by Ted Dekker
“And you?”
“Beelzebul does not restore sight to the blind and speak of being born yet once more, though born already.”
“You see?” Peter said, lifting a hand in exasperation. “What is a fisherman to make of this? Words upon words that mean what they do not mean. Born but not born—it makes my head spin.”
Judah appeared perplexed. The Pharisee regarded him and offered more, but his voice softened, as if he was now sharing a deep secret.
“I went to Yeshua not so long ago in private to ask of these matters, that I might see, because he speaks of a new kind of sight. He told me then that one cannot see the kingdom of God unless he is born—not once—but yet again. The same kingdom that is now among us and within us cannot be seen with human eyes. He said it is like the wind, which cannot be seen, and yet is here, now. Only with new eyes can one see it.”
“Reborn? As a Jew?” Judah pressed.
“Born of spirit, in the world of spirit, which is this kingdom of heaven. As I said, this is the way mystics speak. I believe this is what he means when he speaks of eternal life. Not simply a place in the resurrection, but also a realm within us at present. The eternal has no beginning and no end, you see? It is already. His power comes from this eternal realm. Heaven. And he invites all to follow him.”
“He said this?”
“Not in so many words,” the Pharisee said. “But as I’ve pondered his words, it’s the only explanation that sits with me. Few will find this kingdom within, he says. To do so, one must follow him, because he is the way to the Father. Those who follow him will have this same power as they are birthed into this eternal realm of heaven within.”
Judah seemed at a loss.
The Pharisee spoke barely above a whisper now, as though afraid his words might carry beyond the walls. “With Yeshua, God seems to be intimate, as though breath itself. The rabbi calls him even Abba. And we his children, to be born not of Abraham but of Spirit. Such things are not spoken elsewhere. And yet he asks us to follow.”
“But to follow where?” Judah demanded.
“This too is a mystery.” The Pharisee sighed. “You must understand… to have faith is to let go of knowledge as the means to salvation. To do so, one must embrace trust and mystery rather than make knowledge one’s god, as the Gnostics wrongly do. It is not where that matters so much as simply following. Faith, you see? Trust, like a child. It confounds the mind.”
Something in the Pharisee’s soft-spoken words struck a chord of intrigue deep within me. Such concepts were far too lofty for me to understand. And yet they pulled at me like an ancient memory.
“What good is a path without a destination on earth and what good is a kingdom if not made real to overthrow the Romans?” Judah said, standing once again.
“Perhaps he means this as well,” Andrew said.
Judah paced, hand in his beard. “He must!”
“Yes and no,” the Pharisee said. “Not yet and already. Paradoxes all, understood only by the heart, beyond the mind.” He paused for a moment, perhaps expecting Judah to challenge him, then pushed on.
“But what can I know, for I am only a teacher of the Law, and Yeshua fulfills that Law by overturning it always. If he is from God, then all we think we know is now suspect. His is a dangerous path to follow, requiring trust, not knowledge.”
“And you,” Judah said, “do you see this kingdom you describe so well?”
The Pharisee was careful with his reply.
“No. I only say what has come to me upon much reflection. In the larger part, his words offend all that I once knew. But I cannot deny the authority with which he presents himself, and so I dare find myself here yet again. Surely it’s why we’re all here when we might be in our appointed places, breaking bread.”
They grew silent. It occurred to me that Judah might come to check on me. So I returned to the courtyard door and quietly eased it open.
“You are missing something,” Judah said, sitting. “A kingdom requires a king and a king rules on earth. I did not come to find one who turns the cheek while Rome punishes God’s children.”
Then I was out in the cold, knowing that Judah had found less than he’d hoped for. I was thankful that Phasa, who paced beside Saba across the courtyard, had heard none of this talk.
She stopped and faced me as I approached. By the light of the rising moon, I could see that her mood had not brightened in my absence.
“Well?”
“Nothing. They talk of religion.”
“Then you must return and tell them we would have a place to sleep. I find this intolerable. Ten hours under the hot sun on camel and over the sea—”
“It’s nothing compared to two weeks through the Nafud,” I said. Only a week earlier I wouldn’t have dared speak so boldly, but our familiarity had rid me of my fear. “Forgive me, Phasa, but we are all worn.”
She stared at me for a long moment, then offered a conciliatory nod and crossed her arms. There was nothing more to say.
Truly, I felt as drained and as hopeless as she, for after such disappointment we did not have even a fire to warm us. Judah had all but forgotten us, so taken was he with his Messiah, who, by the sound of it, would only lead him to unanswerable riddles and nonsense.
I was lost in a moment of self-pity when the gate behind us creaked and I turned to see a man of average height step into the courtyard and close the gate behind him. My first thought was that the sage had finally arrived, but by all appearances this man in his simple tunic was yet another fisherman. A mantle was draped over his head for warmth, shielding his face.
We watched from the shadows as the man walked toward the house in even, measured steps, arms folded with a hand buried in each sleeve. He did not hurry. He did not look up. He did not seem to notice that he wasn’t alone. He moved like a man who bore the weight of a long day upon his shoulders. Perhaps he was another disciple who’d been summoned.
