## Holy Monday
**Consolation to Analía’s mother and the encounter with the soldier Vital. The sterile fig tree and the parable of the wicked tenants. The authority of Jesus and the baptism of John.**
Jesus, there, on the high landing of the Mount of Olives where many Galileans gather for the festivities, soon leaves one of the tents. The entire camp sleeps under the glow of a moon that sets slowly, wrapping the tents, trees, and slopes—and the sleeping city below—in silvery whiteness. Jesus passes between the tents surely and silently. Once outside the camp, He descends quickly toward Gethsemane along steep paths; He passes through it, exits, crosses the little bridge of the Kidron—a silver ribbon arpeggiating to the moon—and reaches the gate guarded by legionaries. Perhaps this surveillance of the closed gates is a precautionary measure by the Proconsul. There are four soldiers, talking while sitting on voluminous stones placed against the strong wall as seats; they are warming themselves by a small fire of dry brambles that casts a reddish light on their shining breastplates and austere helmets, beneath which faces very different from those of the Hebrews stand out due to their Italic features.
"Who goes there?" says the first one to see the tall figure of Jesus appear from behind the corner of a small shack near the gate, bracing the shaft of his pointed spear which had been leaning against the wall, moving into the regulation stance. The others do the same. That one, without giving Jesus time to respond, says:
"No entry. Don’t you know we are still in the second watch?"
"I am Jesus of Nazareth. My Mother is in the city and I am going to Her."
"Oh, the Man who raised the dead man of Bethany! By Jupiter! At last I see him!"
And he approaches, looking at Him curiously; he moves around Him as if to ensure He is not an unreal, strange thing, but a man exactly like all the rest. And he says so:
"Oh! Numes! He is as handsome as Apollo, but made in every way like us! And He has neither staff nor cap, nor any sign of His power!"
He is perplexed. Jesus looks at him patiently, smiling at him with sweetness.
The others, who are less curious—perhaps having seen Jesus other times—say: "It would have been good if He had been here in the middle of the first watch, when they took the pretty girl who died this morning to the tomb. We would have seen a resurrection..."
Jesus, gently, repeats:
"May I go to my Mother?"
The four soldiers stretch. The eldest speaks:
"Truly, the order would be not to let anyone through. But You would pass anyway. He who forces the gates of Hades can well force the gates of a closed city. And, besides, You are not a man who incites riots. Therefore, the prohibition falls for You. See to it that the patrols inside do not see You. Open up, Marcus Gratus. And pass without noise. We are soldiers and we must obey..."
"Fear not. Your kindness will not be turned into punishment for you."
A legionary cautiously opens the postern gate set into the colossal door and says:
"Pass quickly. The watch ends soon and we will be replaced by the next ones."
"Peace be to you."
"We are men of war..."
"The peace I give remains even in war, because it is peace of the soul."
And Jesus vanishes into the darkness of the arch opened in the thickness of the walls. He passes silently before the guardroom, from whose open door comes the trembling light of an oil lamp, an ordinary lamp hanging from a hook on the low ceiling, allowing one to see several bodies of soldiers sleeping on mats on the floor, wrapped well in their cloaks, weapons by their sides.
Jesus is already in the city... I lose sight of Him while I watch how two of the soldiers from before go in to wake those who sleep to be replaced; but first, they check if He has moved away.
"He is no longer seen... What could He have meant by those words? I would have liked to know," says the younger one.
"You should have asked Him. He does not despise us. He is the only Hebrew who does not despise us and who does not take our money in one way or another," the other responds (already in his full virile maturity).
"I didn’t dare. I, a Beneventan peasant, talk to one they say is God?"
"A god on a donkey? Ha! Ha! If He were drunk like Bacchus, perhaps; but He is not a drunkard. I don’t think He even drinks *mulsum*. Don't you see how pale and thin He is?"
"And yet, the Hebrews..."
