Category: jesus here jesus there

Nobody acknowledges this, but I was there that day too. I watched the woman approach from the shimmering village in the distance, and I calculated the time it would take for the rabbi to reach me at the well from the other direction. Two lines, two realities converging on a single territory. Mine. Yes, I waited and watched, letting my boots dangle from the wall on which I was perched. The water below was infuriatingly clean, and I remember kicking my heels against the stone to knock the filth off my soles. It fell in pieces, splashing delightfully below. I made a note to come back with something more rotten another time. 

Of course, I never did make it back. I couldn’t bring myself to stomach it. The ground there is stained with holiness. 

Jesus reached me first. He looked at me like he always does, and I stuck my tongue out to complete the picture for him. I know what he thinks: I’m a spoiled child. Well, judge for yourselves which of us is the bratty runt because he didn’t even return insult for injury. He just sat down. He doesn’t know how to defend himself. I’ll really kill him one of these days. And it’ll stick.

Scowling, I looked away, and we waited until the woman finally arrived. She stepped lightly, despite the shadows I could see surrounding her. She gracefully avoided eye contact with the rabbi; I tilted my head and let my eyes bore into her soul. It was the deepest color of abandonment I’d seen in a long time, so saturated that I guffawed with glee! She jerked her head in my direction, and I bared my teeth in welcome, though I know she couldn’t have heard much more than a whisper of my growl. Her gaze cut through me into the desert beyond. She shivered in the glaring heat. She glanced at Jesus’ feet, but respectfully continued her silence. Slowly, she returned to her work, unraveling the ropes with which she would lower the bucket. 

Her fingers worked confidently, but I could smell her fear. She knew. We’d met before, decades ago, and she remembered. She remembered my face – the one I’d revealed at the climax of what has turned out to be one of my most excellent accomplishments so far. Her husband turned toward her with one last snarl, and his face mutated into mine!

Barren, I said. Barren and broken. Oh, she cried and cried. 

I admit, I was disappointed at how content she seemed at the well. Sickening shalom. And as I plotted against her, Jesus began to speak. 

He talked about how thirsty he was, and he practically begged the dirty woman for her pity. I remember the way she looked at him, and I still feel a twinge of pride – she was so suspicious back then, trust didn’t come easily. Some of my best work gone to waste…

“…ask me for living water,” Jesus was pleading. Nobody of much consequence, certainly none of the leading authority in Jerusalem, were listening to his ramblings, so here he was, sharing his nonsense with a Samaritan. 

And at first, she laughed in his face. Yet, he kept urging her, and this is really where it all started going wrong. Her woman’s instinct, that putrid holy spirit, began to flicker. 

“You won’t be thirsty anymore,” Jesus extended his hands. “Ask me.”

And the woman let her water jar fall beside her. She could see past the dusty rim of the well, past the pool of water below, past her shame. She could see something true past the illusion I’d designed! “Please. I need that water.”

She saw something reliable in him. He promised her his same old line, and I do have to admit, his eyes were convincing. Of course, he’s a liar! Eternal life?! He’s a liar or a lunatic if he thinks he’ll ever find a way to transform these walking corpses into life. 

I was seething, perched on the edge of the well. I danced vigorously for her attention; nothing could break her gaze as the selfish healer reached into her history with his meddling hands. Spiritual surgery – that’s what I’ve heard they call it. It’s not like it’s really anything special, all he did was treat her like she mattered. He asked about the men who had left her. In his despicably gentle way, he probed for truth; he invited her pain into himself…

And the stories tell it as if their conversation was brief – as if the men in her life were all she had ever done. No, I drenched my writhing body in sweat. I competed for her allegiance. She whispered for nearly an hour. He listened. I howled in her face, “YOU ARE ALONE YOU ARE UNHEARD YOU ARE FORGOTTEN YOU ARE UNKNOWN YOU ARE ABANDONED YOU ARE UNWANTED YOU ARE BROKEN – ” Oh! how I hurled my hate!

…the stories make him out to be some kind of king. But what kind of king sits and speaks with a woman? Especially one I’d ruined so well…

---

John 4:1-30

Before I knew it, Peter had leapt headfirst into the water. With complete abandon and zero flotation devices, he literally threw himself into the sea. It brought back memories of that other time, and as I steered the boat back toward the shore, I began to laugh. I shouted out as I passed him floundering, “Guess it only works once, huh?” He offered a dripping grin and continued plowing toward Jesus.

Because that’s who it was again, of course.

With one hand guiding the boat, I shielded my eyes from the sun, and I could see him, grilling. He gestured at me with his hands, a sort of “What are you waiting for?” invitation, and I couldn’t hit the beach fast enough. The sand sprayed when I landed (Peter hauling it 25 yards back in the sea) and I ran. Seriously, I ran, thinking I felt more like a kid now than I ever had before.

