 
### The Secret Life of God as Man

by

Mary Quijano

Copyright 2014 Mary Quijano

Published by Mary Quijano on Smashwords

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Infancy

I'm not sure when I first become aware that I am different, that I have some special gifts; that I know some things that no one else seems to be aware of, can do some things that no one else can do.

At first my body is a heavy thing, its demands so meaty and organic, so constant, they obliterate all knowledge of anything beyond fulfilling their immediate needs. As a baby I think of little else beyond eating and pooping. My world is all about taking care of the craving in my belly, and the elimination of its by-products...and perhaps some internal innate hunger for security, a need for being held close, for feeling the warmth and safety of my mother's arms. When my body sleeps, which is often at first, I am back to pure spirit again, pure joy and freedom, a flight without thought or care: But that state does not translate well to the false waking.

Gradually, as I become more aware of the world outside my own body, it begins to dawn on me - literally dawn, like the first hint of light lifting up from the horizon and chasing away the darkness, like a giant eraser sweeping clean the blackboard of night that is my dull-wittedness, replacing the tiny stars that blink amidst the vast cloud of my forgetfulness, one by one from left to right across the canopy of sky, with the growing light of self-awareness; awakening the voices in my head like the sun awakens the slumbering birds to twitter in burgeoning joy that they have survived the night and to sing in expectation of yet another day that they might enjoy the wondrous gift of life - gradually it begins to dawn on me that I am not just human, not just meat and appetite, but more. Much more. And I before long I discover that I can do things others cannot do, and soon after that perhaps I shouldn't do them.

My earliest occasion of this is from the crib when I am still toothless and unable to control the muscles of my arms and legs as yet. I am watching a single fat fly as it circles in noisy buzzing flight overhead, zipping back and forth in an angry blur. And I want to see it more clearly, I want to understand what it looks like and how it makes that strange noise and what magical ability allows it to move through the invisible space above my eyes. At once the fat fly slows to nearly motionless, hovering just above my head, so that I can clearly see its tiny transparent wings move up and down in slow motion, the little drums beside each wing vibrating in opposition to the wings. I can see its funny alien face, the huge eyes of many parts, like the glass in the windows of the church we visit each Sabbath; its long mouth like the stick mother uses to beat the rugs, but with a bath sponge on the end. I draw it closer, closer still. I reach for it with my spastic hands waving foolishly.

Just then mother comes into the room: She stops and stares at the fly suspended just above my head and lets out a sharp little cry: "Yeshua!"

Startled, I release the fly, which immediately darts from the room, and I begin to cry in that funny baby voice of mine.

Mother picks me up to soothe me.

"I'm sorry little one," she coos. "I didn't mean to scare you. But you mustn't do such things, okay?"

Of course I still do such things every chance I get, but after that I am more careful to curtail my adventures whenever I hear the sound of anyone approaching. In any case, there isn't a lot of opportunity for mischief when you can neither walk nor talk as yet.

When I am finally able to do both, I am allowed out into the yard whenever mother is gardening or washing our garments, and the whole wondrous world begins to open to me, and with it my mind and awareness blooms like a flower in the sun.

One day I discover a dead bird lying on its side in the garden. It is stiff, cold and still, with ants crawling over its dull clouded eyes, and that bothers me as an enormous wrong and mystery. I carry it to my mother and hold it up to her in my two chubby hands.

"Bird?" I enquire.

"Oh dear, drop that thing Yeshua; it's dead!" She tries to take it from me, but I turn quickly away and won't let her have it."

"What means _dead_?" I persist.

"It means the breath of life has gone out of it," she explains patiently, still reaching for the little thing in my hands.

"Then I put back," I say, and putting my lips to its beak I blow a puff of air into it.

Immediately the little creature shudders, twitches, fluffs up its feathers as if affronted, then lifts its wings and flies up into the sky.

"There goes," I say, satisfied.

Mother looks at me and shakes her head.

"What have I got myself into," she says.

Mary

"What have I got myself into?" I say aloud.

I remember when the angel first came to me and told me I had been chosen to be the mother of God's only son, the one destined to fulfill the prophecies. I was excited, scared, proud...a fifteen year old idiot is what I was. I didn't even imagine, didn't think for a minute, about what that meant, what kind of burden it would be to be God's mother, the terrible responsibility. Not that I had a choice in the matter, but I didn't even have the common sense to be scared.

Soon enough, though, I found out how much this would cost me, serving God.

Joseph, already a thirty year old widower when I'd been promised to him, had to be convinced that the growing bump in my belly came from God and not my own indiscretion. Even when the angels confirmed this with him in a dream, I still was forced to prove my innocence before the priests in the temple by the ordeal of bitter water, and even after I passed that test they made me lie down before a midwife and that awful Pharisee to be inspected _down there_ before they would finally believe me. I was so embarrassed and humiliated, forced to open my legs and have them poke around in places that were not for them to see, that it was hard to forgive Joseph for putting me through this. But at least they confirmed that my maidenhead was still intact, and that I was indeed still a virgin. That satisfied Joseph, at least enough to go through with the marriage without further complaints.

Even so, he apparently still has his doubts - which he throws up at me from time to time when he's aggravated with my cooking or cleaning or personality - questioning whether the pregnancy was truly a divine act and not just some quirk of nature.... Or worse.

What happened during the birth of the baby gave the story of His divine origins more credence, however; even Joseph had to admit that. I still recall the look of awe on his face when the mysterious Magi from the Far East arrived to bring gifts worth enough to sustain us throughout our subsequent unplanned exile in Egypt. Then there were the shepherds who came to worship our newborn son, saying they had been visited by an Angel who told them God lay in a manger nearby: I remember looking over at Joseph and raising my brow at that one. And what of the huge star that hung over our hideaway until the Magi came, then just as quickly vanished, how to explain that? Joseph had to admit there was definitely something going on, only he still wondered aloud why God would chose to be born in a barn with animals, and to humble people like us. It was all so confusing.

As the weeks and months passed after the baby's birth, my own doubts had begun to arise as well - or perhaps it was just that my awe had slowly lessened as the memories of all that angelic intervention faded. Baby Yeshua seemed so normal, nursing at my breasts, burping, shitting and pissing and fussing just like any baby would, that I'd begun to wonder if it had indeed all been a dream, if my virgin pregnancy was simply - as Joseph called it - a quirk of nature. His infancy was so routine, his daily care so uneventful and mundane, that I'd begun to think that Yeshua was just an ordinary child after all, not really the "Son of God."

Of course there were those incidents from time to time, like when he was but three months old...What was that fly doing, held perfectly still in the air like that? I knew, just knew down deep, that my baby was holding it there with his mind. But could I prove it? No, not even to myself.

Then there were all the things misplaced, not there where I'd left them one minute, and back again the next; enough to drive a mother mad. I'd look over at baby Yeshua suspiciously, but he would just coo and chortle in sweet innocence, and Joseph would never believe me that any of it was the baby's doing. He'd tell me that I was simply a careless and forgetful child, that I needed to keep better care of things, and soon I'd doubt myself.

However since our return to Nazareth this spring, after the angel told Joseph it was safe to come back home, little Yeshua has begun to do more and more strange things, say strange things. Now, with today's reanimation of the bird, the reality has come rushing back, collapsing on me like a wall of mud in a rainstorm, crushing me under the recognition of the terrible burden that I face. This is real, this is true: I am the mother of the living God. And with that realization comes the question of what am I, a seventeen year old girl, supposed to do with Him? How does one raise God?

I need to pray, but I also need to talk to Joseph.

I put little Yeshua to bed for a nap, even though he fusses at me that he isn't tired, and refuses to close his eyes until I sing to him several songs. Finally he falls asleep, and right there beside his bed I fall to my knees and pray long and hard and earnestly to the God that fathered him.

Please God, tell me what to do to raise your Son, for he is truly filled with power beyond all I can imagine. If this is what you have endowed him with, these gifts, I know it is not for me to take them away or curtail their use, but how do I teach him to be human as well when he has such divine nature and abilities? I am but a child myself, Father God: Teach me how to teach Him our ways, or if I even should.

God answers me with one word: "Faith."

"Great," I sigh

So when he comes home from his labors, I ask Joseph instead.

Joseph

She's a lovely girl, my little bride, still a child really: Imaginative, grace-filled, touched by angels I suppose. But it is hard to accept what she is telling me now, that we are parents of the living God. Even though the angel spoke to me of this, I still reject the idea, am overwhelmed by it if I were to speak true. How can we be parents to God made flesh? I may be a direct descendant of the line of David, but that doesn't prepare me for this. I don't even have time to keep up repairs on my own dilapidated little cottage, I'm so busy trying to make a living: How can I possibly be a good father to God's only Son?

A part of me hopes she is just delusional, my Mary. A part of me would rather have her locked away than to have to face the truth of what she is telling me. I tell her I have to see for myself these miracles my boy is accused of doing before I can fully believe them.

Then I tell her to wake the boy, so I can speak with him.

"Boy," I tell him, as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. "You mother tells me you found a dead bird in the garden today."

"Yes father." He affirms.

"And what happened to the bird?" I ask him.

"He woke up. Fly."

"Did you do anything to make him wake up son?"

"I blew."

"Blew? Blew what?" I ask.

He looks over at his mother for assistance. I scowl at her to remain silent. If there is something for him to say he needs to find the words himself, not be fed them by an imaginative woman.

"Well," I persist. "What did you blow?"

"Bread of Life?" he responds. His expression is a mixture of emotions, part fear that he has done something to displease me, part pride in his accomplishment. Not everyone can bring the dead back to life.

I look over at Mary, who shrugs. _I told you so._

"We've got problems," I tell her.

I kneel down beside my small child, who is looking up at me with trust.

"Son, you can't be doing things like that," I tell him. "People won't understand."

"Why?" He frowns.

"They'll be afraid of you, of us. They might not hire me for work anymore."

" _Why?"_

I sigh, trying to think of words a small child can understand. But this small child is God, who understands everything. I falter, at a loss; I shake my head.

"Because, just because. So don't do it anymore, okay?"

He looks at me, purses his lips, and shakes his head in perfect mimicry.

"Okay," he says, but he and I both know he doesn't really mean it.

Later Mary asks if we can make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for Shavu'ot this year, having missed Passover and all the other required religious pilgrimages during the two years of our exile in Egypt.

"Is your desire to uphold our religious traditions and laws, Mary, or is it just that you want to see your Aunt Elizabeth again?" I ask her, but not unkindly.

I know she is anxious to see her elderly aunt who lives in that holy city, more than she is concerned about attending the religious festival there, for Mary and Elizabeth have a spiritual bond that transcends all else, and it has been more than two and one half years since they have spoken.

Mary lowers her gaze, nodding. "I do wish to see her and the child she bore, for during those three months I spent with her after my conception, I felt he had a special connection with Yeshua even in the womb. My hope is that Elizabeth and Zechariah can advise us on what to do about our son's divine nature, since their son is also special in the eyes of the Lord."

I look at her a long time without speaking. I too would like advice from the old priest and his wife, knowing their son was the product of divine intervention as well' but though I'm tempted to say yes, I'm still fearful of going to the temple while Herod's son reigns over Judea.

"Not this year," I tell her, and she knows not to argue further.

My Early Childhood

As I grow older, I daily become more and more certain that everything around me is not at all as it appears. I see it as simply a grand illusion, a continuous rearrangement of the energy fields in which we play, created just ahead of our awareness in time. I may be very young, barely learning to walk and talk, but I can see. To me the world is made of sparkles of energy, movement, change. It is so obvious, I can't understand how mother and father fail to see it for what it is. This that surrounds us is all made up of thought, completely mutable and transparent, and as soon as you fully grasp that, the world comes under your absolute control, where all you have to do is think to change it.

Or at least that's how it is for me.

It takes me a while to realize that maybe I am different from everyone else, or at least so they believe. And belief is the key to awareness.

At first it is just for fun, trying out my ideas, seeing what will happen.

I like being able to bring dead things back to life, but there aren't that many dead things just laying around for me to practice on, so I start to work on living things instead. When our dog has puppies, I take one and pinch its nose closed to stop the breath of life from entering, then once it stops wiggling I blow the breath back into it and it wakes up again and licks my face. I hug it to my chest, and roll on the ground with the squirmy little thing, giggling as it licks me all over. It's so cute and lovable, I decide not to test my power on the puppies anymore. Instead next time I try it on our cow, but I find I have to blow a lot harder to bring her back, and it takes so long I'm afraid father might come by and see what I am up to. I also worry that he or mother will come to investigate when the cow falls with a loud thud to the ground.

"What's that noise?" Mama calls from inside the cottage.

"Nothing mama," I call back, blowing hard into the big pink mouth.

I soon determine that it's a lot easier to stop life in little things like ants and crickets and earthworms: I simply think "don't breathe" and they die. But it is hard to know what part of their little bodies to breathe into to make them work again. After a few failures, I find out all I have to do is think them alive and they live.

After this, I discover that besides being able to bring dead things back to life, I can make things that are not alive move around as if they are, a trick which becomes an endless source of amusement for me.

For a while I move things that no one will notice, like making a small rock or chunk of wood move from here to there. At night when I'm supposed to be asleep, I look out the window and make the stars jump around in the sky, changing positions with each other and then back again.

Sometimes I slip away from the cottage to sit by the nearby brook, and with just a thought I can make the fish and frogs jump up out of the creek and fall back again with a splash, and birds flock down to me from the trees, (but I only do this when I'm sure no one's around.)

One day when mother is weeding the garden I slip out to the dusty road and, looking across the way, I move the neighbor's house a little to the left, just to see if he will notice. When he gets home from work I peek out at him from behind a bush to see his reaction. The man stops and stares at his house for a moment, tilting his head as if not quite sure if something is different about it, but then he just shrugs and goes inside.

I think to myself, if people are this unobservant, how easy it is to keep this illusion going: No one really notices if things change a little now and then. They just shrug and go on, accepting with their mind that it is the same now as it ever was, telling themselves they just never noticed before what their eyes are now telling them exists. When actually it didn't.

Sometimes I make the wind come up for no reason, howling through the trees like something mad, then just going quiet again. But I have to be careful mother's laundry isn't on the line when I push the wind: I made that mistake once, and as she picked up the soiled laundry from all over the yard she gave me a look that said "I know what you're up to boy." But aloud she said nothing, just washed it all over again, which made me feel kind of bad for her.

Mary

We have been home now for over a year, and still Joseph refuses to travel to Jerusalem for any of the festivals, and I despair of ever seeing my aunt Elizabeth again. I ache to feel her arms around my shoulders, her wise counsel in my ear along with a kiss from the gentle old lips. I know the tricks Yeshua plays...he thinks I don't see them, but I do. He is a sweet and gentle child, yet at the same time full of capricious mischief, just like any boy. The problem is, he has the rare talent to accomplish whatever whimsy crosses his mind, and that can make all kinds of trouble. I need to know what to do; I need Elizabeth!

I asked my husband last fall if we would attend Sukkot after Yom Kippur, but he said "Not yet."

Then came Passover in early spring, and once again "Not yet," and again "not yet" for Shavu'ot this year.

"Joseph," I argue in my desperation; "surely God will protect His son on our journey if we go."

But Joseph just looks at me, and shakes his head: "Not yet, not until He sends me word it is safe."

Today that word has come at last, come in the form of a wagon driven by an ancient bearded priest, a frail old woman cryptically wrapped in a shawl, and a young child with long shaggy dark hair and bright eager eyes seated beside her on the bench.

"Aunt Elizabeth!" I scream, running to greet the wagon.

Joseph steps out of his carpenter's shed at the sound, rubbing his hands on his shirt. He looks as surprised as I, and a little apprehensive as well, perhaps.

I help my aunt and her son down from the cart; but Zechariah clambers spryly down the other side of the wagon on his own before Joseph comes near enough to offer a hand.

"You have failed to come to Jerusalem for a visit, so we bring Jerusalem to you...or at least a small part of it," the priest says, his admonition gentled by the warm embrace he gives Joseph as he finishes.

"We feared Herod's son Archelus might seek to harm the boy if we went into his land," Joseph apologizes. "Especially when we heard how, after his father's death, he ordered the slaughter of three thousand Israelites and cancelled Passover. He appears a very dangerous enemy of our people."

"But he quickly reinstated the ceremony when our high priests objected," the elder reminded him. "Besides, how would he know you were there among the throngs of worshippers if no one told him?" He added with a raised brow. "None-the-less, I will admit that Archelus is an idiot as well as a monster, completely unstable. He tries to win the hearts of the people one moment with lower taxes and other kindnesses, then when they aren't satisfied and grateful, he goes berserk and orders his troops to murder the lot of them. His father knew he wasn't fit to rule: The crown was actually supposed to go to Antipas, but Archelus came up with a phony will and Caesar upheld it, at least in part, by dividing the kingdom and rule between him and his brothers. What can you do?" The old priest shrugs eloquently.

"All the more reason we shouldn't expose Yeshua to danger by traveling through the area of his authority," says Joseph.

"All the more reason you should," counters Zechariah. "God will protect his son, not you. You mustn't keep the child from following the law: It is his destiny to fulfill it, and he can't fulfill what he doesn't know."

I nod vigorously - _Exactly!_ \- and Joseph scowls at me. So I lower my head in submission, to hide my satisfied smile.

Reunion

I stand on the porch of our cottage, staring at the boy in the yard. He stares back at me just as intently.

"Who are you?" I think. "I know you, don't I?

He smiles, a beam of recognition.

Neither of us is quite sure how it is we know each other, what it is we are to each other: It is a knowing without a name, without any words to describe or analyze it. It is a quickening of the heart, a joy that courses up the spine: we are instantly the best of friends.

I walk up to him. "I'm Yeshua," I say, extending my hand politely.

"I'm John," he replies, accepting my handshake. Then without breaking our grip on each other, we run off across the yard together, I leading the way.

"Let me show you our mule and our cow," I say, but it is far more I will show him during his stay than our livestock and fields of grain.

One day shortly after his arrival, while sitting together at the side of the brook that bounds our fields, I show him how to fashion mice and birds out of the clay that lines the banks of the stream. His hands are actually more skilled than mine, his figurines much more true to form than my lumpy models. But when I show him how to blow life into them, mine take off and fly clumsily away - misshapen lumps of wings and all - while his remain stubbornly inanimate on the ground.

"Please fix mine so they can fly too," he begs me.

I smile, nod, and pick up one of his clay birds, then blow the breath of life into it. Instantly it opens its eyes, spreads its clay wings and flutters up into the sky with a little bleat of joy.

"How do you do that?" he asks as he watches it disappear into the blue mists above.

"I don't know, I just do it," I answer honestly. "Want to tip a cow?"

Mary

Elizabeth and I watch in secret from our hiding place in the copse of trees on the other side of the brook from where the boys are playing. She gives me a look, a little jerk of her head, and we exit quietly and unseen, returning to the privacy of the house before risking a conversation.

"See aunty?" I tell her. "This is the kind of thing he can do all day long. It's not anything terrible, but what if someone from the village sees, how do we explain it? And I don't want it getting out that our boy has some kind of divine gifts, lest word get back to Archelus and he decides to fulfill what his father attempted to do after the magi told him of Yeshua's birth, three and one half years ago.

The old woman contemplates this for some time in silence, eyes closed. She is quiet so long I begin to think she's fallen asleep, and am about to rouse her when she opens her eyes again and looks at me, taking my two young hands firmly in her gnarled, age-worn ones and giving them a little shake for emphasis.

"You must keep him close to home until he has wisdom enough to hide his gifts under the cloak of discretion. Right now he is a babe still, and practicing his divine sort of magic just as an ordinary child might practice running and climbing and learning to speak. You shouldn't try to curtail that learning, not that you ever could succeed in doing so, even if you tied him to the bed. Trust in God to protect him, so that he may fulfill his destiny here on Earth, and you just worry about protecting your family - once his powers do become known - from the scandal and disgrace that may be levied on you by ignorant people who fear and attack what they cannot or will not understand."

"And how exactly do I do that?" I ask her.

She shrugs, then laughs, and I begin to laugh as well: We laugh until our sides hurt and tears pour down our cheeks. Joseph and Zechariah come in from the workshop to see what is so funny, but we just shake our heads at them and keep on laughing.

Showing Off For John

I show him all my tricks that summer, and he laughs and claps his hands at every one of them. There is no fear, no judgment, just acceptance of who I am and what I can do. Encouraged, I try to do more things than ever to impress him.

One day a man comes to get a bench he'd ordered my father to make for him in a big rush, and right away starts complaining that one of the legs is too short, telling my father he isn't a good carpenter. As he goes to sit on it to prove it's wobbly, I move it just a little bit with my mind and he sits down plop on the ground and farts. As my father helps him to his feet, trying hard not to smile, I make the short leg grow so that when he tries it again, it is perfect.

John and I run outside and off into the field, holding our hands over our mouths to contain our shrieks of merriment, which finally burst forth when we are - hopefully - out of earshot.

"Did you see that mean old man fall on his backside?" John cries. "And the look on his face ..." He laughs so hard he starts coughing and has to catch his breath.

I just nod and grin so wide it hurts the corners of my mouth, happy that I have pleased my best friend.

"Then when he tried the chair again and it didn't wobble he looked sad, like he was worried about losing his mind or his sight," John guffaws.

"I just wanted him not to be mean to my father," I shrug.

John leaves today, riding off on the seat of the wagon beside his mother and father. He turns to wave, and I wave back. I feel like crying, but I don't really know why I feel that way. I look at mother, and she is crying too. I guess that's what humans do when they separate from people they don't want to separate from.

Father has promised Zechariah that we will go to Jerusalem next spring for Passover, so I know I will see my friend then, but right now that seems such a long way off it doesn't help much. I may know time and space are just an illusion, but until John knows that as well, I am there all by myself, which still leaves us both pretty much alone.

The Pilgrimage

Spring has finally come. I sit atop the bundle of provisions in our wagon, wrapped in a blanket against the early morning chill. A light rain is falling as the first light edges over the far horizon, and father grumbles as he shakes the reins, urging our mule Sheba to a quicker pace, as if that will get us to the warmth of day any sooner.

There are only a few other wagons of pilgrims on the road to Jerusalem as yet: I heard father telling mother that he wanted to leave a couple of days early to avoid the crowds that will soon clog the roads and slow our journey. We have four full days of travel ahead of us as it is, he says; and the closer we get to the holy city the more crowded the route will become.