"They certainly drink, even if they pretend not to! And, drunk from having drunk the strong wines of these lands, and also their cider, they have seen a god in a man. Believe me: gods are tall tales. Olympus is empty and the Earth lacks gods."
"If they heard you!..."
"Are you still such a child that you cannot wear the white toga, and you don't know that Caesar himself does not believe in the gods? Neither do the pontiffs, the augurs, the haruspices, the arvales, the vestals, nor anyone else believe in them."
"And then, why...?"
"Why the rites? Because they please the people and are useful to the priests, and they serve Caesar to make himself obeyed as if he were an earthly god held by the hand of the Olympian gods. But the first who do not believe are those whom we venerate as ministers of the gods. I am a Pyrrhonian. I have traveled the world. I have lived many experiences. I already have white hair at my temples and my thought has matured. I have three sentences as my personal code: Love for Rome, the only goddess and only certainty, unto the sacrifice of my life; believe in nothing, because everything around us is illusion, except for the sacred and immortal Fatherland (we must even doubt ourselves, for it is uncertain even that we live); sense and reason are not sufficient to give the certainty of coming to know the Truth, and living and dying have the same value because we do not know what it is to live nor what it is to die," he says, flaunting the philosophical skepticism of a superior creature...
The other looks at him hesitatingly. Then he says:
"Well, I, however, believe. And I would like to know... to know about that man who passed by just now. He, undoubtedly, knows the Truth. A strange thing emanates from Him. It is like a light that enters inside!"
"May Aesculapius save you! You are sick! A short while ago you came up from the valley to the city, and fevers appear easily in those who make this journey and have not yet acclimated to this region. You are delirious. Come. To sweat out the poison of the Jordan fever, the only thing is hot wine and drugs..."—and he nudges him toward the guardroom.
But the other frees himself and says:
"I am not sick. I don't want hot wine with drugs. I want to watch there, outside the walls (he points to the inner side of the bastion) and wait for the man who said his name is Jesus."
"If waiting does not displease you... I am going in to wake these for the change. Farewell..."
And he enters noisily into the guardroom, waking his companions and shouting:
"The hour has struck! Up, you lazy idlers! I am tired...!" He yawns loudly and utters imprecations because they have let the fire go out and have drunk all the hot wine "so necessary to dry out the Palestinian dampness...".
The other, the young legionary, leaning against the wall that the setting moon caresses, waits for Jesus to retrace His steps. The stars watch over his hope...
Jesus, meanwhile, has arrived at the house Lazarus has on Mount Zion. He knocks.
Levi opens to Him.
"You, Master! The mistresses are sleeping. Why did You not send a servant, if You needed something?"
"They would not have let him pass."
"Ah, that is true! And how did You pass?"
"I am Jesus of Nazareth. And the legionaries let me pass. But this must not be told, Levi."
"I will not tell... They are better than many of us!
"Take me to where my Mother sleeps and do not wake anyone else in the house."
"As You wish, Lord. Lazarus' order to all his domestic staff is to obey You in everything without reply and without delay. Shortly after dawn a servant—many servants—took the order to all the houses. To obey and keep silent. We will do it. You have given our master back to us..."
The man walks with a light step through the corridors, wide as galleries, of Lazarus' splendid palace on Mount Zion, and the lamp he carries in his hands fantastically illuminates the objects and tapestries that adorn these wide corridors. The man stops before a closed door:
"There is your Mother."
"You may go."
"And the lamp? Do You not want it? I can return in the dark. I know the house well. I was born here."
"Leave it with me. And do not remove the key from the door. I am leaving shortly."
"You know where to find me. I lock it for precaution. But I will be ready to open the door for You when You come."
Jesus is left alone. He knocks softly: a touch so light that only a person who is wide awake can hear it. A slight noise inside the room, like a chair being moved and a light sound of footsteps, and a soft voice:
"Who knocks?"
"It is I, Mama. Open to me."