And thinking maybe this was the posture of that childlike faith of which he’d spoken: running headfirst into his waiting arms.

He embraced me with one of his wild-bear-hugs, and I pounded him on the back, laughing.

“Fish. Again?! This stuff is like manna with you.” I stepped back and found my place on a seasoned log.

“At least you know what it is,” Jesus chuckled, holding up a finger and grilling with the other hand. “As they say, ‘The Lord provides in mysterious ways.’”

And then Peter burst from the sea and launched himself across the beach. He tackled Jesus before the poor guy could even shift position, and the two tumbled into the dry tufts of grass, spilling sand all over the fire and the food.

Their laughter echoes in my ears even now.

It was after the meal when Jesus asked Peter the question. Three times. And it was much later than that when I remembered the widow at the temple treasury.

I went to sleep still fumbling with the memories: images of copper coins from years ago and Peter’s eyes shimmering just over the flames of our reunion fire that morning…

The widow’s coins were all she had, and Peter gave his life. Faith is not appropriately catalogued information; it is how we give.

Of our time. Our energy. Ourselves.

As I lay on the sand that night, I dreamt of the woman and her coins. In my dream, those copper discs spun in circles on a stone table, chasing each other like the sun and moon. The widow stood at a distance, watching as temple leaders groped at the spinning offering – watching and flinching as their fingernails splintered against the stone. The money in their purses jingled as they bloodied their hands in pursuit of all she had. She turned and walked into a flurry of pelicans dotting the horizon as my dream evaporated in the orange haze of a coming sunrise.

And when I woke, I was like, “Huh. Pelicans.” I’ve never been able to shirk the image.

After a moment, I rolled over to see Jesus standing at the water’s edge with Peter. The same orange glow of my dream zig-zagged against the water’s surface. The two men looked out across the waves as they spoke; then, Jesus gave Peter a hefty pat on the back and turned back toward camp. Peter remained alone at the edge of the sea. With my mind still on the dream, I welcomed Jesus, and I asked him if he remembered the widow. He said he did.

“I had a dream last night. She was in it.”

Jesus reached to fill a cup of water and nodded.

“I remember you said she gave all she had. And I remember yesterday you told Peter…and in the dream she stood in silhouette against an orange sunrise…and Peter…he’s standing there now too.”

Jesus looked at me and nodded again; he let his eyebrows raise in invitation.

“I guess I don’t get it. I’ve never been very good with dreams. How can it be that they both get credit for giving everything. I mean…she gave coins…and he gives blood?”

Jesus swallowed, sighed, and looked back at Peter who was making his way toward us.

“And you may never die,” he said. And then he winked, and I allowed a chuckle. “Okay, John. Anticipate different harvests from different fields; different fruits from different trees. Would you expect wheat from a vineyard or grapes from a sycamore? Different recipes require different measures.”

I remember now, even forty years later. I looked at him, and he shrugged. Then he stood and walked toward Peter, offering him a hand. You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

But if you walk with Jesus, you won’t feel like you need to anyway.

---

John 21 • Luke 21:1-4

The centurion could still feel the burning light from Gethsemane, and now a different kind of burning entered his awareness as he watched a looming darkness spread from Golgotha like scalding tar.

He stood at the top of the hill, below the criminals. The black stain colored the highway and the city walls in the distance. It crept up the angles like angry ivy; it spilled like blood across the tops of the roofs. It hurried toward the Jewish temple. He could see it all from his post.

He turned to look up at the one they called the King of the Jews. The man’s hair was matted and tangled in thorns. His body was sagging, though not yet dead. No, he thought, not yet. The centurion had seen so many dead.

He looked back out into the mysterious ocean of darkness.

He could almost hear the voices as they crept up from the murky fog – but ultimately, they remained hidden:

/Bang bAng, the KinG is dead!! Bang, BANG. He’s DEAD! We hoLd the kEys noW. We’re lOckINg you in. SEal the doors frOm the outside, aIRtigHt, sleep tIGht -/

Bang! The storm broke open like a shotgun; the wind lifted a million poetic particles of dust with its first breath and brought the memories in line with the soldier’s watching eyes:

His own child’s face took shape in the debris, his hair lit by the echoes of the sun behind the clouds. Lost because of me, thought the centurion, because of my constant provocations: almost nothing shapes a criminal as thoroughly as disappointment. And as quickly as it materialized, his son’s face dissipated in the gloom. No, it morphed. Another face, his mother’s, another failed relationship. She didn’t want to lose him to the military, so that’s exactly where he headed. And then her face, gone, up in smoke. And another. And another.

What is this? he wondered. What is this darkness that manifests nightmares of regret?

