Yeshua of Nazareth

By Laurence Krantz

Have you ever wondered about the accuracy of the story of Jesus as it was written years later, and then re-written time and again? Was he actually fathered in some magical way? During the so-called "lost years," was he a spiritual seeker who only gradually came to understand his purpose on earth? Did he know love? Little is known about tho

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crown Ridge Publishing
• Release date: Aug 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986499314

Book preview

Contents

Foreword

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Foreword

Stories that are told and then retold again and again change over time. There may be embellishments added to make the story grander, as well as mis-remembered events. Such narratives may then be massaged or augmented to fit a particular notion or theme. An oft-told tale can morph into a fable or myth and may be used to teach a moral lesson, or to develop a new philosophy or religion.

The story of Jesus was repeated orally for many years, even decades, before a written account was born, and that account was translated and re-translated into various tongues. Additionally, over the ensuing centuries new versions were crafted and sometimes shaped by those in power to justify personal needs or beliefs.

Was what has come down to us from so very long ago an accurate account of his life or entirely true? Do we dare question what so many take as indisputable faith? This work of historical fiction is not meant to take away the message of Jesus’ life or diminish the stature of his presence. Yet, very little is known about how he actually saw the world, what he thought, or even what happened to him during his formative years.

What if the story of Jesus as it has evolved over the millennia, and we have come to accept, is not quite the way it occurred? What if it happened another way . . .

One

The stranger waited in the shadow of a large tree and watched the teenage girls at the well. He dared not move for fear of being discovered and startling them; he shuddered as he imagined the dire consequences should they be alarmed by him and scream in fright at this intruder to their village. Had he made a mistake by trudging up the hard-packed hill to the quiet Jewish town of Nazareth? At least, he had enjoyed the walk on a surprisingly warm day for late winter, although it was cool in the shade of the tree. He could still retreat to the safety of his uncle’s camp after the girls were gone. Or, if he were brave or foolish, he could venture forth while they were there, but in a careful, non-threatening way.

He was always apprehensive upon entering a new town or city. Different languages and customs, along with the locals’ general distrust, made him cautious and careful. Yet his natural curiosity always overcame his reservations and tentativeness. He had moved through the village slowly, alert to potential trouble, especially in the form of young men wanting to show how protective they were of their community. All the more so for a Gentile like him in a Jewish town. It was why he had chosen this time, just past midday, when the men should be at work, to enter the small village alone.

Rain had not fallen in this part of Palestine for more than two weeks, which was unusual for this time of year. A skittish breeze stirred up whirling dancers of dust into a brief, glorious existence of swirling shapes, only to vanish seconds later. Faint but pungent odors carried the aromas of goat cheese and tanned leather mixed with wood smoke. From this, he surmised he was close to both homes and businesses, perhaps mixed in one district, unlike his home of Damghan in distant Parthia, with its distinct cantons.

The stranger had paused at the top of the hill leading to the village to look back at his uncle’s camp, tucked into scattered trees between a creek and the road leading to Sepphoris. There, the men were preparing wares for the next day, when they would set up stalls in the busy marketplace. His uncle Dawar preferred to camp near a village, away from cities like Sepphoris with their constant, jangling noise, soldiers, and all-to-prevalent thieves. Haggling over prices for jewelry, fabric and spices all day was demanding and tiring. The trick, he had leaned, was to make buyers think they were getting a one-of-a-kind bargain, when they were likely at the very target price his uncle had in mind. It was a lesson the young man understood well.

But while his uncle and the other men would soon need rest from their labors, he didn’t. Youth and the opportunity to explore another culture and meet new people gave him unbounded energy. And, by wandering alone, he had time to reflect on the lessons of the day, as well as to consider how these villagers had built their homes and the types of businesses they favored. To him, not to discover something new was a waste of a day, and those lost days added up to a wasted life. The world was full of surprises and unanticipated adventures, small and large; he had no time to waste.

Another reason he approached a new village alone was that the men of the caravan were rough and coarse and could easily offend their temporary neighbors. This was particularly true in Palestine among overly sensitive Jews, who took as insult the slightest infraction of Law or custom, whether intentional or not.

Thankfully, Uncle Dawar approved of his jaunts into villages. It was helpful for the locals to know they had camped nearby and were but harmless merchants, not allied with Rome, not there to spy on them or for some nefarious intent. Merchants knew they needed to mind their own business and be respectful of the people they dealt with. By meeting some locals and conveying a benign intent, word would spread quickly, as gossip does, and the villagers would know they were of no concern and leave them alone. To this end, he had washed and donned clean clothes—not fancy, but respectable, nicer perhaps than the plain mantles worn by most villagers, yet not so grand, or with a show of exotic jewels, that could make him appear superior to the working people of the village.

