A.D. 33 (15 page)

“Yes.” My mind swam in the intoxication of his gaze.

Yeshua looked at the path ahead.

“Then know that I am the true vine.” He paused. “My Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so it will be even more fruitful.”

This was familiar imagery to me. My master in Egypt had tended a small vineyard beyond the house. Careful tending of the branches by pruning away the rubbish produced far more fruit.

So he would prune away the waste in me…

“No branch can bear fruit by itself; it
must
remain in the vine.” He turned to me. “Do you understand this, Daughter?”

Did I? I thought so.

“Yes, master.”

“If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit. Apart from me you can do nothing, but if you remain in me…” He paused. “Ask whatever you wish, and it will be done.”

The promise of such power to ask anything—I could feel it in the air. If such power came by remaining
in
Yeshua, which was true faith, how then did one remain in him? This had been the essence of Saba's question.

Is surrender the means to sight?

Surrender. But surrender of what? My own son?

“You have many questions, Daughter,” Yeshua said in a gentle voice. “And you, Saba.”

We had come to a large olive tree, and Yeshua stepped off the path into its shade.

“Arim, will you do something for me?” he asked, turning with a smile.

“Anything. Only speak it, and it will be done.”

“Bring Philip and Andrew to me. Wait with them until I call.”

Arim twisted toward the disciples, who were waiting. He began to go, then spun back and bowed. “It is done. I will bring Philip and Andrew immediately.”

“When I call.”

“Only when you call.” And then he was off.

Yeshua walked up to the tree, placed his hand on the gnarled trunk, and looked up at the branches. He was carrying a burden that I could not fathom, I thought. But when he turned to us, his gaze was even.

“They study the scriptures diligently because they think that in them, they have eternal life,” he said. “Tell me once again, Saba…What is eternal life?”

“To intimately know the Father.”

“And where is his kingdom?”

“Neither here nor there, but within and among us even now, as you have said.”

“And would you walk in this kingdom, Saba?”

“It is the only thing that matters now.”

I could feel Yeshua's presence, like something that could be breathed.

“Many will come in my name…They will deceive many. Beware of false prophets who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves—you will know them by their fruit. Good trees bear good fruit, but bad trees bear bad fruit. And what is this good fruit?”

“To love neighbor as self. All is summed up in this: love the Father with everything, and love neighbor as self.”

“Even so, know that many will say to me, ‘Lord, Lord…did we not do many mighty works in your name?' And I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you.' Do you have ears to hear this, Saba?”

Saba stared as if he were a young boy. He spoke with a slight tremble on his lips. “Many religious ones will represent you without intimately knowing you or the Father—they will only call you Lord and claim your name, doing mighty works. But they have no good fruit, the truest of which is love without judgment, because the Father judges no one.”

Yeshua nodded once. “Neither do I accuse you before the Father. I did not come to judge the world but to save it. I do not judge, but the very words I have spoken will judge those who do not accept them.”

“Neither you nor the Father judge,” Saba said. “The Law is the accuser. The Law and your teachings judge those who are of this world. But you and those who follow you are not of this world. We only live in it.”

Yeshua smiled. “You hear my words well. In it. And in this world, you will have trouble. But take heart, I have overcome the world.”

He shifted his gaze to me.

“Do you understand, Daughter?”

“I think so…”

“Can you forgive? Can you surrender? Can you live without judgment? Can you love even your enemy?”

His teaching from Galilee flooded my mind.

“I…I think so.”

The breeze lifted a strand of a hair edging from beneath his mantle.

“Do you remember what will be written of me?”

That through his suffering he learned obedience…

“Yes, master,” I breathed.

“But they will write more: ‘Once made perfect, he became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him.' So then…can you, like me, also obey?”

I felt a tear slip down my cheek. “Yes.”

He stepped up to me, then lifted his hand and wiped away my tear with his thumb.

“We won't be together much longer, Daughter, but I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you. The world will not see me, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live.”

He was speaking of the orphans—all of us and the children, I thought. And Talya. My heart soared.

Yeshua removed his hand and looked between us. “The Father will send you a helper to be with you forever. The Spirit of truth. The world cannot accept him because they neither see him nor know him. But you know him. He lives with you and will be in you.”

