A dog chokes by the side of the road in Capernaum. He is rabid and manged. He is foul and unloved.
He is more worthy to live than I.
If only I had never left Jerusalem as a child. If only Herod had never died. If only I had never laid eyes on the gaunt man by the side of the Jordan.
The Nazarene.
They will say that I betrayed him, that I reduced his price to thirty silver shekels. That I turned against my master.
They do not know me.
They will not ask themselves if they might have done the same. To even think it is to court the possibility that we may not be so different. It takes away the right to condemn, the comfort in saying, “At least I am not like him!”
My master taught a parable about that, once.
But if they do not know me, neither did they know him. And so the truth goes with me to the abyss.
Judas. It was once a good name, a strong name, the name of our people: Judah. It is the dwelling place of the Temple, which is the dwelling place of the Lord.
I cannot see the Temple from here in the valley, the marble and gold of her face, or the smoke of her altar, dying at the end of the day. There is only the smolder of trash, the bulging of my eyes . . .
The cut of the noose.
The sun is setting. Sound has left my ears, but I can feel the wind rushing through the valley and past me like a stolen breath, east toward the wilderness as though borne on cloven hooves.
There. The dark light.
And now I am afraid. Because I know that in Sheol no one praises God but ruminates forever on what might have been.
The dark light again. Someone is coming. It is a boy.
It is me.