And although there was no way of really knowing, the centurion with all his knowledge of warfare might have guessed that this was an attack; from hell itself burst the gods of the rebellion, and with Jesus hanging on a tree, they descended upon the city.

/ThE kInG iS deAd/

As the centurion stared into the abyss, the rushing wind grew louder. A storm like none he had ever known before was gathering. Yet, he stayed where he was. He knew his duty, to remain until the job was done. So, when the rain fell first in whispers and then in a wild roar, he stayed. The King of the Jews wouldn’t last much longer anyway, and he was the only one that really…

Suddenly! A ragged intake of breath above him. The centurion spun around to find the King of the Jews facing the heavens, eyes alert and ready. A dripping sound from every edge. A sudden stillness in the rain. Indeed, it almost seemed as if the wind had obeyed his…

“Father.”

And violent shrieks in the darkness railed against this surprising peace. The frozen horror of their voices chilled the centurion to the bone; his hand rested warily on the hilt of his sword – this was a place of danger. The creatures that he couldn’t hear continued howling: /noOo!!! no fAther buT oUrs! NothinG lefT for You but DeAth!!!!!/

“Into your hands…”

The centurion glanced once more toward the city to catch the hasty retreat of the evil rushing back toward Golgotha in what seemed like a last ditch effort to bury the King once and for all; the darkness was moving with direction, and he could sense the chaos. The earth shook with the rage of demons facing God, and losing.

The centurion followed the shuddering blackness as it climbed back up the hill and eventually swirled around his feet. He breathed it in – he nearly choked. He looked up at the King of the Jews…

Jesus was looking at him.

And his face. He looked like the King they’d mocked him for pretending to be. No. Something more. With the wind rushing around the two of them, the black smoke ricocheting like locusts, the earth careening into itself: he looked royal. Majestic. Holy.

“The Son of God!”

---

Mark 15:39

Jesus crouched down next to Matthew. The dawn air was cool. They didn’t speak. Instead, they settled in shared presence. Jesus could see that Matthew had been awake for too long; he could sense the shadows of disquieting dreams. He thought back to yesterday’s confrontation. The authorities were fuming. The people were grumbling. Now, his friends were despairing. 

At least, he could see that Matthew was. 

“See that no one leads you astray…”

Matthew listened as intently as ever, but his mind swirled and the sound of Jesus’ voice was muffled. So distant. His chest tightened with the early rumblings of worry. Why would the rabbi say these things? Didn’t he know, he would lose the crowds! He would forfeit all momentum. Matthew glanced quickly past heads and shoulders gathered closely together…too closely…like a stampede. He saw familiar faces in the distance – old colleagues come out for sport and mocking the city’s latest doomsday freak. 

He turned his eyes back to Jesus and began listening again. “The stars will fall and the earth will quake and smoke will rise forever and ever and…”

It was almost too much. Matthew almost turned and walked away, back home, back into the pleasant simplicity of the rat race. There were still taxes that needed collecting. He could be the guy. Of course, he knew that was nonsense. For him, at least – he could never go back. But what could it possibly mean to go forward?

Jesus leaned in closer to Matthew. “What are you so stuck on?”

Matthew glanced at him and back out over the country. He knew. But he didn’t want to say. He couldn’t bring himself to ask the rabbi the question he’d been wrestling all night: What about justice?

Jesus sighed. “You’re thinking about what I said. The prophecies. I’m not sure what is bothering you more: Is it that I echo the warnings of the prophets…or that I transform them?”

Matthew found his voice. “The prophets died early and unsung! I thought you would be more than a flash in the dark. I thought you would tear down the curtains and let the light stream in. Instead, you talk about pending judgment. That takes too long! And it isn’t ever complete.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Maybe someday?! But forty years too late. What about justice? What about justice now? Those prophecies…they never reach fulfillment. What about shalom?”

Jesus reached out and grabbed onto Matthew’s wrist. He held tightly. His eyes were as earnest as they’d ever been. “The sea churns restlessly. Empires must always fall. And repentance is always sought. And you’re right…for now, complete shalom is unfulfilled. Yet, even now it settles slowly into subtle rhythms. It harbors a heartbeat – though it isn’t yet full grown. This is the kingdom coming; this is God’s judgment call.”

“What is?” Matthew sputtered. He rose and thrust a finger out at the city. “What is? That we should fall once more, not Rome? I know you’re talking about Israel, about the temple, about Jerusalem! What about the chosen family? What about the promised land? What about justice?!”

Jesus stood slowly and followed Matthew’s outstretched finger with eyes like fire. “New wineskins, Matthew. New wine. But still the same vineyard.”