My mind swam. His words were like a fragrance—I could not fully understand the scent nor explain why it affected me so; I could only
know
it.

There under the olive tree with Yeshua, I knew his love and power and truth far beyond what my mind could comprehend. I knew it in my heart, where love is revealed in a way never grasped by the mind alone.

I wanted to fall to my knees and kiss his feet, as Mary had. I wanted to scream of my son's deliverance for all to hear. I wanted to throw my life away and live in Yeshua's presence always.

But I stood still, like the tree behind him. Breathing in his fragrance.

“Thank you…” I managed. “Thank you, master…”

“Soon, Maviah…Very soon.”

“Yes, master.”

He slowly turned his head and stared at the knoll fifty paces up the path. Beyond this was a small village called Bethphage, Stephen had said. And beyond Bethphage, a garden Yeshua often prayed in, called Gethsemane. Then the Kidron Valley, which led up to the celebrated city.

A heaviness seemed to settle over him.

He stepped past us, strode back onto the path, and called to his disciples. “Philip. Andrew.”

The two Arim had been sent to retrieve hurried to join him.

“Master?”

“Go into the village ahead. As you enter it, you will find a young donkey tied there on which no one has ever sat. Untie it and bring it to me. If anyone asks you why you're untying it, say this: the Lord needs it.”

Philip and Andrew looked at each other.

“Hurry,” Yeshua said.

“Yes, master.”

They bowed and ran up the path. Yeshua watched them crest the knoll and vanish from sight.

“So then,” he said under his breath. “It begins.”

KAHIL DRAGGED Talya from the larger dungeon, pushed him down the passageway, through another door, and threw him into a small, square cell with a dirt floor.

“If I could kill you, I would,” he said through the bars. “Like I killed Judah, who lived in this same cell for two years. We will see how long you last before the serpents come to sink their fangs into your tiny mind.”

And then he'd gone.

For a long time, Talya had stood alone, not sure what to do. The cell was cold and wet, the small patches of straw soggy. The only light came from a slow-burning torch down the passageway.

There in the cell, all of the hope he'd found in his dream seemed far away. Unable to remain strong, he'd walked to a tiny dry patch in the corner, squatted to his heels, lowered his head, and wept.

But none of his crying made the cell warmer. Or dried the ground. Or brought any comfort. Hours later he was still alone with no one to hear him. So finally he wiped his tears, sniffed his last, and curled up into a ball, praying for sleep so that he could dream again. If he could dream, he would find the light, and in that light he would find peace.

But for all of his trying and praying, he couldn't sleep.

A guard came with some food and water and Talya ate it, but then it was silent again. He was left with only his thoughts, and soon even they seemed pointless to him.

He closed his eyes and slowly sank into a kind of nothingness that left him empty. And it was then, much later, when he was awake with a quiet mind, that the voice spoke to him again.

“Take courage, my little one,” it said very gently.

Immediately the darkness was gone. Replaced by light.

Talya gasped, startled. He was in the garden again! It didn't arrive on a star this time—it was just there. Once again he was standing in the meadow.

This time he cried out with relief and joy, spinning around with arms spread wide. And this time there was no serpent. But of course, because the serpent was dead!

Instead, there was a lamb as white as the brightest cloud, eating the grass next to vines heavy with grapes. The lamb was him, of course it was. But it wasn't him. No, it was
like
him. Or he was like it.

Either way, that lamb was somehow everything that was innocent and pure, the opposite of the deceiving serpent who tricked the woman into eating the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil. At least that was how Talya saw it.

He jumped for joy, arms up in the air, crying out for the whole garden to hear, “The lamb, the lamb, the lamb!” He wanted to run to the lamb and hug it. He wanted to dance with it and sing with it even though sheep neither sang nor danced.

And then, suddenly, the garden was gone, and he was alone in the cell again.

He sat up, eyes wide. “No!” His voice bounced off the stone walls.

Talya quickly lay back down and clenched his eyes shut, begging the vision to return. But it didn't.

Not in the hours before they came and snuffed out the torch. Not that night when he slept. Not when he woke in the morning, weeping.