The door opens immediately. The moonlight is the only thing illuminating the serene room, spreading its rays over the untouched bed. There is a chair by the window wide open to the mystery of the night.
"Were you not sleeping yet? It is late!"
"I was praying... Come, my Son. Sit here where I was," and she points to the chair by the window.
"I cannot stay. I have come for you, to go to Ophel, to Elisa's house. Analía has died. Did you not know yet?"
"No. None of us... When, Jesus?"
"After I passed by."
"After You passed! You were, then, the liberating Angel for her! Such severe bars this Earth was to her...! Blessed is she! I wish I were in her place! Was it a... natural death? I mean... not through a misfortune?..."
"She died of joy of love. I knew it when I was already on the ascent to the Temple. Come with me, Mama. We do not fear defiling ourselves by consoling a mother who has held in her arms her daughter dead of supernatural joy... Our first virgin! The one who went to Nazareth, to you, to find me and ask me for this joy... Distant and serene days."
"The day before yesterday she was singing like an enamored warbler and kissing me, saying: 'I am happy!', and she was eager to hear everything about You. How God formed You, how He chose me, and my first heartbeats as a consecrated virgin... Now I understand... I am ready, Son."
Mary, while speaking, has fixed her hair, which fell over her shoulders and made her look so young, and has put on her veil and cloak.
They go out, making as little noise as possible.
Levi is already by the gate. He explains:
"I preferred... because of my wife... Women are curious. She would have asked me a hundred questions. This way she doesn't know..."
He opens. He makes a motion to close.
Jesus says:
"Within this same watch I will bring my Mother back."
"I will watch here. Do not worry."
"Peace to you."
They walk through the silent, empty streets, from which the moon is slowly withdrawing to remain high above the tall houses of the Zion hill. More luminous is the district of Ophel, of more humble and lower little houses.
And Analía's house is seen. Closed, dark, silent. Some flowers, withered, are still on the steps of the house: perhaps those the virgin threw before dying, or flowers fallen from her funeral bed... Jesus knocks at the door. He knocks again...
Noise of a window opening above. A faint voice:
"Who knocks?"
"Mary and Jesus of Nazareth," Mary answers.
"Oh! I am coming!..."
A brief wait. Then, the sound of bolts being drawn. The door opens and allows one to see Elisa's haggard face, who can hardly stand, leaning against the doorpost. And, when Mary, entering, opens her arms to her, she lets herself fall upon her breast, weeping with weak sobs, typical of one who has already wept so much that she lacks the voice for crying. Jesus closes the door and waits patiently for His Mother to calm that anguish.
Near the door there is a room. They enter it. Jesus carries the lamp that Elisa had left on the floor of the entrance before opening the door. The mother's weeping seems unable to end. She speaks between hoarse sobs to Mary: a mother speaking to the Mother. Jesus, standing by a wall, is silent...
Elisa finds no reason for that death occurring so... And, in the midst of her pain, she places the cause of it on Samuel, the perjured fiancé:
"That cursed man has broken her heart! She did not say it, but it is clear she was suffering, who knows for how long! And with the joy, with the shout, her heart opened. Cursed be he eternally."
"No, my dear, no. Do not curse. It is not so. God has loved her so much that He wanted her to be in peace. But even if she had died because of Samuel—it is not so, but let us suppose it for a moment—think of what a death of joy she had, and say that the evil action procured her a happy death."