Jesus inhaled, tasting change upon the wind. And in the exhale Matthew caught the whispers of a proclamation, and it sounded like verse of unremembered prophecies, a forgotten future, a dusty hope, and Matthew tried to write it all down, and it came out like this: 

Follow a little while longer and see
Repentance is more holy than remorse
Disaster bows to mercy
Shift perspective
Step into the heavenly
Watch a donkey become a war horse
Watch a lion act like a lamb
Watch the grave be emptied
Watch punishment revealed as consequence
Watch judgment be salvation
Watch the sword become a word
Watch an ocean of chaos dissolve into a sea of glass
Watch an idea be what matters
Watch matter follow the immaterial
Watch an army sing
Watch dry bones breathe
Watch a cross be made a throne

---

Matthew 24 • The Book of Revelation & 19:13 • Isaiah 13 & 24

Anger, yes, but something more.

When he heard the despair trickling out of hollowed hearts, when he turned to lock his gaze on theirs, it wasn’t just rage.

It was fury, directed at the failing world, yes; indignation, aimed at wickedness, again…yes.

But also something else.

(and did he feel that too for me?)

---

I remember when the leper collapsed in front of him, knees shredded by disease, bearing weight anyway, desperate for another chance. Then, there was that righteous anger. And then, there was compassion.

The wind was blowing viciously that day, dirt everywhere. I was walking behind the rest of the group, as I often did. I marked the clouds sweeping the skies. I marked the miles until food and a place to lie down. And then, I heard him calling out. The leper. I turned to see him and recoiled; even at a distance, his figure was repulsive. Of course, I knew immediately that Jesus would notice his cries, his horrible needs, so I stayed my ground. And I was right. Jesus hurried back through his little congregation to stand by me, and when the leper was nearly to us, the rabbi put his hand on my shoulder.

“Pay attention,” he said. “Reach your hand out to this man. With me.”

And it’s always this image for me, set in the shifting sands of time, one of the few memories I can call my own: the image of two men falling, the one because he cannot stand and the other because he will not.

That valiant refusal – I saw him do it every time. Face to face with Death in all its glamor and gore, he never hesitated –

But oh! I know I did! After each healing, I swore the next time would be different; I promised I would kneel in the dirt beside him and touch the contaminated man or woman before him. For him! He would note my allegiance. I decided I would watch closely, fall swiftly in humility, offer my hands to heal. Peter and James and that ridiculous brother, they would notice too, and I would quietly bow my head. I meant to do this.

Yet, I was disgusted by the intentionality of his touch on dying bodies.

An image from another angle: two men falling, and a third, driven into the ground, upright and righteous (though self-declared, do you see how I wrestle?)

It wasn’t only that Jesus was kind, though he was; more, it was that he was entirely unafraid. He held convictions I’m still too shaken to imagine. He was a man untethered. Responsibilities and priorities couldn’t call him home. Family seemed his briefest afterthought. And money? Please.

I protected the money for him (a thankless role) and I recall it clattered in my purse, the handful of times I made it to a crouch – hidden behind him, but still there – and I prayed he wouldn’t turn to see my “posture of perhaps”, my half-hearted pity. Though, you know now that I think of it, I suspect he would have simply smiled and pulled me closer…

And even now in contemplation I contemplate myself! Always thinking of the way I present and am perceived (do I even know myself half as well as you know me, thousands of years away?) and I’m trying to get past this instinct of self-preservation, but Lord! every word I brandish contorts itself in my wretched dance for attention in this endless darkness. Maybe I’ve played the victim for too long. I’m also the perpetrator.

The traitor…

This tango with the devil has twisted my mind. The dance I’ve practiced since my death, if I’m honest, though I feel I should have learned better. When I was still above, I wanted you to notice me helping the sick, the lonely, the hurting. Did you see me? Was I good enough? (am I still one of yours?)

I wake incessantly from this perpetual sleep, always falling. I throw my hands to break the collision against…what? There’s nothing there. There’s no rock bottom to prove my humanity; I spilled my guts on it eons ago. Or was it only yesterday?

The leper…

…you caught his hands.

(will you catch mine too?)

---

breathe.

Remember the image: the leper falling to the ground and Jesus falling too.

breathe.

Let’s watch this together:

…a voice like from a fog and a shuffling collapse / a man at the end of the line…

…a face like the sun / a bend in perfect harmony / reaching…

…tattered rags / aching limbs / all of it falling in a heap / dust to dust…

…firm hands / an intentional descent / an immediate response…

breathe.

I don’t think he meant for this to be.

breathe.

I don’t think either of them did.

---

The fall of two men, together.

(a third, above…alone?)

I don’t deserve companionship. I threw my lot in with the ill-tempered fanatics, the trigger-happy zealots. I knew I would lose friends. I thought it a price worth paying for fame. But old stories don’t honor sore losers, and I hate to admit, I joined their ranks too.