Not when he grew quiet and slumped on his side, realizing that he might never see Eden again. But it didn't matter, he thought.
I know it's there and if Kahil kills me, I will be there. So then, I am well.

I am well.

Not until then did he see the garden once more. Again with the lamb by the vines. Again filled with light. Again filling him with peace and joy.

“Do you want to remain?”

At first Talya thought the lamb had spoken, but it was only five paces away, eating the grass. No, of course it wasn't the lamb. Sheep didn't speak.

“Y-yes…” he answered.

“Eat my fruit and live.”

My fruit?

“The fruit of the vine,” the voice said. “Love. Forgiveness. Peace. Surrender. Joy. Eat it.”

He stared at the only fruit nearby—the grapes on the vine. Then he walked over, plucked a grape, smelled it, and bit into it.

Warmth flooded his body.

Talya began to laugh.

SO THEN…It begins.

What would begin? The sentiment among Yeshua's followers had infected me, and I was swept up with this one thought: Yeshua will triumph here in Jerusalem by overcoming the world, as he had said.

He would conquer the world of Roman rule with peace, then usher in his kingdom of peace. Though Judah and all rulers would have used the sword to establish a new kingdom, Yeshua would do so with his power, which was of the heart and of Spirit.

He was indeed their Messiah, as Judah had said.

And by following Yeshua, I would save the children in the desert from their oppression.

The moment we began our descent toward Jerusalem, everything changed. It began with the donkey Philip and Andrew had been sent to fetch. No one seemed to understand its significance immediately, but there was something about Yeshua's reaction to the donkey that arrested everyone's attention.

He stopped on the path, staff in hand, watching his disciples coming up the path. Philip had the donkey by its lead rope and led him dutifully to Yeshua's side. But more than a donkey had come with them.

Many from the village had followed Philip and Andrew. Clearly, they'd heard the news—Yeshua, the one who worked wonders and had raised Lazarus from the dead, was coming into Jerusalem.

It was the number of people, both behind us and before us, that surprised me the most. Hundreds by now. They would not have come unless deeply moved by hope and anticipation.

Yeshua put one hand on the donkey's neck and slowly stroked its mane. Not a soul made a sound. All watched in silent anticipation.

Yeshua gazed back at his disciples. Still no one moved.

I turned to Stephen, who stood by my side. “What's he doing?” I whispered.

“Yeshua walks, always.”

“And if he rides, what—”

“Shhh, shhh…Watch.”

So I watched, not understanding what I saw.

Yeshua nodded once, tossed his staff to Philip, and mounted the donkey, which, though never ridden, accepted him without protest.

I watched as the disciples began to run. They were joined immediately by those behind us, who now ran past. Like a swell from a storm, they rushed to Yeshua, who now rode the donkey slowly down the path between large olive trees.

Their cheer began quietly, and then was joined by many caught up in the moment.

“He's going to make an entrance!” Stephen cried, spinning to me. “Don't you see?”

There was triumphant celebration in the air, and I was caught up in wonder. But why such celebration over an entrance?

“I don't—”

“Listen to them, Maviah!”

Then I heard what they were crying. “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord!” Other cries, but this one,
Blessed is the King
, impacted me the most.

He was going into Jerusalem as a king? Surely the authorities would object!

“
Fear not, daughter Zion
,” Stephen whispered. “
See, your king is coming, seated on a donkey's colt…
” He spun to me, eyes flashing. “This is written of the Anointed One, in the book of Zechariah. You see, it is him! He orchestrates this with intention!”

My mind spun.

“Herod has come to Jerusalem for the Passover, but now comes the true king!”

Herod was in Jerusalem? I didn't know what to think of it…

Then Stephen was running and Saba as well, turning back to urge me on. “Stay close, my queen.”

Arim, though having no clue, surely, had thrown himself into the frenzy, mimicking their cries with arms raised. He cried out to me over the din. “Come, my queen! Come!”

We rounded a bend and came to a long stretch of open ground with only a few olive trees, and I saw that many more people were coming out to meet us. How many had heard?

Yeshua hadn't been in Jerusalem for some time, but his reputation, once so widespread along the shores of Galilee, had overtaken the great city. The raising of Lazarus was perhaps the greatest of his wonders, and all had heard.

