A.D. 33

by Ted Dekker

  “You do not know this god.” Saba stared ahead, resolved. “I can feel him.”

  The afternoon became perfectly quiet. A light breeze cooled my neck. The skin on my arms prickled, as if by an unseen power. Saba was right, I thought.

  “His realm is not of this world,” I said, and I nudged my camel, who snorted once and plodded on.

  We rode three abreast into Bethany. When we’d arrived in Nazareth two years earlier, the children had run out to beg, but here we were barely noticed. Perhaps because, unlike Nazareth, Bethany was so close to a large city and accustomed to travelers.

  But where might we find him? Arim was the one to ask.

  “You there,” he said to a boy dressed in rags, hurrying past. “Is the prophet god called Yeshua near?”

  The boy stopped, hesitated a moment, then pointed to a house at the edge of the village, back the way we had come. “You have gone too far,” he said. “Lazarus, there.”

  Arim drew his camel about. “Lazarus, you say?”

  But the boy was already running off.

  “Arim?”

  “Yes, my queen.”

  “Do not call him god aloud in this land. They would stone him.”

  “Forgive me, Maviah. I will call him prophet only, though you call him a god.”

  Arim could not yet understand. And could I?

  “It is mystery,” I said. “The mind cannot fully understand.”

  The house of Lazarus sat by itself, a modest yet relatively clean hovel attached by a courtyard to another home behind it. Two goats chewed on stubborn tufts of grass along the wall. A large shade tree rose from a garden beyond the house, spreading its branches over the courtyard.

  Soft voices reached us from within.

  Without waiting for me, Saba dropped from his camel and strode for the gate. But before he could reach it, the door was flung wide and a man dressed in a simple tunic and sandals stepped out, head down, intent on his passage.

  He took two steps and pulled up sharply, seeing us and our five camels. His eyes went from Saba to me. I recognized him immediately.

  “Stephen?”

  “What is this?” he cried, rushing up to Saba as I slid from my saddle. “Saba, my old friend!” Stephen clasped his arms and kissed his cheeks. “What joy has visited me this day!” Then he kissed Saba again.

  “It is good to see you, my friend.” Saba dipped his head, grinning.

  “Maviah!” Stephen stepped around Saba, pressed his hands together, and offered me a bow. “The queen of the desert has returned as bright as the morning star.” He spread his arms wide. “Welcome, my dear friends, to the land of splendor!”

  I hurried up to him and clasped his arms, overcome by gratitude, because Stephen was like a brother to me. He was also the certain way to an audience with Yeshua.

  “Thank you, Stephen! Thank you.” Tears sprang to my eyes unbidden.

  He stared at me, quieted by my outburst, then glanced at Arim, who had dismounted and stood holding the camels’ lead ropes.

  Stephen looked into my eyes. “You’ve come with a heavy heart, dear Maviah.”

  Was it so obvious? But to Stephen, it would be.

  “I must find Yeshua,” I said. “My son…” There was too much to say.

  “You have a son? With Judah?”

  “No. I’ve taken an orphan as my own.”

  “Then you must not fear. The kingdom of the sons is upon us. There is much to speak about! Everything is changing, my friends. Everything!” He motioned me toward the house. “Come, all of you. You must meet the others. Leave the camels. No one will steal here in Bethany.”

  He grabbed Saba’s arm and was halfway to the house before turning back to Arim. “Forgive me. And what is your name?”

  “I am Arim, protector of my queen, Maviah of Dumah.”

  “And I am Stephen ben Gamil, slave of Yeshua, who is king of the world. Come!”

  Even as I approached the gate I became certain that when I stepped into the courtyard, I would find Yeshua. If his presence was like a warm breeze laced with spice, it was in the air already.

  But there was no breeze in the courtyard. Nor any scent but that of baking bread. And there was no sign of the master.

  Instead, I saw two women seated on a mat, quietly weaving, and two men at an old table, eating dates. One of the men was thin, with a graying beard and no more than rags on his bones. The other man was younger and well groomed. He wore a dark beard and a threadbare brown cloak.