I have never been this far from home before, never further than the woods beyond our village, and my eyes fill with the wonders of all the new things that I see, so that I am fairly shaking with excitement. But after a while the slow rumbling pace, the side to side swaying of the wagon like a boat on a gentle sea, lulls me to sleep time and again, so that the entire journey becomes a series of disconnected pictures from moments awake and asleep.

We camp by the side of the road each night, warming ourselves by a wood fire on which we heat the food mother has prepared, then sleeping huddled together for warmth under a lean-to made from animal skins stretched between two stout poles which are tied to one side of the wagon.

By the third day of our journey the road to Jerusalem has become crowded with carts and foot travelers on the way to the religious festival. Much conversation and greetings pass between people as they reacquaint with old friends they haven't seen since the last pilgrimage, and the highway fills with happy conversation as well as dust.

Sitting up on top of our wagon's load, I imagine myself a prince surveying my countryside from a canopied throne. I wave to the other pilgrims, shout hallos to the children walking beside their parents or riding atop mules or wagons as I am, full of happy excitement and anticipation.

That night as we prepare for sleep, mother decides to tell me about the meaning of the festival we are going to attend.

"Yeshua," she says. "Do you know the name of the festival we are going to?"

"Passover," I answer smugly.

"And do you know what it is about?" She probes.

"Tell me," I reply, knowing that is her intent anyway.

"Well, back many many years ago, when our people were slaves in Egypt, God came to Moses the lawgiver and told him that he was going to send the angel of death into Egypt as a warning to the Pharaoh to let His people go. He told Moses to warn the people of Israel to mark their doors with the blood of a lamb that night, so when the angel of death came by he would pass over their homes and thus they wouldn't die. So this is why we celebrate this event, which we call Passover."

I feel something come over me at her words, a strange sense of knowing; and I find myself saying to my mother: "But do you know what that story really means?"

She looks at me, confused. "Well yes, Yeshua, it means what it means, that we are Yahweh's chosen people, that he protects us, that He freed us from our captors, He took us out of Egypt, and..."

She stops, sensing I have something to tell her.

"Every story is a story in a story," I say. "Every story is a lesson for the soul. The story of the Passover is in truth the story of the spiritual self's journey from bondage, from the enslavement of the body. The blood on the door that tells the angel of death to pass over, that door is the door to your heart, your soul. Whose blood is it on that door, mother? Whose blood will save your soul from death?"

Mother gasps, and bursts into tears at this. She grabs me to her chest, holding me so close I can barely breathe while she sobs uncontrollably.

"No, Yeshua, no...please."

I stroke her hair, trying to comfort her. As I do, the knowingness that has enveloped me leaves and I am not sure why she is crying.

Father comes back from tending the mule and sees us in that tearful embrace. He takes Mary's arms from around me and leads her over to the fire, holding her hand and murmuring kind words until she has calmed herself. Then he comes over to question me.

"What went on between you and your mother that disturbed her so?" he asks me.

"She was telling me about Passover," I say; "and I just asked her something."

"But what happened, what did you ask her?"

"I don't know, father. I can't remember," I tell him, and it's true. For now, at least, whatever I knew in that moment has fled from my four year old brain and left me feeling sleepy and dull-witted. I curl down upon the blanket, close my eyes, and am almost instantly asleep.

The next afternoon we arrive at the home of Elizabeth, Zechariah and John, which lies in a little community on the outskirts of Jerusalem. Elizabeth comes out into the yard to greet us, dusting from her hands the flour off the loaves of unleavened bread she's been preparing. John comes out right behind her and sprints to the wagon, clambering up to greet me with a bear hug of pure joy.

My heart leaps to see him again.

"Zechariah is already at the temple, helping to prepare the fires for the roasting of the ritual sacrifices tomorrow at sundown," Elizabeth tells father. "Will you be buying your lamb there?"

"I think not, not unless there are none elsewhere to be found," father grumbles. "Those sold at the temple are more than twice the usual price for a young lamb, and then the amount of roasted meat given in exchange is half the actual weight of the animal we've bought."

Elizabeth makes a tsk'ing noise with her mouth, impossible to tell if she is agreeing or disagreeing with him. As the wife of a temple priest, I guess there's not much she can say.

"There is a farmer just down the road with some two month old lambs for sale," she tells him. "Perhaps you can find one without blemish there. Otherwise I'm afraid you may be stuck paying the temple prices to assure a lamb of acceptable purity."

"It's worth a try: How do I find this place?"

"John will take you; he knows it too well," she says. "I can hardly keep him away from the place since spring lambing."

After we unload the wagon, bringing our share of provisions for the Passover feast into the house, Father, John and I drive it to the farm which lies just over the next hill.

While John and I chase the playful lambs around and around the dirt yard, father inspects one and then another, trying to find a lamb that is perfect. As far as I'm concerned they're all perfect, and I've already fallen in love with one that has a black patch on its eye, when father lets us know he's ready to go. In his arms he holds a snow white baby with huge brown eyes, a soft pink mouth and ears, and an expression as sweet and gentle as anything God ever created.

"Oh father, I love it!" I cry, as he puts it down and hands me the rope that's around its neck.

"Good, because you're the one that will be feeding and taking care of it until tomorrow evening, and it's not yet fully weaned," he warns me, handing me a bucket of fresh sheep's milk.

"How?" I say.

"Just dip your fingers into the bucket like this," John demonstrates; "then put them in the baby's mouth. He'll suck the milk right off."

I do what he says, and the sensation makes me laugh out loud. But as we put the lamb up on the wagon and begin to drive away it begins crying out for its mother in a plaintive bleat, and the mother calls back, sounding as distressed as the baby. This makes me feel sad.

"Why do we have to take it from its mother?" I ask. "Will we bring it back when we are done?"

"You ask too many questions," father says gruffly.

"But I need to learn, I need to understand father," I protest.

He looks at me and nods. "That you do, son, true enough, though you might not like what I say. The lamb will not be coming back to its mother. It will be sacrificed at the temple tomorrow, as thanks to Yahweh for delivering us from bondage."

"Sacrificed?"

"Killed. Killed and butchered."

"Oh no! But, but why?"

"Because it is our custom, Yeshua: It is what Yahweh commanded Moses to do on the eve of the first Passover."

"But later He told Moses _Thou shalt not kill_!" I argue.

"The law says _Thou shalt not murder_. Killing a lamb is a sacrifice, son, not murder."

"Tell that to the lamb and his mother," I respond tearfully, hugging the animal to my chest.

"Well, it's our custom, and until God Himself comes down from heaven and tells us to change it, we will continue to follow the practice as our ancestors have."

I look at him with open mouth, then closing it into a firm line, I nod; and I see his eyes fog with confusion as he turns away.

************

We all leave together in a single wagon the next morning from Aunt Elizabeth's home, so early the sun has not yet lit the border of sky nor the birds arisen to call it forth. Father and Zechariah sit on the front seat, while John and I, mother and Aunt Elizabeth sit in the wagon bed with the baby lamb and our other provisions for the evening's feast. The roadway is already crowded with other wagons, carts and foot travelers, and it soon becomes apparent that those on foot are making much better time than we are. As we reach the outskirts of the city father pulls the wagon off the road entirely and bids us all get down.

"We have too much to carry, husband," my mother protests timidly.

"We can manage," he assures her brusquely, beginning to hoist the bags of food and provisions down from the wagon. Zechariah, still wearied by his late return from working at the temple the night before, nods reluctantly.

"The roads will soon be impassable," he agrees.

Mother, Elizabeth, John and I pack up our food and eating utensils, our prayer rugs, cushions and religious artifacts, and begin the trek through the city of Jerusalem to the temple. Father carries the lamb over his shoulders. It has stopped crying for its mother, and hangs submissive and quiet, as if it knows and accepts its fate.

We stop for a brief rest and ritual cleansing at the Pool of Siloam before beginning the long trek up the hill to the Temple Mount, which presides over the city like a stony giant on his throne. The water is wonderfully cool, and John and I start a little splashing war before our mothers stop us with stern looks, with waggling heads and fingers.

We pass a secret smirk to each other as we bow our heads to their chastisement. It was worth it.

When we reach the temple walls, we must hold tight to one another or get swept apart by the flood tide of people pushing ahead. I grasp the hem of my mother's skirt at her command as the human river surges through a narrow inlet and spreads out into a more peaceable expanse, a large courtyard in which a great number of wooden stands are set up in rows, with noisy vendors hawking food, sacrificial lambs and goats, and other provisions that pilgrims might have forgotten to bring. There are also some tables where coins are being exchanged for other coins, with much arguing between the traders. None of this makes any sense to me. It is loud and boisterous, like market day in our village only not so friendly, and nothing like I expected this holy temple to be.

Finally we make our way to another gate, this one on the side of the temple where the sun still rises over the bright mid-morning sky, and through it enter a quieter, more peaceful plaza where we can set down our heavy packages in the shade and lean back against the wall with a sigh of relief.

Father and Zechariah almost immediately leave, taking the lamb. It looks back at me over father's shoulder, its big brown eyes locked into mine in a strange bond of understanding. I watch until it disappears into the sea of people between us, then turn away.

That night when it is time to partake of the feast, I have no appetite, but father says I must, so I eat my friend and offer a prayer for his little departed soul, hoping his sacrifice will not be in vain.

When we depart for home the next day, the taste of his blood is still in my mouth.

Boyhood Pranks

As I get older, I start to play more pranks, sometimes just for fun, but some with good reason. One day as I am walking to the village with my mother, I see this old woman striking her goat with a cane to make it move, and I cause the cane to fly up out of her hands and get stuck in the branch of a tree. She limps off, cursing the cane, the goat and the tree, but the cane remains where it is. Mother looks at me and shakes her head, but I just shrug my shoulders, trying unsuccessfully not to grin. She is having a hard time keeping the smile from her own face as well.

Another time, I see a sour-faced woman push in front of a small child to fill her bucket at the well, so I "help" the full bucket disintegrate when she draws it up, the metal bands and staves flying out in all directions, its water spilling all over her clothing as it breaks apart. Others around the well go into gales of laughter at this, for the woman is well known for her mean and selfish ways, but I myself keep an innocent expression and look the other way so no one will suspect it is my doing. The unfortunate woman bursts into tears, more because everyone is laughing at her than because her bucket broke or water spilled.

Mother, seems to feel sorry for the crone, and she looks at me sternly, as if she knows very well what caused the mishap.

Once we are out of earshot of the others, she scolds me severely for breaking the woman's bucket, and sends me to my room as soon as we get home. I have no supper that night, but plenty of time to think. What I think is that if God gives me the power to do what I do, what right does my earthly mother - who can't see the truth for lies sometimes - have to prevent me from using it? And further, why should she punish me when all I had done was to teach the cranky old woman a little well deserved lesson in humility?

I begin to feel a little rebellious at that thought, but - as I have been taught to do - I instead drop to my knees and pray to God to help me be more obedient and to honor my earthly father and mother as the Law of Moses said I should... even if they _are_ wrong.

After that I notice that mother looks for reasons to keep me close to home, in order to stay out of trouble I guess. There are few children in the village that I can relate to: most of the boys in the area are either bullies or think themselves superior to a carpenter's son, or both, so I avoid them if I can. However I do have one friend, a sweet little girl one year younger than I named Rachel. With her I can be myself and can practice my "tricks" without worry she will judge or fear me. Rather, she looks up to me with something like awe, which I like. Lucky for me she lives nearby and our mothers are friends as well, so she can come over to visit me almost every day.

I show her how to bring the birds down from the trees, to move the wind and the stones and all sorts of fun things. I even hold onto her hand and take her up into the air with me, higher as the trees, but she has to promise never to tell. I try to convince her that she can do these things on her own, and even attempt to teach her my secrets, but she never quite gets the hang of it and is content just to watch me perform, clapping her hands in glee at my tricks, which inspires me to show off just a little more than I should sometimes.

One day on the Sabbath, as our parents rest at home waiting for the afternoon meal, Rachel and I sit beside the small brook with nothing to do. Bored, I move the water of the brook aside in order to expose the wet clay beneath, and start making little figures of birds out of the clay just to amuse her. After I make quite a few her older brother, who is visiting with his family, comes along and sees what I am doing, and he immediately becomes jealous and angry.

"I am going to tell your father you're breaking the Sabbath," he says, running back to the house.

My father comes out with the rest of the adults and - because the others are watching - chastises me severely in front of Rachel and her brother. I stand up, my pride in front.

"Which of the thirty-nine prohibitions of Sabbath have I broken father?" I challenge him. "There is nothing in the prohibitions that say I cannot play in a brook or make clay birds, is there?"

Rachel's father Annas, the village scribe, steps forward angrily and says that I should not speak to my father in such a tone.

"Further," he proclaims in an authoritative voice: "Any activity that is creative, or that exercises control or dominion over one's environment is prohibited on the Sabbath, young man!"

"Really?" I respond. "Then would that include this?" And so saying, I clap my hands and all twelve clay birds become animate, flying up into the sky and disappearing.

"Wizardry!" Shrieks Rachel's mother, drawing my little friend away from me as if I were some sort of terrifying demon, rather than a five year old child.

"I'll fix this law breaker," yells the older brother, who begins using a stick to break up my dams and flood the area where the clay was exposed, washing it away.

I lose my temper then, mad at them all for their foolishness and meanness.

"Idiots!" I holler, stamping my feet like the five year old child I am and am not. "Godless fools! How dare you judge me! What harm did the pools and the clay birds do! You," I point at Rachel's brother; "You act like a stodgy old man in your ways, so now you can become one!"

Immediately her brother, who is only about 9 years of age, suddenly withers and wrinkles and stoops over, looking like a tiny, very elderly person of indeterminate gender. His parents scream, and he begins to cry, looking down at the sagging, age-mottled skin of his arms and legs. Rachel turns to me, tears streaming down her face. "Please Yeshua," she begs; "Please change him back."

"Only because you ask," I say, and thump the boy on the back of his head. Instantly he is restored to his former appearance.

The family quickly gathers their things and leaves without a word, dragging my sobbing Rachel away by the arm with them.

Hurt, angry, betrayed by my own father and mother - they who should know who I am and what I am about, and yet who refuse to acknowledge or defend me - I go directly to my room and refuse to speak or eat for several days.

Mary and Joseph

"Joseph, we need to talk," I say after our guests have stormed off.

He meets me with silence, so I persist.

"We know our boy is not an ordinary child, yet we keep expecting Him to act like one," I say.

Again silence: Joseph has that brooding look about him that I have come to recognize as a sign to shut up and let whatever it is go. But this time I can't.

"He is the son of God, Joseph...Nay, even God Himself made flesh, I think. So who are we to order Him how to behave, what to do with His powers, or how to interpret the Torah, when it is supposed to be a record of His own divine word and ordinance? If He chooses to do differently than what is written, perhaps the error is in the writers of His holy word and edicts, and not in their interpretation by the Writer Himself, don't you think?"

************

I hear her, but I don't want to. I wish she would be quiet, go off and wash the dishes or darn my socks, anything but this. But the damn woman persists.

"Well?"

"What if he's not the son of God, Mary? What if he's just a willful boy? Isn't it our duty to raise him to understand and follow the Mosaic Laws, to be a follower of our faith?"

She just looks at me, raises an eyebrow. Then she mimics holding something in her palm, blowing at it and watching it flutter off into the air. Her message is clear enough.

"All right, I will grant you that he has miraculous powers. And I admit that the angel of the Lord told me himself that you were pregnant with God's only son. But let me remind you of the real and mundane world that we live in, the world from whence the food I put on the table comes. Let me remind you that no one in the village is aware of our son's divine origins. When you returned from visiting your aunt Elizabeth, you were already three months pregnant...."

I see Mary's lips draw into that thin hard line when she thinks I am going to question her again about the nature of her insemination, so I hasten to add: "With the Lord's child."

She nods and cocks her head.

"So I married you in all due haste, and shortly after the nuptials- before you began to show - we left Nazareth to go to Bethlehem and stay with my family so you could have the baby there, just so those with a mind to count the days wouldn't be able to compute the time between our marriage bed and the birth of our first child...not that said marriage bed has yet been entered," I add snidely. "Perhaps someday, if God so wills."

I take satisfaction to see Mary blush and look down, wriggling uncomfortably in her chair. Married for over five years now, and still the Lord has forbade me to know her as a man knows his wife. Nor to know any other woman, for that matter: And I'm still man enough to burn more than prayers and meditation can assuage.

"And then," I continue; "we remained away another two years in Egypt before returning to Nazareth, so no one could really be sure of Yeshua' age. To all our friends and neighbors, Yeshua is just the son of Joseph and Mary, a perfectly ordinary child; so now when they see the things he does, what immediately comes to their minds is that he must be a conjurer or wizard, not a prophet of God. People are much more ready these days to believe in the powers of darkness than in those of the Divine..."

Mary

" ...so far has man fallen away from his maker," I add. "But I completely agree with you my husband; you are right, and this is exactly why God has sent His Son to earth now, to reunite his people with Him. That being so, should we not tell them of Yeshua's divine origins, should we not make known to them the presence of God in their midst, here to redeem them?"

I suddenly feel this so strongly I am shaken to my core with the realization, and I fall to my knees, tears streaming down my face.

"Please, Joseph," I beg; "do you not see this is true?"

************

Her words touch my heart, but I turn away from them, my practical nature wresting control.

"Will they believe us, Mary? I am a simple laborer whom they have known all their lives, not a learned man, neither priest nor Pharisee but a humble carpenter. And you, a young girl still, all of 20 years and with no formal education: Why would they believe God would choose _us_ to raise His child, when I still can't believe it myself?"

I take her hand.

"And if instead they believe our child to be possessed of demons or in league with them, surely they will shun us and my business will dry up and blow away like sand in the desert winds. How will we care for him then, this child of God? We must talk to Him Mary, we must reason with Yeshua to stop using His powers, at least for now. He is frightening our friends," I shake my head: "He is frightening me."

Eavesdropping

I hear them talking through the thin walls of my bedroom, but I am still too angry to have any sympathy. Don't they know that they need not worry about bread on the table, that my Father in Heaven will provide all that we need? Don't they understand that God, who knows all, who plans all, who causes all, has a good reason for sending me to be raised with humble people in a small village, rather than with nobles, kings and Pharisees as He could have? How can they hold onto such ignorance in the light of what they do know, that the Son of God lives with them? That I am He? I **am**! How can they deny me still?

I burst into tears at this, sobbing into my pillow, both hurt and frustrated....and odd, even to myself, that I can be who I am, know what I know, and still cry like a petulant child sometimes.

After a while I calm down, and then consciously and purposely withdraw into myself. I will show them they needn't worry about putting food on MY table, for I can eat the air itself if I so choose: Or nothing at all. Just watch!

Joseph

That night I get down on my knees right after supper and begin to pray loudly and earnestly to the God that made me, asking for guidance, asking why this burden was placed on me of all people.

"G-d," I say aloud. "Yahweh, how can you expect me to know how to raise a God, when I've never even raised an earthly child? I don't know how to be a good father, and I feel so lost. I try to invoke the scriptures, try to teach Him the laws, but He has his own mind about what these mean, and how can I argue when His is the Mind of God? Yet at the same time He is just a small boy still, and no one will listen to Him or believe He knows what He knows - Maybe when He is older, but not now. So what do I do in the meantime?"

I wait for the voice to come, that silent answer in my head. Instead I feel my wife's cool hand lay upon my shoulder. I turn to look up at her, and am surprised to see a shy smile on her face.

"God just spoke to me, Joseph. He said it was time for Yeshua to have some brothers and sisters, so He can learn to get along with others who are mortal. He needs to learn how to share our love, and also how to behave. Our earthly children can provide the example of how to be obedient, as all children must be to their father and mother."

I look up at her, hope and confusion interplaying on my face.

"You mean, children of our own? Made the....you know, the old fashioned way?" I ask.

"Yes," she smiles. "The old fashioned way."

Me again

I can tell something has changed between mother and father. They seem happier, more affectionate towards each other, with little looks and touches that hadn't passed between them before.

I myself remain aloof and withdrawn since the incident with the clay birds; my pride still smarting from the way I was judged so unfairly by everyone. Rachel no longer comes to play with me, and no one else either, so I practice my letters and songs alone, and spend a lot of time just watching nature and learning from it the secret balance of all things in creation, the natural laws that mirror the spiritual laws. There are clues everywhere, I discover, but most people seem content to just wander mindlessly through their day, stumbling blindly past all the signs in a stupor, unseeing those things which to me stand out like giant monuments cast in gold and lit by the sun, impossible to ignore.

I lay on the soft carpet of grass looking up into the leafy branches of our walnut tree, and as I do I begin to see how the leaves breathe in our exhalations, taking up the tiny glowing particles of air that I blow up at them, absorbing them through their soft undersides, and releasing others back into the air which I swoop back into my mouth and nose. The body of the tree holds these small green engines of hers up to the sky, thousands of them breathing in and out the invisible ocean of air that surrounds them. Silently, patiently, they absorb the rays of the sun: I see the energy go in, but it doesn't leave again, its glow remaining within the leaves, traveling down the stems and branches and into the body. This is its life, this is how it grows, taking the immeasurably small and converting it to become huge in their leaves and branches, trunks and roots. _What is a tree_ , I realize, _but a continuous recombining of the invisible vapors of the atmosphere through the vital force of light. Here stands the mighty tree, enormous and solid and heavy in appearance, while in truth it is still only air and sunlight and mostly empty space. Can no one see the magic in that, the magic of Creation happening before their very eyes?_

Another day I watch the bees for hours and hours, amazed at all they reveal to me. I watch one return to the hive my father has made, and see how the others gather round. I watch with them, entering their collective mind, watching the scout bee with intense concentration as she runs up and back on the side of the hive, and then again at a different angle. I count her runs: each time they are the same number, each time the same angle. With the rest of the hive members, I look up at the sun, and back at her dance, up and back, up and back. Then, my mind with them, we lift into the air on our fragile, vibrating wings, and begin to fly, following the exact angle relative to the sun which she has shown us. Our sister has remained in the hive, but when we have flown for the exact distance she described to us - as measured in her number of runs - there is the new field of wildflowers we are to harvest the nectar and pollen from for our hive, and we plummet down on it with joy and begin our work. I come back to myself then, still staring at the hive: How can these tiny fragile things with no apparent brain at all follow a set of complex directions which leads them unerringly to a new field of clover great distances away? There can be no explanation for that tiny miracle, other than that it is the mind of God within and without that directs them.

