Yeshua’s heart throbbed and his legs trembled. Bile rose up his throat, and he had to steady his hands on a wall to stop his head from swirling. What if his family didn’t want to see him? He had caused them so much pain, they must despise him. He should leave, turn back, run away—escape somewhere.
Moshe, sensing his anxiety, trotted close to his side and pushed Yeshua against the nearby wall. His mule was right; he shouldn’t flee. This was home. He owed it to his father to let Ama know he was alive. He led Moshe down the street, past houses made of rough stones and smoothed with clay, until he reached the familiar blue door. The paint was slightly chipped and perhaps a touch darker in color, but there was no mistaking it. Yeshua ran his finger along the Aramaic letters carved into the wooden sign: carpenter, and underneath, bar Yosef. Yosef’s son.
This was it.
He tied Moshe to the hook assigned for pack animals and paused in front of the door.
Unable to breathe, Yeshua raised his hand to knock, only to lower it again. He took a deep breath. He had survived near starvation and freezing weather, evaded attacks by robbers and wild animals—and this was what he feared?
He closed his eyes and focused on what he had been teaching: the world around him was nothing but an illusion. There was no reason to be frightened, because nothing real could be threatened. Only oneness with God and all humanity was real; everything else, including all fears and threats, were but fantasies. That, in essence, was the ultimate peace of God.
He knocked and waited. Then he knocked again and pushed the door open. Inside, a carpenter leaned over a workbench, carving detailed patterns into a board. He didn’t look up. Yeshua’s heart raced. The man resembled Abba, with the same long limbs, scruffy brown beard full of wood chips, and bushy eyebrows, but this man was perhaps a few inches taller and decidedly more muscular. His long, artistic fingers moved with purpose and grace. Could it be Yakov? Another of his brothers? Yeshua searched for words, but his brain had come to a complete standstill.
How did you say brother in Aramaic?
The carpenter looked up. “Yes?”
Those vivacious eyes… Yakov! Of course. Yeshua’s beloved little brother. His best friend.
“Can I help you?”
Yeshua wanted to throw himself into his brother’s arms, but he couldn’t move. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Yakov took a step closer, his head tilted, eyes probing.
“It’s me, Issa. I mean Yeshua. Achui. Your brother.”
The chisel slipped from Yakov’s hand and dropped to the floor with a clang.
“Yeshua?”
Before he could move, Yakov had picked him up and swung him around in a tight embrace. He kissed Yeshua’s cheeks over and over again, laughing rambunctiously until tears flowed from his eyes and his breath caught in hiccups. They both fell to the clay floor, shaking with laughter until they ran out of air.
“May God be blessed, you returned!” Yakov raised himself up on his elbow. “I always said you’d come back one day. And see, here you are—in one piece. Just like the brother I remember. Ha! You look exactly the same. Except with a beard. And taller. But what’s the story with that robe? What is it—Mesopotamian?”
“Kushan.”
“Look at you! Where all did you go, big brother?”
“Everywhere.”
Covered in sawdust and wood chips, the brothers sat with their backs against the workshop wall while Yeshua tried to describe in broad terms how he had left with Dhiman, shaved his head, and become a monk. He told Yakov how he had crossed the Satavahana continent alone and how he had lived with the White Brahmins for many years and studied Krishna’s lessons under the great Kahanji. He reminisced about teaching in Benares and how he had learned everything there was to know about Lord Buddha in Kapilavatthu. But it wasn’t until he had met Pema that the teachings had crystallized. She had taught him that everything, every crumb of knowledge, had always resided inside of him.
“God lives inside us all.” He patted Yakov’s chest.
“Why did you come back?” Yakov’s voice had died to a whisper.
Yeshua put his arm around him and clutched his shoulder. “I missed you. And I need to—want to—share everything I know with our people. We’ve suffered so long. Think about it: we have nothing; we’re not even lords of our own land. I want the Yehudim to know there is no need for suffering. We may not control the world outside, but we are kings of our own reality.”
Yakov looked lost. He spun the chisel on the floor, making it rotate on its tip.
“What about you?” Yeshua turned the conversation around. “You’re as remarkable a carpenter as ever. But did you wed? Do you have a wife? Any children?”
“Of course! I have the loveliest wife, Michal, and five children, two with—and three without.”
It took a moment for Yeshua to remember his brother’s sense of humor. Of course. He chuckled: two boys and three girls.
Laughing, Yakov stood and pulled Yeshua up from the floor.
“Come,” he said. “Dinner should be ready any moment. When did you last have a proper grilled fish with stuffed grape leaves?”
“Yeshua!” His mother threw her arms around his neck and wailed, releasing the anguish from years of grieving the loss of her firstborn son. Yakov joined the embrace, squeezing Yeshua so hard he could scarcely breathe. They stayed clustered, sealed tight, one around another, until their hearts calmed to a gentle hum. Yeshua couldn’t remember the last time he had been so happy.
One by one, Yakov’s children drew close to their once-lost uncle, asking him a hundred and one questions. Ama wouldn’t let go of his hand. “My son, my treasure, where have you been? And by God, what have you done? You look like a hermit.” She tugged his dark curls. “What’s with your clothes—they’re so soiled.”