  Both paused their quiet conversation and turned to us. The eyes of the younger man were amber like honey, and I found myself bound to them for a moment before remembering myself and looking away.

  “May I present Saba, mightiest warrior in all of Arabia; Maviah, queen of Dumah; and her protector, Arim,” Stephen said, stepping to one side. “They are dear friends to us all, disciples of the master.”

  The two women had stopped their weaving and looked up. Both wore head coverings, as was the Jewish way for all women, and plain dresses. Sisters, I thought—their faces mirrored each other.

  There was mystery in all of their eyes, I thought. Something wonderful and inviting. They, like Stephen, were close to Yeshua.

  None spoke, but their hearts pulled me in. After so long on the dry sands, Saba and I had finally returned to those rare companions who understood what the Bedu could not.

  Stephen introduced each in turn.

  “This is Lazarus,” he said, indicating the younger man, and our dear friend Simon the leper, though as you can see, his skin is now like a child’s.”

  The old man flashed a sheepish, nearly toothless smile. I was immediately taken by him.

  “This is Martha and her sister Mary. They are both sisters to Lazarus.”

  The woman called Martha was the first to stand and hurry toward us. Then Mary, though she held back, watching me tenderly.

  “Welcome to our home,” Martha said, offering me a kiss. Then they all approached with customary greetings, Mary the last. There was a quality about Lazarus that I could not fathom. Perhaps the secret lay in his eyes.

  “They call you the leper?” Arim asked, staring at the old man who’d hobbled over. “I see no disease.”

  Simon had worn his grin since Stephen’s introduction. “I am called the leper because I was always called Simon the leper. I do not wish my brothers to see me differently.”

  “You were a leper, then? How is this disease gone?”

  “Yeshua,” the old man said. “The healer.”

  “This is not the half of it, Arim,” Stephen said. “Come, you must be hungry. Martha, give them water. Sit, sit…We have much to discuss. Yeshua comes for a feast at Simon’s house tonight!”

  “Tonight?” I said.

  “Tonight! But first, sit. Maviah, tell us your troubles.”

  At Stephen’s coaxing, I told them my story with help from Saba, who came alive among them. He told his story as well. And Arim, his, though this took only a few minutes.

  There were chairs for only six. Martha busied herself in preparing dough for flatbread, interjecting questions freely, offering gasps when surprised and clucks of the tongue when sympathetic. Mary sat on the mat, weaving quietly, hardly speaking a word.

  They were silent for a moment when we finished.

  “Do not worry, Maviah,” Stephen said. “Yeshua will know. You will see. He comes this very night and you will know what you must do. And you, Saba, who have become wise beyond most. And you, Arim—Yeshua vanquishes death for all.”

  Mary pushed herself to her feet and approached the table. She took my hand. “Will you walk with me?”

  I glanced at Stephen.

  “Go,” he said. “We men will talk among ourselves. Go with Mary.”

  “And me?” Martha asked. “Am I man to remain?”

  “No, Martha. You will prepare, will you not?” He smiled at me. “At times I think Yeshua comes to Bethany mainly to eat Martha’s bread. This is her gift to us all.”

  Marth
a arched her brow, but she was pleased by Stephen’s praise. “He comes for mine, and the rest of the world comes for his bread.” Her eyes fell on Lazarus. “For life itself.”

  “Come,” Mary said.

  She led me by my hand through a gate into a field with scattered olive trees. Ahead, a path cut back and forth up the large hill that they called the Mount of Olives.

  We walked together hand in hand, like two sisters, Mary at peace. I couldn’t begin to guess her intentions. How wonderfully unique were these poor in Bethany.

  Just beyond the homes, we crested a knoll and came to a grove. Mary smoothed her dress and sat on a patch of grass beneath a sprawling olive tree, patting the ground.

  “Sit with me, Maviah.”

  I lowered myself to the grass beside her.

  “Your name is similar to my own,” she said, smiling. “If you lived in Israel, we could be sisters.”

  I was drawn by her soft tone. “I would like that.”