In a land crushed under Roman rule, only Yeshua offered any hope of salvation. He was approaching Jerusalem on donkey, as foretold in their scriptures, and he was accepting their cries of
King!

I saw now that some of them had brought palm branches and were lined along the path, waving the fronds, crying out, “Blessed is the King. Blessed is the King.”

Yeshua gazed ahead without reacting to their praise in any way that I could see as I ran to catch up. Some were spreading their cloaks on the ground before the donkey as it approached—also a sign of the highest honor.

Many children ran alongside him. A boy of Talya's age leaped up and down beside the donkey, waving a small frond. His mother hurried, weeping, reaching out a hand to Yeshua.

Still, Yeshua rode in silence.

A new king was riding toward Jerusalem. I could not fathom what the Roman occupiers would say to this. Or the religious authorities, who had already denounced Yeshua, and he them. It all seemed terribly dangerous to me.

I was so enthralled by the scene that I didn't at first notice that the city had come into view as we topped a small knoll.

Yeshua rode like a conquering ruler, eyes fixed ahead, always ahead. His mantle had hidden his face from my sight, but now I could see him—his face and the tears that wet his cheeks.

My heart stuttered. He was weeping! I turned to follow his gaze.

The sight took my breath away. From our high vantage we could see all of Jerusalem, like a sprawling castle carved in limestone. Their renowned temple, built into the eastern wall, stood in splendor.

I spun back to see his silent tears flowing. These were not tears of joy, but sorrow, I thought.

Alarmed, I stepped into the path, wanting to comfort him, though it wasn't my place. I wasn't his mother. I wasn't even one of his inner circle, and I almost pulled back. But then I heard—he was speaking below the din, as if to the city itself.

“If you had known in this day, even you, the things which make for peace.” He paused, swallowing. “But now they have been hidden from your eyes. The days will come when your enemies will throw up a barricade…” I lost some of his words in all the celebration. “…they will not leave one stone…because you did not know the time of your visitation.”

He was speaking of the city's destruction.

Stephen was on his other side, and he too had heard. We exchanged a glance and I saw the confusion in his eyes.

Then the moment was over and Yeshua spoke no more. Quickly, his weeping subsided.

But the cries of the crowd did not. Not until we had passed through the Kidron Valley. Not until we had approached the gates.

When Yeshua dismounted, walked past six guards at the gate, and entered the city, the crowds began to disperse, as if knowing the consequence for such a display within the city itself. But they did not vacate us. They spread out and continued to follow, eyeing Yeshua's every move without wanting to be seen as part of an insurgence.

I understood then just how dangerous was that processional calling him king. Yeshua had orchestrated it himself in calling for the donkey. So then he was
inviting
confrontation with the Romans?

An elderly man with a shriveled hand called out for healing as Yeshua passed. Many beggars shook their cups and cried out, “Son of David, son of David, have mercy…” A young boy in rags ran toward him, but one of the disciples guided him away.

Yeshua walked on, looking neither to the left nor the right, followed closely by all of his inner circle, which Stephen and Arim had joined.

The Roman soldiers eyed us curiously but made no move against us. Word of the processional clearly hadn't reached them yet, I thought.

“What's happening?” I asked Mary. “Where is he taking us?”

“To the temple,” Mary whispered, glancing around. She didn't appear to be at home in these streets. Not any longer. “You must be careful, Maviah.” Her eyes were wide. “They are everywhere.”

“Who is?”

“The ones who despise Yeshua and those who follow him.”

I then imagined all who were dressed in tassels to be eyeing me.

“If we are with Yeshua, we are safe,” Saba said. “Stay close, Maviah. Remember his words.”

I remembered. Ahead of us walked the one who had calmed the storm and raised the dead. He would not die. We would not die. But Mary still wasn't at ease.

“Only be careful,” Mary said. “You are a foreign woman. Stay close.”

I had been in Dumah. I had entered several cities in Egypt. I had seen Sepphoris and Petra. But none of them could compare to Jerusalem.

The city had swelled with pilgrims from many corners of the world, come to celebrate their Passover, a tradition that recalled the deliverance of the Jews from Egypt, led by Moses.

