A.D. 30

by Ted Dekker

  “Then you must believe the mystic with full confidence. He is truly a man who can command your troubles.”

  But I wasn’t the queen Saba thought I was or could be. Truly, I despised my weakness.

  “I know you mean well, Saba. But I’m forever enslaved.”

  I couldn’t even see his eyes to know his reaction.

  “Please… leave me.”

  “As you wish.” He left me to my own torment.

  Sarah was in the courtyard and must have overheard, but I wasn’t interested in her telling me that I needed to trust Yeshua. I only wanted to be alone. So I gathered my shawl and wrapped my cloak around my shoulders, then I slipped out the back.

  Under a full moon, the night was still save for the chirping of insects and the distant sound of a dog barking. There was a grove of olive trees on the rise behind the house and I headed to it, knowing I would find solace there, where no man walked at night.

  Alone under a tree at the center of the grove, I sank to the ground, pulled my legs up under my chin, and I let myself mourn as I had in the dungeons of Petra.

  I mourned for my dead son and for Judah and for Rami. But now I mourned mostly for myself, proving the fullness of my weakness.

  The burden that the world had placed on me as a daughter to the wrong mother was too great. That same burden now crushed me as Maviah, daughter of Rami, from whom far too much was expected.

  For a long time, I rocked there beneath the tree, counting up all the evidence that blamed the world for my misery. Yes, I was gathering grievances, but it gave me the only meaning I could find.

  I fed my self-pity with hot tears of anger.

  Overcome with sorrow, I settled to my side, lay my head on my hands, and let my tears flow until merciful sleep stole my mind.

  THE DREAM CAME after many other smaller dreams, each accusing me of my faults.

  I was in Elias’s boat, and the dark seas raged about me like crouching jinn, snarling and foaming at the mouth. I spun around and saw that I was alone. The sky had turned black and the wind howled like rabid dogs with jagged teeth to shred the boat and rip the flesh from my bones.

  Trembling, I clung to the mast with both arms, terrified for my life.

  “Save me!” I cried, but the storm crushed my words with cracking thunder, denouncing me for my weakness.

  Images rose up from those waves. My father, cursing my mother and throwing me to the slave traders as an infant. My master in Egypt, banishing me and sending me into the desert. Kahil, tossing my son from the window. Judah, beaten and bloody. A dungeon, imprisoning me in Petra. Sand pressed into my eyes, blinding me.

  My own blood flowing, reminding me that I was only a woman.

  The waves fell upon the boat and tore me from the mast, throwing me into the bottom of the boat. I gasped, gulping water. I would drown! It was too much for me. I was going to drown!

  And then, in the way dreams can change, the water became my own tears, and I was drowning in wretched sorrow and self-pity. But I could not stand it, so I turned my sorrow into anger, then into such rage as I had never known.

  I faced the black sky and I screamed my grievance, one arm around the mast again, one fist raised over my head. “I curse you, Rami! I curse you for throwing me away! I hate you!”

  My words surprised me, for I had never allowed myself such words.

  “I curse all the kingdoms who crush me! I curse the gods and the kings. I curse all men for enslaving me! I curse…”

  The sea rose up beneath the boat like a mighty fist, thrusting it high, and my words caught in my throat. I could see that still larger waves were fast approaching, sure to hammer the boat to splinters.

  Thunder roared. The wave fell away. The boat dropped and slammed into the sea with a shuddering blow.

  And with that blow, a moment of calm came. I heard a gentle, consoling voice behind me at the bow.

  “Maviah…”

  I twisted to see Yeshua standing at the bow, feet planted—one upon the wooden seat, the other upon the leading tip of the boat. He was, gazing out at the horizon as if there were no storm.

  Once again the wind blew, lifting his hair and tearing at his cloak. If he noticed, he showed no sign of it.

  “Maviah… the one who feels so lowly among women. A slave among men. The least of all, so unworthy and afraid.”

  I was too stunned to speak.

  “Do you still see all of this as great trouble where I see none?” he asked, slowly turning to face me. “Only because you see with a plank of judgment in your eye.”

  In that dream my vision was clear and I could see Yeshua’s eyes, wells of endless peace and power, beckoning me to enter another realm. But he was saying I still could not see.

  “In these waves that threaten to crush you, you still perceive darkness, and how deep is that darkness.”

  I could not speak. His teaching from Capernaum haunted me. The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness.

  “Why do you fear, Maviah?”

  He smiled as if addressing a child distracted by her own silliness.

  “Why do you hate?”

  Hate? Did I hate?

  “I…” It was all I could muster.

  “Because you see only darkness. You are blind.” He set his foot down into the hull and took a step toward me, shifting his gaze to the raging waves, unconcerned. “So you suffer. And how deep is that suffering. But this is the path you too must follow.”

  When he faced me again, the compassion and power in his eyes seemed to swallow me. I could not doubt that I was looking at more than a mere man.

  “To the Hebrews it will one day be written of me: ‘During the days of Yeshua’s life on earth, he offered up prayers and petitions with fervent cries and tears… and he was heard because of his reverent submission.’ ”

  A hint of sorrow crossed his face.

