Yeshua swallowed the tears he hadn’t cried. His family was waiting for him. He picked up a stone by the river, kissed it, and ceremoniously dropped it into the water as a symbol of his love for Ramaa. As the stone sank into the dark water, his spirits lifted. At last, he had let her go.
Memories of his journey to Sindh as a boy shadowed him on his way back home. How young and naïve he had been, and how self-assured. To think that all he had wanted then was for people to listen to his stories, to be seen and heard and valued. Now his quest was different. All he wanted was to teach others how to find oneness with God, so they could become enlightened and spread the word to others. He was but a single drop in the ocean, yet the entire ocean was alive within him.
Walking without company allowed him to stop in every village. His open and peaceful manner attracted many listeners, including local priests. But when some of the holy men heard his message, they became outraged.
“How dare you come to our village and spread lies. Our gods have always protected us and our rituals have brought us plentiful harvests. They work! You are an ignorant fool, nothing but a troublemaker.”
Yeshua spoke softly. “If the gods you worship are so powerful, ask them to strike me down right here.”
He looked to the sky, as if expecting a thunderbolt. The villagers, too, turned their eyes upward, perplexed. Even the priests looked up. When nothing happened, some youngsters giggled. Soon, all the villagers were laughing. The priests glared at him.
Yeshua shushed the people around him. “All I am saying is that when you listen to that calm, loving voice inside, you will always know what is true and what is right.”
In Kabul, Yeshua joined another caravan that would accompany him across Persia and Mesopotamia, through lands where the fruits were always fresh and the vegetables always in season. The golden ring still burned in the folds of his robe and reminded him that it was time to visit the Zoroastrians, who had once mistaken Yeshua for their prophet, and return their ring.
Over the years, Yeshua had heard many stories about the prophet Zarathustra and learned about his faith. The prophet had preached about a kind God called the Wise Lord and an evil being that was at constant war with God. The only way to keep evil from creating chaos and destroying the world was through good deeds. After a centuries-long struggle between good and evil, the Zoroastrians were still waiting for a savior who would release them from suffering and raise the dead for final judgment, so that the righteous could once again be united with the Wise Lord. Yeshua loved the stories, but he didn’t believe there was a need to fight evil. Being one with God was enough to bring peace to everyone.
In Kandahar, Yeshua found another of King Ashoka’s stone pillars, similar to the one in Lumbini, although this pillar was inscribed in Aramaic and Greek. He struggled to decipher letters he hadn’t seen since he left home, and read the text out loud, word for word:
“The years have passed since King Piyadassi pledged to teach all men about the Buddha… King Ashtoka taught us not to eat and kill animals, not even fish… Practicing Lord Buddha’s teachings has brought value to all men…”
Yeshua smiled. The words felt familiar on his tongue, and he knew that in no time he would be back to speaking like a native Galilean.
On entering Phra, Yeshua spent the night in the ruins of a Greek citadel among the city’s poorest inhabitants. They offered him a meal of maize dumplings with curdled milk, and Yeshua spoke to them about finding God within. A dark-skinned, voluptuous girl brushed her breasts against him at every opportunity, but Yeshua resisted the temptation to follow her into her tent. Once back home, he might take a wife, but until then, he had to focus on spreading the word of God. He smiled at her to show his appreciation, but explained he needed a full night’s sleep because he was traveling early the next morning.
The next time a new moon rose in the sky, Yeshua arrived in Susa. A throng of men in billowing white pants and flowing head scarves met him at the gates. They guided him up the stairs of a palace adorned with wooden pillars and statues of winged bulls with human heads, to a raised platform overlooking a tiled courtyard.
“Sage Issa, your renown precedes you. Pray bestow upon us the wisdom you have acquired on your travels.”
Yeshua surveyed the dozens of men and women staring at him with anticipation. Although he was weary from days of riding his mule on dusty roads, he would not let them down.
“Men, women of Susa,” he said in halting Greek, “I am humbled in your presence, being neither nobler nor wiser than you.”