I remember when your hand left my shoulder, and you reached out toward the leper. I didn’t reach with you. That was one of those times I couldn’t crouch behind you. I stayed as I was, condemned to stand. The weight of your hand on my shoulder dissipated, but even now I wonder: does a part of you remain?

(are you somewhere close?)

---

Matthew 8:1-2 • Matthew 27:3-5

The memories stick like black tar. The man stumbles desperately across the rocky soil, trying to anchor his eyes on the mountain ahead, but all he can see are the nightmares.

Two years old: the first attack. His wife woke him up in a panic. She was holding their son who writhed and thrashed in her arms. The fear was debilitating.

Six years old: by this time, the attacks were normal, as terrible as they were. So, when he saw his boy’s eyes roll back in his head, he was immediately running. And when the child slammed into the ground and rolled into the fire, the fear was overwhelmingly tainted with the flavor of despair.

Seven years old: he was playing in the sea when the demon took him under. A few fisherman rushed to him and when he came up in their hands he wasn’t breathing.

Eleven years old: it lasted longer than ever before and when it was finished, his son was bleeding profusely.

The nightmares keep coming as the father looks beside him at the boy. Nothing in this wasteland offers any hint of hope. The mountain ahead looks empty and bleak. The sun is merciless.

“I believe,” he whispers.

Ahead of them, a crowd is gathered and when they reach the people the father chokes out a name. Is he here? My son. Please. A demon. Help.

A man comes toward him and his son and suddenly the questions are incessant and the crowd oppressive. Men are arguing and a woman begins wailing. His son is sobbing softly and the father again speaks the name. Where is he? This time, the man interrogating him has no time to reply because a shout goes up from within the crowd.

A light is descending the mountain. Indeed, it has already been coming for a long while, although no one in the crowd has looked up, preoccupied as they are with theology and miracles.

But now the crowd moves closer to the mountain in wonder.

“I believe,” the man says again.

He picks up his son and pushes toward the front. He trips and falls, crashing in a heap in the dirt. But, when he looks up, he sees the radiant light and the face of compassion emerging.

Yet again, the crowd begins to murmur and the great men of the town ask great, complicated questions of the teacher.

However, the rabbi looks down and kneels in the dirt beside the man and his boy, reaching out his hand to pull them up. The son tries to rise from the dust when, suddenly, he begins to choke. The father chokes too, on hope and despair and pleas for help. Wails go up and men jump back as the demon takes the boy into the darkness.

And he hears this teacher of light speaking. All things. Believe. And he feels himself being lifted up by hands accustomed to hard work, but incredibly gentle. Have faith. And he clings to the man holding him and to his son shaking in the dust.

All things go quiet.

Hand in hand in hand.

The father whispers, “I believe. Help my unbelief.”

The eyes of the teacher blaze with love afire.

---

Mark 9:14-29

Nathanael lay on his back, a hand extended, fingers reaching for the leaves, rerouting sun and shadows. He was dizzy with melancholy. He’d been there most of the day already, and he didn’t plan on leaving any time soon. He was sick of the tension at home, the zeal, the violence; their righteous chants reverberated with bloodlust.

Not here. Under the foliage, Nathanael found answers. He focused his mind on the words of the prophets: “…my servant the Branch…in that day…every one of you…”

Cryptic, perhaps, but his mind relished the puzzles. His heart resonated with the imagery of people at peace. Sure, Israel had seen its share of battle, sanctioned by Scripture, holy men, and God himself. Certainly, throughout history there have been times meant for war…

“And times meant for peace,” Nathanael whispered, turning his hand over and over in the sprinkled daylight. “What else should we hope for in the end?”

Suddenly, he heard a rustling of branches, and Philip tripped unceremoniously into his sanctuary. 

“Philip, what’s the deal!” Nathanael muttered, exasperated. 

“The Christ. Nate. The Messiah. We’ve found him.”

Nathanael straightened his back and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked at Philip intently, searching for the telltale signs of the contagion of power.

“The Messiah! Tell me, who? How?” Of course, he thought, beginning his own introduction, this man will be the latest and greatest warrior king. His popularity tied up intimately with his pride. His anger seething, impatient…

“Jesus of Nazareth!!”

Nathanael caught his breath. He’d heard whispers of this new rabbi. But this wasn’t the time to jump headlong into rebellion. Too many were talking of Barabbas, ancient monarchy, manifest destiny. And yet…the Branch?

“Nazareth…can anything good come from Nazareth?” Nathanael watched Philip’s eyes. Did he remember too?

Philip smiled knowingly. “Come and see.” He reached out his hand.