As he had walked further into Nazareth, he was unaware of how significant this day would be. The dirt road was rutted and rock-strewn, clearly not made for large wagons or chariots, but good enough for sturdy carts pulled by oxen, as long as the wheels were stout and the driver careful and circumspect. He passed a scattering of homes, small but tidy, and better cared for than other villages he’d seen, where scrawny children ran on narrow streets among mud-brick or wattle hovels. These homes were of solid-block construction and spaced to take advantage of shade trees. He noticed with approval that the land had been sculpted for rain to run off between homes, and thence into shallow ditches that ran down the hill away from the village. Nazareth appeared relatively prosperous, which didn’t surprise him, given its proximity to the bustling city of Sepphoris and the fertile lands in Galilee.

He had learned that Palestine was populated by remnants of the Hebrew tribe of Judah, along with a scattering of lost tribes. They therefore called themselves Jews—a portion of the once-mighty Hebrew Nation, or Israel, as it had been known. The stranger had been told that the Romans taxed them mercilessly, and King Herod, the pretend Jew, used the revenue to impress his masters with grandiose projects, such as huge fortresses and a vast port city named Caesarea, with long stone jetties to break the sea. Herod also built personal palaces, including a grand retreat at the oasis of Jericho, where he could escape the summer heat of Jerusalem. A clever politician, he had wisely mollified the Jews by restoring and expanding their precious Temple to magnificent proportions.

The caravan was on the return leg of its journey, back to his home country northeast of Palestine—Parthia, previously called Persia—where wide mountains melted into high plateaus. His people had bravely repelled the Roman invaders, outmaneuvering superior armies and fighting them to a stalemate. The result was a tenuous peace, but with the prideful Romans and their ambitious emperors, one never knew when the next battle would come. So the Parthians sought meaning in their daily lives, trying to live placidly and productively, while constantly under the threat of a new Roman onslaught.

Lacking the unified resolve shown by his people, the Palestinians were easy pickings for the Roman armies. Jews were emotional and fractious, and their leadership was divided into Sadducees and Pharisees, priests and zealots, scribes and disengaged ascetics. They bitterly complained about their lot and loudly threatened rebellion but were too disorganized to resist the disciplined Roman legions. There had been a brief spark of hope for freedom under the courageous Maccabees, but that rebellion was short-lived and Jews were soon back to bickering among themselves and wailing over their fate, posing no real threat to Rome or King Herod.

The young man had walked deeper into the village and wondered if women were peering at him from the shelter of their homes, with either curiosity or fear. He kept his hands visible so anyone watching could see he was no threat. Ahead, he had seen three teenage girls standing around a stone-and-mortar well, in the dappled shade of a wooden arbor interwoven with thick, leafy vines. The girls were so consumed by their hushed conversation, they didn’t notice him approaching. Cautiously, the stranger stepped into the shadow of a wide locust tree covered with young leaves. The last thing he wanted was to startle or frighten anyone—especially women or children, which could cause village men to come running with knives and swords drawn. He was a Gentile and would be treated roughly, if not killed, before he had a chance to explain himself.

From a safe distance, he enjoyed watching the girls giggle and lean in to better hear one another. Occasionally they fell into paroxysms of laughter, placing hands over mouths to muffle the sound, obviously enjoying one another and their respite from duties at home. Their robes were of coarsely woven material, dun colored, embroidered with ribbons of blue and yellow. Linen scarves loosely covered their long dark hair. He grinned to see their faces so full of promise, their eyes bright with anticipation, as it often is with young people on the cusp of adult life. As it was with him.

The well was near the street of shops, off to one side, where workers’ huts displayed symbols for iron-tipped plows, sickles and cart wheels. Past the smithies were carpenter shops where they likely made tables and bureaus. Farther still, he saw symbols for craft shops—makers of pots and lamps fashioned from clay, copper, or iron.

The stranger breathed deeply but quietly. The air was dry but carried the fragrance of newly turned earth and the eager sounds of birds, perhaps chirping about nest building or what tree to sit upon. He recalled that Nazareth was near the southern border of Lower Galilee, overlooking the lush plains of Esdraelon, which fanned out across the Jezreel Valley. Verdant agricultural lands were watered by streams spilling from nearby mountains. He had learned the wisest course was often to be still and observe what was around him, to never rush into untimely action. One learned more by listening than by nattering away or talking about oneself.

The girls conversed in Aramaic, which he had learned to understand. At this distance he could only pick up a few words, but it seemed they were speculating about married life. In their culture, intimacy between couples was never discussed by parents, which left the subject rife for conjecture. He was amused to find the girls had difficulty separating fact from fiction—not that he had had much experience in that regard. He closed his eyes and leaned against the tree trunk. These young women, he thought, would likely soon be married and find out for themselves.