  “Tears and submission, Maviah. Can you too submit your fear of death to the Father? Can you learn to trust? Can you follow the way into the kingdom of heaven where nothing can harm you?”

  I must, I thought. I must… but I couldn’t speak.

  “They will also write of me: ‘Son though he was, he learned obedience from what he suffered.’ It will be written that I too learned to obey because it is true. What then do you think is my advantage over you? If my path is with learning and tears and submission, can you not follow that same path? You too can learn. You too can see past your troubles. They are like the waves you believe threaten this boat. You too can find freedom from the storm. You too can walk on troubled waters. Only then you will see that my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

  In those words I found my first measure of comfort, because it meant he was like me. If he did it, could not I?

  “Follow me, Daughter. Follow me on the narrow path so few ever find. Follow me because I am the way.”

  I suddenly wanted only this. I wanted to follow this teacher, this mystic, this son of the Father, this man who was surely more than a mere man, though he suffered as did I. Nothing else seemed to matter, for I understood that he too had followed the path of surrender and found great power. I could see this in his eyes, brimming with adventurous challenge and unquestioned acceptance rather than fear of the storm.

  I wanted to run to him and throw my arms around him and cling to him, vowing all of my life. I wanted to trust him to find his yoke easy and his burden light as I surrendered my very breath. I wanted to rest in the arms of the Father, who loved without condition and did not judge me, as Yeshua taught. My hands trembled with that sentiment; tears streamed down my cheeks.

  The storm was still raging about us but he could as easily step from the boat and walk on water as command these seas, I thought.

  Could I as well?

  “How?” I asked. Then with more clarity, finding my voice over the wind. “How do I surrender?”

  He smiled and tilted
his head slightly, as if daring me to hear him. He faced the storm and spoke in a soft voice, as much to himself as to me, I thought.

  “Forgive,” he said.

  Just that one word, but it promised to unlock the secrets of the stars.

  “Master…” I didn’t know what to say. How could I forgive?

  “Let go of your right to take offense at all that ever threatened you and all that threatens you still. Release the fear your understanding shows you in this storm. Turn even the other cheek.”

  Though I could not understand their full meaning, his words pulled deeply at my heart. To be able to see no offense so as to turn my cheek to all that threatened… this was forgiveness? What power he had! Could I then have this power?

  “How?” I asked, voice thin in that dream.

  He turned his head, eyes bright and fearless and daring.

  “By trusting me instead. Put your faith in me, not the storm, nor the boat. I and the Father are one. Surrender to the Father even your need for life. You cannot truly forgive until you surrender your belief in this storm and trust in me instead.”

  Clarity came to me like the clearing of dark clouds. In him! Not by believing the truth about him, but by surrendering to him and trusting in him, I would have no need to protect myself from this or any storm. Would it then matter what happened to me, if my life was submitted to him? My fingers trembled with the power of what he was suggesting.

  A faint, knowing grin twisted his lips. “Seventy times seven,” he said. “Forgive the world of offense seventy times seven.”

  Seventy times seven. Not a number but the meaning of always, without ceasing. Yeshua’s way was to abide only in forgiveness. And he was the power of that forgiveness.

  “Would you like to see, Maviah?” he asked, stepping toward me.

  Yes, I thought. I could see with my eyes, here in the dream. But he was referring to different eyes—the eyes of my heart. The lamp of my body that could see light instead of darkness.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He stopped in front of me.

  “Will you lead them into the way that I will show you?”

  He was speaking of the desert, surely. Tears filled my eyes.

  “Yes…”

  “Will you follow my path and be the light of the world to shine in that darkness?”

  “Yes…”

  “Then your faith will heal you, Daughter.”

  He lifted his hand to my face and I closed my eyes.

  “Peace…” The moment his fingers touched my eyelids, a blinding flash filled my mind.

  “Be still…” Immediately the wind stopped. In one breath the boat became still. As if it had never been, the storm was gone.

  Only blinding light remained, filled with a word that echoed through my mind.

  Forgive. Release any offense, not only against others but against the world. Find no offense in the waves. Trust Yeshua instead.

  I was thinking of the wonder in that word—forgive—when the dream was taken, leaving only darkness.

  My eyes fluttered open. My vision was still blurred.

  I’m awake, I thought. I’m awake and it’s dark and olive branches reach for the sky above me, like fingers crawling from the dream.

  I gasped and jerked up my head, straining for view. I was in the grove, under the tree where I’d fallen asleep. The eastern sky was only just beginning to gray, close to morning.

  Nothing had changed here in the grove above Bethsaida, where my world was falling apart. My mind had found expression in a dream written from all I had heard Yeshua teach. All that Stephen had spoken under the tree.

  But a dream of my own making.

  “You sleep deeply, Daughter.”

  My heart leaped and I twisted to the sound of his voice.

  He was there. Yeshua! His face turned toward the graying sky. How long he’d been with me I didn’t know, but surely during my dream of him.

  I scrambled to my feet, now fully awake. No one else was near.