The men and women exchanged confused glances.
“All I can do is show you the entrance to God’s Kingdom.”
The crowd relaxed. This was the message they had come to hear.
“My travels have brought me through many lands and empires. I have studied with the Yehudim and the Jains, the followers of Lord Buddha and Lord Krishna. I have studied the Vedas and the Bön—”
“And what about the prophet Zarathustra?” a bearded man called out.
“Yes, I am familiar with your prophet who preached about one God and the importance of good deeds. I agree with his words: you may suffer in this life, but you will be rewarded in the afterlife.”
The people cheered. This was what they had been taught, also.
“Everything I have learned from all traditions can be summarized in one single truth: we are all one with God—and God is good, so good.”
The listeners nodded and chatted among themselves.
“But what if I told you there is no need to fight evil and to suffer until your savior arrives to release you?”
Absolute silence.
“What if I said you could enter God’s Kingdom right this moment?”
All was quiet.
The stillness shattered when two priests shoved through the crowd. “Halt this heresy immediately!” they demanded.
Yeshua opened his arms, inviting them to join him on the platform.
But they stopped in front of him, arms crossed. A priest with eyes set wide like a goat peered up at him. “Are you not aware, you miserable imposter, that Zarathustra is the singular man who has spoken with the Wise Lord?”
Yeshua beamed at him with love.
The priest spat at his feet. “Who are you to preach about a new God and blaspheme against the Wise Lord? Who gives you the right to sow doubts in our hearts?”
Yeshua stepped down from the platform and put his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “I’m not speaking of a new God, dear Teacher. I speak about the same God, the Wise Lord who has existed since the beginning of time.”
The priests stepped back as if threatened by Yeshua’s mere presence.
Yeshua pressed his palms together in front of his heart. “Your ears may be deaf to my message, but the hearts of your people will hear God’s voice through my words.”
One of the priests grabbed Yeshua’s arms and shook him. Another stepped in front of Yeshua’s face to challenge him. “How dare you come to our town and soil our people’s minds with your untruths? Do you expect anyone to listen? And to believe they can live without rules?”
Yeshua placed his hands on their shoulders and gently turned both priests to face the crowd.
“Before there were priests, people lived in peace. They abided by natural laws, their souls connected with God. They didn’t need priests or idols to communicate with the Wise Lord.”
One of the priests pushed Yeshua to the side and opened his arms to the crowd. “Stay calm, citizens! This man is an imposter. He aims to fill your heads with lies. Go home now in peace.”
The crowd dispersed, all but a lanky white-clad, turbaned old man squatting in the back. His eyes glowed with the color of a burning sunset. Yeshua’s heart beat faster; he knew this man! It was one of the mystics who had stopped at Abba’s workshop all those years ago. Yeshua waited until everyone but the priests had left before he approached him. He untied a knot in the seam of his robe and revealed a bundle wrapped in a tattered yellow silk
scarf. He squatted next to the old man and held the bundle out to him.
“I came to return this,” Yeshua said.
The priests stared at him, full of mistrust.
The mystic unwrapped the scarf. He held the golden ring with the turquoise stone between his thumb and forefinger, and turned it this way and that. Then a wide smile of recognition spread across his face. He looked up at Yeshua in disbelief.
“When I was a little boy,” Yeshua said, “you visited my family in Galilee. You thought I was the reincarnation of your great prophet Zarathustra.” Yeshua shook his head, smiling.
The old man and priests were so focused on the ring, they didn’t react to his words.
“But you see, I’m not who you thought I was, and I have come to return the ring. Praise the Wise Lord, I hope one day he will reveal to you the true reborn prophet.”
With that, Yeshua left the stunned priests and the old mystic and walked down the stairs to find Moshe.