Perhaps they were all beginning to wonder who their leader really was.
The man reached the door and stopped, his back to us lit by a full moon. For a long moment he remained perfectly still, as if trying to decide whether to enter.
Slowly his head turned toward us. Moonlight lit his face as he stared at us from beneath his mantle.
The moment I looked into the brown eyes of this man, I knew that Yeshua of Nazareth could surely see into my soul and know my every thought.
I knew that he could see into my soul because I felt it being laid bare before me. I knew that he was Yeshua because I was sure that only the most powerful mystic could at once pierce me with such a singular gaze and leave me feeling perfectly safe and unscathed.
The night was still.
He knew me. He knew me through and through and he found no shame in me.
“Two queens sit out in the open,” he said in a soft, rhythmic tone. “And yet the fox who hunts you is not so far away.”
He knew who Phasa was? I thought to glance at her, to see if she saw him as I did, but I could not remove my eyes from his gaze.
He offered a faint smile and dipped his head. “It’s warmer inside. Come. Eat at my table. I will give you food.”
Then he turned, opened the door, stepped past the threshold, and vanished into the tax collector’s home.
Judah’s king had arrived.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I COULD NOT see the fox so far from the desert, nor understand how grave was the threat that hunted me, as I stood speechless with Phasa and Saba under the moon.
My mind was taken captive by Yeshua’s presence, not by his words. My first encounter with him, all through that evening and the next day, was characterized by something far greater than wisdom or knowledge.
After all, I was not well versed in the religion of the Jews. How could I understand all their clever talk? I was only a woman from the desert. I heard Yeshua with my heart far more clearly than with my mind. I can’t say that I even made much of an attempt to understand his meaning. If such
a thing was beyond the grasp of the learned Pharisee, it was for me beyond the stars, cloaked in mystery.
But it made no matter, for it wasn’t Yeshua’s words that made him.
It was the power of his presence. And how great was that power indeed.
I don’t remember following Yeshua into the house with Phasa and Saba, only entering the room to find all five men standing in silence as Yeshua embraced each in turn. Behind me Phasa and Saba breathed steadily, watching over my shoulder.
But Yeshua did not simply offer the customary greeting. His embrace surrounded each man as if only they two existed. He the master and each his sole devout follower. Each bowed in turn, offering only one word.
“Master.”
He neither sought nor rejected the title, but dipped his head in simple acceptance. Even the Pharisee, so esteemed in Jerusalem, might as well have been a cub before a lion here in Galilee.
Yeshua turned to Judah, who had backed away from the table and there stood as stone, eyes like moons.
“You too are from the desert,” Yeshua said.
Judah appeared too struck to speak.
“It’s been a very long journey, my Bedu friend,” Yeshua said, wearing the hint of a smile. “Judah is a good name. I am honored.”
How he knew Judah’s name, I could not guess.
Overcome, Judah fell to his knees and bowed his head.
“I am your humble slave! Send me and I will go. Call for me and I will come. My sword is yours and my heart rests in your hands. Use it as you will.”
Seemingly intrigued, Yeshua raised his brow and turned his eyes toward the one called Peter. Despite the fisherman’s questions regarding his master, they shared a special bond, I thought. Peter seemed to be a simple and kind man, filled with more passion than knowledge. Evidently Yeshua found his qualities appealing.
“Then lift your head and give me your heart as brother, not slave,” Yeshua said to Judah.
Judah did so immediately, eyes misted. He grasped Yeshua’s hand and kissed it.
“I am yours,” he said. Then kissed the hand again. “I am utterly yours.”
Yeshua gently placed his hand on Judah’s head. “Rise and eat. Tomorrow brings its own temptations and troubles. Tonight we break bread and drink wine.”
Yeshua looked at me and the others at my back, and then, without so much as casting a glance to the Pharisee standing at the far end of the table, spoke to him.
“Before I came tonight, you were inquiring of the kingdom of heaven, Nicodemus?”
The answer came haltingly from the Pharisee, for they knew Yeshua could not have heard them.
“Yes, Rabbi.”
Yeshua kept his eyes on me until I thought I might not breathe.
“We are honored to have guests from another kingdom so distant. Honor them with your seat, my friend, and I will tell you what you long to hear.”
I might have protested had I not been so disordered by my own emotions. According to Phasa, foreigners could never sit at a Pharisee’s table, much less take the seat of honor, for in their tradition all foreigners were gentiles and evildoers. And we, two women, all the worse. Neither their customs nor their god would look upon it kindly.
“Of course,” Nicodemus muttered.
Yeshua nodded at Phasa. “You will be safe here. Your covering is not required.” He passed a bowl of water but did not wash his own hands before sitting on the stone bench across from Judah.
Levi ushered us to the table without making eye contact, allowing Saba to sit at the end and Phasa and me to sit on either side, at the corners. Phasa moved haltingly, without removing her covering, surely terrified that she was known and at the mercy of conspirators.