---

The friends were laughing at Andrew’s latest tale of Peter’s childhood adventures. Peter chuckled and lifted his wine in recognition. “That’s all in the past now, Andrew. I’ve grown older and wiser.”

“Older, certainly, but wiser…” Andrew shrugged and lifted his hands in comedic resignation.

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Hey, some guys follow blindly. I’ll make my own mistakes.”

Jesus stood, chuckling. “Well, keep up the good work.” That made Andrew choke on his food, and Peter took the opportunity to pummel his brother’s back. Jesus stretched and watched the two figures shimmering on the horizon. He tapped Peter’s shoulder and gestured, indicating he would be going out to meet the travelers. Peter winked and continued to give Andrew his brotherly massage. Jesus walked toward Philip and Nathanael, he could make out their faces now, and he waved. And he prayed, as always.

“Rabbi!” shouted Philip, and he cut the distance between them, running and dragging Nathanael the final steps. Jesus could see Nathanael’s hesitation; he could also see his sincerity.

“Look at this! Philip, thank you. You’ve invited the best of the best: a true Israelite – one who has no appetite for treachery.”

Nathanael aimed his measured gaze at the man in front of him. My servant…

Almost a coincidence? He doubted that this new rabbi, this wannabe Messiah would care much for the prophets or their sacred wordplay. But something in his face, his posture, his hands…

“Where have you seen me before?” And do you know the puzzles?

Jesus nodded and pointed into the distance. “Before Philip invited you here, I saw you sitting under the fig tree – though not yet one of your very own.”

Nathanael nearly dropped to his knees. Can he see through time? Did he read my mind? Every one of you…invited, under fig trees. Creative wordplay and prophecy. This was an entirely different Messiah than the self-anointed of recent days. This was not a man consumed with thoughts of the glory days of conquest; this was something new. This was a man of supernatural insight and imagination. If anything, at least this much was clear already: he knew the subtle promises of the prophets. And if anyone should know, it would be…

“Rabbi…you are the One!” Nathanael declared, hardly daring to believe his own words, but longing, oh yes, yearning.

“Oh, you liked that thing I did there with the fig tree?” Jesus laughed, and Nathanael’s heart exploded. “You’ll see much more than that, Israel. Remember Bethel? There’s a new Bethel. Here. Now. Happening. Remember Daniel’s prophetic apocalypse? The Son of Man is opening The Way.”

And Nathanael really did drop to his knees that time – or, he would have if Jesus and Philip hadn’t caught him. 

---

John 1:43-51 • 1 Kings 4:25 • Micah 4:4 • Zechariah 3:8-10

Now, Caiaphas was one bad dude, filled to the brim with serpentine toxins. He relished his agility in matters of deceit. He delighted in the honor he amassed at the expense of those he shamed. Oh, how he loved to play the game. Sitting in the highest place, he observed the factions down below. First: his political supporters, the would-be players turned his pawns, pacified by his greasy smile and ignoring (read: licking) his greedy fingers wriggling under the table. Second: the outspoken opponents of his father-in-law’s nepotistic agenda; they stood outside the dining room, disinvited to recline. They were restless. They were hungry. They were ready for dissension. And third: the infiltrators, those he could never see but always sensed. They were subtle. They were few – but a force with which he was forced to reckon, subverting and transforming his party from within.

Nicodemus was one of these.

Over a decade ago, though he’d failed to topple the pharisaical fortress, Nicodemus had gathered a following unto himself, and he remained in the inner circle, despite the efforts of the godfather. He was crafty. He was cautious. He was curious about Jesus.

The storm was brewing on the winds of Jesus’ approach to Jerusalem, and Nicodemus could see opportunity. No, more than that: he could see another way, a fresh order, a different kingdom. Jesus wasn’t simply another leg up within the system. He was an entirely new system. And he was coming over for dinner that night.

Of course, what with the crowds that followed him, his own motley crew, and the Party members thirsty for revenge, the stage was set. Nicodemus had only to send out the VIP invites. Nobody would decline.

Caiaphas and Jesus arrived simultaneously – one, fashionably late; the other, inconvenienced by ridiculous love. Even after finally reaching the door, he gestured for the high priest to be patient, turned, and knelt to listen to yet another beggar. Nicodemus stifled a laugh as he watched Caiaphas tremble with the indignation of being forced to wait. This would be a night to remember.

Jesus, still kneeling, turned and looked up at Caiaphas. He paused and furrowed his brow, as if forgetful of a technicality. “Do you remember, Caiaphas? Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath, or not?”

The crowd watched, and Caiaphas balked. And Jesus, shrugging off his question, turned to the man and rid him of disease. Then, with Jesus gesturing for the high priest to go first, they came together into the home.

