A.D. 30

by Ted Dekker

  “Forget?”

  He hesitated. “Unfortunately, yes. We forget far too often. But Yeshua’s teaching calls to us still and we remember.” Again, with his finger lifted. “If enslaved to the desire for wealth, let this go. If enslaved by grievance, turn the cheek. If your significance is in being mother or father or wife or husband or child or in having any of these—indeed, if you cling even to your own life—these too let go. Have instead a new mind set upon the kingdom. Do not be anxious, but rather repent—see beyond your old mind, you see? Only have eyes to see what is true beyond what you think. Trust the Father. Then you will master this world with pleasure rather than be mastered by it. Then you will find the power to command any storm.”

  Stephen was a master with words, I thought. He should one day stand before the crowds.

  “You do this?” I asked. “You trust?”

  Stephen stared at me, then shrugged. “As I said, I am only a common man with simple thoughts prone to forget such a simple truth far too often.”

  “I trust,” Sarah said quietly.

  We both turned to her. She’d been sitting as quiet as a flower, minding her own thoughts. And now her tone betrayed no doubt.

  She faced us and spoke in hardly more than a whisper. “I think I trust.”

  “Then you will walk in his kingdom, Sarah,” Stephen said. “There can be no question.”

  The breeze brushed my face. I felt as though I had entered a dream of impossibilities. And yet had I not seen the storm calmed?

  Stephen stood and brushed the pine needles from his cloak. “Now I must prepare.”

  “Prepare for what?”

  He turned to me. “You haven’t heard? For Yeshua, of course. A great many know that he comes today. Today is the day, you will see.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I WAS LYING on my back, staring at the ceiling of our room, when I first heard the commotion. Sarah was with me, and Saba appeared at the door.

  “He is here already, on the other side.”

  Gathering ourselves, we rushed from the house and stopped short at the view. There, just beyond the town, hundreds were hurrying. To where, I didn’t know, but it could only mean he had arrived.

  Sarah was the first to run, and then I, on her heels.

  “Stay close, Maviah!” Saba said. “Stay with me.”

  But I hardly heard him, for I was already caught up, rushing to stay with Sarah, who seemed to have forgotten that she was weak from her illness.

  “Sarah!” I had to follow her—she was my eyes.

  She ignored me, desperate to reach the same destination as everyone else.

  Then we broke over a grassy slope west of the village and Sarah pulled up sharply, so that I ran into her.

  Even with milky vision, the sight took my breath away. A thousand at least had already gathered. More streamed from the slope beyond. Only three months earlier in Capernaum there had been hundreds—now there were sure to be thousands.

  How they loved him! Because he loved them as himself, as if they were he. What you did not do to the least of these, you did not do for me.

  The least among them were those who’d sinned by breaking the law and were now outcast in accordance with their Law as given in their religion. Were they not the sexually deviant and lepers and hungry children and the poor and diseased and sinners of all types that crowded close? Yet Yeshua loved them and honored them—all except those who judged from afar whom he called hypocrties because they were no better deep inside.

  Would he remember me and love me so? At such a distance I would not see his face clearly enough to know. And there were so many.

  They hushed and settled down when they saw the teacher sitting on a large boulder. I too saw, just enough to see that he rested one foot on the rock, knee within the crook of his elbow, allowing the other foot to hang over the edge. He was speaking already, as if addressing only friends on a lazy afternoon. How long had he been here?

  His voice reached me, and I stilled my breathing to hear.

  “Have you not heard me say, no one can serve two masters? Is this not true?”

  No one responded, for they, like me, were held in the grip of his presence already. His voice carried the kind of authority one would not dare resist. They had come to feed on his words and his power, I thought.

  “Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and mammon. Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear.”

  Stephen’s words echoed in my mind. Clearly, Yeshua spoke these truths often.

  He spread a hand wide to indicate the sky.

  “Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”

  How true were those words, I thought. Still, I could not fathom a life so free of worry.

  But he wasn’t done with the matter.

  “And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith?”

  The words crashed through my mind. I craved this faith as I had craved water in the Nafud.

  “So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

  A slight murmur rose at this, for trouble was the way of the Galilean under Rome. I couldn’t tell if they agreed or disagreed with him, perhaps both. My heart was pounding.