"I no longer have her! She has died to me! She has died to me! You do not know what it is to lose a daughter! I have experienced this pain twice. For I already mourned her as dead when your Son healed her. But now... But now... He has not returned! He has not taken pity... I have lost her! Lost! My child is already in the tomb! Do you know what it is to see a child agonize? To know that they must die? To see them dead when one thought they had regained health and were strong? You do not know. You cannot speak... She was as beautiful as a rose that had just opened at that moment, with the first rays of the Sun, this morning while she was getting ready. She had wanted to adorn herself with the dress I had made for her wedding. She also wanted to crown herself as a bride. Then she preferred to take apart the garland, already prepared, and pluck the petals of the flowers to throw them at your Son, and she sang! She sang! Her voice filled the house. She was as beautiful as spring. Joy made her eyes bright as stars; her lips the color of purple, like pomegranate pulp, open over the whiteness of her teeth. Her cheeks were rosy and fresh like new roses decorated with dew. And she became as white as a lily recently opened. And she folded to fall upon my chest like a broken stem... No more words! No more sighs! Absence of color! No more look! Placid, beautiful, like an angel of God, but without life. You do not know, you who enjoy the exaltation of your Son and who have Him healthy and strong, you do not know what my pain is! Why has He not returned? In what had I wounded Him, and I with her, not to have mercy on my prayer?"
"Elisa! Elisa! Do not say that... Pain blinds you and makes you deaf... Elisa, you do not know my pain. And you do not know how deep the sea of my pain will be. You have seen her peaceful and beautiful stiffen in peace. In your arms. I... I have contemplated my Son for more than thirty years, and, behind His smooth and clean flesh that I contemplate and caress, I see the wounds of the Man of Sorrows into which He will be converted. Do you, who say I do not know what it is to see a child go twice to death and once enter and remain in peace in it, know what it is for a mother to have this vision for so many years? My Son! There He is. He is already dressed in red, as if He were coming out of a blood bath. And soon, shortly, before your daughter's face has turned dark in the sepulcher, I will see Him dressed in the purple of His innocent Blood. Of that Blood which I gave Him. You have gathered your daughter into your heart, but I, do you know what my pain will be seeing my Son die like a criminal on the wood? Look at Him, look at the Savior of all! Savior in spirit and in flesh, because the flesh of those He saves will be incorrupt and blessed in His Kingdom. And look at me! Look at this Mother who hour by hour accompanies and leads—she would not hold Him back one step—her Son to the Sacrifice! I can understand you, poor mama. But you understand my heart! Do not abhor my Son. Analía would not have endured the agony of her Lord, and her Lord has made her happy in a moment of joy."
Elisa, hearing this revelation, has stopped crying. She looks fixedly at Mary, whose face is pale, a martyr’s face washed by silent tears; she looks at Jesus, who in turn looks at her with compassion... and she collapses at His feet groaning:
"But she has died to me! She has died to me, Lord! Like a lily, a broken lily. Of You the poets say that You are He who delights in being among the lilies! Oh, truly, You, born of the lily-Mary, often descend to the flowered gardens, and make the flowered roses into white lilies, and snatching them from the world You gather them. Why? Why, Lord? Is it not just that a mother enjoys the rose that was born of her? Why extinguish the purple color in the cold whiteness of the lily's death?"
"The lilies! They will be the symbol of those who love me as my Mother loved God. The white garden of the divine King."
"But we, the mothers, will weep; we have a right to our daughters. Why snatch their lives away?"
"I do not mean that, woman. The daughters will continue to live, but consecrated to the King like the virgins in Solomon's palaces. Remember the Song (6:8-9; 8:4)... And they will be brides, the favorite ones, on Earth and in Heaven."
"But my daughter has died! She has died!" Again, heartrending weeping.
"I am the Resurrection and the Life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live; and truly I say to you, he does not die forever. Your daughter lives. She has eternal life because she believed in Life. My Death will be for her complete Life. She has known the joy of living in me before knowing the pain of seeing my life torn away. Your pain blinds you and makes you deaf. My Mother has said it well. But soon there will be on your lips what I have ordered to be transmitted to you: 'Truly her death was a grace of God.' Believe it, woman. Horror awaits this place. And a day will come when mothers who have suffered the same blow as you will say: 'Praise be to God, who delivered our children from these days.' And the other mothers will cry out to Heaven: 'Why, O God, did You not take the lives of our children before this hour?' Believe it, woman. Believe in my words. Do not raise between yourself and Analía the true wall that separates: that of a different faith. You see? I could have not come. You know how much they hate me. Let not the exaltation of an hour deceive you!... In every corner a snare against me may be hidden. And I have come alone, at night, to console you and say these words to you. I stand in solidarity with the pain of a mother. So that your soul may have peace, I have come to say these words to you. Have peace! Peace!"