Merchants were everywhere, selling wares from afar. Silks and linens and spices. Clay pots and grain and fruits…there was no end to the variety of items bought and sold on the streets of Jerusalem.

But more than these, I was struck by the massive walls and the towering buildings that rose on all sides. And even more, the temple ahead of us.

We walked up its steps amid many who'd followed, all converging here to see what Yeshua might do. The sun was already halfway down the western horizon.

Something was going to happen…Surely the news of his triumphant processional had already reached the authorities. Yet by going to the temple, Yeshua averted any Roman interference, for the temple was under the authority of the religious leaders.

We followed him into the outer court reserved for Gentiles, and there with at least a hundred others, I watched as Yeshua walked to the center of that vast courtyard, past all the merchants. He stood with his back to us, facing the inner court, alone now.

Yeshua commanded the waves; he walked on water; he raised the dead. Surely he could bring the temple to its knees with a single word, without lifting a single finger. And if he did lift a finger, it would not be in anger, but to demonstrate his authority.

For a long time he only stood still with his hands down by his sides. All had seen him. All watched. Even the buyers and sellers had paused and watched his incursion into their space. Everyone seemed to know that something would happen.

Then Yeshua turned to us, studied those who'd gathered for a few moments, and walked past us, back out of the temple the way we'd come.

He'd done nothing.

“What's he doing?” Martha asked.

“Follow him,” Saba said.

So we followed him. Back down the steps, back to the gate through which we'd entered, back out of the city onto the path that led over the Mount of Olives to Bethany. A smaller crowd now followed the disciples who, like the rest, appeared at a loss. There were no more songs of praise—only confusion. And yet a charged sense of anticipation remained.

I turned to Mary and Martha at my side. “We go back to Bethany?”

Both were too distracted to respond.

“Mary…”

“This is his way,” she said. “With Yeshua you cannot predict what happens one moment to the next, but he knows what he does.”

I looked up at Saba, who was staring at Yeshua walking ahead of his inner circle in an even stride.

“Saba…”

But Saba was too fixed upon Yeshua to pay me mind.

Louder: “Saba. I don't understand…”

He blinked and looked at me. Then quickly pulled me to the side of the road out of the hearing of our companions.

“He's a tactician,” Saba said. “Don't you see?”

“See what?”

Saba glanced about, not wanting to be heard. “He comes as a king and then goes at will. But his eye is on the temple. So then…What argument can the Romans have against him? His challenge is with the religion of the Jews.”

“He intends to overthrow the religious leaders, not the Romans?” I asked, looking at Yeshua.

“I don't know. But everything he does now is orchestrated. In coming today, his statement is unmistakable. He, not they, controls his movements.”

Yeshua had stopped on a small rise ahead of us and was facing a grove of olive trees. The disciples were talking among themselves, some urgently. Half the initial crowd had departed or remained in Jerusalem to conduct other business.

“There, you see?” Mary pointed to carefully kept grounds. “It's called the Gethsemane garden. He prays there often. Maybe he will go there now.”

A garden. My mind recalled Talya's song of the garden in the desert.

The disciples and others closer to Yeshua had also stopped.

One of his inner circle hurried up to him and spoke, then retreated. For a moment, Yeshua stared at the garden. Then he turned to the disciples and the others and began to speak.

Saba touched my arm. “Come…”

I couldn't hear what Yeshua said at first, because I was rushing forward and he was too far away. But then he raised his voice.

“…if it dies, it produces many seeds.” Then, louder: “He who loves his life loses it, and he who hates his life in this world will keep it to life eternal.”

Again that word
hate
, now in regard to one's own life. A requirement of those who wished to experience the Father's eternal realm. His voice carried to me, laden with distress.

He paused, then spread his arms and lifted his chin.

“My soul is troubled…What shall I say? Father, save me from this hour?”

I pulled up, struck by the distress in his tone. My heart began to break with his. I had never seen him so despondent.

“No!” he cried. “It was for this very reason I came to this hour!”

He took a deep breath, arms still spread, and faced the sky. Now his voice carried for the whole valley to hear, a gut-wrenching cry that took my breath away.

“Father…Glorify your name!”

His voice echoed through the valley and faded. We stood still, taken aback.