  Yeshua still sat on the boulder, one leg cradled in his elbow, the other hanging over the edge. He was tired, perhaps. Or only comfortable.

  “You have heard me say to love your neighbor as yourself, for he too is your brother. I have said to judge not lest you be judged, for the Father judges no man.”

  He paused, looking at those gathered.

  “You have heard me say, ‘Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find.’ If you know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give to those who ask him!”

  My mind filled with this new teaching. Yeshua’s Father was also mine—he’d just said as much. And could I ask him for a gift? How? Must I build an altar?

  “Today I will tell you a story about the Father and his sons, two brothers.”

  He unfolded his leg and pushed himself to his feet, now standing tall upon the rock. Then he lifted a finger and began.

  “There was a man who had two sons. The younger one said to his father, ‘Father, give me my share of the estate.’ So the father divided his property between them. Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country, and there squandered his wealth in wild living.”

  The moment I heard his words, I found myself in the story, for, though not a son, I was a daughter bound to my father’s name.

  “After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine in that whole country, and the younger son began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to a citizen of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed pigs. He longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, but no one gave him anything.”

  He paused. The hill was silent.

  I too was desperate to be fed, so far from my father and in desperate straits.

  Yeshua spoke. “When the son came to his se
nses, he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired servants have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.’ So he got up and went to his father.”

  Tears filled my eyes at his words. What I would give to be accepted into my father’s house! I too had shamed my father in being who I was, and longed only to be honored in his house. All my life I had longed for it.

  And yet I was a daughter, not a son. I was a woman made lower by slavery.

  “But while he was still a long way off”—his voice came louder now, reaching far—“his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him, and kissed him. The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ So they began to celebrate.”

  I could not stop tears from slipping down my cheeks. A terrible knot filled my throat, for I had never known of such a father. Surely the story was about Yeshua’s Father, not my own, nor any other, for Yeshua’s Father did not judge his son.

  A murmur again spread, for the story seemed to be finished. But Yeshua lifted a hand.

  “Meanwhile, the older son was in the field. When he came near the house, he heard music and dancing. So he called one of the servants and asked him what was going on. ‘Your brother has come,’ the servant replied, ‘and your father has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.’ The older brother became angry and refused to go in. So his father went out and pleaded with him. But he answered his father, ‘Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!’ ”

  Yeshua paused, pacing upon that rock, and not a soul dared make a sound. The good son was angry and judged his brother, and therefore refused to go into his father’s house. So now both sons had rejected the father, each in his own way. But would the father judge his firstborn?

  “ ‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ ”

  The master paused.

  “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

  Now a cacophony of questions and exclamations rustled through the crowd. The story was over.

  A ringing sounded in my ears and I felt as though I could not breathe. Three truths seared themselves into my heart at once. The first, that though the sons had separated themselves from their father’s table, first the younger and then the older, both remained sons of their father, possessing everything that belonged to him, for he judged them not and embraced them with equal joy.

  The second, that both sons would find themselves only by letting go, as Stephen had said. The younger son, by letting go of what he thought might make him happy apart from his father. The elder son, by letting go of his grievance against his brother.

  And the third, that I too would give all the life I had to be such a son. Though lost, to be found. And to have such a father. To sit at his table, sharing in all his great honor.

  I was only half aware that one of the disciples had approached Yeshua and quietly spoke to him. Dazed, I watched Yeshua step off the rock and make his way up the far slope. Those seated there scrambled to make a way for him.

  Sarah was already four paces gone when I became aware that she was rushing forward, hurrying through the crowd as Yeshua walked away.

  “Sarah!”

  I ran after her, flogged by worry. There were many people and she was moving quickly. What did she intend to do?

  Saba spoke from my elbow. “We should return, Maviah. He leaves!”

  “Sarah!” I ran faster, determined to stay with her. She seemed to know something I did not.

  Perhaps I hoped that I could share what she had already found.

  We were already running up the far slope when she reached the thick of the crowd and slowed to a fast walk, weaving past people.

  “Maviah, we will come back!” Saba insisted. “There are too many!”

  I pushed forward, close on Sarah’s back, and when I finally caught her, I grabbed on to her cloak.