The next morning, Yeshua rose early and went for a walk in the town center where the locals went about their morning duties: sweeping the streets, begging for food, buying fresh bread, and selling eggs. The men wore embroidered jackets over leggings that fell in multiple folds and golden diadems in their long hair. The women sparkled like expensive gifts, all wrapped up in colorful clothing that covered everything but their faces. The jewelry that adorned their heads, wrists, and ankles glistened as they caught the rays of the morning sun.
Animated voices ebbed and flowed from a tent at the back of the market, and Yeshua grew curious. He pushed aside the entrance flap and saw a grown man squeezed into a child’s body standing on a bench, preaching to a crowd. His hair shone red like a harvest moon, and his matching silk jacket reached all the way to his ankles.
“God’s gift to man is free will. Oh yes, my friends, we may all choose our path. Have you made this most important choice yet?” The speaker wagged his finger at a youngster in front of him. “Are you following the road of deceit—or truth? Be honest! God witnesses the choices you make. Yes, yes, you don’t have to confess in front of us all, but know this: the path of evil leads only to despair. Choose the path of truth, my friends, the path of truth. We are all God’s helpers. We all have to make the righteous decision. Agreed?”
The tent shook with shouts of “Praise the Wise Lord” and “Agreed, agreed.”
Yeshua nodded. The message was good, but the threat of despair was unnecessary. God had no need to torment.
The tiny preacher pointed to a fire blazing in a clay vat beside him. “See those flames? They help us gain insight and wisdom. How?” He cackled, shaking his wild red mane. “Because fire is one of the first elements created in the world, it represents the sun that gives life to all. It is a symbol of truth and learning. And like knowledge, the fire should never, ever die.”
Yeshua pushed through the crowd to face the speaker. “And what about silence?” he asked.
“Silence?”
“Yes, silence. Isn’t silence the best tool by which to gain wisdom?”
The preacher laughed and gestured for the crowd to join him. “Silence! Oh, Wise Lord, indeed—silence!”
“If there’s no silence, how will you hear?” Yeshua asked.
More laughter. “And what can you hear, my good man…?”
“Issa.”
“And what can you hear, Issa, if no one is talking?”
“The voice of God.”
The preacher’s grin lapsed into a sneer.
Yeshua turned to address the crowd. “Silence is where our souls meet God, the place where wisdom abides in all of us. If your life is a burden, if everything seems hopeless, seek refuge in silence. Find a quiet place to close your eyes and listen to the voice within you. Whether you call it prayer or anything else, pause your thoughts and let the Wise Lord do the talking.”
The crowd gawked. Some scratched their heads.
“Open your heart and fill it with love. If only for a moment, lay aside your anger, your work, your troubles at home. Once your mind is empty, it may be filled with the divine. And in that space, you will hear God’s words, God’s wisdom.”
The preacher raised his palms toward Yeshua, his face flushed. “This man speaks the truth! Through him, the Wise Lord’s words have been spoken.”
Yeshua nodded to the preacher and walked away. He wasn’t entirely sure they had understood his message, but at least they had let him speak. And that was what was important—to sow that seed.
He returned to where he had left Moshe, packed up his belongings, and resumed his journey.
His work in Susa was done.
The closer Yeshua came to Capernaum, the more he urged poor Moshe forward. The road brought him through Ctesiphon, Seleucia, and Dura Europus, where the size of the towns was matched by the Roman entrance tax charged at the gates. How strange it felt to once again blend in and look like everyone else. No one stared at him. No one paid him any attention at all.
The longing in his heart turned into a stomachache. He was so close to home, he could almost smell the musk oil his mother used to wear. He fought the desire to hurry, aware that affection for his family was a sign of attachment to the physical world. Instead, he stayed in the present, making a point of stopping in every village and settlement along the way, if only to share a kind word, an embrace, or a healing touch.
