I am writing this on a piece of paper which I have found in my pocket. I am writing it so that after the end of all things, someone might realise what it was like to live this life and might understand what happened tonight and two thousand years ago and on all the nights to come. As I write, people are coming and going. Some of them I know well, some I have never seen before. They all look just as confused and frightened as I feel.
I still do not understand what happened tonight.
It was never supposed to be like this.
The sun was out today. There was spring in the air. It carried the smell of good food and the noise of young voices making joyful music. We were decked out in gold and glitter and tassels. The city is in holiday mood.
I was there when they destroyed the temple. It’ll be in tomorrow’s papers, no doubt, blamed on kids or yobs or perhaps even terrorists. As precious things were broken to pieces around about me, I heard footsteps coming from behind. I looked around — I thought there was a fire, or an accident, or perhaps the police coming. And as I looked, one of them flew down the centre, eyes wild, elbowing bystanders out of the way, up the steps, and leaping into the most holy of holies, destroying it. In that split second, I saw something that wasn’t for drama or for show but was someone hell-bent on destroying that which he had once loved most. I stopped what I was doing, frozen, with everything around chaos and darkness. I thought: “God, what have we done?” And as suddenly as I’d stopped, I went back into action. It had gone too far to take it back, and dashing through seats and around tables all I could do now was make sure there was no trace left of us. This is what fear tastes like.
As I left, I looked back. It is a dark and desolate place now. There is no love left there.
And now I find myself in this garden. I can see him, here with three of them. I’m hiding in the shadows. I’m not sure I’d be welcome. I want to throw myself down and beg forgiveness for the great evil I’ve helped to do, but I am frightened. I am frightened that he would turn me away and that he would be right to. I am not worthy to be forgiven; why would he forgive me?
Beyond the gates, I can hear traffic and music and people laughing. I want to shake them. My world has ended tonight. They do not care.
I call myself friend, but what sort of friend does this? I call myself an activist, but this time I am too afraid to speak out. I call myself a healer, but look at the destruction I have wrought. I call myself beloved, but what good has loving me done him?
Should you forget everything else I’ve told you, remember this and tell this to your children and your grandchildren: he was a good man who deserved better.
They were followed here by dozens of people. The people are beginning to leave; gathering their things and whispering to each other as they leave the perimeter. I should leave, too. I should take my stiff legs and my hungry belly and my tear-dirty face and my guilt that’s no good to anyone, and I should go home. I won’t, though. Because something is happening tonight, something that I don’t understand and that I’m scared by and that I can’t see ending well. I am too much of a coward to stop it, but I’ll stay here with my cold patch of floor and my thin blanket to at least see it through to the end.