by Ted Dekker
They poured in, seven of them, the famed disciples chosen by Yeshua to be his inner circle. These remained with him night and day. Only five were not present.
But Yeshua did not enter. He was not among them. My palms were clammy and my heart raced.
Grinning wide, Simon stepped outside. I heard words too soft to be understood. The door remained empty, and beyond it only darkness.
But then that darkness was gone, replaced by the frame of a cloaked man who wore a mantle over his head. He took two steps into the house and stopped.
Yeshua.
Only my knowledge of him made his entrance so grand. To those who didn’t know him, his arrival might have been nothing more than the arrival of a shepherd after a long day in the fields. But I did know him. And I could not move.
I could hardly breathe.
I did not see his eyes at first, because the blue-and-white mantle hid all but his gentle, bearded smile from my vantage. His cloak was dusty and his sandals worn thin. In his right hand, a walking staff.
He scanned the room slowly, taking in each face as Simon pushed the door closed behind him. When his light-brown eyes met mine, they lingered for just a moment.
But that moment felt like an eternity to me. He was seeing into me. Through me. Holding me in a gaze of deep understanding. For two years I had served him in ways that only Saba and I could know, and yet he seemed to know every breath I’d taken in that desert already.
Eyes still on my own, he dipped his head ever so slightly. A simple acknowledgment by any standard. Yet in my mind, he might as well have washed my feet—this was the power of acceptance and honor that extended from him. I wanted to weep with gratitude.
Yeshua reached up and pulled his mantle from his hair. The old man Simon stood behind him, beaming with pride. Lazarus stepped forward and clasped his arms.
“You came.”
“Have I not always come to you, my brother?”
“Always,” Lazarus said.
“I see that Martha has been busy.” Yeshua stepped past Lazarus and warmly greeted both Martha and Mary, exchanging soft words I could not make out. Besides his disciples and his own mother, these were Yeshua’s closest family.
“Saba…” Yeshua clasped his arms and looked into his eyes. “I see that you have been learning.”
He knew? Saba was caught without words.
“You do so well, my friend. So very well.” His eyes shifted to Arim. “And who is your Bedouin friend?”
“Arim,” the boy replied. With that Arim fell to his knees and gripped Yeshua’s hand, head bowed. “I am Maviah’s humble protector, who worships her prophet and protects him also from any who would raise the sword. My life is now yours, mighty sheikh.”
Yeshua’s brow arched. “Then serve me by serving those who show you the Way,” he said gently.
Arim rose and stepped back, then bowed again. “With the very last drop of my blood.”
Yeshua turned and approached me.
“Maviah…The daughter from the desert comes with a heavy heart.”
My fingers where trembling. It was all he said. And if he had said more, I might not have heard it, so overcome was I.
He went on to greet the others, but my mind was already ruined. I could not understand the waves of emotion washing through me. I had been deeply affected by his presence the first time we had met, two years earlier, but not so overwhelmed as now.
Perhaps because he would save Talya.
They were moving about the room—taking their places at the table, gathering up food, washing their hands in a basin as was customary—but I lingered there in the corner, lost and found at once, wondering when I should tell him about Talya.
I took some bread and settled next to Mary on a couch, but I had no appetite.
His disciples filled me with awe. I wondered what it was like to be the right arm of such a powerful master, to see all they had seen. And yet they were quiet in his company, yielding to his authority.
The last time I’d seen Peter, he seemed far more uncertain than he now appeared. It struck me that after so much time at Yeshua’s feet, Peter must now be like a god among men.
Levi too seemed to carry an air of authority about him. As did the others—James and John and Philip. They were comfortable near their master. And yet perhaps they, like Mary, sensed the danger that followed him.
Judas, whom I’d only seen from a distance before, made the case plain in a hushed tone.
“We should not have been traveling so late this close to Jerusalem,” he said to Peter under his breath. “There are too many threats now.”
“We travel when he says we travel, Judas. Do you doubt after so long?”
“Of course not. But it is our place to attend to these matters. Support is coming our way, finally. All the more reason to be careful until we win many more.”
He was a Zealot, I thought. Like Judah.
“You worry too much, Judas,” Peter said. “He will show his power when he’s ready, not at our beckoning.”
Judas turned away, clearly unconvinced.
But none of this seemed to concern Yeshua, who was eating and listening to Lazarus’s soft voice in his ear. I watched as he tore pieces of bread from a loaf, dipped them in honey, and carefully placed them in his mouth. Then he took a sip of wine from his stone cup.
I watched his strong, gentle hands. They had healed so many with a touch and yet appeared worn and callused, like those of any who lived off the land.
I watched his mouth, from which came words of such power and authority, and yet it was only lips and tongue and teeth, like any human mouth.
I watched his brown eyes, windows into another world full of mystery and love and unfathomable peace. With a single glance, he could surely halt any army. Yet they were just eyes, like any other human’s.
There was nothing in his appearance alone that moved me.
It was his presence.