Nicodemus observed as the elite entered his home. Yes, even Jesus held power, though he seemed to refuse to wield any. Nicodemus couldn’t say he understood, exactly, but he respected the rabbi, and he anticipated the revelation of a mystery. His own personal apocalypse?

The guests finished with the washing and went to recline for dinner, most of them clearly jockeying for position. Most. Not all. Nicodemus watched Jesus exchange soft words with the servant boy before settling in. He chose a seat off-center, the lowest place. Nicodemus followed and knelt beside the rabbi. He hadn’t planned to be so forward, so obvious. Still. Maybe it was time to step out of the shadows. He raised his hand for attention, and the Party gathered like clouds of indecision. Suddenly, Jesus tapped Nicodemus on the shoulder and began to speak in parables.

“Imagine. You are invited to a party of the elite; it’s the finest gathering of the highest minds and deepest pockets.” As Jesus began speaking, he held his wine aloft. The group of men chuckled self-righteously, registering quickly that they themselves were “the elite.”

“Imagine. You stream into the home of a generous host.” Jesus gave Nicodemus an arm around the shoulder, a quick hug even. “And after washing, you look for a place at the table. What do you do?”

Caiaphas cleared his throat and spread his arms wide. “You distract your host with a cheap entertainer and rob him of his place of honor!”

All around the room, men tensed, ready for conflict. They knew the political background. They knew the host. And most of all, they knew who the entertainer was in this equation.

Jesus shook his head and smiled sadly. Then, he rose and circled around to the other end of the table, opposite Caiaphas at the head. “You find the lowest place. You put yourself in a position of humility. And you let your actions speak for themselves. Who knows. The host may notice you and put you in the place of honor himself.” Looking aside, Jesus caught Nicodemus’ eyes. “Imagine. You stop playing the game.”

The room spun, suspended in time, reorienting itself in space. Colors shimmered wildly as shapes bent inside out. Caiaphas began to shrink and as he did, he shrieked. He clambered onto the table; in no time, he was small enough to hold. And the servant boy did just that, setting down the pitcher and scooping up his master. Jewelry and decor melting throughout the room. Dishes exploding in puffs of dust. A dream thicker than memory. Flowers and streams of water coming up out of the floor. Heads turning in slow motion, away from the tiny priest, toward a new kind of man, he taller than them all, and on his knees. An upside down reality. A reversal.

“An apocalypse,” gasped Nicodemus.

And everything clicked into place.

---

Luke 14:1-14 • Matthew 11:25

It was. It was really, really quiet. Jesus spread his fingers wide on the dirt.

Steady.

He felt the muscles in his forearms tighten and adjust to the new burden; he leaned forward, relieving the pressure on his knees. He’d been praying for a couple hours.

His bones creaked as he straightened out his legs, and he almost chuckled, nearly remembering something his father used to say, but not quite – remembering more the spirit of the sentiment than the words themselves – something about freedom.

The freedom that comes with acceptance…

The thing is, bodies change, and if you’re going to get old and fall down, at least try to roll with it.

Slowly his father’s words came back to him, and he could still feel the impressions of the older man’s hands clasped upon his shoulders; a little squeeze and a smirk. Or after a hard day’s work in the quarry, a gentle tap at Jesus’ knees with his staff, and feigned helplessness, pretending his own ligaments and joints were already disintegrating. No wonder, he would say. And Jesus whispered back into the past.

No wonder, the knees go first after years of pious intercession for rascal sons.

Like father like son, Jesus would say. He felt his throat catch, and he let the emotion ride for a moment. Just a moment. He breathed in the air of the trees.

Acceptance.

Another whisper. “Father…”

And on the breeze he heard an echo of home. He kept his body poised, channeling the adrenaline: Eyes jammed shut so the sounds might just feel real again. Fingers dug below the shifting crumbs of earth itching to find anchors. Knees buried too.

He heard the rhythm of heavenly communion as it drifted around him, rustling leaves and rattling spear heads gathered in ambush. His body stiffened, tensed.

And then it was really, really quiet.

Do you know what it sounds like, the congregated and hushed tones of stillness? They reverberate invitation. They build anticipation.

Above and beside and behind Jesus, plants and scurrying creatures paused. The reddish clay settled deeper into itself, and the plethora of insects looked up expectantly. Roots crept skywards. A brightness was beginning to emanate from somewhere above the olive trees. Even the leaves looked up, craning their stems for a better view. Everything frozen in time except Jesus, who slowly stood.

And the soldiers marched in dispassionate rows.

---

Peter could see them in his nightmares. Asleep though he was, the clatter of their steel pierced his consciousness. So, when Jesus woke him, he immediately reached for his sword.

They’re coming.

I know.

I will fight.

Accept this.

No.