"Give it to me Yourself, Lord! I cannot. I cannot with this suffering achieve peace. But You, who give new life to the dead and new health to the dying, give peace to the heart of a mother consumed by affliction."
"So be it, woman. To you, peace."
He imposes His hands blessing her and praying for her in silence. Mary, for her part, has knelt beside Elisa and encircles her with one arm.
"Goodbye, Elisa. I am leaving..."
"Are we not going to see each other again, Lord? I am not going to leave the house for many days and You will be leaving after the Passover festivities. You... are still a bit part of my daughter... because Analía..., because Analía lived in You and for You."
She weeps. More serene, but... how she weeps!
Jesus looks at her... He strokes her grey head. He says to her:
"You will see me still."
"When?"
"Starting tonight, within eight days."
"And will You console me then? Will You bless me to give me strength?"
"My heart will bless you with all the fullness of my love toward those who love me. Come, my Mother."
"My Son, if You allow me, I would like to stay a while longer with this mother. Pain is an impetuous wave that returns when He who infuses peace moves away... I will return home at the first hour. I am not afraid to go alone. You know it; as you also know that I would pass through a whole army of enemies in order to console a brother of mine in God."
"Be it as you wish. I am leaving. God be with you."
He leaves without making a sound, closing the door of the room and the house behind Him.
He returns toward the walls, toward the Ephraim Gate or toward the Dung Gate (for I have many times heard these two nearby gates called by these three names, perhaps because one leads to the Jericho road, which is at the bottom, and which leads to Ephraim; and the other, because it is near the Hinnom Valley, where the city's garbage is burned; and they are so similar that I confuse them).
The sky, though still studded with stars, begins to lighten on the eastern part of the horizon. The streets are wrapped in a gloom deeper than the nighttime darkness tempered by the whiteness of the moon. But the Roman soldier has good eyes. As soon as he sees Jesus heading toward the gate, he steps out to meet Him.
"Hail! I have been waiting for you..." he stops uncertainly.
"Speak without fear. What do you want of me?"
"To know. You said: 'The peace I give remains even in war because it is peace of soul.' I would like to know what peace it is and what is soul. How can a man who is in war be in peace? When the temple of Janus is opened, that of Peace is closed. These two things cannot exist together in the world."
He speaks leaning on the greenish low wall of a little garden, in a narrow alley like a path between fields, flanked by poor houses, damp, gloomy, dark. Apart from a slight reflection marking the polished helmet, nothing else is noticed of the two who speak: the shadow blends the faces and bodies into a single blackness.
Jesus' voice resounds measuredly, and luminous, from the joy He feels at sowing a seed of light in the pagan.
"In the world, in truth, peace and war cannot exist together. One excludes the other. But in the man of war there can be peace even carrying out that war which has been ordered of him; my peace can be there. Because my peace comes from Heaven and is not injured by the din of war nor the brutality of slaughter. That peace is a divine thing and invades the divine thing that man has within himself and which is called soul."
"Divine? In me? Caesar is divine. I am the son of farmers. Now I am a legionary without any rank. If I am brave, perhaps I will become a centurion. But, divine, no."
"There is a divine part in you. It is the soul. It comes from God. From the true God. That is why it is divine, a living gem in man, and it feeds and lives on divine things: faith, peace, truth. War does not disturb it, persecution does not injure it, death does not kill it; only evil, doing what is ugly, wounds or kills it, and also deprives it of the peace I give. Because evil separates man from God."
"And what is evil?"
"To be in paganism and worship idols when the goodness of the true God has given the knowledge that the true God exists. Not to love father, mother, brothers, and neighbor. To steal, to kill, to be rebellious, to be lustful, to be false. This is evil."