And what of the bee's ability to fly at all, I wonder, thinking of the long flight I just took? How can it lift its fat body into the air on such tiny wings, how can it zip from flower to flower, gathering nectar and pollen for use in the hive, but consuming almost none for energy during the foraging? Truth is, it cannot; but truth is also that it does. The same is so for the hummingbird, who uses far more energy to keep its body aloft than the nectar it drinks could ever provide...and yet provide it does. There are tiny miracles all around us, things that cannot be explained other than by the fact that God creates them thus, yet no one seems to notice these discrepancies, nor to question them.

When I meditate on the stuff of which this world is made, I find I can visualize it with a clarity that at first confounds me. I begin to see that everything is made of tiny moving grains of matter which whirl around their centers at incredible speeds, bumping into each other and rebounding away; or held reluctantly together and vibrating as if each part wanted to escape their bonds with the rest. When I slow these down even further with my mind, I find that each one is constructed of even smaller parts which mimic the relationship of moon and earth. I discover that two of these motes contain opposite energies, forces which can both attract and repel each other, and a third particle has none, so that it can simultaneously separate and bond the other two. Something about this awakens a fuzzy knowledge in my heart, something to do with the mystery and meaning of the image in which Man was created, the immanent and the transcendent nature of creation, of God, but it is just beyond my grasp.

I give up trying to figure that out, and return my focus to these essential particles of which all things are made. As I do, I become aware that even these tiniest specks are constructed of parts that are smaller and smaller still, until at last I discover that they are all made simply of pure energy, that they are nothing more than motion; and that matter itself does not really exist at all.

I fall back against the ground breathless, my mouth agape in wonder. This is the nature of the illusion that I already intuitively understood, its proof. It is only through the belief that matter _must_ exist and persist that the concept of time and space is created, and with that concept comes the creation of this material world; a world which at its essence is all a lie, a ruse, a magician's misdirection and a grand illusion.

I see this all so clearly in my mind and in my heart, but I have no vocabulary with which to express it. How do I explain to others what I see and know in my 6 year old voice, still learning the words of my fathers?

Besides, some of the things I see are not of this age but of an age far in the future where such discoveries will yet be made. I can step outside of time's limitations and know and understand what these future generations have uncovered, but how can I convince these simple farmers, living in the now, of such things?

So I keep my silence and brood, feeling quite alone.

One day father finally insists I go into the village with him to a local shopkeeper, to deliver some shelves he had made. I do my best to ignore the sideways glances, the whispers and stares from some of the townspeople as we walk up the dusty road, carrying the heavy lumber. Then as we come back out of the shop I see Rachel and her mother up ahead, and I call out to her. But when she turns her head to wave, her mother grabs her roughly by the arm and hurries her along. As she is hauled away from me, I notice a crowd of boys about the age of Rachel's brother, or maybe a little older, cross the street and begin towards me. Their fists are clenched, faces hard, and I know they mean trouble.

"Just ignore them Yeshua," my father whispers.

That advice proves impossible. One of them purposely runs straight into me, colliding with my shoulder hard enough to knock me down: The rest jeer.

"What's the matter Wizard? Have you lost your magic powers?" The one that hit me calls down. Another spits in my face.

"I still have enough," I say, and immediately the boy who ran into me falls to the earth, unmoving. "As you have thrown me down, you shall not rise again."

One of the others kneels beside the fallen lad, putting his face close to the other's lips, then after a moment lifts his head with a stricken expression."

"He has no breath! He is dead!"

The other boys back away from me now as if I were a viper, their eyes wide with fear. One goes screaming into the nearest store: "Yeshua has killed one of us!" He cries. "Esau is dead, where but a moment before he was fine. With one word the wizard has killed him!"

Immediately the street is aswarm with a venomous crowd, pushing and shoving at me angrily.

"From what cursed womb did this son of yours arise that he can kill with just a word?!" One of the village elders accuses, thumping his stubby finger against my father's chest.

Just then the parents of the dead boy arrive on the scene: The mother falls to her knees in the dirt, wailing and holding the limp child to her breast, as her husband turns on me and my father in deadly fury.

"You cannot remain in this village, Joseph, not with such a child as this, one who slays our children at a whim with his vile curses!"

I can see that my father is sore afraid by now, and so he turns on me, lifting me by the ear and hauling me apart from the others.

"Why do you do such things Yeshua? Can't you see that you make our neighbors our enemies, who will hate and shun us on your account? "

"Let go of me father!" I yell in anger and pain, for he had never treated me this way before.

I feel a welling fury, a small beast growing in my heart. He drops me and takes a step back, wary now.

"I know these are not your own words, but said for the sake of these who persecute us because of their own blindness and ignorance. So I forgive you," I tell him coldly, then turn to the crowd, glaring at them." But these who condemn what they refuse to understand, I don't forgive. Instead I condemn them to their chosen path of darkness."

And no sooner have I said this then all around arise the cries of the people in fear and horror as they stumble into one another.

"Help me!"

"I cannot see! What is wrong, what has happened to me?"

"Help me, please help! I am blind!"

My father looks at me, stricken at what I have done, shaking his head with tears in his eyes.

"Take it back, boy. I beg you; take your curses back now!"

I sigh, petulant and unwilling at first. But then I relent: Perhaps they will have learned their lesson and will at least leave me alone after this, even if they won't respect me.

"Your sight is restored," I say.

Instantly the villagers begin rubbing their eyes, looking around in wonder and fear.

My father nods at the child still lying in the dirt, so I grab the dead boy up by the ear, as father had done with me, and say to him: "Breathe! Then go your way."

Immediately the fellow Esau leaps up and runs down the street, crying and screaming like a little girl...which makes me smile in grim satisfaction.

Then I feel myself grabbed roughly by the arm and, before anyone else can react, my father drags me home at a dead run.

Mary

I can't believe what I am hearing, that my child, my beloved gentle little son, would kill another boy and turn the people of our town blind. I close my eyes and cover my ears.

"Enough!" I cry.

But Joseph is in a blind rage, and will not let me hide from the truth. He pulls my hands away and makes me look at him.

"He did what he did, Mary. He did what he did."

"But he took it back," I plead.

"Yes. This time. But what if I wasn't there to beg him for such mercy? We have to do something about this, Mary. We have to reason with him. Every day his powers increase, but not, it seems, his common sense."

I collapse to the floor to hear this coming from my husband's mouth.

"But, He is God! How can you speak of Him thus?" I whisper , then fling myself onto the dirt face down and begin to pray in earnest fear of Yahweh's reprisal.

"Father in heaven forgive us, for we are unworthy to judge You or your Son. Please, just help us know what to do."

I repeat the prayer over and over, and then, though my eyes are closed, I sense Joseph prostrate himself on the floor beside me, hear him muttering prayers of penitence and petition as well. After a time we stop, and go together to talk to our son.

Father Joseph

Yeshua is lying on his cot, feigning sleep as we enter, but I know he is awake.

"Sit up son, we must talk with you," I say, my voice stern.

He sighs and rolls over, sitting with his legs hanging over the side of the little bed.

I clear my throat, uttering one last silent prayer that the words coming from my mouth be from God, and righteous.

"Your mother and I need to talk to you about, about your ...gifts."

He looks up at me, now alert and interested in what I have to say.

"You realize that you are very special, and that your talents come from your Father in heaven, don't you?"

The boy nods.

"But do you know that you are actually not our son at all, not in the normal sense, but are the Son of God himself?"

"Of course I know that, father," he says steadily. "I thought maybe you didn't, the way you treat me sometimes."

Mary and I exchange looks. I go on.

"The angel of the lord came to your mother before we were wed, and told her that she was to carry the Son of God in her womb. Then he came to me, and told me that she was carrying God's only Son, and that I was to marry her and raise the child as my own until the time came to fulfill His purpose. Do you understand?"

"Did he tell you what that purpose was? When it would be time?" The boy asks carefully.

I glance over at Mary again, who shakes her head.

"No," I say. "He told us Mary would bear God's son, that we were to raise Him, but we know nothing beyond that of His plan for your life.

"Oh," the boy says, sounding a little disappointed.

"But we do know that you can't go on scaring the people of our village as you did today," Mary interjects. "They have no idea about your miraculous conception and birth: To them you're just an ordinary young boy."

"Why don't they, mother?" He asks her seriously.

"Because we went to Bethlehem before the birth so they could not be counting the days and questioning your mother's morals," I tell him. "People are quick to believe the worst in man, and slow to believe in miracles."

"So we never told them," says Mary, kneeling down beside her son and taking his hand. "Maybe if we had they would treat you with more respect. We just want to follow God's will, but we're not always sure what that is. Do you think we should tell them now?"

Yeshua is quiet for some time, contemplating this with such a serious expression wrinkling his tender brow, he suddenly seems much older than his six years.

"No," He finally answers, but offers no explanation.

"Then can we ask you, son, to work hard to hold your temper and not try to teach our neighbors manners and respect, at least not in the way you have been...that is, unless you are certain it is your Father's will for you to do so."

The boy blows out a breath, sighs, looks down at his feet, and then raises his head again.

"I will try, father. I promise."

************

Once father and mother leave my room I flop back on my cot and stare up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

I _wish_ I knew my purpose more clearly, but Father God has not revealed it to me. I seek it in the infinite realm where time's continuum has no meaning, but though I can see all of what has gone before, and much of what is to come, the part of the future concerning me is still hidden from my view. I suppose that's part of His plan.

In any case, I think if father Joseph were to tell the townspeople that I am the Son of God, they would be constantly distracting me with their requests for this favor or that: Clean the tainted water from my well, make my plants grow tall and abundant with grain, heal my gout, make my children behave...Well, maybe I wouldn't mind the last chore, I grin; That I could take some pleasure in. But in any case I think it's meant to remain a secret for now: Let them wonder until my Father in heaven tells me it is time to reveal myself.

Father Joseph

Three days after the incident in the village an elder by the name of Zacchaeus comes to see me. He is a learned man, a teacher by trade, and needs me to build him a couple of desks. He has little to pay with, but says he has heard about my son Yeshua, and would be willing to teach him his letters in exchange for my work.

"I'm not sure," I tell him. "Yeshua is a special boy, and I'm not certain he would take well with becoming someone's pupil.'

But Zacchaeus argues convincingly, as if he can read my troubled mind: "Thou hast a wise child, it is said, one with understanding beyond his years. Yet he has difficulty relating to others well. Come, deliver him to me that he may learn letters. And I will teach him with the letters all knowledge of the Torah and our customs, so that he will salute all the elders and honour them as grandfathers and fathers, and learn to love them as if they are of his own heart."

So I send Yeshua to him the following morning after chores: Ill advised, as it turns out.

Zacchaeus

I begin with the simplest form, for this is after all a child of only six, with no formal schooling behind him as yet.

"This is the first letter of the Alef Bet, the Alef. This is how it is written," and I show him, then hand him a tablet and make him write the Alef.

He does it perfectly, but as his teacher I feel it necessary to correct him, else how could I be called a teacher? So I have him write it again, the second copy identical to the first.

"Better," I nod, ignoring his impudent face.

I go on to instruct him in all the letters, from Alef to Tav, how to write each, the pronunciation of each, and the numerical value of each.

"But what of their meaning," he asks when I am done.

"They mean what they mean. They are letters, that's all. We ascribe to them their meaning when we write them into words or numerals."

"Fool!" he says, shocking me. "I am talking not about their meaning in man's language, but in God's; their meaning regarding the creation of the universe."

"That? I know of it, but also know that it is pure nonsense and superstition," I counter, folding my arms across my chest sternly. "Your father is paying me to teach you practical lessons, how to read and write and count, so you can be useful to him and to your village. He did not hire me to indulge you in some kind of occult mysticism!"

"Truly?" The boy scoffs, and I am taken aback by the strength of personality in so small a child. A wave of apprehension passes through me. "And you are supposed to teach me?" He challenges boldly: "You that has no idea about the nature and power of the Alef, would pretend to teach others the Bet and the rest? Don't be such a hypocrite. If you actually know it, teach the Alef, and then I will believe you concerning the rest of what you say."

I am confounded by his response, not knowing what to tell this impertinent child. By this time a small crowd has gathered round, for I am teaching him out in the park, the day being temperate. I begin to sweat more than the heat of the day would account for. I have heard what this child is capable of if he loses his temper.

"Well," I begin nervously, "the Alef is actually comprised of three separate letters, a yud above, a yud below, and a vav between them. As I recall, these are supposed to represent the initial separation of the two waters by the firmament, something like that."

Yeshua shakes his head disdainfully at my weak attempt.

"Hear me, teacher, while I explain to you the meaning of the first letter and its significance to creation from the beginning of time to the present and beyond. Pay heed to this."

He begins to draw the letters on the tablet as he speaks, playing to the crowd

"The alef is a mother letter formed by two _yuds_ , one on the upper right and the other upside down on the lower left, joined by a diagonal _vav_ which both separates and unites them at the same time. It is the image of the way in which man was created, and represents the Divine power to bear two opposites simultaneously."

Some of those in the crowd nod appreciatively at this revelation, one with which they were perhaps already somewhat familiar. They move in a little closer to hear.

"To fully understand this," the boy continues with an authority bordering on arrogance; "you also have to understand the meaning of the yud and the vav of which the alef is constructed. The yud represents that singularity in which God exists, the entire infinite realm of God's Being hidden within the one initial point from which all creation emanates. The inverted yud represents the soul hidden in the body of Man, the infinite God hidden within the heart of His Creation as a mirror image. And the Vav is that single line of divine light emanating from its infinite source in the Yud, the light which takes part in the continuous process of Creation by both uniting and separating the Creator from his creation; it is the mirror on which the image of God is infinitely reflected. This is how the Vav constructs time as the continuum which keeps the illusion in place. "

I hear gasps from the crowd as they listen to the boy's words. I myself feel confounded, hoping only that the confusion in my mind is not apparent on my face.

"Who is this child that teaches his teacher?" I hear some say, and their words impale me on the rusty sword of my pride.

"He speaks words that only the highest masters could know or understand?' says another.

Hearing this praise of the boy, and by insinuation the comparative stupidity of myself, I am ready to crawl off in my shame. I turn to my friends and neighbors for comfort.

"Woe is me, wretch that I am, I have brought disgrace to myself by drawing to me this young child. Take him away, I beseech thee, my brothers. I cannot endure the severity of his look; I cannot once make clear his word."

One of the women steps forward. "I will walk him home for you," she says, and takes the boy by the hand, leading him away.

"Don't blame yourself, Zacchaeus ," says my old friend Josiah. He puts a comforting arm around my shoulder. "This young child is not earthly born: This is one begotten before the making of the world. What belly bare this, what womb nurtured it? I know not. But he has wisdom and power beyond that of any natural man."

Tears have begun to pour from my eyes, and I am not sure why I feel so devastated by what has occurred, but I can't seem to stop their flow, nor the misery that consumes me.

"Oh my friend, I feel like I'm losing my mind. I cannot follow his understanding. I feel as if I have deceived myself my whole life! I strove to get a disciple and I am found to have a master. I am humbled that I have been overcome by a young child; and cannot even look him in the face."

"Really, Zacchaeus, you're taking this all too seriously," my friend tries to reason with me. "Come, let's have a draught of wine together."

I nod, and allow myself to be led away by him, still babbling and sobbing in some unnamed, inconsolable, overwhelming grief.

Seated at my friend's table, away from other less-trusted ears, I continue to lament:

"When all men say that I have been overcome by a little child, what have I to say? And what can I tell concerning the lines of the first letter of which he spoke, except to confess that I am ignorant, my friend, for neither beginning nor end of it do I know. All I do know is that he is somewhat great, but whether god or angel or what I should call him, I know not."

With that admission, I proceed to get drunk on my friend's wine and make the decision to retire from the teaching business altogether; and since I will have no further need of the desks, I never have to go back to see Joseph or his strange young son again.

Youth and Growth

When the woman delivers me to my home I go straight to my room, exhausted. But I suppose she must have remained to tell my father Joseph what happened with the teacher in the public square, for a short while later he comes in to speak with me.

"Yeshua," he says, and his attitude is not unkind or angry as I had feared it might be, but strangely humble; "Rebecca tells me you said things which astounded the people in the square, insights and truths of a deep spiritual nature which few if any could know or understand. Is this so?"

"Yes father," I answer.

"And how is it you come to know such things, when you can barely read or write?"

I look into my heart long and hard, long enough to have my father clear his throat with impatience, before answering with the simple truth: "I don't know _how_ I know, I just know."

"You just know? Joseph repeats.

I shrug. "It just kind of comes to me...."

After he leaves I lay back on my narrow bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering myself how it is I know what I know, trying to analyze and revisit how it feels when these things come to me, like the way I see how a tree is nothing but air and light, or how atoms are made of polar opposites and the matter they form is nothing but motion without substance.

As I see this once more in my mind, a new realization comes to me with the same resounding clarity as the other truths that had been revealed before. Suddenly I know that the construction of the alef, with its opposite yuds and the vav in the middle, is a parallel to the construction of the atom, the basic building block of the material world. It is another metaphor, a teaching truth for man.

The upper yud is like the positive particles, all vibratory internal motion; and the lower yud is like the negative particle, all external motion. The vav between is like the attractive force that somehow binds the positives and the negatives in perfect balance. And there is something else to know about this, but it doesn't quite come to me. It's like a word on the tip of my tongue, like the name of something long forgotten that my mind is trying to retrieve. I fall asleep, still searching.

************

A couple of months have passed since my failed attempt at schooling, and I am bored and lonely.

People are afraid of me more than ever, at least that's how it seems. Not only don't I have any friends to play with, but no one is coming to my father's workshop behind our cottage anymore either, and mother wears a worried look that makes her face appear older than her 22 years. She is also getting big in front, and when I ask why she tells me I will soon have a little brother or sister to play with.

That's fine I guess, for the future, but it's not much comfort now. I've seen babies in the village, and they can't really do anything much for months except lay there and kick. I need to do something about this situation sooner than that.

I decide to walk into town, and just make other kids want to play with me. Just send the thought out: _Play with Yeshua!_ Surely if I can make them fall down dead, I can make them like me a little.

As I walk through the dusty street kicking a stone ahead with each step - _Play with me! Play with me! -_ , a boy named Zeno calls down from the second story of his house. His father is the local tax collector for the province, so they are a wealthy family and -although I've heard they are hated by their neighbors - the home is large and spacious, attracting many friends for Zeno to play with. There are several boys standing on the balcony next to Zeno, and they wave as well.

"Yeshua, come up and play with us," Zeno calls.

"Yes, Yeshua, come play," the other boys echo.

_It's working_ , I tell myself with a little smile.

I go in through the gate and up the outer stairwell to the balcony. The boys have made little whirligigs out of twigs and leaves, and are dropping them off the balcony in some sort of reverse race: whichever lands last is the winner. They give me some leaves and twigs and show me how to twine them together to make the device, and then let me race them. I make sure I never win, so no one thinks I am using my "special powers" to cheat.

After the fourth air drop, one boy's whirligig gets stuck in the branches of the grapevine that crawls up the trellis beneath the balcony.

He heels his body over the railing, reaching, but his arms are too short to quite grasp it, so Zeno, who is a little taller, tells him not to worry, he'll get it for him. Saying this, he leans far out over the rail, trying to get his fingertips on the toy. It is so close, just a little farther, a little farther he reaches.

Suddenly he tumbles over the railing with a shriek, hitting the ground far below with a sick thud and crunching noise. He lies motionless where he landed, his neck bent at a strange angle, as the clouds of red dust punched into the air by his body slowly settle back down on his face, arms and legs.

The other boys run down the stairs to their fallen friend, stare at him a moment, then run off towards the center of town, crying and yelling, but I remain where I am on the balcony, stunned into a stupor.

Now the parents of Zeno come out of the house and rush to their fallen son. As the mother wails in grief, holding her dead boy to her bosom, the father looks up and, seeing me, flies into a rage.

"You demon, you child of hell, you have killed my boy, my precious precious boy!"

I am shocked by the accusation, and instantly defensive.

"I did no such thing! He fell! It was an accident!"

Now the mother looks up, tears pouring from her eyes, and reviles me as well.

"You evil, wicked boy; what cursed womb spawned thee that you would cast down your only friend to his death?"

"I did _not_ cast him down," I yell; "and I will prove it to you!"

With that, I jump from the balcony, landing as softly as a cat or bird might, not even raising a puff of dust. Ignoring the parents' looks of amazement, I stand beside the body of their son, looking down on his prostrate form, and cry out in a loud voice: "Zeno, arise and tell me, did I cast you down?"

Straightaway Zeno rises up from where he lays, cricks his neck back into place, brushes the dust from his pants and shirt, and answers: "No, Lord Yeshua, you did not cast me down, but you did raise me up, and I thank you for that."

I look over at the parents, to see their mouths are open in shock.

The mother grabs my hand and begins covering it with her kisses and tears.

"Thank you, oh thank you Yeshua. And Glory be to the God who sent you to us!"

"Is it true, then?" The father asks in a hushed voice. "Are you sent from God?"

I don't know how to answer, so I just grunt something non-committal and hurry away.

This isn't exactly the outcome I'd had in mind for the day. Maybe it isn't as bad as being called Satan, but I doubt I will get many true friends to play with as God either. None-the-less, I do feel good to know Zeno is still alive, and that somehow I helped bring that about.

Joseph

I am in my shop, sanding the bars of the cradle I'd just made for our soon-to-be-born child, when I hear a commotion on the road outside. I look through the open door, and see a large crowd of villagers heading towards our little cottage.

Yeshua had come home a short while earlier and gone straight to his room, so my first thought is "Oh no, what has he done this time?"

I step out into the yard, wiping my hands on my shirt.

"Joseph, a word with you," calls out the tall bearded patriarch at the front of the pack, Zebediah by name.

"Aye," I say with a nod.

"It's about your son, Yeshua," another cries.

"Of course it is," I think, but remain still, waiting to hear.

Mary has by now come out onto the porch. She is big with child, and I wave her back inside, not wanting any stress on her at this delicate time. She obeys, but I see her looking from the window none-the-less.

"He has great power," says Zebediah; "of that we were all aware. But today he saved the life of another child..."