She reminded him of Ramaa: such a delicate physique and those large sad eyes that shone with such profound love. Yeshua caressed her soft, wrinkled cheeks and pushed her silvery hair out of her face. How he had made her suffer, and still she welcomed him back with open arms, forgiving him without hesitation.
The courtyard overflowed with people as his brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews joined them for the evening meal in the courtyard. With kisses, stories, and cups of wine, Yeshua reconnected with the family he had abandoned as an adolescent. Shimon, a carpenter with his own workshop, had married a gentile and brought six children into the world. Iosa, a sought-after robe maker, had eluded marriage. The angelic Salome arrived with her husband and two daughters. Miriam was pregnant with her eleventh child. But his brother Tau’ma surprised Yeshua the most. Not yet born when Yeshua had left, he had grown into a near-identical image of the son his parents had thought they lost. Like Yeshua, Tau’ma had pestered the rabbi with unanswerable questions and thus had earned his nickname Tau’ma—which meant “twin” in Aramaic.
As the night wore on, the children grew sleepy and Yakov’s youngest curled up and fell asleep in Yeshua’s lap. Well after nightfall, when the jars of wine were empty, Yakov showed Yeshua to a padded matting filled with hay in a corner of the back room. Worn from an emotional day, Yeshua lay awake listening to the sleeping sounds of his brother’s family. His head spun from the wine, and his stomach resisted the energy of the fish, the first live creature he had eaten in years. In the distance, he heard the voices of fishermen as they splashed their boats into Lake Kinneret. Somewhere, a jealous husband screamed at his wife, upset that other men ogled her in the streets. In the courtyard, Moshe brayed along with the local donkeys, and the sheep seemed to bleat in agreement.
Yeshua felt like a child again. The coarse linen of the matting scratched his skin just the right way, and the familiar scent of dill, thyme, and coriander that permeated the walls brought him comfort. He should have come home sooner. But then he would never have met Pema, his amazing woman who had taught him that all could be forgiven—should be forgiven—just as his family had forgiven him.
Being home was both strange and wonder
ful. Yeshua soon fell back into his role as the oldest son. He helped Ama bring produce from the market and assisted Yakov in the workshop, although it soon became apparent from his throbbing thumb and all the crooked nails that he was better suited for sweeping. He rekindled his relationships with his brothers and sisters and was amazed when learning how much they had in common, despite spending their entire lives in different parts of the world.
He accompanied his mother on long walks along the lake, listening to her memories and soothing her worries. In the evenings, he sat with her by the fire and massaged her painful limbs and healed them with his hands. But when he talked about his journey and told her all he had learned about enlightenment, compassion, and love, Ama patted his head and kissed him as if he were a child talking nonsense.
On the evening of the first Sabbath after his return, Yeshua sat next to his brothers on a mat in the back of the new synagogue. The spacious hall filled with families looking for cool shelter on a hot spring night, and now everyone sat side by side, wiping their sweaty faces with cotton scarves.
The flames from the oil lamps on the rabbi’s pulpit danced in the slight breeze from the narrow windows, throwing glittering traces on the walls. Yeshua closed his eyes and listened to the voice of his beloved rabbi, the potter, whom he had idolized as a child. His teacher had grown old and had not recognized Yeshua as the child who had once followed him around. Still, the light of God shone from within him, and Yeshua found himself swept away in the story of creation. As he listened, he pictured Brahman creating the light and the sky, forming lakes and rivers that Yeshua had passed in his travels. He saw the trees and bushes and flowers that the Wise Lord had created, each with its own seeds for reproduction, and the sun, moon, and stars that had lighted his journey. He thanked the Creator for the animals and birds who had kept him company and for the men and women who had taught him how to be one with all. And last, he thanked Yahweh for the Sabbath, which provided time for rest and a day for prayer and contemplation.
The rabbi’s voice interrupted his meditation. “And we welcome back our long-lost son, Yeshua bar Yosef.”
The rabbi had remembered him after all! Yeshua raised his hand in a wave and peered out at his townsmen. A murmur of surprise spread across the room as everyone stared back at him.
“Yeshua, why don’t you tell us about your travels.” The rabbi gestured for Yeshua to join him in front of the assembly.
Yeshua rose to his feet. He bowed to show his reverence for the rabbi, but remembered that bowing to others was forbidden and quickly straightened his back.
“My friends. Galileans.”
His voice broke with nerves. Aramaic. He had to remember the words. He had taught in Greek, Ladakhi, and even broken Bön, but this was different. Aramaic was his own language. They would scorn him, call him pretentious, if he mixed in foreign words. Yeshua closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and asked God for assistance.
“Our Lord guided me through many lands and showed me the magnificence of his creation. I have seen mountains as tall as the Tower of Babel; they rise so high into the sky that even the air does not reach all the way to the top. I have traveled deserts so dry and wide that my eyes played tricks on me and I saw pools of water appear and disappear where there was only sand. I have met people with no arms or legs and priests who walk around naked. I have ridden on the backs of great gray hogs as tall as camels but with long snouts that curve to the ground. And I have studied with holy men who showed me the key to eternal life. My brothers, fellow sons of the almighty God, I shiver in humility as I assure you that the spirit of God came upon me and told me to be a messenger of his words.”