Twice he caught me staring and I felt compelled to glance away, though I saw only acceptance and honor in his gaze.
Like the last time I’d eaten with Yeshua, the conversation was muted, perhaps in respect, perhaps only waiting for Yeshua himself to direct what might be said. This was the way a court might gather around a king of highest honor, though Yeshua’s power came from neither wealth nor armies.
Here sat as a humble master in a humble home. One who healed the heart and raised the dead. Aretas of Petra would surely tremble at Yeshua’s feet.
Slowly, even the hushed conversation fell off, leaving the room to the sounds of eating and drinking. Even Lazarus fell silent. Yeshua’s eyes were now cast down, gazing at his cup of wine, which he slowly turned with his fingers.
I should speak now, I thought. I had lost my sight, and my son was held in chains. I had to save myself to save Talya.
But I couldn’t speak. It would be irreverent. I would be speaking out of turn. And yet I must.
“Master…”
His eyes lifted to me, inviting.
“My son, Talya. The Thamud have taken him. I…” Tears blurred my vision. “I’m powerless to save him. I don’t know what to do.”
A gentle smile. Then words, like a healing balm.
“Maviah…What a precious daughter you are.”
He held my eyes for a moment, then looked at the others.
“Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his neighbors and friends together…” His eyes shifted to me. “He calls them together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’”
Talya. Meaning little lamb. He was speaking of my son…
With a sob, Mary suddenly rushed forward and fell on her knees before him, weeping, hands wrapped around the pint of nard I had given her.
“Master, I am that lost sheep!” she cried. “I give you my life�
�all that I am and all that I have. I, the lowest sinner, was made whole by you.”
She opened the bottle of precious perfume and I knew that she meant to anoint him with some of it. But she didn’t.
She anointed him with all of it.
Weeping, she poured some on her hand and anointed his head, then poured the rest over his dusty feet and let the bottle fall to the ground.
She began to wipe the nard from his feet using only her hair. “Forgive me…Forgive me…”
Emotion welled in Yeshua’s eyes as he watched her.
In that moment, I became Mary. She, the woman who had been crushed by unforgivable shame in the life she’d left behind; I, the slave who had been thrown away by my father, the powerful sheikh.
And Yeshua, our savior from all of the shame this life might heap upon us.
He’d spoken of my Talya, surely, but he’d also spoken of me and of Mary and of all those in the room. We were all there, weeping with her, offering him what was reserved for a king.
Judas broke the moment when he slowly stood to his feet.
“Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor?” he asked. “It’s worth a year’s wages!”
Peter reached out to him. “Judas…Not now.”
“Do we not tend to the poor? How dare you rob the poor with such waste!”
Still Mary wept, wiping Yeshua’s feet with her hair.
Judas looked at Yeshua. “Master…”
“Leave her alone,” Yeshua said quietly, lifting misted eyes. “She’s done a beautiful thing. It was intended that she should save this perfume for the day of my burial. You will always have the poor among you, Judas. But you will not always have me.”
Judas hesitated, then slowly sat.
Yeshua leaned down and placed a kiss on Mary’s head. “I rejoice with you, Mary. What you have done will be remembered by all the world, wherever the good news is received.”
She grabbed his hands and kissed them. “Rabbi.” But she had no other words.
She whispered something, and he nodded. Then she gathered herself, picked up the empty bottle, and hurried back to her seat near me, eyes bright like a proud child’s.
Yeshua looked around the table. The certainty of his authority, like the extravagant scent of the nard, filled the room.
“Have you not heard me say many times that you cannot serve two masters?” he said. “You will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and mammon. So then, which master do you serve? But I tell you the truth…No one who has left home or wife or brother or parents or children for the sake of the kingdom of God will fail to receive many times as much in this age and in the age to come. Eternal life.”
He was talking about more than money. He was speaking about all that enslaved one to this world’s system, be it sword or wealth or religion. There are two kingdoms, Saba so often reminded me: the realm of the world and the realm of the Father. Serve only one, the Father, to master the world.
But surely Yeshua did not mean for me to abandon my own son.
“Tell me, Saba,” Yeshua said, turning to him. “What is the Way of which I speak?”
Saba, the strongest man in the room by twice, was among giants, I thought. He glanced around and cleared his throat.
“There are two realms, heaven and earth, both among us, both within us. To find the priceless treasure, which is the eternal realm of the Father even now, one must trust in you and so come to know the Father intimately. The means to see this path is new eyes that see the realm of peace instead of the storm. This is to be reborn, as an infant, with new eyes. Only then can one be saved from the storms in this age.”
All stared at him. Stephen looked as though he might burst with agreement. “And the age to come,” he said.
“Yes,” Saba said, glancing at Stephen. “And in the age to come.”
Yeshua smiled, offering neither agreement nor disagreement.
“And what of love?” he asked.
“Love without judgment is the expression of the realm of heaven on earth.”
No one voiced an argument.
“I only ask this,” Saba pressed. “If one must have new sight to see the realm of peace in the storm, what is the way to gain this new sight so that our eyes might be opened?” He hesitated a moment. “Is surrender the means to sight, then?”