"Nay, brought him back from the dead!" cries a woman with tears streaming from her eyes, and I recognize her as the wife of the tax collector. "My son Zeno. He fell off the roof; dead as a doorknob, neck all askew, and your Yeshua healed him, praise be to God!"

"Is this so?" I say. "Mary, call out the boy!"

A moment later Yeshua comes shyly to the door, his mother right behind him. He looks just like any seven year old boy who's been awakened from his nap, all scruffy hair and sleepy eyes.

A cheer goes up from the crowd at his appearance, and he rubs his face and looks over at me, bewildered at what is going on.

"They say you brought a boy back from the dead today," I tell him. "Is this so?"

"I just wanted to prove I didn't make him fall, that I'm trying to be good so they will like me, and so they will trust you again, father," he replies.

"We do, we do!" The patriarch assures him, coming up to give the boy a hearty hug, and then coming over to bestow the same assurance on me.

"Sent from God, that's what he is," a woman at the back of the crowd calls out: "Sent from God to help us with our woes."

"Of which we have a multitude," her husband adds.

I can see where this is heading.

"That may be," I tell her and the others. "But right now he is just a little boy: Give him some time to grow, if you will."

The crowd soon disperses, but not until several - perhaps hoping to curry favor in case favor is later needed - linger to admire my cradle, give good wishes to my wife for a safe delivery, and give me some new orders for carpentry work.

Once they have all left, I put away my sanding tools and go into the house to talk with Mary and our son.

Mary

The conversation is over almost before it begins.

Joseph bides me sit beside him, but the discomfort in my belly and back make standing actually more comfortable, so I tell him to please just let me stand here at the sink while he says what he has to.

He tells me of his concerns that the villagers will soon start asking our son to do services for them, little miracles at first: calling on him to relieve their aches and pains, make their old cows produce milk, their trees bear more fruit...then gradually more and more, bigger and bigger things.

"I think God has a higher purpose, in sending His only Son to live among us as a man, than to have him act as the village magician," Joseph tells me. "But at the same time I have to admit I do want their business: We _need_ their business to make a living, and it's been hard since they shunned us."

"But Joseph," I protest; "we cannot sell the boy's God-given gifts for the sake of putting bread on our table. Surely the Lord will provide, as long as we do what is right."

He contemplates this a long moment, then nods. "You are right, of course, my Mary. I will have a talk with our boy, ask him to do no more miracles, neither good nor bad if he can help it; at least not until his heavenly Father tells him it is time for that."

He gets up, gives me a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the belly, but as he starts to walk away I double over in pain with a shriek I cannot contain. At that same moment I feel the water coursing down my inner thighs.

"The baby is coming," I whisper.

So the conversation with Yeshua never gets spoken, at least not in the same way it would have, and not for some time.

Another Axident?

I don't see much of my mother since the baby came. I hear her in the night, when he makes those funny little cries and she gets up to comfort and feed him, so I know she isn't getting her usual rest. I guess that's why she takes naps during the day whenever he's sleeping, because she never used to nap before. And she doesn't have much time for me, which makes me feel a little sad. But she does ruff my hair when she passes, and reminds me how much she loves me still.

They show me the little guy a day or two after he is born, and I think he smiles at me, but I can't be sure because he's so strange looking, kind of like a purplish worm with hair and eyes. I suppose that's how babies are supposed to look, as father and mother don't seem disappointed in him at all.

Anyway, it's almost three weeks now since I've left the house: Father has had me doing chores for mother while he catches up on all the work in the shop, even washing clothes and preparing meals under her direction while she cradles baby James in her arms.

But this morning he tells me I can go into the village to pick up some supplies, so I am on my way, happy to be free of the confines of the cottage. The air is crisp with the hint of fall, the sky a blue crystal without a single cloud to blemish its purity, and all around me is the bustle of birds and vermin hurrying to get ready for the winter.

As I pass the woods that lie on the east side of the village, I see a young man cleaving logs that he has cut from a felled tree, separating them into stove-size pieces. I wave at him, and he pauses in his work a moment to wave back before continuing.

A little thought crosses my mind, like the shadow of a cloud flying over a field: What if he were to cut himself with the ax? Maybe I could heal him, and thereby make more friends.

No sooner do I think this than I hear a roar of pain pour out from the throat of the woodcutter. I look over to see him lying on the ground, writhing in pain and grappling at his leg. Blood spurts like a red fountain from his severed foot, which lies on the ground beside him like a lost shoe.

I stop dead in my tracks, filled with a mixture of awe and guilt at what I have done, as villagers come pouring out of nearby houses and yards, hurrying to his aid. Then I break out of my trance and run towards him as well, pushing through the crowd of onlookers.

By the time I get to his side he is already faint from loss of blood, and all but lost. I kneel down by his side, pick up the foot and put it back onto his leg at the place it was severed from, and instantly it bonds as if never cut. There is not even the line of a scar. The fellow, his name is Jacob I think, opens his eyes and looks at me in wonder.

"You're okay now," I tell him. "You can get up and go back to work. Just be more careful after this."

The villagers look at me, mouths agape, then one at a time they begin to drop to their knees, mumbling words of praise. Some even fall to the ground before me, planting their faces in the dirt. Many are sobbing. It _is_ a little embarrassing, but at the same time I kind of like it.

I didn't mean to hurt Jacob the woodcutter, I really didn't. It was just a random thought, not supposed to happen. I guess I should learn to control such things a little better, but at least it's nice to know I can fix what I break.

A short while later, after I have finished my errands, I approach the humble cottage that is my home to I see a small crowd of villagers already gathered there, speaking to my father in hushed tones. They back away from the doorway to let me pass, their attitude a combination of fear and reverence, like they are not quite sure what they've got here, and whether or not it might turn on them at any second.

For my part, I don't know whether to smile at that or be irritated, so I just walk on by with the blank expression I'm learning to perfect, and hand the bags of flour, eggs and butter to my mother. I then go into my room to await another scolding.

But this time the only thing my father Joseph says at supper is: "Be careful son."

I nod at that: It really is all there is to say or do now.

************

For a while father takes on the chores that involve going into the village, ensuring I stay at home where I can cause no mischief until baby James has reached his third month, when mother will be able to take him out so she can do these errands herself.

One day, however, the baby is fussy and feverish and father is out felling trees for a new project, so she sends me into the village to draw our daily ration of water from the public well.

I carry our large clay pitcher carefully in both hands as I hurry towards the large walled pool. Many women and children are there before me to scoop up buckets of the clear clean water. As I wait my turn, a pair of small children playing tag suddenly run right smack into me, knocking me to the ground. The clay pitcher flies out of my hands and crashes against the stone wall of the open cistern, shattering into a hundred pieces.

Both of the tots stop dead in their tracks while I climb to my feet, their eyes widening in fear as they look from me to the shattered pitcher and back again. Then the boy who ran into me falls to his knees, tears pouring from his eyes, and begs me not to kill him.

That shocks me, hurts me: Am I really viewed as a monster, a boogeyman to be feared by small children?

"It's ok," I say, squatting down beside him and putting my hand on his shoulder. "Don't be afraid of me. Look, I can still carry water just fine without the silly pitcher."

As I say this I take off my small woolen cloak and, making it into a bowl-like shape, dip it into the pool of water and draw it out full to overflowing with water. Not one drop leaks from the thin fabric. The people at the wellspring stare at me in amazement, as I hoist the cloth bucket over my shoulder and walk away with a little wave at the boy and girl, who shyly wave back.

Simchat Torah and the Goat Boys

It's been a few weeks since the incident at the well, and today is Simchat Torah. We weren't able to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for Sukkot this year since baby James is still too young for such a journey, so instead we have been celebrating by building a sukkah, which father and I stay in each night while mother prepares for the final festivities at weeks end, making traditional dishes to share at the synagogue as well as little decorations to add to our clothing - ribbons, fall flowers, religious symbols and such.

Father reminds me again of the significance of this holy day, which marks the completion of the annual cycle of weekly Torah readings, culminating with the reading of the end of the Torah in Deuteronomy and the immediate return to its beginning in Genesis. This is done, he tells me, to remind us that the story of creation is a circle that never ends. I like that: they almost have it right.

When the final reading is completed today with everyone present, there will be a blessing followed by a procession around the synagogue which includes much singing and dancing together. After that we will all break bread and share our favorite dishes; then later, while the elders toast everything they can think of with glass after glass of wine, the children will be free to play together in the surrounding courtyard.

I feel both excited and nervous as we walk together to the village, father in the lead carrying the dishes mother has prepared, mother directly behind him carrying baby James, and myself bringing up the rear. There will be many children present, and I am not sure how I will be received by them.

Also father tells me that this day traditionally marks the beginning of a child's Jewish education, and that there will be a confirmation ceremony for all boys that are of age following the blessing.

This includes me, apparently, whether I think I need it or not.

************

The confirmation is not as bad as I anticipated: All I do is bow my head and say "yes" at the appropriate times, and father smiles in relief.

The dancing and singing and eating are wonderful as well, for I am safe beside my mother and father. But when that ends and I must go play with the other children of the village, and that's when the trouble begins.

I can see the reluctance in the children's faces, in the way they hold their bodies so stiff and resistant; their arms folded across their chests as mothers and fathers admonish them in whispers and push them towards me. I can almost hear the parents telling their children: "Better to make a friend of him than an enemy:" and "You never know when we might need one of his miracles, so go on now."

I wait, as unsure as they are, but eventually they all come over and invite me to join in a game of tag. Rachel is there too, as pretty as ever and almost as tall as I am now, so it isn't too long before we are just as we were 3 years ago, laughing and talking together while the others chase each other around the village square.

Then some of the older boys notice I'm not really playing, just talking, and they stop their game and come over.

"Hey Yeshua, tell us the truth: can you really do miracles?" One challenges.

"I bet it's just some kind of trick," another says.

"You're wrong," Rachel comes to my defense, bristling. "I've seen him myself, and so have some of you."

"That's right," another agrees, one of the boys who was at the house when Zeno fell from the roof. "I saw Zeno die, and then he was alive again."

"Maybe so, maybe not," says the challenger, a brutish twelve-year old whose name is Zebe. "Maybe you only thought he was dead, maybe he was just unconscious. Besides, you ran off, so you never actually saw Yeshua here do anything, did you?"

"Well, no, not exactly," the boy Josiah replies. "But I heard it from my ma, who heard it from Zeno's mother herself!"

"Well I say seeing is believing, and I haven't seen a thing," counters Zebe.

"Me either," says the second boy. "I say prove it, Yeshua: Prove you aren't a fake."

"Yeah," chimes in a third boy; "prove it! Make one of your miracles right now."

"Okay," I shrug; "if you say so."

And immediately my three taunters turn into a trio of ragged Billy goats.

They try to cry out in protest, but all that comes forth from their mouths are loud plaintive animal noises, and the more they make these ridiculous sounds, the louder and more frantic their _baas_ get. They begin running around in circles in their fright and frustration, butting into each other and going: _Baa, Baa, Baa_!

I laugh out loud at this hilarious sight, but then notice the other children are not laughing, but are instead backing away from me in fear, eyes wide. They look ready to run.

"Wait, come back, please. I won't hurt you!" I cry after them. "It was just a joke, just for fun! Watch!"

So saying, the three Billy goats are instantly turned back into boys again, looking about in confusion.

"See, they're fine! Come on, don't run away!"

The three boys brush themselves off, scowling, and everyone else is eyeing me warily. I can see they don't want to stay but are afraid to leave. What can I do to fix this? Then I have an inspiration.

"Watch this," I say, and transform my own self into a Billy goat now. I jump and buck, spinning in circles and baaing until they are all laughing despite themselves, some even rolling on the ground and holding their stomachs in glee. After a minute or two I turn back into human form.

"All in fun, right? So, can we be friends?"

They give a cheer, and pat me on the back. I can tell it is a turning point, that I am accepted as one of their own, just another eight year old boy from the village out to have a good time...if one with an odd talent or two.

Joseph

Mary is not happy with me, but I have little choice in the matter.

During the confirmation at the synagogue, I promised the priest I would find a teacher for my boy straightaway, and so I must.

After the earlier failed attempt by Zacchaeus to teach Yeshua the Hebrew alphabet, I am reluctant to employ anyone else for this task; yet at the same time I know that, in keeping with tradition, as Yeshua's age has come to the full he should not be ignorant of letters.

So today I am walking to town to hire another teacher, a rabbi by the name of Akiva.

When we meet he tells me he has heard of my child's reputation and is somewhat afraid of him, but after some negotiations - (for his services I promise to build him a table for dining as well as eight chairs) - he promises he will teach him first the Greek letters and after that the Hebrew. They will start tomorrow.

At dinner I let Yeshua know of this arrangement, and when he will begin.

"Yes father," he nods.

I ask him to be patient and respectful of the rabbi, no matter what. "Do you agree?" I ask.

"Yes father," he says.

Mary just looks at me. "We shall see," her expression says. "We shall see."

My New Teacher

I try to keep my promise to my father, I really do. But this rabbi is unworthy to be a teacher, thick headed with the superficial meanings of the letters, and having no understanding of their true spiritual significance, their role in the cycle of creation. I see them so clearly in my mind, how each one separately and all of them together represent the whole of the universe, the entire mystery of Creation. They are God's holy Name personified and transcribed, and yet he sees them simply as scribbles on paper, sounds for the mouth.

Dolt! His stupidity offends me. Yet he places himself higher than I, and repeatedly badgers me for rote answers, memorized definitions: Well, I refuse to play his silly game.

I tighten my mouth into a firm line and say nothing.

Finally the man loses all patience with me.

"You will answer me when I speak to you, boy!" he yells. "Tell me the meaning of each of the letters I have written here on this tablet!"

So I say to him what I said to that previous simpleton: " Rabbi, know you not that these letters represent the sounds of God's voice as he created the universe and everything in it? Are you so ignorant as to think them mere letters, nothing but a tool of man invented to tell other men his wants and needs? If you are supposedly a teacher, and well learned in the letters, then tell me the power of the Alef. When you can show me you are able to do that correctly, then I will tell you the power of the Bet, and not before!"

At this, Rabbi Akiva loses his temper completely and slaps me across the face with his open palm, bringing tears to my eyes from the stinging blow.

"Don't presume to tell me what is what, you blasphemous little demon!" he yells in my face. "I am the authority here, not you!"

"You wicked fraud, you will never strike another child!" I scream at him, and he instantly falls to the ground dead.

I look at him, but have no desire to undo what I have done, so I leave him there and run home, tears streaming down my face.

When I enter the house my mother knows immediately something terrible has happened.

"What have you done, Yeshua, that causes you such grief?"

"I have killed my teacher," I sob. "and I don't wish to bring him back. He is wicked and evil, and he smote me on my cheek for no reason."

"Oh Yeshua, I am so sorry, but you must not leave him thus. If the villagers find out, they will trouble us without end. "

Father has come in during this, and hearing what I've done tells me I have no right to kill someone just because they strike me.

I can't believe my ears.

"If I have no right, then who does, father? Who do you think I am?"

"Please Yeshua, restore the rabbi's life. Do it for us, if for no other reason," mother pleads.

"No." I say, "Dead he is, and dead he will stay. But don't worry so much about it, mother: Death is just another illusion. He'll be back in another body before you know it, hopefully a little wiser."

At this father turns to my mother and angrily commands her not to let me leave the house again.

"We cannot allow him out in public, for he is a danger to our friends and neighbors. Everyone who provokes his wrath ends up dead!"

"That's not true, that's not true!" I shout at him, then turn and run into my room, bawling loudly at the unjustness of his words. "What of those I've saved?" I cry out through the door as I slam it behind me.

Then through the thin wall, I hear my mother admonish my father, and my tears stop in surprise and admiration at her boldness, for wives under Mosaic law are taught to obey their husbands without question.

Mary

I glare at my husband, folding my arms across my chest. I am puffed up in anger that he would say what he has to our son, knowing who the boy really is.

He glares back at me, shaking his head as if to warn me not to speak my mind, but that just pushes me over the edge.

"I do not believe you are right in what you say, Joseph," I tell him, raising my voice to ensure my son can hear. "Yeshua is no danger to anyone worthwhile, I am certain. He who sent him to us would surely guard him from all mischief and mistakes, would he not? I think you are forgetting who Yeshua truly is, my husband."

"That may be," he grunts; "but try to explain that to our simple towns folk, many of whom are just as sure he is from the devil as from God. All I know is now I have another mess of his to clean up, and I don't need the trouble!"

He turns abruptly from me and walks away, slamming the front door behind him.

************

I flop back on my bed and stare at the ceiling, shaking my head. Mother may have won that round; none the less, I think it will be some time before I am allowed to leave the house again.

A Time to Sow

It has been about 3 months since I killed Rabbi Akiva. They held an investigation, but there was no sign of violence, so his death was reluctantly ascribed to natural causes. No one had actually seen me enter or leave his house - or at least no one who was willing to come forth and say they had - so the matter was officially dropped.

Even so, through the winter I have kept to the house, helping mother with canning and cleaning, and of course with baby James.

He no longer looks like a hairy worm; as a matter of fact he is quite adorable, especially when he laughs and holds out his arms for me to pick him up. I carry him with me everywhere, and talk to him constantly, telling him everything I see and what the meaning of each thing is, what miracle is disguised inside, what truth revealed. He listens with a look of amazement in his wide brown eyes, pink cherub lips agape as if he is taking it all in and truly understands. It is then, even with him less than 6 months old, that I decide he will be my first disciple. My heart feels bound to him with a touching joy I cannot name or even describe, but I know I would fight a lion to protect him if I had to.

Winter is time for planting, so I reluctantly leave my brother in my mother's care this morning and go out into the fields with my father to prepare the soil for this year's crop of wheat.

"Yeshua, get the mule," he tells me that first day, as he grabs the yoke and harnesses from the shed.

As it turns out, Sheba is unwilling to leave her warm bed of hay in the little stall next to our barn to venture out into the early morning chill, and despite pulling and tugging on the rope I've placed around her neck, I am still too small to get my will done by force alone. I hear father call my name impatiently from the other side of the yard.

"Yeshua, hurry with that animal: What is taking you so long?"

"Okay, Sheba, enough playing mule. Get up and get going!" I order sternly.

Immediately the animal jumps to her feet and all but drags me airborne in her rush to get out of the stall.

"Well, that's more like it," I mutter, scrambling to keep up with her.

We tie Sheba to the plow, and then father shows me how to hold the two long wooden arms steady as she pulls the plowshare forward; while he goes in front to remove stones and deadfall from the track. Together we follow her back and forth across our land all that day and the next two as well, turning the damp soil into furrows and working the hard ground until it is soft enough to provide a gentle bed for our new plantings.

By the fourth day he is satisfied.

"There," he says, picking up a handful of the loose loam. "Feel that soil, son. This is the way the seedlings need the ground if they are to take root and grow. Now we plant!"

Father shows me how deep to push in the seeds, how far apart to spread them.

"You got it, son?" he asks.

"I got it father: I can do this."

Okay, here's your bag of seeds. Be careful not to drop any, and plant them just as I showed you. You should have enough to do about eight or ten rows if you're careful."

He leaves me there to plant my rows while he does the rest of the large field. He doesn't notice me spit into the handful of seeds he's given me, but I smile as I do it, knowing what a surprise is in store when it comes time to reap our harvest in the fall.

Mary

I am so happy we can go to Passover this year after missing it the past two seasons. Only Joseph went last year, as the baby was too young for such a journey. But I need to talk to Elizabeth about Yeshua and Joseph, and how to handle it all; the drama is so much more than I can bear sometimes. He is a fine and wonderful boy, respectful and hard working. But he is also like an alien species, knowing and understanding things I cannot grasp, nay cannot even dream of. I see him gazing out at the world through those luminous brown eyes, and I wonder what he sees there that I don't. I love him just as any mother loves the child she has carried in her womb and nursed at her breasts, yet at the same time I look at him in awe, and just a little fear, when I realize who he truly is.

I tell Elizabeth all this that first evening, after Joseph, Yeshua and John leave to take the lamb to the temple for sacrifice. Joseph didn't want to take Yeshua with him and, truth told, Yeshua didn't want to go either, as he hates the idea of killing; but I insisted on the pretext that it was his duty to learn and accept the practice. Actually I just wanted to talk to Elizabeth out of anyone's hearing. She understood that without my saying a word, and made John go along with the other two, knowing that if John went then Yeshua wouldn't mind so much.

After I pour my heart out about my concerns regarding Yeshua's powers, and about Joseph's attitude towards the boy, how he mistrusts him so much that he won't let him out of his sight these days, Elizabeth has little to offer other than her love, her understanding, and a cup of strong sweet tea.

"No one has ever borne such a burden as this before you, Mary; nor will anyone ever again be called to do so. There is no history to fall back on for guidance, no precedence to learn from. But just know that if God has entrusted you with the care and raising of his only Son - that is, with His own divine Self in a human body - then He knows you will do what is right. Trust His judgment in choosing you for the task, child, without fear, for is God ever wrong?"

Joseph

It is not until the last day of our visit, when Zechariah - finally finished with his exhausting duties at the temple - is able to sit down and talk with me. We go out for a stroll in the little village on the outskirts of Jerusalem while Mary and Elizabeth are busy packing up our wagon for the trek home the next morning.

I tell the priest about the incident with Rabbi Akiva, how Yeshua struck him dead without remorse after the man slapped him.

"I've kept him at home ever since, Zechariah, as I fear his power and question his ability to control it or discern when to use it. He's still so young, I'm not sure he fully knows what he is doing sometimes."

"But he is the Son of God," Zechariah says thoughtfully. "Surely he is aware of right and wrong."

"I just don't know; I would hope so, but who am I to know or judge his idea of right and wrong? The problem is, I still have to contend with public opinion, I still have to make a living in the village, and I can't if we are shunned due to Yeshua's behavior. People don't know and aren't ready to accept that it is God they see and not a demon-possessed child."

"Then you are wise to keep him at home for now," Zechariah nods. "Keep him occupied, away from the public eye. Teach him carpentry, why don't you? And don't worry about his education so much. If God the father wants him to learn about letters, the Torah, or any other precepts of our faith, He will make this happen in its own time.

The Carpenter's Son

With planting done and the subsequent daily weeding left in the hands of my mother, father says it is time for me to learn a trade so that I can be of some practical benefit to the family. He brings me every day to his shop, and teaches me how to work the wood into plows and yokes, doorways, beams and sometimes rough-hewn tables or chairs, shaping and smoothing until my arms feel so heavy they want to fall from my shoulders.