---

Blood. Jesus doesn’t flinch when he touches it. The man’s head is mangled; he won’t live without medical attention. His amputated ear is drying in the dust, along with matted hair and bits of scalp. The rough edge of a sword hewn by amateurs leaves a mark; Peter wheezes hysterically, knowing he can’t stop the enemy from taking Jesus.

Knowing he missed his only chance when Judas dodged the blow. And the snake now stands even taller, grinning as the soldiers maintain their formation, responsible for neither the blood of the Jewish traitor nor this crumpled slave on the ground. They have their orders after all. Malchus sways on his knees, involuntarily imitating prayer. And Peter shudders, contemplating the red stain on his hands.

The soldiers look to their commander, and he looks to Judas, who shrugs and winks at Peter, who trembles in his rage.

But then Jesus looks at Malchus, drawing his face upward with his hand, still holding the wound with the other, lifting his eyes. The light has grown since Jesus first noticed it in his solitude. Now Malchus sees it too, in fact they all do; it’s consuming the garden. It’s spreading, uncontained in its unfolding. Judas’ wink turns into a frenetic blinking, and his mouth turns downward in disgust. The centurion stares into the light, and it’s always the moment he tells first in his testimonies around future campfires. Peter is finally still – sobbing, but still.

Malchus is rising, raised by Jesus into the ocean of light above.

And no one can remember later what it looked like to see Jesus reach toward the dirt and bring the ear back into life.

And it is really, really quiet when the light goes out.

---

Matthew 26:36-56 • John 18:10-11

Reluctantly we voyaged, into the arms of chaos. The mob behind us, more desperate. The rabbi, serene. The water? We felt we had no choice.

“Cast off! Row! Row!!” He bellowed above the hazy sounds of the brewing storm. Descent of rain from above. Demands to reign all around.

He bade us go amidst the panic. I see it now: Hands everywhere. Hands reaching out of the mass. Hands holding back Cephas, and his hands straining to stay. Hands on ropes and oars. And hands all over him, the rabbi. How did he get away?

All voices condemned to join the pandemonium. All voices, but his, and he shouted again, just once more. Cephas heard his name and with his gaze anchored home, released his grip, falling back against his brother. Then, eyes still locked, he stood and lifted the sail, and the others were rowing, and I watched the shoreline shrink.

Hours later, we wrestled wind and waves, and there was little time to wonder where he might be. Exhausted, we watched in despair as mountains of water beckoned us to ascend. The boat did well that day, climbing again and again, only to fall. I still remember Cephas, whispering into the mast. The rest of us rowing, drenched in fear. I began to recite the shema, wearily seeking distraction, and I heard the others take it up.

Finally, it was near sunrise, when the night is at its longest; suddenly, I saw a man, walking on the waves. I held my breath, and as we crested the next peak, I saw him again. I cried out, thinking him a ghost.

Others joined, creating a chorus of fear, but as the boat came down atop the collapsing wave, our voices were again no match for his.

“It is I.”

And it was. The wild water spiraled into itself, gathering and settling quietly. A mist hovered briefly and then spilled across the expanse. Stillness. In the sky, the stars came to life, transforming the darkness.

In the new light, I could see him – no, them – coming across the last length of sea. Cephas had his arm draped across the shoulders of the rabbi. They stepped into the water, held aloft by something I still don’t grasp completely. Side by side, their heads leaning into one another; and they were whispering. We held out our hands above the silent sea and lifted them into the boat with us. No way we could make it to the other side by that point. Nobody wanted to even try. We decided to dock early, to the east.

It wasn’t until that day on the beach, at breakfast, after another long night at sea, that Cephas told me the story of how he, in the midst of the storm, above the cacophony of voices in the boat, heard him calling, “Cephas, come.” So, he had leapt from the boat! I always thought he had been tossed. He described the water to me that morning. We sat in the rocky sand, eating fish, and he described the weightlessness of standing on a wave. He told me he walked several yards in exuberant awe. But then he looked away.

He took his eyes off of the rabbi’s. He stared into the night. He began to sink.

But a hand reached out for his. And then there’s the part that Cephas told Levi. But there’s also what happened next, as the rabbi carried him back to the boat. That’s the part Cephas told me, on that last morning we were with Jesus…

“Why did you doubt?”

“Because I saw the wind. And I was afraid.”

“Yeah, you looked away. But look at us now.”

What rapture it was, Cephas told me, what joy to see his feet, in step with the rabbi’s, leaving watery footprints. He tried to explain himself, to say that the wind and waves had been too real to ignore, too dreadful. But Jesus stopped him with a whisper:

“Fix your eyes on mine. So, even when you can’t see me, you know I still see you.”

---

Matthew 14:22-33 • Mark 6:45-52 • John 6:16-21