  “I come here often to be alone with my Father while the world sleeps,” he said. “I find the trees calming and the silence comforting. It’s here that I pray his kingdom come. His will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. It is here that I learn of forgiveness.”

  The kingdom within and among and at hand, even now.

  He turned his head to look at me and, though my sight was not clear, I imagined the same spark of wonder in his eyes I’d seen in my dream.

  “You are still blind, are you not?”

  He said it with such compassion. His voice did not accuse me. He only pointed out my state of being, for I was blind in more ways than one.

  “Yes,” I dared to whisper.

  “But to follow the narrow path ahead of you, you must be able to see.”

  I nodded. Tears rose to my eyes, unbidden. A part of me was still on that boat tossed by the storm, which had become all the challenges and fears I faced. Yeshua alone was my savior, now offering me sight.

  “Yes,” I said. I wanted to say more but could not.

  “You must remember… what you will see now is only the half,” he said. “There is far more to be revealed in time. Only then will you be able to follow where I will go. This is the way, and even so, it will become forgotten.”

  Yeshua turned to me and stepped forward. And with each step he took, my anticipation quickened. I knew. I simply knew. I knew faith, for in that moment I would do whatever he asked without the slightest question.

  “Today you can only follow where I have been. But then, you will follow where I go.”

  I could not keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks now. His every word was water to my scorched soul, the bread of life itself.

  He stopped before me. “Daughter…”

  There was such tenderness now. My knees were too weak to hold me and I felt myself sinking to my knees, trembling under his power. With everything in my being, I was desperate to reach out and cling to him. To offer my life to him. To trust him without reservation.

  “Master…” I breathed.

  “Now you see already.”

  His hand touched my head and I felt heat rush over my crown and spread down my spine, then through my arms and legs.

  There on my knees I closed my eyes and wept like a child. The sorrow I had carried for so many years was washed from my mind and heart, which were flooded instead with light and love. I knew without a shadow of doubt that I had found not only myself, but in Yeshua my master, and through him my Father.

  A groan broke from my throat and I began to shake with sobs, overwhelmed by such exquisite relief, for I, like the son in his parable, had been lost, but now I was found.

  Waves of light seemed to sweep over and through me, filling my veins and my bones with warm love. I was awash in the kingdom of heaven. And there was no end to those waves of light… they were eternal. Time had vanished.

  He was gone, I finally realized. And yet he was still with me, as near as my own breath.

  I don’t know how long I wept; I only know that when I then sighed a great breath and opened my eyes, morning had come.

  The sight offered to me by my two eyes was still blurred, but this was of no consequence. I was seeing with new eyes. Eyes that did not require the light of the sun in this sky.

  The light of the kingdom of heaven was bright within me.

  I stood unsteadily, slowly gathered myself, looked once more about the grove to see that I was still alone, then walked down the hill.

  The time had come to save Judah.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I FOUND IT strange, my return to the house in Bethsaida where Saba, Stephen, and Sarah waited in the courtyard, eating bread. Strange because I saw the world differently now. Not as I once had been, but as I now was.

  I still could not see them with clarity, but I had an uncanny idea of what was around me. By some unknown sense, I was more aware of my surroundings.

  When I walked into the courtyard, all three stood up at once, a
nticipating me, for they knew I had been alone all night. Perhaps they also knew that Yeshua had gone to me. I don’t know.

  But there was nothing to report in words that might make sense to them, I thought. I was only to be who I was, the daughter of my Father in that kingdom now so real to me.

  My body’s eyes had not changed—they were still fogged and half blind. But something about my countenance moved my companions.

  “He came to you,” Stephen said with wonder.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  He was silent.

  “We must leave for Tiberias immediately,” I said.

  Elias had waited on the north shore, I learned. Having seen the storm calmed, yesterday he had gone to hear with his own ears the teaching of this teacher.

  Our passage back to Tiberias was quiet, for each of us was still lost in the mystery of all we had seen.

  Sarah took my arm as we sat at the bow, and she pulled me close. I placed my hand over hers and we became like sisters there, without speaking a word. We shared Yeshua’s power like a secret too great to be announced.

  Only when we landed and Stephen was to take Sarah back to Sepphoris did we four speak with more than words in passing. Our paths diverged on the hill overlooking Tiberias.

  “You are certain you need nothing more from us?” Stephen asked.

  “You have given more than we can ask,” Saba said. “Maviah will follow her own way now.”

  “His way,” Sarah said.

  I looked at her, then gently placed my hand on her arm. “His way.”

  “And what is his way, then?” Stephen asked, for he’d been eager to hear more since leaving Bethsaida.

  “But you know, Stephen,” I said. “You told me yourself.”

  His eyes lit up. “Then I was right.”

  “Perhaps more than you can know.”

  He stepped up to me and fell to one knee.

  “Then you are blessed, Maviah! Few among my people bow before women, but my eyes now see a queen who is blessed by Yeshua!”

  I wanted to tell him to stand, or to kneel with him, for I was no more a queen than he a king. But I remained as I was, for all that I had once taken as truth was now suspect. Was I not a queen? A new truth had entered my mind, and much of it was still a mystery to me.