I like working with the wood, though. I like the smell of its dust and sap, the beauty of the lines and warps and colors woven through it, the way I can take a piece which is coarse and unfinished, hidden under the rough bark, and bring out its inner promise, its purpose and grace.

Luckily for us there is still plenty of work.

Despite the scandal over the death of Rabbi Akiva, rumors and gossip can only continue so long before dying of inertia on the lips of those who love disgrace as much as vultures love dead meat: Even for gossip mongers the endless repetition of the same fact and fantasy eventually gets boring.

Besides, people needed their plows and yokes, and my father is the only carpenter in town.

I soon discover that, although hard working and with many years of experience, my father is not as good a carpenter as he might wish to be. Used to making the rough implements of the field, where measurements need not be particularly precise, he lacks a certain talent for the refinements of craft required by furniture-making, which he is occasionally hired to do. Today he is all in a turmoil because one of the beams he cut for a bed ordered by the richest man in town is too short and he has no more lumber of that type to replace it.

"Why are you so upset father," I ask him innocently, though I know full well what he is worried about.

"I have no wood from which to cut another beam, Yeshua, and this one is too short. If I cut the other one down to match, then the bed will be too short."

He sits down on his bench and puts his head in his hands, shaking it woefully. "Ananias will think I'm an idiot!"

I smile. "Father, put the two beams on the bench, so that their ends are even on the side next to you."

"Why?"

"Just do it; trust me."

He shrugs, gets up and lays the beams side by side as I have told him."

I go to the other end of the planks and take hold of the shorter one. I look up at my father, wink playfully, and begin to pull, stretching the wood out until it is of equal length with the other.

"There," I say; "how's that?"

Father walks around and around the beams, his mouth open in amazement. I can't help the grin that widens my cheeks, seeing his astonishment at my little trick, happy that I have pleased him. Then, surprising me, he picks me up in his arms and swings me around, kissing my cheek over and over while shouting for joy.

"Thank you God for giving me this wonderful boy!" He cries out to heaven.

I'm just relieved to have finally satisfied my earthly father so well; and equally amazed that he is this ecstatic over such a simple thing. Now that I know the secret to pleasing him, I intend to do it whenever I get the chance.

Today I am helping father make a dining table: It appears his reputation as a craftsman is growing, now that the legs on his chairs do not wobble and milk spilled on his counters tops does not run off more readily from one side than another. I have just accomplished this necessity once again, making the table legs exactly the same length bit by bit until the drop of water we place in the center goes neither to left nor right, when I hear my mother scream.

Father and I rush from the workroom to see my mother out in the garden, holding baby James in her arms. His body is twitching in violent spasms, and foam is coming from his mouth.

"He was bit by a viper!" She cries in anguish, pointing. "There!"

I see the snake still coiled beneath the grape vine, its golden eyes glinting at me wickedly, as if daring me to intercede with the fate it has levied.

At once I grab my baby brother from mother's arms, and blow the breath of life upon his hand where the puncture marks still ooze pale venom. Instantly baby James stops his convulsions and begins to cry lustily.

"You're okay, little brother," I smile down at him, tears filling my eyes. "And he won't ever hurt you again." As I say this the viper bursts into flames and perishes instantly.

After, I feel shaken in a way I've never felt before. What if I hadn't been there? What if I'd lost this dear little brother of mine? Is this what it's like to be human? To love with such strong attachment, with such need?

I go off into the garden to think about this, and to ask my Father in heaven about it.

"Father," I say, looking up into the fleeting clouds that race ahead of the wind across the airy sea of blue; "Why do I feel such terror at the thought of losing my brother, when in my deepest heart I know this is all just illusion, that death is no more real than turning a page in a book?"

But He has no answer for me today, just the pain and fear that wraps around my heart like an icy fist.

"Is this what it feels like to be Man, then? Is this pain they bear, my lesson?"

I think back on the time the boy Zeno died, how his mother wailed and held him to her breast, the terrible look in her eyes; and suddenly I understand, I feel it so deeply that tears pour from my eyes like a depthless wellspring. The sorrow is almost too great to bear.

"Oh Father, is it really true? Is this how they feel every time death appears? Is this what I am to awaken them from, this endless and inescapable horror to which every man is born and must consent, just to play the game of life in this world?"

I am too young to bear such a burden, and throw myself face down upon the dirt, weeping until I fall asleep.

Joseph

I find him lying there in the garden between the rows of onions and chard, his face stained with mud and tears, eyes closed, mouth slack, asleep in the dust of the field.

He looks so small, so young and innocent, just a boy not yet nine years of age. Yet God. God he is.

I shake my head. Today he saved my little boy James, saved his life as if there were nothing to it, an everyday thing, like picking up a dropped shoe or washing a cup. What innocence, and what power. It's like he takes it for granted, this power, and so have I been, letting him fix my carpentry mistakes, as if doing so were just an ordinary run of the mill chore any boy does for his father.

But this is God, living with me, calling me father, calling Mary mother.

It hits me like a fist in the stomach, doubling me over.

Yeshua _is_ God.

We should be bowing before him with our foreheads in the dirt, yet he honors us, does his chores, feeds the chickens, plows the field....

I shake my head again, tears dropping from my eyes as I pick my boy up and carry him to the house.

"I'm sorry," I say, over and over and over again. "I'm so sorry."

The Dead Child Restored

It's late spring, the days longer, warmer, and full of promise: The corn and wheat are growing taller every day, and father says it looks to be a bountiful crop. I smile at that, knowing he still has no idea how bountiful I intend it to be.

The time of cold and dark has passed, along with the illnesses that winter seems to bring each year. That is why it is all the more shocking when the small crowd appears in our yard one morning, calling out to my mother and father in the most urgent way.

"Mary! Joseph! Please come out, bring Yeshua," the women cry, as the few men with them stand stoically silent, their hats in their hands looking down.

Mother looks over at father uncertainly, then both look at me. I shrug: I have no idea what the people want. Father picks up little James in his arms, as mother takes my hand and we walk out onto the porch as a family.

"What is it?" father calls out to the townspeople. "What do you want with our son?"

"It is Abijah, son of Josiah and Shelah, he has died in the night of fever! The mother cannot be comforted, and we fear she will bring harm to herself to end her suffering," the eldest of the women cries out.

"We know your son has wrought miracles...." another suggests.

"So we come to ask his help," the last finishes, falling to her knees in the dirt of the yard and bowing her head in submission.

I step forward, away from my mother's grasp. "You believe I can heal? You believe I can bring the dead back to life?"

"I believe this, yes," The kneeling woman answers without hesitation, nodding violently. "You can, of that I am sure. But will you?"

"Take me to them now," I say, grasping the woman's hand in mine and pulling her to her feet. "I will do what I can."

As we enter the darkened cottage there comes the sound of great anguish, a cry tearing from the very soul of the mother in her private hell as she leans over a wooden crib, cradling the body of her dead baby in her arms. Her sorrow is so great and palpable, it threatens to drag me down there with her.

I hurry to the cradle, push her aside so that her pain cannot reach me, and lay my hand upon the tiny child's still chest. He is already cold, lips tinged a dark blue, and I offer a silent prayer to my Father that I am not too late this time.

"Little one," I say out loud; "Do not die. Live, rise up, and be with thy mother again, for she misses you greatly. Can't you see how much she loves you?"

Immediately the infant opens his eyes, looks up at me in wide-eyed recognition, and laughs out loud.

I put my hand on the mother, who is still weeping, uncertain what her own eyes are telling her.

"You should pick him up and nurse him, for your milk will give him strength to fully recover," I tell her. "And when you have doubts, remember me and what I have done for you here today."

As I turn to make my way through the crowd, those who had witnessed my work reach out to touch me as I pass, and I hear some of them say that I must be a god or an angel of God to work such miracles.

I'm not sure how I feel about that: I know it's not my time yet to do what I was sent for; But on the other hand, it feels nice to be spoken well of for a change, to be liked and admired rather than hated and feared.

The Harvest

My cousin John has come back with us from Shavu'ot, and I am so excited I babble all the way home, pointing out this sight and that as if I have forgotten he's come to visit us once before, or even that he's been in the world at all before this moment. But he just looks at me and grins, shaking his head of long shaggy locks, as happy as I am that we have this time with each other. His father has said he can spend the whole summer with us, learning carpentry from my father and helping us bring in the harvest. The wheat should be ready within a week or two, the corn not until just before our fall pilgrimage for Sukkot. Between those times of heavy work, we will learn carpentry, go fishing, play games with the village children, and just do what best friends do best, be together.

John

Yeshua has taken me out to see his "special" rows of wheat. I'm not sure what is so special about them, as they look pretty much like the wheat in the rest of the field, but he says "Just wait, John, just wait until harvest time, then you'll see what I mean."

He is so odd, my cousin, but in such a wonderful way. Every time I see him, every time he speaks, my heart beats faster in my chest with a strange excitement. Mother has told me we are both special, Yesu and I, chosen by God for some divine purpose yet to be revealed. I don't know anything about that, what it might be, not even an inkling. I think Yeshua might, and I have the urge to ask him, but I'm not sure I should.

Right now, however, we are content to just be boys, friends having fun. I remember the last time I visited him, how we made the clay birds and he brought them to life. I ask him if he can still do that.

"Of course I can," he grins, looking at me as if I must be crazy to even ask: "That and much more now! I was only four years old back then!"

"Prove it," I say, with a cocky smile.

"What would you like me to do, John? What do you want to see?"

I think and think, trying to imagine what would be wondrous, impossible.

"Can you make day into night?" I ask finally, thinking that will stump him.

Instantly the sky begins to darken. I look up, and see shape moving slowly across the face of the sun, like a mouth consuming a piece of flatbread. I gasp, staring into the brilliant glare.

"Don't look directly at it," he warns, pulling my face away with his hands. Just watch the shadow on the ground.

Slowly the sun disappears inch by inch, and the day grows into twilight and then eventide. I hear shouts of alarm from the village, the crowing of roosters. Bats appear out of nowhere, hunting prey.

"How did you do it, Yeshua?" I whisper, awestruck.

"It's just an eclipse. It'll go away in a minute or two, don't worry," he reassures me.

"An eclipse? I've heard of those I think: Something to do with the sun and moon, a shadow?"

"Perfectly natural," he nods.

"But not when it happens at your command," I say.

Me again

The wheat grass is now as tall as my shoulder, golden shafts with heavy heads that droop tiredly under their own weight. It is time to begin the harvest. Father gives John and I each a long sickle, sharpened to a razor edge with the whetting stone the night before. Mother has one too, but James is still too young to be trusted with such a dangerous implement. We each carry small buckets of water along with our cutting blades as we tromp out toward the fields in the early morning light of late May. It promises to be a warm day, and father says it's best to get as much done as we can while it is still cool.

At the first row he demonstrates how to harvest, grabbing a handful of wheat in his left hand and swinging the sickle with his right to cut the plants at nearly ground level. I've done this with him twice before, so it's not totally new to me, but this is John's first harvest, so he watches intently.

Father cuts another handful, and shows us how to lay that one on top of the first bunch, careful to keep all the heads pointed in the same direction.

"Now you," he nods at John, and John proceeds to cut a couple of handfuls and lay them neatly on the pile.

"Good John. Okay, Yeshua, your turn," he says.

I do my best, and it's not as bad as I feared, although father has to go back and straighten my pile a bit.

Now he picks up the entire bunch, which is about as thick as his upper arm, and binds it with a twine made of wheat stems, twisting them around each other to hold the bundle firm.

"You got it?" He asks us?

"Yes sir," we both nod.

"Okay, you and John can work the rows you planted," he tells me; "while your mother and I work the big field."

John and I make a contest of it, each of us picking an adjacent row and racing along to see who can cut the fastest. By noon he is already starting his third row, while I am barely halfway through my second, when father and mother approach.

"Not bad," father says, looking at how much we'd got done. "We'll make a farmer of you yet, John. Now come on, it's time for a little supper and rest from the heat, then we'll come back to stack the sheaves we've cut today so they can cure."

We finish my ten rows of wheat by the next day, but still have two more days of work in the big field with father before the entire harvest is done.

While the grain cures in the field to harden, John and I spend time in father's woodshop making flails for the threshing, then practicing their use. More than once do we rap ourselves on the head with the tail before getting the hang of it, leaving us with bruises and much laughter. Days more are spent in the process of threshing and winnowing our harvest to separate the straw and chaff from the actual grains of wheat, but when we are finally done I have my great surprise for father revealed.

My ten rows of wheat has produced more cors of grain than his forty, a crop so abundant he has to count it three times before believing it is true.

"Father in heaven, we are rich, rich!!" he cries. "We can barter what we don't need for that which we do, that and then some."

No father," I say; "I want to give my extra wheat to the poor in the village who have no wheat of their own for bread."

His expression is a mixture of emotions, and I almost laugh aloud as they work their way through his tanned and careworn face. He looks like a disappointed child for a moment, lips drawn down and eyes sad; then that is replaced by a flood of embarrassment, as he turns his face away, ashamed of his greed. This much he admits to us.

"Of course, Yeshua. I am shamed I didn't think of that first myself. God's gifts should be shared with others as abundantly as he shares them with us."

Joseph

Today I am taking the extra wheat to those poor in our village that will benefit from the gift. Yeshua, Mary and I talked this out last night, gently arguing back and forth until we had worked out the ten families most in need, and how much each should receive.

Yeshua asks me if I will go alone, as he wants no praise for what he calls his "Father's generosity." But I tell him I need help to carry the bags of grain from the wagon, and when he suggests I take John instead I remind him that his absence from the chore will be more suspicious than his presence, although I do agree to give all credit to God for the abundant harvest and leave any mention of the boy out of it.

The villagers, however, are not that naive: Never have I managed to grow more than just enough wheat to sustain the needs of my own family, let alone an excess sufficient to support ten additional families. Nor are they short on memory; they have had ample evidence of Yeshua's powers in the past to see his hand at work here. Wise looks pass between husband and wife, glances at Yeshua when he turns to walk back to the cart.

"Thank him for us, Joseph," whispers one of the more bold among these.

"Thank our Father in heaven from whence all things come," I respond. But he knows.

King Yeshua

After the distribution of the grain, I suddenly find I have more friends than I know what to do with; village children sent by grateful parents, no doubt, seeking my companionship when all I truly want to do is spend time with John while he is still here.

One day a group of us boys are playing tag in the village square when we decide to go up the hill above the village to sit under the huge spreading tree at the top, in order to get relief from the midday sun. As we tromp together up the long dusty hill, we are simply a group of like-minded boys, off for a little diversion. But when we reach the patch of shaded grass under the tree, the other boys suddenly remove their shirts and spread them on the ground in a pile, insisting that I sit upon my "throne."

"What are you doing?" I cry, as two of the eldest push me down onto the shirts.

One, the bully Zebe, produces a wreath made of woven wheat stalks, which he places on my head. "Long live the king of wheat!" he cries, grinning. The rest echo his words: "Long live the king!" They yell, raising their hands in salute.

I smile with embarrassment as I accept the crown, but then notice John looking at me with a certain reserve in his eyes, as if he thinks I might believe in my own grandiosity.

"This is silly," I protest, seeing the look I am getting from John. I try to rise, but rough hands push me back down again.

"Come Yeshua, let us have our game," they say. "We have it all worked out. It's just in good fun."

I shrug in acquiescence, not wanting to alienate these new-found friends; then one by one the two in charge, Elias and Zebe, drag the younger boys in front of me and order them to get down on their knees and bow before the king.

I now see what they are doing, see the inherent mockery beneath the "fun"; and I am thinking how to get out of this gracefully when suddenly another boy, Enos, comes running up the hill to where we sit, screaming out my name.

"Yeshua, Yeshua, come quickly; my half-brother Simon was taking eggs from a partridge nest just over the hill, when he was bitten by a serpent. You must save him!"

I jump to my feet, all thoughts of getting even with those bedeviling me displaced by the urgency of the situation. I hurry after Enos: Those who were teasing me follow quick at my heels.

When we get to where the stricken boy lies he is already deathly still, the partridge eggs spilled around him like a minor constellation: I send the other boys to find the snake that bit him.

"Why?" They ask. "Just fix him...if you can!"

"Don't ask why, just find it and bring it to me," I order in a voice that allows no further argument.

A moment later the snake is located and caught. When Zebe hands it to me, I look into its slitted eyes and say: "Viper, take back your poison!" Then I put its mouth to the wound on Simon's hand, and the viper sucks back in the venom from the wound."

"Thank you," I tell the snake; "but like evil words and deeds, your poison can never be fully retracted, so now you must reap what you sow."

With my curse, the serpent explodes and dies, as Simon awakens at that very instant from his near death state and sits up, fully recovered.

I look over meaningfully at Zebe, at Josiah, then at the other boys who had been seeking to ridicule me through their game.

They lower their gaze and back carefully away.

"That was interesting," says John once they are gone.

"It was, wasn't it," I agree.

"So Yeshua, how do you feel about the way the other boys were treating you in their little _game_?"

"I'm not sure," I answer honestly. "I thought at first they were being nice, but I know it was wrong. They tried to make out that it was just in fun, but then I saw it was insincere and mean, based on jealousy I think."

"Is that the only reason it was wrong?" he perseveres.

"What are you trying to say, John?" I retort, feeling a little defensive for no reason I can name.

"The devil would have you like the adulation, have you believe that it is you doing these things, not God."

_But I am God_ , I think to myself. Yet I see where he is going with this, see the truth in what he says. It's a two-edged sword, this existence of mine. I am, and yet I am not, God.

On the afternoon before we are to leave on the Sukkot pilgrimage, returning John to his home, I decide it is time to show him who I truly am, and who he is. We are out at our favorite spot, sitting by the stream near my cottage under a large elm tree, idly tossing pebbles into the water.

"I want to show you something John," I say.

"Okay, what?" he says, tilting his head at me.

I reach over to take his hand, and instantly we leave this world.

"What place is this?" he cries out in alarm, for there is nothing but light surrounding us, no bodies, no structures, nothing but our sense of being.

"It's No place," I answer.

"What do you mean _no place?!_ Where am I?!"

I can hear an edge of panic in his voice, so I answer with one of calmness and reason.

" **No** -where. It's not a _place_ , John: You have not moved from one illusion to another, but stepped outside of the world of illusion altogether, into the reality from whence you came and where you truly dwell. The other world is simply your ongoing dream. Now you are awake."

"But I don't understand, what do you mean _illusion?_ What do you mean it's just a dream? God created the world we live in, the stars in the heaven, the waters below, the fish, the fowl, everything! The Torah tells us this is so! Nowhere does it say that it's all a dream!"

"God created the _idea_ of the world, and then He created you, Man. You make His _idea_ into your reality; you bring what you _believe_ to be reality into existence in your mind _,_ fashioned out of God's pre-existent concepts. But none of it actually exists anywhere but _in your mind_. There is no material world, only the _idea_ of a material world, only the idea of cause and effect, of matter and energy interacting, of past present and future."

John

I look for me, but I see nothing. Not a finger, not a toe, not a hair of me left. Nor anything of my world that I can recognize: There is no up, no down, no in or out, no then or now or later; just this complete disconnection from everything, that and the all-consuming light.

"Where am I," I cry again to that Yeshua I can no longer see. "Where am I? I don't see me anymore, I don't _feel_ me anymore!"

"This place," Yeshua answers as a silent voice in my mind: "This is infinity, this is eternity: This place is _what_ we are, not where we are, not even who we are."

That answer chills me: I feel like I am losing my identity, losing everything I know of self: I feel like I must be dying."

I'm afraid, Yeshua," I tell him." I'm afraid to not **be** anymore. Please, take me back, return me to the world I know. Even if it is just a dream, let me keep dreaming for now."

Yeshua

I sigh, and we are back on the bank of the stream near my home, under an ordinary tree, in our ordinary bodies, "alive."

John looks around him as if to be sure everything is there, looks down at his body, inspecting his hands, his feet. Then he gives me a long, strange look, and hurries off down the slope to our cottage.

This is not going to be easy, I realize.

************

We are supposed to go to Jerusalem for Passover, and I am hoping I can mend fences with John when I see him again, as he has been a bit distant from me ever since I took him into that other place that frightened him so. He barely spoke to me during the journey back to Jerusalem for Sukkot, nor during the week long ceremonies at his parents' house, keeping to himself and often lost in thought.

He seems almost a little afraid of me now, and I don't want him to be. I love him and my heart hurts that he would fear me for simply trying to show him the truth.

But tonight at dinner, when I bring up the subject of Passover, I am in for a disappointment.

"I'm sorry, Yeshua, but your father and I have something to tell you, something that affects our plans." She looks over at my father for help, but he spoons another portion of stew into his mouth and waves at her to continue. She shakes her head, an almost imperceptible eye-roll, and turns her gaze back to me.

"Yeshua, I am with child again, so we will not be able to make any pilgrimages this year," she says.

"How did _that_ happen?" I say, but then immediately I know, and we all blush as father chokes on his stew.

"What means with child?" asks little James, now three and a half years old.

"You're going to have a little brother or sister to play with," I tell him, ruffling his shaggy head of dark brown hair.

"I want a puppy," he says, and we all laugh.

I'm a little disappointed about not getting to see John this year, but at the same time I'm excited and happy that there will be a new baby in the house, even if it looks like a hairy worm at first.

But father has yet another surprise for me.

"Yeshua, you are nearly ten now."

"Not for another lunar cycle," I say

"And once you are ten," he continues as if I hadn't interrupted; "I want you to begin your formal education."

"Again?" I cry.

"Again?" Mother echoes. "But Joseph...."

My father raises his hand with a stern look that stills us both, protests swallowed.

"I have a good and trusted friend, a very kind as well as learned man, who has asked for the opportunity to teach you the letters and the Torah if you will but allow him to try," Father says.

I look at father, then over at mother, and nod. "I will go to your friend the teacher, and I promise to do him no harm no matter what happens. But I am not sure what he can teach me that I do not already know in my heart."

The Student

On the first day of the new week following my tenth birthday, father takes me to the cottage that serves as a schoolhouse for some of the village children. There are three boys around my own age already there, with the teacher Avichai - a young rabbi in his twenties - standing before a pulpit at the front of the room. He is in the middle of a lesson.