To all this Yeshua paid no mind, occupied instead with uncovering the food and pouring the wine. He gave me a glance and an encouraging smile as we were seated.
His eyes were brown, but to describe them so misses the point. They did not look at me; they swallowed me. They cherished me. With even one glance from him, the world seemed to still and shift. How can such a thing be described with mere words?
I don’t recall their blessing of the food, only that there was one. Nor can I recount the small talk, for there was little. Nor any weighty talk, for they all seemed to be waiting. Yeshua did not immediately offer any teaching on the kingdom, occupied for the moment with each bite of his food.
Phasa finally slipped the covering from her face so that she could eat, but she left the mantle over her head. She looked at me with the eyes of a child but remained silent, as did Saba.
I watched Yeshua’s strong hands as he tore off bread and dipped it first into olive oil, then vinegar before eating. I watched his throat as he swallowed, and his mouth as he chewed. His light-brown eyes, glinting warmly by the firelight. The way he lifted his cup and drank.
I didn’t see him the way a woman sees a man, but as a mystic who had seen things I couldn’t begin to fathom—one who could affect my heart from across the table without so much as a look.
And yet certainly a man, perhaps not yet thirty.
One who was hungry and thirsty and enjoyed food, particularly the ripest of the olives and figs.
A man with dust on his cloak and hair, tangled by the wind in the hills where he’d gone for his contemplations. A man who looked bone-weary save for his bright eyes, which shone with a life that could not be extinguished. I wondered what was in his mind as he ate. What had his childhood been like? What did he think of his mother, Miriam? Why had his brothers dismissed him as a madman? What kind of suffering had delivered him to this place? What kind of woman had he loved or married, if any? What was he like when he became angry or when he wept?
I dared watch him, wondering if he knew my thoughts as well, not caring if the men thought my gaze offensive, for I knew that their master did not.
I knew men to exchange the news while eating food, always, but in that room even Judah remained silent. There were only the sounds of eating and the occasional comment regarding the food or the weather. Few remarks were added except a “Yes, of course,” or a “Very good, yes, very good indeed.”
They were waiting. Waiting for Yeshua. We were all waiting.
We were this way for perhaps half of the hour before matters of significance were finally set upon the table by Judah, the lion who had anticipated this night for so long.
“Master…” He leaned into the table, voice low and intent. “I have come from—”
“Yes, Judah,” Yeshua said, lifting his intriguing eyes to him. “And you too wish to know what Nicodemus has come to understand.”
Judah glanced at the Pharisee. “Yes.”
The master reached for a fig and turned it in his fingers. Not a soul stirred.
“My Father has hidden these things from the wise and intelligent and revealed them to infants. Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”
In response to this Judah only stared. I assumed Yeshua meant that one could not enter this kingdom of heaven without first becoming like a trusting child. Did an infant have great intellect? Then the mind must be changed to be like that of a child who simply trusted. This then was his way, as the Pharisee had suggested. And even if I was mistaken, I could not doubt that he spoke the truth because of the unwavering surety and gentleness with which he uttered each word.
Yeshua looked from one of us to another, gathering each of us in his gaze.
“And yet you wish to know more of the kingdom of heaven.” A mischievous sparkle lit his eyes, daring us to hear. “Then know that it is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field.”
This then was one of his parables—these moshel, as suggested by Nicodemus earlier—and the master said it as if its meaning should be unmistakable.
But he said more.
“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. W
hen he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.”
In the shortest order Yeshua had chided the great wisdom of Nicodemus, first by suggesting that he must indeed become like an infant yet again, to see with new eyes. And then by suggesting that the kingdom was within, buried from sight, found only by those who would forsake all for its value.
“You have heard me say, ‘Do not store up for yourself treasures on earth where moths and vermin destroy… but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.’ And so it is. But have I not also said that the kingdom of God is within you? And have I not said that you cannot enter unless you change your mind? For I have said often, repent, for the kingdom is at hand. Then you will see and know that what I say is true.”
To repent meant to go beyond one’s way of thinking, this I knew also from the Greek of the same word, metanoia. In his own way, Yeshua was throwing into madness all that was held dear about wisdom, thereby making it foolish to the learned, and wise only to the infant.
“Faith,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.” He paused. “If anyone steadfastly believes in me, he will himself be able to do the things that I do; and he will do even greater things than these.”
If there had been a mustard seed in his fingers and he’d dropped it, I think we might have heard it strike the table in that moment. What did it mean to trust steadfastly in him? I did not yet know.
“Hear what I have said and you will know. Yes, Nicodemus?”
The esteemed teacher dipped his head. “As you say, Ra—”
“Good. Now let me tell you a story of another kind,” Yeshua said.
He took a small bite from the fig and leaned against the wall at his back.
“The kingdom of heaven is like a man going on a journey, who called his servants and entrusted his wealth to them. To one he gave five bags of gold, to another two bags, and to another one bag, each according to his ability. Then he went on his journey.”