"Ah, then I cannot have your peace! I am a soldier with orders to kill. For us, then, there is no salvation!"
"Be just in war and in peace. Fulfill your duty without cruelty or greed. While you fight and conquer, think that the enemy is like you, and that in all cities there are mothers and youths like your mother and sisters, and be brave without being brutal: you will not stray from justice or peace and my peace will remain in you."
"And then?"
"And then? What do you mean?"
"After death? What becomes of the good I have done and of that soul you say does not die if one does not do evil?"
"It lives. It lives adorned by the good it has done, in a joyful peace greater than that enjoyed on Earth."
"Then in Palestine only one had done good! I understand."
"Who?"
"Lazarus of Bethany. His soul did not die!"
"He, in truth, is a just man. Nevertheless, many are like him and die without rising; but their souls live in the true God. Because the soul has another dwelling, in the Kingdom of God. And whoever believes in me will enter that Kingdom."
"Even I, who am Roman?"
"You too, if you believe in the Truth."
"What is the Truth?"
"I am the Truth, and the Way to go to the Truth; and I am the Life and I give Life, because whoever welcomes the Truth welcomes Life."
The young soldier thinks..., is silent... Then he lifts his face. A face still pure like a youth's, and with a clear and serene smile. He says:
"I will try to remember this and to know even more. I like it..."
"What is your name?"
"Vital. From Benevento. From the countryside of the city."
"I will remember your name. Make your spirit truly vital by feeding it with the Truth. Farewell. The gate is opening. I am leaving the city."
"Ave!"
Jesus goes with a light step to the gate and hurries along the road that leads to the Kidron and Gethsemane, and from there to the camp of the Galileans.
Among the olive trees of the mount, He meets Judas Iscariot. He too is ascending lightly toward the Camp, which is already waking up. Judas, on meeting Jesus head-on, makes a gesture expressing almost terror. Jesus looks at him fixedly, without saying anything.
"I went to take food to the lepers. But... I found two in Hinnom, five in Siloam. The others: cured. They were still there, but cured; so much so that they begged me to tell the priest. I went down with the first light of day to be free afterward. This will cause talk. Such a large number of lepers cured together, after your blessing in the presence of so many people!"
Jesus does not speak. He lets him talk... He says neither "you have done well" nor does he refer to Judas' action, nor to the miracle. No. What He does is that, suddenly, He stops, and, looking fixedly at the apostle, asks him:
"So? What has changed since I have given you freedom and money?"
"What do you mean?"
"This: I ask you if you have sanctified yourself since I gave you freedom and money. And you understand me... Ah, Judas! Remember, remember always that I have loved you more than all the others, having received from you less love than they have given me; receiving, on the contrary, a greater hatred than the most persistent hatred of the most persistent Pharisee, because it was the hatred of one whom I treated as a friend. And remember this too: that even now I do not abhor you, but, as far as it depends on the Son of Man, I forgive you. Go now. We have nothing more to say to each other. Everything is done..."
Judas would like to say something, but Jesus, with an imperious gesture, indicates for him to go ahead... And Judas, with head bowed like one defeated, goes before Him...
At the limit of the camp of the Galileans, the eleven apostles and Lazarus' two servants are already prepared.
"Where have You been, Master? And you, Judas? Were you together?"
Jesus intervenes before Judas’ response:
"I had something to say to some hearts. Judas has been to the lepers. They are all cured except seven."
"Why did you go? I wanted to go too!" says the Zealot.
"To be free and be able to come with us. Let us go. We will enter the city by the Sheep Gate. Let us go, without delay," says Jesus, who is the first to start walking.
He passes among the olive trees that lead from the Camp, almost halfway between Bethany and Jerusalem, to the other small bridge that crosses the Kidron near the Sheep Gate.