As I enter, all noise stops with an audible intake of collective breath.

My father nods at Avichai, and he nods back in that kind of silent communication grown men employ when words would only make things more difficult. I spare one glance at my father and then - instead of taking my seat at one of the empty desks - I walk up to the pulpit and look at the book that lies open there: It is the Torah, open to Genesis. Without thinking, I begin to read aloud, and as I do the words that come from my mouth are not exactly the same as those on the page.

In the beginning of this new creation, God awakens and has the thought: "I am," and then: "I am alone." This aloneness is not good, so He says: "I need another," and therein separates Himself into two parts, which He calls Heaven and Earth. The Greater part of the Father, who knows all and determines all and creates all through His thought and will, remains in the part called Heaven. This is who we call "Our Heavenly Father." The lesser part, which is called Earth, is that in which will be manifest all the illusions of the material world created by God's divine thought. Next He separates that lesser part into two halves, called Holy Spirit and Humankind. The Holy Spirit He calls the light, for in it remains all knowledge of God and of its own spiritual identity, as well as a complete and perfect understanding of the illusory nature of the material world. The darkness He calls Hu-man, or Intelligence of the Earth, because Man must be separated from the light of spiritual knowledge in order for there to be a game as God intends. This darkness - or blindness in Man - he calls his "identity."

I pause for a moment, coming back to myself, to awareness of the room in which I stand, the others that remain in this space. I look up from the pulpit, to see the three students staring at me, mouths agape. The teacher Avichai wears a similar expression, although with knitted brow, seeking understanding. The boys look over at him, as if waiting for his reaction. Would he rebuke me? Instead he nods at me to continue. I nod back and find myself sinking into the written words of the holy book before me as into a deep darkly luminous sea. The words on the page become living things as they float up into my eyes, the caterpillars of truth inscribed on the paper enter my mind and come forth from my mouth as golden butterflies.

_Let him who has ears hear_ , I say: _Every word in the Torah is a parable, a story with a double meaning, a physical as well as a spiritual truth. Thus when the Torah describes the creation of Adam as a living being made up of the dust of the ground, the true meaning is that Adam is the material identity which Man the spirit takes up whenever he enters a human body. You are all Adam; even now just one Man, one Spirit;_ _each of you caught up in the identity of your separate human forms._

I hear mutters of puzzlement at this, the boys no doubt looking around at each other in disbelief or confusion, but I have no desire to explain further. I feel such an energy coursing through me now, I am all but dazzled by it. I have to go on. I look back at Genesis, at the story of Adam's creation, and the meaning comes to me as a complete and perfect truth.

_When it says that, before Adam, t_ _here was as yet no wild bush on the earth, and no wild plant had as yet sprung up, this means that although God creates the_ concept _of all the living and non-living things that are to exist in the material world, they cannot be brought into existence until Man manifests those Ideas into a state of physical "reality." God remains eternally in Heaven, in the purely spiritual realm, thus it is only through the mind of Adam - connected with the Mind of God the Father by His Holy Spirit -that all material things are brought forth into this illusion we call physical existence. Remember that of God the Father, God the Holy Spirit, and God as Man, only the Man - Adam - is in the material world. The Torah says that God takes Adam and puts him in the Garden of Eden: That symbolizes placing_ _into_ _this Hu-Man, this "Intelligence of the Earth," the awareness of all life that is to be, and the task of bringing these things into being: to name them, care for them; to propagate and increase all that which God creates in His mind from the beginning to the end of time."_

I stop abruptly, once again coming back to myself for a moment with the slight sensation of a thump, like that a dreamer experiences when he wakens suddenly from a dream of falling. I look up at my audience of four with a tiny wave of apprehension, but they remain rapt and silent. I cannot tell if their expressions are of fear or amazement, maybe both; so I look back down at the holy book before me and immediately fall back into my state of rapture:

_The Torah says: "Out of the ground_ _Adonai_ _,_ _God, caused to grow every tree_ _pleasing in appearance and good for food, including the tree of life in the middle of the garden and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil."_

I raise my eyes and fix them on my audience, although I don't really see them. Now I am not looking at the holy book at all, but its interpretation comes through me as if it is held within my heart.

_The "ground" represents the mind of Adam, for through Adam's mind all living things come into being,_ _including_ _the Tree of Life. This Tree in the middle of "the garden" - Adam's awareness - is the connection between the Heavens and Earth, between the Spiritual Realm and the Physical, and represents the eternal interconnectedness of God, Man and the Holy Spirit. Hear me well now: Since it was brought into existence_ _through_ _Man, he still has the knowledge of that connection somewhere within him. And when the Torah says the rest of the trees in the garden are "good for food" it means that living things can provide spiritual truths, that patterns in the physical world exist to give Man insights into spiritual truths._

I direct my gaze now at Rabbi Avichai: "Even now, you hold these truths buried in your mind, though you are separated from them by guilt, fear and spiritual blindness."

I don't mean the words to sound as harsh as they come out. I see a tear spring to the young man's eye, and I look quickly back down at the book, swallowing hard. After a moment I go on, my voice even to my own ears discordantly high pitched and childlike considering the weight of the words I utter.

God, says the Torah, then gave Man this order: "You may freely eat from every tree in the garden except the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. You are not to eat from it, because on the day that you eat from it, it will become certain that you will die."

I stop, frowning. _Why?_ I ask myself, silently.

I look up at my small audience _. Why make Adam create this tree in the first place, and then tempt him to eat from it?_ I ask aloud. Then the answer comes. _Because God's plan from the beginning is that He, as Man, will enter a state of eternal contradiction, giving Himself an unsolvable problem to solve in order to create a diversion from the eternity of aloneness He otherwise faces. In actuality, the very concept of evil is a lie, just as is the concept of death, for there is no evil in any of God's creations. How could there be, since ultimately all_ _are_ _God? But by accepting the lie that every survival instinct of his physical body is evil, while Man is compelled by his body to follow those instincts, he is simultaneously compelled by his spirit to suppress or hide them; and is thereby doomed to separate himself from God through the endless cycle of sin, failure and guilt._

I finish, close the Torah, and go take my seat, folding my hands politely on top of the desk, awaiting the teacher's next move. I feel my knees knocking together, but I'm not sure why.

I can hear the other boys whispering among themselves: "What is he saying?" "I don't know, I don't really understand it." "Me neither; he's just weird."

I never noticed my father Joseph, who'd remained just outside the door listening to my every word, until now as he comes running in, his face a mask of fear. He is no doubt thinking that the teacher might rebuke me in a manner that would cause me to strike out. But instead Avichai gets down onto his knees and touches his forehead to the floor. Looking up, with tears streaming from his eyes, he says: "Joseph, my brother, I received your child as a disciple, but he is so full of grace and wisdom that I have become the pupil, with much still to learn from him, only I am too unworthy. Take him home and get down on your knees to thank the God that has sent such a one to bless you.

I get up from my desk at this and walk over to the teacher, putting my hand on his shoulder. I feel a great tenderness towards him, as well as a sense of having suddenly become much older than I was an hour ago.

"No rabbi, I wish to stay," I tell him. "I didn't know what I knew until I began to read the Torah today, and then it all kind of came back to me. I think you are meant to help me, if you will: I think as you introduce the books of the Torah and the letters to me, it will act as a clue and a signal, where each scripture will trigger some long forgotten memory or awaken some hidden knowledge and awareness within me as it did today. So please let me stay."

And so I do, continuing my studies with rabbi Avichai throughout all that year and the next. The other boys stay as well, reading the Torah and listening to our discourse, trying their best to understand what is said, respecting what they don't. One in particular, Simon, comes nearest to getting it, and in his effort to comprehend the teachings he becomes very close to me, sometimes spending the night at my home after a long day of studies, and often talking with me long into the night. Father calls him my "other brother" we are so akin in nature.

When not at my studies I continue to help my father with his carpentry and the harvest, each year bringing in extra wheat and corn to distribute to the poor in our village. I stop doing pranks and mostly stop my experiments with the natural order as things, seeing such things now as childish. I would rather learn the Torah and all its hidden meanings than to play tricks with the illusion of reality.

Villagers still come to me with illnesses and injuries to heal, but father swears them to secrecy before he will allow me to help them. We're pretty sure they still talk about it when I do cure someone, but if so the stories are kept in hushed whispers away from our ears, for they neither want my gifts to stop coming, nor do they want to have word of my special talents go beyond the village, drawing unwanted attention and crowds to our land.

There may come a time when I want these crowds, want this attention, but that time is not now, for I am still a boy and all is not revealed to me yet. I wish it were: I have a mixed sense of dread and expectancy at what my Father intends, and sometimes feel quite impatient to get it done and over with. Then I return to my studies and realize how much I still have to learn before I am ready.

Mother delivers baby Joseph in mid-summer that first year, and although he might have been old enough for us to make the Passover pilgrimage the following spring, God sees fit to put another child in her belly by winter, so once more only father is able to go on the pilgrimages. Baby Salome is born in the fall, but such a beautiful, healthy and robust little girl she is that mother convinces father she will be ready to travel by Passover, which comes later in spring that next year.

The Passover Pilgrimage

So here we are at last, three boys sitting on top of the bundles that fill the bed of the wagon, with five year old James snuggled up against my left arm, free spirited Joseph bouncing and waving on my right, and Salome at my mother's breast up on the front bench; the warm spring sun on our faces and cool wind buffeting our hair, on our way to see my cousin John again. I have just made twelve years of age, and John is half a year my senior, so I know we will have much to tell each other and fun things to do together. But even more than John, I look forward - for the first time - to the Passover ceremonies in the temple. I have learned so much these past two years that I feel a deep, persistent longing to share these insights with others of learning, to see what they have to say or add, and to question them about that which still remains hidden to me.

As our wagon approaches the outskirts of Jerusalem amidst the clatter and bang, shouts and greetings and clouds of dust that arise like a sandstorm of joy from the close-packed caravan of other pilgrims converging from all over the countryside for the annual festival, I see up ahead a small figure, bushy hair and grin wide enough to spark the sunlight even from this far off, running towards us as if we might disappear if he didn't hurry fast enough.

I stand up on top of our bundled belongings, waving wildly and unnecessarily.

"John! John!" I cry ecstatic, then hand off baby Joseph to James and jump down from the wagon to run up ahead and greet my beloved cousin.

We whirl in an embrace and both begin talking at the same time in a senseless babble, which only stops when we convulse in laughter realizing neither of us has the slightest idea what the other is saying.

The wagon stops beside us, father and mother looking down with generous smiles.

"Come on up here, both of you!" Father orders kindly, reaching down a strong arm to pull us both aboard. "There's still a couple of milin to go, isn't there cousin John?"

"Yessir," he answers, all out of breath. "I ran ahead, left before dawn to meet you when father told me you'd be arriving today. I was waiting just down the road when I spotted this one," he gives me a playful nudge; "sitting up top your wagon like a royal prince or something, and I knew it had to be you."

When we arrive at his parents' home, I am shocked to see how old they both have grown. I guess I was too young last time we were here to be aware of the age difference between my parents and John's, but now I can see that they could more easily be the grandparents of my cousin than his parents.

After we unpack our wagon and dispense with formal greetings and a light midday meal, John whispers to follow him outside.

As we steal out into the sunlit yard, I mention off-handedly that his parents appear to be much older than my own.

"They are," he agrees. "Other boys in the neighborhood sometimes tease me, asking if I am an orphan living with my grandparents, but I just tell them I was sent from God through "divine intervention," and that usually shuts them up," he grins. "No one wants to mess with a _divine intervention_."

"Mother has told me the story of your conception," I nod.

"And mine has told me about yours, Yeshua," John says. "So I guess we're both a little _divine_ , eh? Anyway, I want to talk to you about my dreams, in hopes maybe you can interpret them for me....you being _divine_ and all," he winks.

We walk over to an olive tree at the far end of his yard, beyond the vegetable garden that's just now springing to life, its green shoots pushing through the damp soil in search of light.

Like John.

"Tell me," I say, as we sit down on the grass in the tree's cool shadow.

"Well, first I dreamt that there was a great drought and all the rivers dried up, but I was carried off into the wilderness and fed by ravens, and I drank from a stream to stay alive. I've had that dream at least three times, maybe more," he tells me, licking his lips before continuing. "Then another time I dreamt that I was led to an ancient cottage in the deep woods, where I brought a woman's son back to life, and she made me bread from a jar that never ran out. Sometimes I have these two dreams together, sometimes apart, but I keep having them both over and over, so I know I must find out what they mean."

He looks up at me, his face troubled.

I close my eyes, envisioning the dreams he has told me about, the drought, the ravens, the wilderness stream; the resurrection of the son, the bread from a jar that never runs out. I almost fall asleep, I am thinking so hard, and when John nudges me I open my eyes with a start.

"I will tell you what your dreams mean," I say. "The great drought is a time when the spiritual side of man is no longer nourished in the land, when the waters of spiritual knowledge have dried up, so that truth is no longer available. The wilderness is a place untrammeled by man, an emptiness where the lies and misconceptions of humankind no longer intrude, so that one can find oneself and one's truth again. The raven you see who feeds you represents God's messenger, just as the raven who was sent to Elijah. What he feeds you is spiritual wisdom and knowledge, God's true word. And the stream that you drink from is likewise the waters of Truth."

I look over at John: "This is your life's path," I say, and he nods, awestruck but completely understanding and accepting what I tell him. So I continue.

"The dream you have of bringing back a woman's son from the dead signifies spiritual resurrection, the rebirth of the spirit from a state of spiritual death in the body. I cannot tell you right now who that woman's son is, as that part of the vision is blocked from me; only that it will come to pass as it is your destiny. As for the jar of bread that never runs out, that bread is Holy truth, wisdom and understanding, and the jar that never runs out is God Himself. To me, this says that you will be an instrument of God in bringing the rebirth of the spirit in Mankind from a jar of Truth that will never run out."

John looks at me, his eyes shining. "I am blessed to have you as my cousin," he says sincerely.

"And I am no less blessed to have you as mine," I respond.

In The Temple

Father, John and I take the lamb to the temple for sacrifice that night, after performing the required purification rituals on our bodies. Father, along with twenty-nine other men carrying their Paschal lambs, are _admitted within the Court of the Priests. Hundreds of other men mill around outside the gate, bleating lambs on their shoulders, awaiting their turn. John and I, along with the other male children, are left behind to wait in the outer courtyard as we are not yet of age to enter the holy areas. Immediately the massive gates close behind the men, and there is a lengthy silence. Then I hear a single squeal, followed by a threefold blast blown by the priests on their silver trumpets, and we know our Passover lamb with the big sad eyes and sweet pink mouth is dead. I try not to feel sad, knowing now the full meaning of the ritual, but still it seems unnecessary and wrong in my heart._

John and I return to Aunt Elizabeth's home to help the women prepare for the Seder - the most important part of our Passover celebration, which we will carry to the temple the following morning - while father stays behind to help prepare the lamb before giving it to the priests to roast.

Next morning we go to the temple as a family, find ourselves a little place in the Women's courtyard to set our blankets and dishes, and as it becomes evening we perform the various prayers and rituals of the Passover Seder.

I barely taste my lamb and the other traditional dishes so carefully prepared by mother and Aunt Elizabeth, rotely going through the various prayers and readings without full engagement. When it is my turn to read from the Haggadah I fumble, unsure of what place the last reader left off, and father scolds me.

"Yeshua, where is your head? You know the importance of the Passover story, of our rituals and why we follow them as we do!"

James and little Joseph laugh at my discomfort, and even John hides a smile, although he alone knows why I am so distracted this evening.

I apologize with great sincerity, but despite my efforts to concentrate my attention continues to drift to that goal I have had for the past year, the preoccupation with it consuming my mind for the entire journey here from Nazareth: I feel driven to somehow get an audience with the temple priests in the inner sanctum and discuss with them all the questions that have troubled my mind, as well as all the insights that have filled my heart, during my lessons with Rabbi Avichai over the past two years.

Once we have finished our meal, John and I ask our mothers if we might walk around a bit.

"Of course," mother says, busy and distracted with nursing baby Salome while trying at the same time to keep track of my two little brothers; "but won't you take James with you?"

My five year old brother looks up hopefully, his bright brown eyes full of mischief.

"Uh, I'm afraid I might lose him in the crowd," I demur.

Mother looks at me, head cocked as if wondering what I might be up to, but then acquiesces. "All right, but don't be gone long."

We work our way through the milling crowds in the Court of Women, pushing towards the Nicanor gate, which leads into the Altar of Sacrifice and Court of Priests. The circular tier of stone steps leading up to the gate is clogged with bodies resting after their heavy meal, and it is impassable without stepping on arms, legs or other body parts. Jumping up and down at the bottom of the steps, we can just make out the priests within, cleaning up the aftermath of the hundreds of sacrifices made that day and the last.

"What should we do, Yeshua?" John asks. "We can't get through this crowd, and the priests surely aren't coming out yet."

"We wait. One will come in time," I tell him. Then I send a thought, looking for a target.

A few minutes later one of the priests comes to the gate and looks down into the crowd, as if trying to remember something he was supposed to do. After a moment he shrugs and walks back inside the court. I send the thought again.

The priest reappears almost instantly, scanning the crowd below the gate with a worried frown. I can't help the smile that splits my face at this. When his eyes reach mine I wave. He sees me and waves back, then hurries down the steps, parting the crowd between us, a boat through a sluggish tide.

"I've come to ask you questions," I tell him.

"We are very busy right now," he replies. "Can you please come back tomorrow morning?"

"Of course," I nod. "Shall I meet you here?"

"Yes, yes. Right here," he affirms, then turns and hurries back up the steps and into the inner sanctuary.

"Well, that was odd," John notes.

"Yes," I agree with a grin. "It was, wasn't it?"

First Meeting With The Kohen

Next morning I arise before dawn and quietly awaken John, who lies next to me on a sleeping mat. We slip from the cottage and walk the 8 milin to the temple in furtive silence, only the occasional barking dog to mark our passage. We enter the outer gate of the enormous temple mount just as a spear of light from the rising sun sets fire to the motes of dusty air within the easternmost portico.

Many families who spent the night in the courtyard are already up and about, the sound of their voices a hushed murmur as they hurriedly take whatever remains of their sacrificial lamb to the ovens to be burned before the sun announces a new day. Most of these pilgrims will remain here for the entire seven days of the Passover, picnicking, partying, shopping and visiting friends and relatives as their children play tag among the tents and vendors' booths. Mother says we are lucky we have Aunt Elizabeth to stay with, as the stone floor of the courtyard is uncomfortable, and the open tents offer little privacy for sleep, but John and I agree it looks like fun.

John spots a couple of friends as we pass through the Women's court and he wants to go talk with them for a bit, so I leave him there and go on to the Nicanor Gate alone. The arc of steps is empty at this hour, and I walk up them slowly, peering inside the doorway to the Priest's Court like an uncertain guest. There is none of the bustle of frantic activity that marked the court yesterday, just a handful of men inside at prayer. One of these turns to look at me, then quickly rises and comes over: It is the priest I spoke with last evening.

"Good morning, Kohen," I say with a respectful bow.

"You are the boy with questions?" he asks.

"I have many," I tell him.

"I have time for but one," he says.

"Then I have a question about the fall from grace, that which happened when Eve and Adam partook of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil."

"Ask your question, lad," he says with a smile, thinking this will be an easy one, not unusual for a boy my age to be asking about.

"Well, the name of the tree from which they ate was Da'asTov v'ra, or Knowledge of Good and Evil, right? But what I want to know is, does that really mean _moral_ goodness and evil as we interpret it today, or is it actually about being in good working order and bad working order... in other words, the knowledge of being alive and functioning, or being dead?"

The priest seems momentarily taken aback by the question, for I'm pretty sure it was not what he'd expected. He doesn't answer immediately, but seems to be thinking.

"In ancient Hebrew, certainly, the language was more concerned with practical matters than philosophical ones," the priest finally affirms. "So I suppose that could be an early translation and meaning of Tov v'ra, good meaning life and evil meaning death."

"So then, couldn't the meaning of Man eating from that tree, the Tree Of Knowledge Of _Life And Death_ , actually represent his sudden awareness that he is a mortal human being, and thus bound by the laws of nature to eventually die? And could it not therefore follow that when Man became aware of his own mortality, he was so filled with the fear that he would lose this identity - and so consumed by the struggle to save it through procreation and material wealth - that he forgot his immortal soul? Was it not actually through this mis-identification with his physical self and its mortality that he lost awareness of his true eternal nature, stopped understanding his essential connection with God, and began to die with the body's death? So when the Torah says that through this knowledge Adam fell from grace, doesn't that mean that he fell away from the joy of knowing God's love is the essence of who he is, and from the peace that comes with the certainty of eternal life? You see how it all fits?"

I am so excited to get this all said, this which I have carried with me for so long, that I babble it out in such a rush that I am breathless, and not at all sure that I make sense.

The Kohen looks at me with an expression of amazement, at a loss for words.

I glance over his shoulder and see John standing quietly a few feet away. He too looks at me with awe and wonder. "Who are you? Where is my cousin?" His look says.

After what seems like an hour, the priest shakes his head. "I need to contemplate this question in meditation and prayer," he tells me. "Come back tomorrow and I will have your answer."

"And I will have another question," I say, with a little smile and bow, feeling suddenly quite cocky.

On the way home John is silent for half the journey, deep in thought. I leave him alone with his brooding, waiting. Then suddenly he puts his hand on my shoulder and, turning me to face him, he demands: "Is it true, Yeshua? Are we actually immortal beings, part of the substance of God Himself?

"How else do you explain your own conception?" I respond.

He shrugs and looks away too quickly, but not quick enough for me to miss the sheen of sudden tears that fill his eyes.

Tonight my head is abuzz with all the questions I want to ask the kohen and any others that might be willing to have an audience with me. I run them through my head again and again, what I will say, how I will say it: I am finding sleep impossible to come by.

First I will ask him to explain the story of Cain and Abel, the spiritual meaning. Who does Cain represent? As the first born son of Adam and Eve, I will tell them, he is supposed to represent the first time that Man reproduced a copy of his own spiritual self into a new body of flesh, with the help of the Lord. Yet this firstborn slew his brother in anger because the Lord God found him unworthy and found his younger brother worthy. Does this tell us that not all of the children of Adam contain the spirit of God, that some are mere flesh? And does this also mean that the ones made of mere flesh will always try to slay the ones of spirit?