  “I cannot imagine what it’s like to live where you do. And to be queen to so many outcasts. You are not married?”

  “I was to be married to Judah.”

  “But of course. I’m so sorry. Then you might now marry Saba.”

  “Saba?”

  She was smiling. “I see his eyes. Not even the strongest man can hide admiration.”

  “Saba is a beautiful man, but my protector. And my sage.” Yet hearing her put it so plainly, I knew that he was becoming more to me.

  “Then better,” she said. “A man who nurtures you with mind and body. You must snatch him up!”

  I blushed.

  “What of you? So beautiful and still young yet I see no husband. And Martha.”

  Her smile softened. “It’s not easy for those who have been shamed and unclean. We are cast aside and can never marry.”

  Why, I didn’t know—perhaps she too had been a leper, I thought. Or an offender of the Law in some unforgivable way. She didn’t elaborate and I respected her silence.

  “But Yeshua sees no stain,” she said, gazing past me. “I saw it immediately, when he first came to Bethany long ago. He breaks all tradition by teaching women at his table. My sister was at first angry that I should sit at his feet with the men while she prepared food. Do you know what Yeshua said to her?”

  “Tell me.”

  She lifted a finger as if scolding. “‘You are worried and upset about many things, Martha. But only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better and it will not be taken away from her.’ Imagine that!”

  “I can,” I said. “I have eaten with him as well.” Memory of our meal in Capernaum returned to me in vivid color. “So what do you think he meant by one thing?”

  “Only knowing the Father matters,” she said, as if this truth was plain. “But to Yeshua this knowledge is not like common knowledge. It is to know intimately, as a woman knows a man. I think this truth is more easily seen by women than men.”

  “How so?”

  She shrugged. “Men rule over women with judgment.” She frowned and continued in a stern voice. “Walk this way. Don’t be seen! Be silent! Shame on you! And they make God in the same stern image. They respect written codes and abounding knowledge. Women live more from the heart, don’t you think?”

  “I would say yes. If allowed.”

  “So it’s the same in Arabia?”

  “In many ways, yes.”

  She nodded. “Yeshua offers no judgment and speaks of the Father in the same way. The very code that men lord over women, Yeshua upends. If Yeshua speaks out against any, it’s only against the brood of vipers who judge others.”

  I recalled his teaching against the Pharisees.

  “For someone so shamed as me,” Mary said, “this is good news.” She plucked a blade of grass. “I worry for him.”

  “For Yeshua?”

  “Those in power hate him. His power terrifies them. They would stone him for blasphemy.”

  “Saba says that Yeshua cannot be killed.”

  “Perhaps he is right—he has said, ‘Everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.’”

  “Yeshua says this?”

  “Yes.”

  So then Saba was correct. I could hardly fathom it.

  “Still, I worry for him,” she said. “He seems to acknowledge the threat against him more. It drives him underground, to small villages. Too many follow him during the day for the authorities to strike, but he must be very careful at night. He avoids Jerusalem.”

  This surprised me. “Yeshua is afraid?”

  “No. He’s more resolute than ever. But still…I worry. I worry even as his mother in Nazareth worries.” She turned her eyes to me. “Even as you fear for your son.”

  I was suddenly taken back to Nazareth, where I had wept on the shoulder of Yeshua’s mother, Miriam, after losing my first son. And then my mind went to an image of Talya, so precious, so innocent, singing high on the rock about Eden.

  Then an image of him muzzled and bound on the platform under Kahil’s ruthless glare. A lump gathered in my throat.

  “I am so sorry for your loss, Maviah. My heart weeps with yours.” Mary took my hand in hers. “Miriam comes from Nazareth soon. I have known no greater woman. She comforted you once. She will again.”

  But my sorrow would not wait for the mother of Yeshua. I was gripped by a sudden urge to rush back to Dumah to rescue my son.

  “I brought you here to tell you a story. Would you like to hear it?”

  When I didn’t immediately respond, she pressed.

  “It will lift your heart.”

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me…”

  Mary drew a deep breath.