Yeshua paused to look out at his family and his neighbors.
“I learned about Krishna, an incarnation of God who walked the earth, like Isaiah and Moses and many of our patriarchs and prophets. And like them, Krishna was a reincarnation of God.”
Yeshua closed his eyes, feeling the fire of God’s love burn within him.
“From Krishna’s scriptures, I learned that ignorance stems from our attachment to pleasures. We all want to satisfy our desires. But that will never make us happy.
“I studied the teachings of Lord Buddha, another incarnation of God, who said that when you no longer consider anything yours, you will reach a place of peace. For nothing truly belongs to you. Attachment causes suffering, and only release from desires can bring you peace.”
Yeshua opened his eyes. His townsmen were exchanging puzzled looks. He had to make the connection for them before they lost their patience.
“Like Isaiah, who said we should keep from doing as we please on the Sabbath, the Lord’s holy day, Krishna and Buddha also taught that we may honor God by adhering to his commandments. When we are true to God’s will, we accept him into our hearts and we become one with him.”
The hall filled with confused whispers.
“One with God?”
“Who are these idols he speaks about?”
“He thinks he is God?”
“Do you hear what he’s saying?” A man stood up and turned to the people seated around him. “There is only one God!” he yelled. “Yahweh says we should have no other gods before him!”
From the back, an old man’s shriveled voice rang out. “Isn’t that the son of Yosef, the carpenter?”
Yeshua turned to the man and stretched his arms wide to show modesty. “Yes, I am he, Yeshua bar Yosef.”
“Who gave you the right to preach? You’re a craftsman, not a rabbi.”
“That’s true, I’m not a rabbi.” Yeshua’s heart pounded as he looked at the crowd who had gathered around him. He tried to keep his voice from shaking. He focused on sending love from his very being to the men and women around him. If only they would listen, if only they would give him a chance.
One man grabbed Yeshua’s robe and started dragging him outside. “You’re nothing but a false prophet. Get out!”
Yeshua freed himself from the grasp and pulled away from the man. He tried one more time to explain:
“My friends, of course there is only one God. But he comes in many shapes and forms, and—”
Too late. A crowd of men surrounded him, grabbed his robe by the neck, and hustled him out of the synagogue.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Yeshua fell to the ground, defeated. Bitter tears rolled down his cheeks. For the last two years, he had been set on returning home. It was supposed to be the end of the quest, the place where everything fell into place and his true purpose came to light. He had lived for this moment. His entire journey with hundreds of detours had led him back here; this was where he belonged. And now his own people had thrown him out, discarded him like one of the mad field preachers his father had despised.
At home, Yakov tried to comfort him. “Listen, brother, no prophet is ever welcome in his own hometown. Just as a doctor doesn’t heal his own family.”
But Yakov’s words held no comfort. He might as well give up and become the carpenter he was born to be. He was a nobody.
He had failed as a teacher.
“I’m not going far, Ama,” Yeshua said as he wrapped a couple of tunics into a bundle and stuffed them into a traveling sack. “I have to get away from here to think.”
When his mother lowered her eyes and clutched her chest in sadness, Yeshua’s heart ached with shame. He had disgraced the family yet again. Everywhere they went, everyone was talking about the incident in the synagogue. But despite the pain he had caused her, his mother’s love still showed through.
“Yeshua, why don’t you go to the temple in Jerusalem? Stay with Aunt Elisheba. Renew your faith.”
Yeshua held back his tears and kissed her head. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back before the nights grow colder.”
“And don’t let me see you with tattered clothes again!” Ama called after him as he set off toward the southern shore of Lake Kinneret in his brand-new sandals.
Chapter Twenty-EIGHT
Southern Galile
e, AD 26
By nightfall, Yeshua had reached the mouth of the Jordan River and rolled out his sleeping mat on the bank. Wind whipped his face, and ominous clouds threatened rain. He reached down and splashed the water. When no bulging crocodile eyes appeared, he washed his tunic in the river and hung it in a riparian tree to dry. Relieved to be alone in the wilderness again, away from judging eyes, he lit a fire and asked Yahweh to protect him from lions and cheetahs and other wild animals. He begged God’s forgiveness for wanting to go against the laws of the Torah that clearly taught that the priesthood was reserved for Levites. Then he closed his eyes and drifted into jagged sleep.
The next day he continued his journey. The farther south he walked, the more frequently he heard stories about a Nazirite who initiated his followers by immersing them in the river. Some whispered, their voices full of hope, that this Baptizer might be the Messiah everyone had been anticipating for so long, the one who would save the Yehudim and expel the Romans from the Holy Land.
“The time has come,” they said. “God is angry, and only the Messiah can save us!”
Despite his sadness, Yeshua grew curious and joined the flow of people in search of the holy man.
The Transmigrant Page 21