Also, when Cain was cast out of the family of God-through-Adam, how was it that he quickly found a wife from among the tribes of people already living East of Eden? Where did these people come from, if Adam was the first man? Is this supposed to prove that only the direct descendants of Adam and Eve are capable of true spiritual union with God, that these other humans were created along with the animals as mere creatures of flesh and blood, but Adam alone was given a spiritual life out of God's own breath.?

And when they say _yes, this proves we are the chosen people_ , I will tell them that I think they misunderstand the truth of this creation story, for the story of Cain proves that it is not the union of flesh that transfers spiritual identity from generation to generation, it is the union of God's Holy Spirit with the soul of Man that does so, and that union is up to God to determine.

I smile to think of their expressions when I put that viewpoint to them, for the Pharisees and Priests are adamant that only the Jewish people are of God. They are also quite adept at ignoring the Torah's own accounts of how the vast majority of these supposedly "chosen people" have failed utterly time and again to uphold God's commandments or to honor him as they should, and how God has thus repeatedly struck them down and wiped them to a man.

I have so many other questions, insights, things to discuss and clarify; I hardly know where I will begin, what order I will ask them in, or how much time I will have. There are another five days remaining of the Passover celebration, and father has promised that this time we will stay for all of it, so I am hoping I will be allowed meet with the priests for as many hours as they are willing and able.

John has promised to go with me each day, although I think he is a little shaken by what he hears. I don't really understand why: he's certainly seen enough of what I can do during his earlier visits to my home that these new insights of mine should be no surprise. Maybe it's just that we're both getting older, and what was strange and fun before takes on a different meaning to him now. But even if he is a little disturbed by my teaching, I'm pretty sure he is also enthralled and captivated, wanting to soak it in and let it grow in him to fullness. It will in time, I know.

For myself, I too feel a strangeness in all this, for the thoughts and words and understandings that fill me seem to be coming from somewhere beyond my own mind, awakening within me like a sleeper awakens from his dreams into a new day. As the fog clears slowly from my consciousness and a new awareness of crystal clarity begins to take its place, I feel like I am leaving childhood behind, carried to the stars on a whirlwind of light at breathless speed, even though I don't know quite where I am going yet.

I can barely sleep all night, so excited am I: The thought of going to the temple and talking with the priests provokes the same feeling of anticipation as I would have were I embarking on a journey to a strange new land.

Now I sit on the stone floor, my robes tucked neatly under my legs, surrounded by a group of no less than four of the Kohen. One other man, a stranger with dark glowing eyes and a cloth wrapped around his head, sits in the shadows, watching silently but intently. I am talking to them about the meaning of the parting of the Red Sea by Moses.

"The sea," I tell them, "represents the life force of the material world, for it says in the first book of the Torah: The earth was founded upon the waters and God commanded the water to bring out an abundance of living souls. So when God parts the sea to allow the Israelites to escape from bondage in Egypt, this symbolizes The Father in Heaven withdrawing the material world forces that entrap man in his physical identity, in order to allow the Spirit of Man to escape into that place of spiritual freedom and enlightenment, which is symbolically the promised land."

"Is it so?" the priests murmur among themselves.

"And the story of Cain and Abel that we talked about earlier, and similarly of Abraham and Isaac, these stories are symbolic of the soul's journey as well. The story of Abraham's promise to sacrifice his only son, the most beloved thing he possessed, is symbolic of the need to sacrifice ones earthly soul, one's identity, one's ego - which is the most precious thing a Man possesses in his human form - in order to give it all to God. Sacrifice acknowledges and represents the need to kill the human part of yourself completely so that you can be resurrected with a new soul and a new identity, that of One-With-God. All the ritual Sacrifices we do symbolize that killing of the earthly self, in order to be resurrected with the identity and soul of God.

"But how is the slaying of Abel by Cain a sacrifice?" One of the Kohen objects, a puzzled frown knitting his brow. "Wasn't it simply murder?"

"Isn't God's hand in everything?" I respond. "Did not God himself sacrifice Abel through the instrument of Cain, in order to teach the true meaning of sacrifice which Cain had failed to grasp? And was not Cain's subsequent banishment from Eden symbolic of what happens to those who fail to sacrifice their earthly soul in order to become one with God?"

Before he can answer, we are distracted by a slight commotion just outside the entrance to the Priests' Court. A small child, who I recognize as Amos from my village, is jumping up and down, trying to get our attention without speaking, as if by remaining silent he will not interrupt while interrupting. I have to smile at that. John, who has been sitting just outside the circle of men, gets up and walks down the steps to see what the boy wants.

After a brief conversation, he comes back up the steps.

"He says he's been looking all over for you: There's been a fire in the village granary and your father and mother sent him to tell you they are returning home early to help rebuild it before the first harvest.

"Today?" I ask, dismayed.

John nods.

I think for a minute, pondering what to do, then tell John: "Ask Amos if his family is returning today as well."

John races back down the stairs, and a moment later races back up, out of breath.

"Not until late tonight, he says. His father has gone to a neighboring village on business so knows nothing of the fire, and they can't leave until he returns."

"Ask him if I can travel with his family until first camp," I say. "That way I have at least the rest of the day to continue with my instruction."

"But who is instructing whom?" One of the Kohen says under his breath to another.

John races back down the steps and after a quick discussion, comes back to tell me the child says he is sure it will be fine, he'll go tell his parents now.

As the boy runs off into the crowd, I ask John to please go tell my family that I will be traveling tonight with the family of Arazi the baker, and will meet them at first camp by morning.

I spend the rest of that day in deep conversation with the Kohen, completely unmindful of the hours passing. Finally one of the priests yawns hugely, and rises, apologetic.

"I am sorry, young master, but it is well past my suppertime and an old man must eat. If you like you are welcome to join us."

I jump to my feet in sudden alarm, realizing that the day is gone, the sky already dark and filled with a multitude of stars.

"Thank you, but I must go find the family of Arazi before they leave without me!"

My heart is racing as I hurry into the Women's Court to look for my neighbors. I remember where they were camped, but when I get to where I thought it was, there is no one there. Perhaps I was mistaken, perhaps it is on the other side, I think, and hurry across the still crowded courtyard to find them, but they are not on that side either. I run from place to place looking and calling, but no one responds, no one I recognize turns up. It appears all the pilgrims from our village have left, no doubt to help with the granary as well.

As I return to where I thought the family had camped, a woman from the adjacent campsite calls out to me.

"Are you looking for the family that was here?"

"Yes," I tell her. "The family of Arazi, the baker from Nazareth?"

"Aye yes, that's the one. They left about an hour ago."

"I was supposed to go with them," I tell her. _Now what?_ I think.

"Well, you are welcome to camp with us and share a meal if you like," she says kindly. "Surely someone will come back for you when they discover you are missing."

"Yes, I guess they will," I nod. "So thank you for your offer, and I gladly accept. I haven't eaten all day."

As I fall asleep that night under the stars, with the melody of snores all around, I wonder if this is not an accident but perhaps what God the Father meant to happen. I smile at the thought, pretty sure it is.

Joseph

When we hear of the fire consuming our village granary, there is no question that we must return at once and do what we can to help rebuild. The first harvest will be ready in less than a month, and without the granary to protect our crops from insects and mice, our entire village will suffer. Hurriedly we pack our belongings, and send a messenger to the temple to find Yeshua, who has gone off once again with John, to play I suppose. When John returns to tell us Yeshua has chosen to stay with neighbors, I am none too pleased, but there is no time to hunt him down. We are already off to a late start, and it will be well past dark before we make the encampment site at Shiloh. I make myself a promise to have a stern word with the boy about his responsibilities to his family once I see him again, but for now that promise will have to be sufficient.

We leave Elizabeth's home just after the noonday meal: I lift my two boys into the back of the wagon and clear my throat at Mary, who is locked in a tearful embrace with her Aunt Elizabeth. I know she fears the elderly woman might not last until our next visit, but if God wills it, then it will be. Not much I can do about that, but I can help rebuild the granary.

It's late when we get to Shiloh, nearly midnight by the stars and I'm exhausted, aching as if I'd pulled the wagon myself all thirty-four milin, so we put our mats on the grasses beside the wagon and get what sleep we can. Since the neighbors bringing Yeshua had not planned to leave Jerusalem until dark, I figure they won't arrive until nearly dawn, so his scolding will have to wait until then.

Next morning I awaken before Mary and the children, and go to find Yeshua. It is a large encampment, a religious center and assembly place for the tribes, so there are many families bedded down here for the night. As I wander among the sleeping pilgrims, I see a wagon approaching on the dusty road, and recognize it as that belonging to the Arazi family. I walk slowly toward it, planning to offer my thanks to the baker for his hospitality and kindness in bringing my son to me, and then to give Yeshua a talking to about obedience as soon as we are out of earshot.

But Yeshua is not with them!

Mary

"We have to go back at once!" I tell my husband. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely get the words out, and they sound weak to my own ears.

"That will cost us two days!" He argues. "He got himself into this, he can get himself out."

"But Joseph!"

"If he's as clever as he thinks he is, he will find someone to bring him home to Nazareth."

"But Joseph," I say again. "He's just a boy!"

My husband looks at me with raised brow.

"He's our son!" I plead. "He's our _responsibility_!"

Joseph frowns, a deep angry scowl, then slowly relaxes his brow, shaking his head.

"Load the children into the wagon," he says.

I am not sure what he intends until I see that he has turned the wagon back towards Jerusalem, and only then do I allow myself to weep.

Joseph

It is well past midnight when we arrive back at Elizabeth's home, and although Mary is anxious to begin an immediate search for our boy, I convince her that we would win no favor disturbing the sleeping pilgrims at this hour.

"Daylight will make our search much easier, and he'll be none the worse for one more night under the stars."

"But what if he's hungry, or scared, or has fallen in with bad people!" She whispers, distraught.

"It's the holy temple, Mary. And he is not an ordinary boy in any case," I remind her; "God will certainly watch out for him."

Once again she weeps, the quiet tears slipping down her cheeks, even as she nods, knowing I am right.

We camp in Elizabeth's yard, unwilling to disturb the sleep of the elderly couple, and in the morning we set off together with Zechariah and John, leaving the younger children in Elizabeth's care.

John says he's pretty sure where Yeshua can be found.

"He never came back here then?" I ask, thinking he might have returned to his Aunt's home when he discovered he'd been left behind.

"No sir," John tells me. "He's too busy I guess."

"With what?" I demand.

"He's been talking with the Kohen the past three days, sir."

"The Kohen!" I exclaim, feeling a sudden rush of alarm that hadn't been there when I thought he was merely lost. What else has this child been up to that I know nothing of?! I just hope he hasn't caused me any sort of trouble.

We find him in the priest's court, seated before a gathering of eight robed men. They all appear to be listening intently to whatever it is he is telling them. I feel a rush of unwarranted anger: How dare he look so calm and unconcerned! A lost boy should be hungry and dirty and tired, running around frantically looking for his parents. Instead this son of mine looked like he belonged right where he was, doing exactly what he was doing without a care in the world.

"Yeshua!" I cry out, my voice harsher than I intend it to sound in front of these learned holy men.

Every head turns as one to stare at me.

Yeshua rises respectfully, but without any undue haste, no sign of guilt or alarm.

"What are you doing here? Where have you been?!" I demand. "We had to come all the way back from Shiloh to find you when we discovered you were not with our neighbors!"

"We were so worried, Yeshua," Mary interjects, her voice soft with relief and love.

"Why would you worry about me, mother," he tells her gently, coming forward to put a hand on her shoulder and look directly into her eyes. "You know who my Father is, so you know I would be safe. I am simply doing what He has called me to do."

"Don't be harsh on him, master," one of the Kohen says to me. "He is a remarkable boy, with astounding wisdom, astounding! We are honored to have had this time to speak with him. Please bring him back again soon."

I nod, with a little bow, then lead my family away without another word.

The Visitor

It is a little more than a week since we returned to Nazareth, when the man from the East arrives.

I have been waiting for him.

Father and I are at the granary, helping to install the beams which father has been milling all week, when little James arrives so excited and out of breath from running he can hardly speak.

"Papa, Yesu, come quick!"

"What is it James," father cries out in alarm, dropping his hammer. "Has something happened to your mother or one of the babies?"

"No," James says, shaking his head, still panting."

"What then, boy, out with it!" Father insists, grabbing my little brother by the arm.

"A, a strange man, he has come all the way from Jerusalem to see you."

Father Joseph looks around at the other men, his eyes seeking permission. There is still much to do to rebuild the granary.

"Go ahead, Joseph," one of the men tells him. "We can put up the rest of the beams ourselves today, but will need more lumber by the morrow if you can manage it."

"I'll have it for you, "father assures him. "Just as soon as I find out what this stranger wants and send him on his way, I'll be milling those logs you men felled into more planks and beams."

As we enter the cottage, mother rises with baby Salome in her arms, and behind her in the shadows a robed man also gets to his feet. He has brilliant dark eyes and a cloth wrapped around his head, and I know at once it is the magi from the temple in Jerusalem, here to help me fulfill my destiny.

Father, however, astonishes me by crying out: "Gaspar? Is it really you?" and falling to his knees, shaking his head as tears begin to pour from his eyes.

I believe he has just been reminded once again of who I am.

Later, as mother helps me pack, she tells me again the story of the magi that had appeared shortly after my birth to worship my divine origins. I think this is more for the benefit of my brothers and sisters, as I already know the story well.

"Now," she explains unnecessarily; "this one has returned to take you back to his monastery in the far East to further your spiritual education, as well as to isolate and protect you from the temptations and perils of your body as it undergoes its transformation into manhood."

"I know, mother," I tell her patiently. I am trying to be extra nice, as she can't seem to stop crying even as she is telling this, and her flood of tears has set off James, Joseph and baby Salome as well, everyone bawling as if I had died or something.

I leave the next morning on a small bay gelding the Indian master has purchased from the local stable for my journey, my few belongings wrapped in a blanket tied to the saddle, waving goodbye to my still weeping mother and siblings, my rueful father. Tears also pour from my own eyes, although the sadness of leaving my mother and the little ones is tempered by a huge bloom of excitement in my chest at the adventure I am beginning, so the smile on my face is genuine. I don't realize it at the time, but it will be more than seventeen years before I see their faces again.

Journey to India

The trip with Gaspar grows long, yet remains full of fascination, so that every new turn is a wonder to my eyes and I feel I could go on forever just looking at the incredible works of my Father, as if the final destination is simply the journey itself.

Perhaps it is.

At first we travel along dry desert lands much like those of my homeland, all the while skirting the great sea where cool breezes offset the baking heat of the day. Nearly a full cycle of the moon passes before we finally leave the sea, turning in the direction of the rising sun across even more barren and forbidding landscape, climbing up through a mountain pass that at its peak, even this late in the spring, is still decorated in a white frosting of snow. It is another 5 days, slow going but wondrous to my eyes, as we journey through river valleys and mountain passes before coming to a great and placid river that winds its way between the dusty brown hillocks like a gigantic blue snake.

Gaspar purchases us a fare on one of the many riverboats that carry freight and passengers up and down the long waterway, so for another cycle of the moon we are mere passengers, spending the days talking, watching the fishermen casting nets from the shore, waving at the passing caravans of great humped beasts, the occasional small villages and huts along the shore. Each night the ferry stops so that we can debark to stretch our legs and exercise our horses, and we make camp on the banks under the desert moon.

As we journey southward the land gradually flattens out and the areas on either side of the river become green with trees and grasses. Stretching out from the banks as far as I can see are fields of crops with small canals between the rows fed by the river's overflow, and people working diligently in the hot sun among the shoots of green. Villages along the route become larger and more frequent, and when we pass these sometimes I hear shouting and sounds of violence, sometimes of gladness. One day we pass the remains of a great city that lies on both sides of the river, and Gaspar tells me it is what is left of the fabled city of Babylon, now crumbling and desolate, the walls broken, the few remaining inhabitants looking as beaten as their habitation. Two days further down the river there is another ruins, this one with a great square temple many stories high which Gaspar tells me is the great ziggurat of Ur. I wonder at the fragility of the world, that such monumental efforts of man to create structure and substance always come to such an end. What lesson is there to be learned here?

Finally we reach a large port city, just below where our river joins with another of equal size forming a huge delta, and it is here we finally debark.

After buying more supplies, we travel by horse to the coast of a great sea. For a moment I am confused, thinking we have somehow turned around and I am on my way home again, but Gaspar assures me that this is a different ocean than the one we were on before, and that there is an even larger one beyond this. My eyes grow wide in amazement: More? Larger? Does this creation never end?

Next day we board another boat, this one much more substantial than the river ferry, and are transported across this body of water, an expanse of blue liquid desert so vast that I am lost upon it, disoriented, with no land in sight for days on end. Yet for all its seeming emptiness I soon discover that it is teeming with life so abundant that it takes my breath away. I see creatures I've never imagined the likes of, jumping from the depths to fling themselves skyward for no other reason than the sheer joy of having life within them, great fishlike creatures with bright intelligent eyes and beaklike mouths that smile at me as they land, sending a wave of sea water to cover me head to foot. I laugh aloud in delight. And, like the rest of the passengers, we spend many hours fishing with poles and nets each day, bringing in far more than we can eat and tossing back that which we can't.

One day I see a creature so huge that I think I must be imagining things, a great grey fish with a blunt shaped bulbous head, long thick fins and a flat tail that it uses to beat the water continuously as it swims alongside the vessel for more than an hour, rolling its large black eyes up at me. Finally it swims away with a final disdainful flip of its tail, disappearing into the depths, tired of trying to communicate I guess. Later I think of the story of Jonah, and realize this must be like the great fish that swallowed him, perhaps the very one. I remember in the tale how this supernatural intervention from God saved Jonah from drowning in the sea - which represents the material world - and after three days spent in the blackness of its belly at the bottom of the abyss, Jonah finally repented his ways and went on to teach all those who would listen that salvation comes from the Lord. Was that was what he was trying to tell me, this fish? That it will take three days in the belly of the beast for mankind to be saved?

The waters here in this sea are rougher and more bouncy than the glassy surface of the river, and for the first few days I have little appetite, fearing whatever I put down my throat might quickly find its way back up again. After a bit I get used to it, however - Gaspar tells me I have acquired "sea legs" - and am quite comfortable with the bit of rolling we endure. Suddenly on the seventh day all that changes. As we round a peninsula, tacking our way carefully between an outcropping of large rocky islets on either side of the narrowed passage, we are hit by cross-currents and large waves that splash violently over the sides of the boat, heaving us first to one side and then the other. Alarmed, I turn to Gaspar, who simply tells me to quiet the horses.

Another hour, and we are through the rough passage and out onto the open ocean, riding up and over the moving hillocks of water that slide continuously beneath our bow, running parallel to a distant shoreline that is but a shadow etched on the horizon. Gaspar tells me we are now on the Arabian Sea, making our way to India, our final destination.

It is another nine days before we finally turn into a lovely sheltered harbor with a small port village. There we debark, purchase more supplies, and after a day's rest begin our final journey through a beautiful forested area that sweeps down from high mountains to the banks of a deep river. Gaspar tells me this land is called India, named for the river we follow upstream towards its source in the distant mountains, the Indus. As we ride side by side, comfortable in each others' presence, he tells me the history of his land, which is at least as ancient as my own, and of the beliefs that grew with his people over the ages; reciting to me beautiful stories and poetry he calls the Vedas and Upanishads, which move me greatly, especially in the context of the wild and beautiful countryside through which we ride.

On the third day of our travels we see a herd of great beasts with enormous noses and protruding white teeth as long as my arm. They are at the edge of the river, drinking and bathing. As we approach, the largest of these lifts his head and turns to face us, trumpeting loudly. His great triangular ears stand out from the sides of his head like wings as he takes a threatening step in our direction. Gaspar reins in his horse, a look of alarm on his face.

"That is the lead bull elephant," he whispers. "If he attacks, the rest will follow."

I look into the animal's eyes and lift my hand, continuing slowly forward. As I approach the bull drops his ears back down and lowers his head submissively, the trumpeting now a soft bleat of acknowledgement.

"Come on," I tell Gaspar over my shoulder. "It's okay, we can pass now."

At night we camp away from the river bank, for it is there that the great night predators of the jungle come to drink and to hunt. I can see the glowing eyes of the one Gaspar calls tiger in the dark, its muscular body of tan and black stripes outlined in the moon's glow. I hear its sultry growls, its occasional roars, and I am amazed by the beauty, the perfection of form and function.

Usually it is just a spotted deer or wild dog it captures, bringing the animal down with a single powerful slap from its front legs, and silencing it quickly with a bite to the neck, plunging six inch fangs deep into the flesh and ripping open the throat so that the prey's life blood quickly spills to the earth. I feel no sorrow at this, no sense that the animal killed was wronged. This is all just the way it was intended, and even the victim seems to know and accept his role in the scheme of things, once he is done fighting for survival.

One night, however, one of these enormous cats gets into a terrible brawl with a river crocodile the size of a small boat. Since neither of these predators is meant to be the prey of the other, I am puzzled by this.

"Surely there is plenty for both to eat, and neither lives in the other's realm," I tell Gaspar; "so what is there to fight about?"

"It's an edge thing, a boundary. Where the water meets the shore is no man's land, belonging to neither, belonging to both. They fight because they don't know where they end and the other begins. It is a common fight."

I nod. It is.

It takes us another full cycle of the moon to reach our final destination. The last four days we leave the river behind and venture northward into the mountain country, making our way slowly up the steep trails that zig-zag back and forth across the face of the hills. The air becomes cooler, crisp at night, and the stars brighter, leaning down from heaven so close I reach my hand up to touch them, only to have them scoot away from me like cosmic fireflies.

The Ashram is a plain and simple place, filled with plain and simple men who say little, but just enough. I learn quickly to listen hard, for I soon find out what is said will not be repeated.

They teach me breathing and meditation, the secrets of the Upanishads, the teachings of a revered spiritual leader whom they call Krishna, and of another they refer to as the Buddha. They talk to me about the way to reach my inner self through fasting and meditation.

At first I am annoyed by the enforced long hours of silence, of stilling all sensations and thoughts in order to reach some destination that I already dwell in. But after a time I discover that by entering that space fully, without any distractions from the body's senses, I can hear my Father's voice more clearly, and when I do much is revealed that I was not previously aware of.