  “Not so long ago, my brother, Lazarus, whom Yeshua loves dearly, fell ill. Desperately ill. Filled with fear, we sent word to him, knowing that if Yeshua knew, he would surely come. But Lazarus died before word reached him.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes. Lazarus died of terrible illness. When Yeshua heard, he told Thomas and the others that Lazarus had only fallen asleep and that he would awaken him. But his disciples didn’t want to undertake such a long journey only to awaken a man. Yeshua then told them plainly that Lazarus was dead and they must go to wake him. In Yeshua’s mind, sleep and death are the same. This is a mystery to me.”

  I blinked. “So which was it? Was he asleep or was he dead?”

  “He was dead, I can attest to that. Dead and buried for four days by the time Yeshua arrived.”

  “Buried where?”

  “In a cave among the other tombs.” She pointed to the south. “I will show you, if you like. He was there—we buried him ourselves.”

  She took a breath.

  “Martha rushed here, to this very grove, to meet him. She was overcome. He was waiting for her. Hearing her anguish, Yeshua comforted Martha and told her Lazarus would rise again.”

  “She believed him?”

  “I don’t know. But she hurried back and found me. So I ran to him here and fell at his feet. By then others had heard and followed me.” Her voice was soft and distant. “I was weeping, as were others, still in mourning. And in my anguish, I was beside myself. I accused him. I said, ‘If you’d been here, my brother wouldn’t have died.’”

  How deep was their relationship that she could speak such words to one so esteemed? I was mesmerized by her story.

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  Mary looked at me and I saw tears in her eyes.

  “He wept. He wept as I wept. As you weep for your son. My heart broke. I’d questioned the loyalty of the only man who has truly loved me, you understand.”

  “Yes. I think I do.”

  Mary toyed with the stalk of grass in her hand.

  “He was weeping for me, Maviah. The others thought he was weeping for Lazarus, because he loved Lazarus so deeply—they are like brothers. But Yeshua already knew that my brother was dead. He knew in Galilee. It wasn’t until he saw
me weeping that he wept.”

  She swallowed deep emotion. Her admiration for Yeshua was palpable.

  “He doesn’t weep for his own loss,” she managed to say, “but in compassion for us. For me. Seeing my anguish, he wept.”

  The one who had cautioned his own disciples for their lack of faith and then calmed the storm with a word had wept with Mary.

  With a woman.

  “And after that?”

  “We took him to the tomb.”

  “And he raised your brother?” I knew already, but part of me still couldn’t quite accept it.

  She sniffed and gathered herself.

  “Yeshua told us to take away the stone. Martha objected, fearing the stench. Only then did Yeshua point out her lack of belief. So they took the stone away. And yes, we could smell the death.”

  She stopped.

  “Then?”

  When Mary faced me this time, her face was bright. My heart beat heavily.

  “He thanked the Father so that all could hear. For our benefit, so that we would know his authority.”

  “And?” I was eager for more.

  “I will never forget it,” Mary said, scrambling to her feet.

  She faced the tree and set her jaw. “He spoke to my brother there in the grave.” She was pointing at the tree as if it were the tomb. “He called out to him, commanding in a voice that might scatter goats.” She spread her arms now, legs planted firmly beneath her, and leaned into her cry. “‘Lazarus, come out!’” Mary glanced at me. “Just like that: ‘Lazarus! Come out!’”

  “He just came out?”

  “I saw his arm first, bound with the very linen that I had wrapped around his flesh. My heart was leaping in my breast. Then he came out, still in linen.”

  Mary lowered her arms and turned to me. She lifted her finger, making her point certain.

  “This, Maviah, is the power of Yeshua! My brother, Lazarus, was dead, but Yeshua raised him from that death.”

  I didn’t know what to say. My fingers were trembling. I pushed myself to my feet, mind still caught up in my imaginations of such a scene. But there could be no doubt—Lazarus was buried four days and yet I had just met him. And in seeing him I had known that he contained a mysterious life.

  “You see?” Mary said. “It was a message to us all. Yeshua came to Bethany to awaken my brother, who had perished. So you must not be worried for your son. Not even death can defeat us!”