Some peasant houses are scattered on the slopes, and, nearly at the bottom, bordering the waters of the stream, a fig tree sways its untidy branches above it. Jesus goes toward it and looks among the wide and abundant foliage for some ripe fig blossom. But the fig tree is all leaves. It has many leaves, useless ones; but not a single fruit on its branches.
"You are like many hearts in Israel. May no fruit ever be born of you again and may no one eat of you in the future," says Jesus. The apostles look at each other. Jesus’ anger toward the sterile tree—perhaps a wild one—amazes them. But they say nothing. Only later—having crossed the Kidron—Peter asks Him:
"Where have You eaten?"
"In no place."
"Then You are hungry! There is a shepherd there with some goats grazing. I will go ask for milk for You. I’ll be right back"—and he strides off to return cautiously with an old bowl overflowing with milk.
Jesus drinks and gives the cup, accompanied by a caress, to the little shepherd boy who had accompanied Peter.
They enter the city and go up to the Temple. Having adored the Lord, Jesus returns to the courtyard where the rabbis deliver their lessons. People swarm around Him. A mother, coming from Cintium, presents her son, whom a disease has left blind, I think. He has white eyes, like someone with a large cataract in the pupil, or a white spot. Jesus heals him by lightly touching the orbits with His fingers. Immediately after, He begins to speak:
"A man bought a plot of land and planted it with vines. He built the house for the tenants there, and a house for the guards; also cellars and places for pressing the grapes. He left the cultivation of the field to those tenants in whom he trusted. Then he went far away. When the time came for the vines—already grown enough to be fruitful—to be able to bear fruit, the owner of the vineyard sent his servants to the tenants so that they might collect the proceeds of the harvest. But the tenants surrounded the owner's servants and beat some of them, threw large stones at others so that they wounded them greatly, and killed others completely. Those who could return alive to the lord told him what had happened to them. The lord healed and consoled them, and sent other servants, even more numerous. The tenants treated these as they had treated the first. Then the master of the vineyard said: 'I will send them my son. Surely they will respect my heir.' But the tenants, seeing him coming and knowing he was the heir, called to one another saying: 'Come. Let us group together to be many. We will take him by force outside, to a distant place, and kill him. We will keep his inheritance.' And, receiving him with hypocritical honors, they surrounded him as if celebrating him, but then, after having kissed him, they bound him, gave him heavy blows, and, in the midst of a thousand mockeries, took him to the place of execution and killed him. Now tell me. That father and master, who one day will see that his son and heir to the goods does not return, and who will discover that his servant-tenants, those to whom he had given the fertile land to cultivate in his name, enjoying what was fair from it and giving what was fair to its lord, have been murderers of his son, what will he do?"—and Jesus pierces those present with his sapphire eyes, burning like a sun, especially the groups of the most influential Jews, Pharisees, and scribes who are intermingled with the people.
No one says anything.
"Speak, then! At least you, rabbis of Israel. Pronounce words of justice that convince the people regarding justice. I might say words that are not good, according to your thought. Speak then, so that the people are not led into error."
The scribes, compelled, respond thus:
"He will punish those scoundrels by making them die in an atrocious manner, and will give the vineyard to other tenants who will cultivate it with honesty and give him the fruit of the land received."
"You have answered well. Thus it is in the Scripture: 'The stone rejected by the builders has become the cornerstone. This is a work performed by the Lord and it is marvelous in our eyes' (Psalm 118:22-23).
Therefore, because it is así written and you know it and judge it just that the murderous tenants of the master’s heir-son receive atrocious punishment, and that it be delivered to other tenants who honestly cultivate it, for this reason, I say to you: 'The Kingdom of God will be taken away from you to be delivered to others who will cultivate it with fruit. And he who falls against this stone will be broken, and he on whom it falls will be crushed.'"
The chief priests, the Pharisees, and scribes, with a truly... heroic act, do not react. So powerful can the will to reach an objective be! For much less, at other times, they have lashed out against Him, and today, when openly the Lord Jesus...