Sometimes they are overwhelming, these visions: I see universes within universes, see multitudes of worlds parallel to ours, side by side and yet invisible, filled with living things of all shapes and sizes and varieties, strange and foreign, with rules of their own for life as they know it. And I see my Father controlling them all, see them all as just more illusions, more games.

There is so much of this to explore, so much to understand, I don't know where to begin; so I spend more and more time in this state of deep meditation, just looking, learning, growing.

I have been at the ashram about a year when I begin to notice changes in my body and unsettling emotions that wake me at night.

At first I try to ignore what is happening, but more and more these feelings, like a spider crawling up my spine, an electric tingling in my belly and below, are interfering with my ability to meditate, to commune with my Father and explore his many worlds. Finally I go seek the counsel of Narada, the youngest of the monks and the one I feel might best understand what I am going through.

"You are becoming a man," he tells me bluntly. "Your body is changing, becoming sexual in nature. It is because of this change, more than anything else, that you were brought here for guidance and protection, as giving in to these urges of the body can completely derail your spiritual journey."

"I don't understand," I tell him. "If these feelings are natural, expected, part of God's creation, why are they wrong?"

"Not wrong," he tells me; "just distracting. If you give in to them, even once, it is like letting loose something that can't be put back, and you will be fighting them the rest of your life."

"So what do I do?" I ask him, feeling a little desperate.

"We will teach you how to use them, to channel them rather than fight them, so that their energies can be used to deepen and strengthen your meditation rather than disrupt it."

And that is what they did.

************

The years pass, one into the next, each day largely the same as the last. From time to time I get a letter from my mother Mary. She has another child. And then another.

The monks and I have grown very close, and I've adopted the name they have chosen to call me all these years, Yesu; which in Sanskrit means "love" or "devotion." Both John and James used to call me that as a nickname, and I like to think it fits.

************

The night is clear and filled with a million million stars as I leave the ashram and make my way up the mountainside to my favorite place. I like to meditate here whenever the night is not too cold, even if the mists blot out the stars, for as long as it's not raining or snowing I can talk to my Father and see His Face clearly through the illusion of the world, with eyes wide open.

Tonight is especially mild, mid-summer bright, and I wrap my saffron robes around me as I sit down upon the rock that juts out over the cliff, the darkness on all sides giving me a sense of being suspended in space. I still my breathing as I've been taught, perfected over the years in this place of isolation and reflection, where my only tasks have been to help grow and prepare the food to nourish my body so that my soul can be nourished by connection with the divine.

I've been here so long that my life back in the dusty village of Nazareth seems almost a dream, yet lately that dream has been calling out to me from the land of my earthly mother, and a restlessness has begun to plague me that wasn't there before.

"Father," I say aloud, my quiet voice sounding far too loud to my own ears as it echoes down the mountainside; "show me what you will."

It is the same prayer, every night. And then I shut up and wait.

The light comes, not a flash but a sudden bloom, a flower of light opening and filling the mountain valley below me and the sky above, filling every space and the spaces between with an unimaginable brilliance; but one which does not hurt my eyes despite its brightness, for I instantly become part of that light, a light within the light, and then the light itself. For a moment I know everything, everything that ever was and ever would be; I see a thousand thousand universes, dimensions within dimensions, space within space, time within time and beyond time, time in a perpetual place of no time. And then I move on.

I see myself become a reflection of the first light, separating from it but still filled with a light of my own. Am I as bright as I was just before? I can't say, for I am still made of light even though the first light has seemingly isolated itself from me. I find the vastness of complete knowledge I'd experienced a moment before slowly dissipating into memory, just as a dream gradually vanishes upon waking. I know it was, but I don't know exactly _what_ it was. I know that I _could_ know everything, but also that I don't anymore, that I now only know that which I am allowed to know when I need to know it.

_Who am I?_ I call out to the receding light, but there is no answer, only a restless stirring inside me as I suddenly find myself separating into two parts yet again. This separation is different from the first, for it is unequal and disturbing: One part of me is still filled with the brilliant light of my Creator, still retaining the memory of his knowledge, but the other half is darkness by comparison. A deep sadness and longing instantly fills me, a sense of incompleteness, and a strong urge to reunite with that darker self, that negative force. I feel lost and alone. I reach out, and the darker self reaches back towards me across the void, and the tension between us begins to take material form, becoming water and earth, stars and sea, then filling the air and land and oceans with life forms of all kinds and variety.

I realize at once that this is what the great Yin and Yang the Eastern Mystics have taught me about symbolizes, the pull of the male and female against each other, the polar opposites in eternally shifting balance, their attraction and repulsion creating life between them. I see this as Hebrew meaning of the Alef as well, the two yuds, one right side up and one inverted as a mirror image, separated by the vav - the divine light of creation, the tension between them that force through which all material things are created.

It comes to me that the dark side is now called Man; and I, the light, am the Holy Spirit, and we are in communion with each other, reaching out to reunite.

But then, when the initial creation of the material world is complete, man turns away from me (as the Father willed he must) and believes himself to be alone. I watch, but do not call out, do not try to hold onto him.

Focused on the illusion of his surroundings, he now thinks he is the Only One, both creator of and created by the material world around him. In his loneliness, his need for companionship and communication, Man makes an image of himself and becomes two, male and female, darkness and light, once more a tension of opposites, a yin-yang through which humankind can be created between them. They become part of the illusory world we have made; forgetting they are spirit as they identify more and more with flesh and bone, blood and need, fear and craving, and the will to survive in that form. That need overshadows all else, so that Man and I, the two halves created out of God, are distanced further and further from each other.

Time passes, and I see man take many roles, many identities, believing himself to be each of them, when I can still see he is only the One. He separates himself through the illusion of time and space to make war with himself, or make love to himself, all the while never knowing he is everyone. As he loses himself, we lose each other more and more, he and I, and the sense of that loss is overwhelming: Tears pour from my eyes, weeping both in the vision and here where I sit in meditation on the mountain. I cry and cry and cry, a deep despair. And so does Man in all his identities, although they don't know the reason for their sadness. So they cling to each other seeking that love, that union that they had with me, and through me with God.

Yet why do I cry, I wonder abruptly, when ultimately it is all an illusion, the whole thing nothing but smoke and mirrors in the mind of God, where we all still exist? This stops my weeping, dries my tears instantly. I remember.

And with this vision my purpose is defined with great and sudden clarity, for I understand I am put here as the way back for Man, the bridge to the divine nature of his essential being, a bridge which can only be effected by reuniting with him as Man, not as spirit. I have tried to come to him as spirit again and again over the aeons, in form and word, as angels and visions, yet still he falls further and further away. So now I have to go to that side I was separated from in the beginning of time: I have to become Man so that he can become Holy Spirit, for he is unable to go it the other way alone.

Gaspar

I know as I see him coming down from the mountain, shining with an inner light more potent and more distant than the light from the dawn just now beginning to wipe the stars from the slate of night: It is time. This brilliant boy turned man, secreted away, nurtured, cherished, protected from the world as he grew, would be leaving us now for the destiny he had been born into.

I walk out to greet him; we bow to each other, and proceed in silence to the inner chamber where so much of his days have been spent in teaching and in prayer.

"I must leave now," he says simply, and I just as simply nod, no words, no questions - as none are needed.

"But I wish to speak to all the lamas before I go, if you will call them together. I have some words to share."

Again I nod. "I will accompany you on this journey," I tell him; "to see you safely there. But at your gate I will turn and leave, for my part in this is surely done."

"As you will, Gaspar," he says, and in his luminous brown eyes a tear shines brightly. "Thank you."

Yesu

I look at my small audience of great men, seated cross legged on the stone floor as am I; simple men with whom I have spent the last 18 years of my life. They have aged in that time, but only in bodies grown grey and frail. In spirit and wisdom they have only grown younger and closer to their source every day. The sparkle in their eyes betrays that youthful joy. And yet I know what I have to say to them may cut and disturb that tranquility.

"Fathers," I nod, and they return the little bow; "you have brought me through the perilous journey from child to adult, teaching me how to override the impulses and demands of my carnal nature so that I might fulfill my spiritual destiny. For that I am forever in your debt, as will be the world. But now I must return to the land of my birth to carry out the mission for which God the Father has ordained me."

They again nod as one, expectant children awaiting me to be done saying what they already know I will say.

"Before I go, I must tell you what I know of your path and where it leads, and of my own and where it leads," I say solemnly.

Now there is a slight change in their passive attitude, the mildest straightening of spines.

"The religious insights you have shared with me, the disciplines, the truths, the markers on the path to spiritual enlightenment that were given to you by your great prophets Krishna and Buddha, are beautiful, profound and righteous. These men were very special beings into which the Holy Spirit of God entered in full so that they could share with mankind those divine truths that would help him recognize his true spiritual identity, distinct from the illusion of the material world. These prophets, as well as the ancients who wrote the Upanishads, created a path for man to follow out of the darkness. Nothing is wrong with this path... except that it doesn't take you all the way to oneness with the Supreme Creator."

Despite their studied composure, long an integral part of their nature, I sense a small intake of breath at this, the slightest tensioning of muscles. But I must go on, I must tell them what I know to be the truth. I owe them this.

"Your way is like setting out on a long and arduous trek up a mountain, a mountain that grows increasingly steep, difficult, and beset with trials the closer you get to the top. For most it is a lifetime journey, for some many lifetimes," I say. "It requires diligence, fasting, hours of daily meditation, thinking right, speaking right, doing right, all the time disciplining oneself until absolute control over mind, soul, heart and body are as second nature, so that your spirit is no longer influenced by any external perceptions, thoughts or emotions in order that you may pierce the veil of illusion and reach a state of perpetual bliss."

I see them once again nodding, almost imperceptibly.

"When at last you reach the top of the mountain, the very peak where all there is left is nothingness, neither perception nor non-perception, you see ahead of you a brilliant light, and you feel the peace and love emanating from that light, and you hear the songs and voices of a thousand angels. And it _is_ bliss. But there's one problem. You stand on the edge of a precipice, and this light, this emanance, is just beyond. Perhaps it's only one step, perhaps a hundred or a hundred thousand, it doesn't matter. For it is just beyond where you stand, and there is nothing in between you and your final destination but a void. At the end of your journey, you realize that meditation at its deepest level may allow you to connect with the Lord God that is within you - the divine Self, that One being of which all men are both the part and the whole - but there remains an insurmountable breach between that ultimate Self, and connection with your Creator, the Father in Heaven. And thus, in the end, you are still all alone."

Brows knit on old faces, lips turn slightly down. A tear sparkles in one of the too bright eyes.

"But you don't want to be alone; you don't want to be the Only One. You want to be a part of that light, connected to it, one with it. This is where faith becomes a necessity, a leap of faith to step out into that void, to close that gap and become one with the supreme God, to reunite with the source of that light, that peace love and bliss, for all eternity. My brothers, my teachers, I am sent from the Father as the final link between the mortal and the divine; I am the invisible bridge beneath your feet, the hand to guide you there, the leap of faith you must take, but not alone, to become one with God."

I see tears wetting the withered, sun-browned cheeks of these mystics, and I am so filled with love for them it breaks my heart. Tears pour from my own eyes as well.

"Believe in me, please," I whisper.

But no one nods.

"Now I must take what you have taught me back to the west, for they need your wisdom and discipline as well as my hand, otherwise they can never hold onto the peace and understanding I bring them. Their pain and fears, the needs and demands of their bodies and the constant lie of their own mortality will undo every step forward, darken every joy, obliterate every truth with the falsehoods of their physical identity, so that they simply won't understand Who I am, what I say, and what I have come to do."

Narada, Yajna, and Gargya

We watch them ride off together in the first light, our brother Gaspar still straight and proud upon his steed despite his advancing years, and the one we call Yesu - now a man of thirty, lean, clean shaven, with his head shaved as well in our tradition - astride the mule that also carries the provisions for their long trip back to the land of Israel.

No one speaks until they are out of sight; then, after clearing his throat, Narada breaks the silence.

"So, who shall we say he is, when it comes up?"

"What do you mean, _comes up_?" Yajna asks in his querulous old man's voice.

"It is bound to come up someday," Narada replies knowingly. "He is destined for greatness, do we not see that?"

"Yes," We all nod. There is no question of that in our minds: We've sensed the power and magnitude of his spiritual nature since the day he arrived as a boy of twelve to stay in our humble mountain ashram.

"He will create a profound change in mankind that will spread across the world and last for many ages, if not for all time," Narada continues. "And people in India will want to know who he is."

"I think he's Lord Krishna, reincarnate," I propose.

"Ah, Gargya, would that he were; but he never claimed that, not once. Wouldn't he have told us if he were?" Yajna argues.

"I agree with Yajna," Narada nods. Clearly he separates himself from Krishna, which he has called a great prophet, but never himself."

"None the less, that is what I believe him to be, and that is what I will say to whoever inquires, for in my mind they are surely one and the same. Besides, the continuity of our faith depends on it."

With that they cannot argue: both sigh audibly, then nod in reluctant concession.

Gaspar

It is on the boat, as we are crossing the gulf that I finally broach the question that has been on my mind since our journey began. We are standing side by side at the rail, looking out over the vast expanse of rolling blue waters, the land a distant black line on the horizon.

"What will you tell them, when you return?" I ask.

"What do you mean? Like where I've been?"

"No, you know what I mean: What will you tell them of God? What will you teach them about themselves?"

"The truth: Everything I know of it."

"But what if they don't understand?"

"They will; they must."

I shake my head, staring at the waves, the snow white birds that glide above their crests, forever just out of reach.

"Yesu, these are simple people you return to, people of the land, people who plow, who sow and reap, who build up and take apart. They may know the words of their scriptures by heart, perhaps; but how many truly grasp - or even try to grasp - their deeper meanings? Are not most content to go through the rituals and hope for the best?"

The younger man looks up at me, his brow knit. He stopped shaving as soon as we left the ashram, and already the hair has grown in on his head and face in a scruffy two inch base, giving him a slightly disreputable appearance.

"But I _must_ find a way," he insists.

"Then speak to them of things they know, things they understand. Couch your wisdom in simple phrases and everyday examples," I tell him.

"Like children?"

"Like children." I affirm. "And some will grow and mature in wisdom, and in time may understand fully, and others will simply accept on faith and nothing more, yet it may be enough."

I leave him when we reach the land of his birth, not knowing it will be the last time I ever see him again.

"Come with me back to Nazareth, Gaspar," he tells me. "Let my parents see you once more, to thank you for all you have done for me."

I tell him no, I must go now. But after we embrace in our parting, and I begin to walk away, I suddenly turn and come running back to him. Putting a hand on his shoulder, I lower my head and my eyes as I speak.

"Yesu, I do believe that you are who you say you are, the holy spirit of God made flesh, and that you have been sent to reunite Man with God for all time. I am returning to my own land to prepare my people for that truth."

"Thank you," he says simply. And with that, we are done.

Homecoming

Mary

I see him, a tall gaunt figure walking slowly up the dusty road, a stranger to my eyes - and yet I know him instantly as my heart leaps in my chest.

"Yeshua!" I cry, running towards him. Halfway there I fall to my knees in the dirt and, putting my forehead to the ground, burst into tears. He lifts me up, looks into my eyes a long time, then smiles and kisses both my cheeks in turn, then kisses the dust from my brow.

"Mother," is all he says. "Mother."

My heart, my heart...oh such love!

As we walk towards the cottage, he asks me what the villagers know about his long absence.

"We told them you'd been apprenticed to a traveling merchant, and had gone with him to distant lands where you would continue your education."

He nods thoughtfully, and asks nothing more about that.

When we reach the carpentry shop, James and Joseph the younger are both busy at work on a new pair of yokes for the oxen belonging to our neighbor. They look up as we come in the door, and for a moment they have no idea who this is they are looking at. James is the first to recognize his brother, and his face looks like it will split in two so wide and joyful is his smile.

"James," Yeshua smiles, and steps forward to embrace his younger brother, now a full grown man of twenty-three. "You're huge!" he laughs with tears in his eyes.

"You're a bit on the scrawny side yourself," James teases. "Looks like we'll need to fatten you up some, if you're to be of any use around here."

I just smile and smile and smile; I smile so much my cheeks begin to hurt.

Joseph, ever the shy one, waits in the shadows, watching his eldest brother. He was only three and a half when Yeshua left us, so he barely remembers him at all I'm sure.

Yeshua lets go of James and walks over to Joseph now. "Do you remember me, Joseph?" He asks gently.

Joseph shrugs. "A little," he says. "I remember the trip on the wagon."

"To Passover, that's right!" Yeshua grins. "I left right after that trip, but now I'm home."

Joseph smiles, a half grin that twists his face into a comical smirk. "I'm glad you are," he says.

"Where's father?" Yeshua asks now, looking around.

"Resting," I tell him. "His bones have gotten cranky over the years, and he can't work as much as he once did. But the boys here have learned how to do everything he did..."

"And better," laughs James. "Our tables don't wobble."

"And Salome?" Yeshua asks.

"She married a man from Cana last year, and already has a baby of her own."

"But she's so young!" he exclaims, and I laugh.

"Yeshua, she was a baby when you left, but now she's nearly twenty! I had you at sixteen."

"Yeah, but I'm special," he grins, making me laugh aloud.

Yesu

At dinner I get acquainted with my two youngest siblings, born after I'd gone to India: Judas, now seventeen and Simon fifteen. Judas looks just like father Joseph, tall, thick, and rough in speech: but Simon is slight and almost pretty in features, quiet and soft-spoken, poetic in temperament and arguably mother's favorite.

Now that I am back, I am not sure what my next step is to be, so for the time being I just hang around helping in the carpentry shop. Father Joseph comes in to supervise, but with three grown sons there is little for him to do, and his advice is largely ignored. As we work, I remind him of those days when I used to help straighten the legs of the tables and chairs, when they didn't come out quite right. Everyone roars with laughter, even father - although he looks a little uncomfortable at the memory.

In the evening, once the meal is complete, I ask my brothers to go for a walk with me. I see a look pass from father to mother, a little scowl of consternation from him, a shrug from her. But aloud they do not object.

As we walk I tell my brothers where I have been the past 18 years, what I was doing there, and a little about what I learned. When they ask questions, I tell them more. James is the curious, intuitive person he was as a child, fascinated by everything I have to say and asking a million questions. Joseph is quiet, taking it all in but asking little. The other two are still boys: Judas wears a teenager's skeptical frown, although he does ask several good if pointed questions; and Simon just looks confused and thoughtful.

By the time we return to the cottage, the night is nearly gone. I am excited about the night's discourse, thinking that perhaps my own brothers will become my first disciples, for I know I can't do what I need to do alone. I determine to spend time with them every day, teaching them what I know until I get my calling.

Just as we have settled onto our mattresses and are about to fall asleep, I remember to ask James if he has heard anything about my cousin John, how he is doing.

"Oh, John; he's a crazy one," James says sleepily. "I've heard rumours that he is preaching somewhere in Judea, baptizing people. They say that he looks like a wild man, with long hair and a beard, no shoes, dressed in filthy rags." He shakes his head disparagingly. "I even hear he eats only things like honey and insects plucked from the tall grass, and that he's telling people a messiah is coming soon."

I lay back on the bed in shock; all my plans instantly vanished: I know at once this is the sign I have been waiting for; I know that I have to go find John, and that he will baptize me, and that from there my ministry will begin. And I have to go now.

Finding John

I follow the crowds to the banks of the river Jordan, where they tell me John is baptizing people today. When I see the thin, tall, shaggy-haired man standing thigh deep in the river, exhorting those still on the banks in a hoarse, passionate voice to give up their sins and be cleansed before the Messiah comes, I stop, staring.

Is this man truly my cousin John, is this truly what that twelve year old boy has become?

Of course it is, what else would he become?

I step up to the bank of the river, the cool water lapping at my feet.

"John," I call softly.

He turns, and instantly tears of recognition begin to pour from his eyes as he struggles through the water to reach me. We embrace, both of us crying, laughing and crying, pounding each other on the back and laughing and crying some more.

Then we step away and look into each other's eyes. Without a word, we know our fated time has arrived.

"I've come to be baptized, John," I say.

"I am not worthy," John replies. "It is you who should be baptizing me."

"Do you remember your dream, John? The one you told me about when you were twelve?

"The cottage in the deep woods, where I brought a woman's son back to life, and she made me bread from a jar that never ran out," John says, nodding.

"I am that woman's son," I say.

We wade into the deep water of the river, John and I. He looks into my eyes long and hard, and then thrusts me under the water.

For a moment all time and space disappear, and I have no sense of being above or below, up or down. At first I think I might be drowning, then I feel a touch, a lightness descend upon me from above and with it great peace. But suddenly this tender caress turns into a shaft of radiant fire, filling every core of my body and being, and the fire then into something else; something insubstantial, gentler yet no less intense: It is the undiluted essence of that feeling mortals call love, and it completely transforms me. This is an ecstasy I can neither describe nor fathom, for in that moment everything is revealed to me, my entire mission from start to end, the reason for my existence, why I had to come to earth in the form of a man and what my end will be. Yet not just that, not just my story but everything, everything.

I thought I knew it all before, thought I understood the secrets of life and God and the universe. And I just found out that what I knew was but a drop of water in an ocean of knowledge, a single molecule of air in a hurricane.

I _am_ God, but God is so much more than I. Yet if God is infinite, is not half of infinity still infinite?

John pulls me back up from the water, and I am so stunned and dizzied that I wobble and nearly fall back into the river as he helps me to the shore: Tears pour like the Jordan itself is emptying from my eyes. I am so awestruck I cannot speak; I just shake my head at John.

"What is it," John asks again and again, and when I find my voice at last I answer.

"We will both die young, cousin John, I tell him. "You just because you are you, and it is the role you have chosen. But hear this, John, hear this well: You are man, all of man. You live every life, play every role, and you always have. You are Elijah, you are Ezekiel, you are Abraham and Adam; you are your mother and your father, and mine as well. You live again and again and again, and I have come to take you home. And I would say the same to every man, every woman, for it is as true for everyone as it is for you, you are all just one being. Except now there is something new: For this one time only I, who am God the Spirit, am Man as well. I am you, John; and you are me. This is why _I_ must die. I die for you, John, for all men: I die so that Man can be resurrected with me and through me and as me. Thus it begins."

And with that I turn and walk off into the desert, for whatever is to be is already done.

The End