For a long time, Yeshua regarded him without speaking. Slowly his smile faded. He looked through the window into the night.
“If any would come after me, they must deny themselves, take up their cross daily and follow me.” He paused. “Anyone who does not take up his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”
I wasn’t sure I had heard right. But I heard more.
Yeshua’s eyes rested on Saba again. “Whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for my sake will save it. What good is it to gain the whole world yet forfeit your soul? If anyone comes to me and does not hate their father and mother, their wife and children, their brothers and sisters—even their own life—they cannot be my disciple.”
He paused, looking from one to the other.
“Again I say, you cannot serve two masters; you will hate one and love the other.”
To hate as he said it meant to hold of no account…As if to say it was impossible to have faith in both this world and the realm of the Father at the same time. But how was one to do this of everything pertaining to life in this world? Even their own sons and daughters? He was speaking of a new kind of surrender that staggered my mind.
Yeshua stood and faced us all, fingertips on the table, then he turned and walked to the door. He put his hand on the frame and tested its strength as a carpenter might.
“Suppose one of you wants to build a tower. What will he do, John?”
“He will first sit down and estimate the cost to see if he has enough money to complete it,” John said, as if familiar with the teaching.
Yeshua released the door frame and faced us. “Or suppose a ruler is about to go to war against another ruler. Will he not first sit down and consider whether he is able with ten thousand men to oppose the one coming against him with twenty thousand? If the ruler is not able, he will send a delegation while the other is still a long way off and will ask for terms of peace.”
He was speaking of the Thamud? No…Of me.
“In the same way, any of you who does not give up everything he has cannot be my disciple. So then, first count the cost.”
Why Yeshua’s call to unconditional surrender drew me, I don’t know. Perhaps only because I was so desperate to know his power.
I looked away. Have mercy on me. Save me from the trouble that has swallowed me! Save your son, Talya. Save my son, I beg you.
“Maviah…”
I jerked my head back to face him.
“Know this, Daughter,” he said. “I have overcome death. He who believes in me will never die. Do you understand this?”
“Yes, master.” My voice was weak.
“Do you, Maviah?”
Tears were flowing from my eyes, unbidden.
“Yes.”
He walked over to me. Then, gazing down into my eyes, he gently rested his hand on my head.
“Then do not worry about your son. Even as I will not die, so neither will he. You wish to know what to do…Only remain in me. Come to me when I call. Stay in Bethany with your sisters. Then you will know what to do.”
“Yes…” Gratitude washed over me. “Yes, I will.”
Deep introspection filled his eyes. He walked up to the window on my right and gazed out. We watched, silent in anticipation.
“In two days, after the Sabbath, we will go into Jerusalem,” he said quietly. Then turned to face us.
“It is very soon now.”
Chapter Seventeen
IT IS SAID that the Bedu can feel a storm in the air before the rains come to nourish the desert with life-giving water. There is a powe
r in the air that finally bursts forth with jagged bolts of lightning from the gods.
This was what I felt in Bethany. My skin prickled with the power in the air. Talya would be saved…I knew this like I knew I still breathed. How, I didn’t know, but Yeshua could not fail.
He stayed with Simon as the guest of honor, and I did not see him on the Sabbath or the morning that followed. When Yeshua wasn’t with them, he was gone to the Mount of Olives, where he went to be alone for many hours.
Remain with your sisters, he’d said. And so I did. Sure of my son’s deliverance, I allowed myself to embrace the presence of Yeshua that hummed in our bones like a silent thunder.
Many had come from Jerusalem to see him, and many others were traveling through Bethany on their way to Jerusalem for the feast of Passover, one of the holiest of celebrations for the Jewish people. On that day they would slaughter a lamb and atone for their sins with its blood.
Bethany swelled to three times its size. Visitors came with gifts of wheat and barley and fruits, and Martha busied herself baking at all hours, for there were many to feed. Mary and I helped as much as Martha allowed. I had never baked so much bread in one day.
Our talk was of Yeshua. Always Yeshua. Mary didn’t speak of her time of shame, for it was now in the past—a season that no longer held any significance to her other than the fact that it was past. Though Dumah and the plight of my people hung always in the back of my mind, I spoke of it rarely.
Thoughts of shame and death were far away from us.
If only Judah could have seen what I was seeing! How my heart broke for him. His prison had first enslaved him and then finally crushed him. But he was now with the Father, I thought. Perhaps he was watching over me like the stars, and if so, he was surely smiling, singing a song of gratitude.
But Saba…I can’t rightly describe the shift in Saba after that first night. He was gone, always, hovering near Yeshua when possible, or talking to Stephen, or retreating to the hills by himself. I was glad for him.
And yet he also seemed distant from me in spirit. I didn’t realize how much I had come to expect his affectionate company until then.
When we gathered to eat, he was at my side, offering me food, but his eyes were not attentive. And he would quickly excuse himself to be gone.