, expected to hear the name, wings were heard to
descend from the heavens and a white-feathered bird—was it
a bird, or one of Jehovah’s Seraphim?—darted forward and
balanced itself on the head of the baptized. It remained
motionless for several moments, then suddenly circled three
times above him. Three wreaths of light glowed in the air
and the bird uttered a cry as though proclaiming a hidden
name, a name never heard before. The heavens seemed to be
answering the Baptist’s mute question.
The people’s ears buzzed, their minds reeled. There were
words together with the beating of wings. The voice of God?
The voice of the bird? It was a strange miracle. ... Jesus
tensed his whole body, trying to hear. He had a
presentiment that here was his true name, but he could not
distinguish what it was. All he heard were many waves
breaking within him, many wings, and great, bitter words.
He raised his eyes. The bird had already bounded toward the
summit of the heavens and become light within the light.
The Baptist, whose years in the desert and in cruel
solitude had enabled him to master the language of God, was
the only one who understood. Today is baptized, he
whispered to himself, trembling, the servant of God, the
son of God, the Hope of mankind!
He signaled the waters of the Jordan to resume their flow.
The sacrament was over.
The Last Temptation of Christ , by Nikos
Kazantzakis