Chapter Twenty-SEVEN
Damascus, Syria, AD 26
In Damascus, memories of the young boy with pompous dreams and an inflated sense of self-importance came flooding back. The crossroads of this majestic city had been the point of no return, where he had made the final decision that would change his life forever. Here, he had given his ring to the fierce caravan leader in exchange for protection on the route to Sindh. Yeshua sat in the shade of tall poplars by the Temple of Hadad to contemplate the journey still before him. Once Damascus had blinded him with its sophistication: the tall city gates adorned by colorful mosaics, the temples, theaters, and—perhaps more than anything else—the primped ladies who left traces of rose petal perfume in the air as they walked by. As a boy, the traveling merchants had seemed both clever and worldly and the holy men infinitely wise.
Now the city seemed smaller, its treasures less impressive, the inhabitants more common, and the traders seedier. Yeshua sent a thought of gratitude to the gruff caravan leader who had taken pity on two naïve young monks, fresh off their mothers’ tits. How intimidating he had appeared at first, and how kind he had turned out to be. It had been Yeshua’s first lesson in not judging people based on their appearance. Oh, what a serious young man he had been, so convinced of his piety. It had taken years of study and a lifetime of experience to realize that only the joy that came from unity with God could lead to holiness. He recalled how his fellow travelers had listened to his stories about Abraham, Moses, and King David. Had they simply indulged him? It didn’t matter now; their food had kept him alive through the yearlong journey across deserts and steppes, over mountains and glaciers.
The main thoroughfare led him past Caesarea Paneas along the upper Jordan River and down the hills to Capernaum. Home. Yeshua tasted the word, wondering if he still belonged in the town he had left so long ago. The road seemed both familiar and foreign. It was still covered with pebbles, but over the years the increasing amount of traffic between Damascus and Alexandria had widened the path into his hometown.
Capernaum seemed more welcoming than any other town he had lived in or passed through during his journey. Yeshua nodded to everyone he passed. Could they be old friends? Relatives? How could he possibly recognize anyone now after all these years? An entire lifetime had passed since he had left home. The scent of seaweed drifted between the sand-colored houses, along the narrow streets, and mixed with the sweet fragrance of blossoming rhododendrons. The breeze from the freshwater lake brought tears to his eyes: no other lake in the entire world generated a wind quite as soft. In the center of town, a new synagogue built with gray basalt had replaced the
old mud-and-straw-brick building. Black smoke swirled toward the sky from the courtyards of the flat-roofed buildings. In every home, families were preparing to sit down around platters of grilled fish and legumes for the evening meal, the same way they did every night of every day of every month of every season. Did his mother, brothers, and sisters still save a place for him in their midst?
Overcome with emotion, Yeshua stumbled through town, intuitively finding his way down alleyways between newly built houses and older ones that sparked forgotten memories and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He could have asked for directions, but he didn’t want anyone to know who he was. Not just yet. First he had to know if his family would welcome him back and forgive him. If they rejected him—he didn’t dare to think about what would happen if they did.
The market was smaller and more crowded than he remembered, but otherwise not much had changed. The fishermen still peddled baskets full of the tilapia, carp, and sardines they had caught that same morning. The sandal maker’s and blacksmith’s wives competed with their bargaining skills, their wares laid out side by side on a blanket. Farmers from the surrounding villages hawked their lambs and calves and chicks, and traveling merchants offered up colorful fabrics and jewelry to the townsmen, who mostly ignored them. At the south end of the square was the ledge where Yeshua had first met Dhiman, and next to it, the cluster of palm trees where the exotic pilgrims and holy men had huddled, hoping for a piece of bread or a handful of grapes. Today, fortune-tellers who predicted the future using the intestines of sacrificed birds occupied that space. On the north end, prostitutes with crudely painted faces loitered, waiting for the cover of night when their business thrived. And there, right there, was a place he knew well: the stonemason’s shop. The walls had yellowed and the window shutters hung askew, but the same old triple-chinned mason in his dusty apron still stood in front, hands on his hips. His skin sagged and his waistline had expanded, but otherwise he looked the same as the day he came to Abba’s house to present his daughter to Yeshua—what was her name? Behind the mason’s house, only five or six doors down the alley, was his father’s workshop.
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