  She pressed on, now clambering into the throng like a rabbit desperate to make its burrow. I couldn’t see Yeshua—there were too many people on all sides, many who were poor and ill and foul-smelling. None of this mattered to Sarah.

  “Sarah? Please…”

  And then we were upon the inner circle, with many pressing close to Yeshua, touching his arms and garments while his disciples tried to keep a semblance of order about their teacher. He seemed unwilling to send any away.

  There were two women in front of Sarah, between her and Yeshua, and I thought she would push them aside, so desperate did she appear. Instead, being slight, she bent low and shoved her arm between them, and reached for the tassels of Yeshua’s woolen tunic.

  I let loose of her then, surprised by her boldness. And though my vision was blurred, I could not mistake what happened.

  Sarah, having reached far, then stumbled and fell to her knees, panting, with me now several paces behind, Saba by my side. If Yeshua had not stopped, the crowd might have trampled her.

  But he did stop, abruptly, lifting up an arm and looking about.

  “Who touched my clothes?” he asked.

  The crowd hushed and Peter, who stood close enough for me to recognize, looked about.

  “You see the people crowding against you, master. Are they not all touching you?”

  Yeshua turned, searching, and those near him backed up, giving him space. Sarah was on her knees, but at least ten others stood between her and Yeshua.

  I saw her body quietly shaking with sobs.

  I saw Yeshua looking about.

  And I knew already why he was so determined to know who had touched him, though so many had. The thought sent a chill through my bones.

  “Who touched me?” he asked yet again. “I must know. Who?”

  Unable to contain herself, Sarah lunged to her feet and stumbled forward, pushing past the others, then falling to her knees again before Yeshua.

  “It was me, Lord,” she sobbed, clinging to his garment. “Please forgive me.” She lifted her face to him. “I knew. I knew that even touching the hem of your garment would free me. I touched you.”

  For a moment, no one moved.

  “And I felt it leave me as I did,” she wept. “Forgive me. I beg you.”

  I wanted to rush forward and throw myself at his feet too, but I was terrified that I did not have Sarah’s faith. Not even Stephen seemed to.

  Yeshua reached down and touched Sarah on her head. He spoke in a tender voice, as a father might speak to his young child.

  “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.”

  The words crushed me. He had called her Daughter.

  Daughter, your faith has healed you. Yeshua had saved her from her suffering.

  Sarah was weeping with gratitude now, bowed low.

  I was about to run to him, terrified and desperate at once. But one of the disciples took Yeshua’s arm and whispered something in his ear.

  The master nodded, looked at those about him once again, then spoke plainly.

  “I must go now, along with Peter, James, and John. Remember what you have heard and seen here today.”

  And then he turned and left. The people parted for him in silence, as if n
one could resist his will. “Jairus’s daughter is dead,” I overheard someone say. “He goes to see the daughter of the synagogue’s ruler.”

  But I too was a daughter, and I too would surely be dead soon.

  A terrible sorrow swallowed me.

  Yeshua was gone.

  SARAH had been made whole.

  We returned to the house and it took her a long while to find the words to speak of the power she’d felt flowing up her arm and down her spine. Like no sensation she had ever felt, she said. It was a fire that had swept through her body, burning up every trace of her affliction. She still spoke in a meek voice and was yet a frail woman, but in every other respect Sarah seemed to be a giant in my eyes. She seemed to see the world with new vision.

  But she couldn’t find the words to explain how one could gain the faith that had made her whole. Though she could see with new eyes, I was still blinded and outcast.

  Stephen suggested that this display of the master’s power should chase away all my doubts and fill me with great courage. Instead my fear only deepened.

  For I had not been made whole. I had not rushed to touch the hem of his garment. I had failed even here, north of the Sea of Galilee.

  Many were called, as Stephen had said, and I was terrified that I was one of those who could not find the faith to follow.

  When the sun was setting, Saba, quiet from all that he had seen, approached me to ask what I now planned. We didn’t know when Yeshua might return, and Stephen wasn’t to be found, so I didn’t know.

  “I need to be alone for a while, Saba.”

  He dipped his head. “As you wish. But then perhaps we might find another way. Aretas waits.”

  “Do you think I don’t know this?” I snapped.

  “The tiger crouches. You find yourself lost in fear.”

  “The tiger is Aretas and it is you who remind me of my fear!”