Miriam shook her head doubtfully and straightened her back. "They don’t really do that, do they?"

Yes, my sweet, Ruth whispered with apparent authority. Her tall narrow frame gave her an almost boyish appearance. And other things you wouldn’t believe. My sister, Eva, told me and she’s been married two years. She made me promise not to tell anyone.

Then again, Miriam suggested, her lips curled in skepticism, "maybe she’s trying to frighten you. Why would they do that?’

Because it’s fun, Rebecca responded, trying to look sage. Why else, other than to make babies, and then they would do it only once a year?

Miriam shrugged. It doesn’t sound like fun. And surely scripture doesn’t allow it! She shifted her garments uneasily. Each girl wore two girdles and an undergarment, which was uncomfortable. Miriam’s family was better off than most, allowing her to have inner garments of linen that felt soft and slinky against her skin. She wore snug sandals made of pine wood strapped with rope. The veil covering her wavy hair was dyed purple, edged in ochre-colored lace that nicely offset her tawny skin and dark brown eyes.

Ruth snorted. Her nostrils flared so widely, Miriam had to suppress a laugh at her almost savage appearance. It’s not against scripture, she said, imperiously. My sister says it bonds a man and woman and is the cornerstone of marriage.

That’s not all they do, Rebecca giggled. She was sturdily built with broad shoulders and a large bosom that she tried to hide by the billowing top of her tunic. The girls leaned in as she whispered graphic details of sex acts, spoken with dead-eyed certainty, even though she herself was unsure how much was actually true.

The girls continued their hushed conversation, punctuated by occasional looks of shock and uneasy laughter, unaware of the stranger standing quietly in the shade of a tree twenty paces away.

Miriam felt a pang at knowing their lives would soon change and these days of easy friendship would be lost. With marriage and family in the offing, they would never be this close again—or this innocent.

When their conversation lapsed, the stranger left the protection of shade and approached the girls slowly. Not wanting to seem threatening, he lowered his head and walked toward the well, hands purposely at his sides.

As one, the girls were alerted to his presence by the sound of footsteps and the hum of an unfamiliar melody coming from his lips. The girls grew quiet and wary, protective of each other. This man was neither a villager nor a Jew. His presence was an intrusion and unseemly. Yet his tread was measured and his demeanor benign. He was well dressed for a man not much older than they were, wearing a dyed-cloth tunic and a headdress of wrapped, coarse material. His palms were face up to show he carried no weapon.

Upset at this stranger’s brazen intrusion, Ruth hoisted her heavy urn of water atop her head, a balancing skill Miriam had never quite mastered, and tramped away angrily. This Gentile should not be here, in the heart of the village, especially with no local men around. Her example should serve as a warning to her friends and they should also leave.

Miriam glanced furtively at the stranger. She dared not look at him directly, so she cast her eyes down, annoyed at his presence. Did he not know their customs? This was awkward and dangerous, for him and for them. She decided to leave—but Rebecca hadn’t moved, either fascinated by this strange young man or eager to flaunt custom, as she tended to do at times. Miriam dared not leave her friend alone with this Gentile.

Surreptitiously, she glanced up at him, to measure his intentions. He had light skin, the color of stirred cream. His face was closely shaven, lacking even the tentative beard of young Jewish men. A good beard was a sign of manhood, yet this man’s face was as smooth as a child’s.

His eyes, she noted, were a lively gray-green, like twin jewels, not the dusty brown of Nazarene men. His ears poked out too much, almost comically so. He was not especially tall, and his hands, while appearing strong, were not gnarled or callused like those of the working men of her village. The twisted cloth around his head was a faded blue and sat like a desert crown above those large ears.

Perhaps he was a lost prince, and that errant thought made her smiled. Could he not find his palace? Did his camels lead him astray? Miriam almost laughed out loud at her irreverent humor. For this foreigner to come to their sleepy village and approach unmarried women was a terrible breach of the Law, but he seemed to harbor no ill intent.

Remaining several paces away, the stranger smiled demurely and held out a large clay cup, glazed deep green, as a beggar might signal for food. It struck her as odd to see this desert prince act so tentatively.

Miriam realized she had been staring at him and quickly looked down at her feet. The proper thing would be to leave at once and tell her mother about this wanton intrusion of into their Jewish village. Yet her legs did not carry her away; they felt as if they were fastened to the earth.

Looking up at him once more, Miriam realized she had never seen a man so beautiful, or so intriguing. No, it was more than that. He conveyed a sense of peace and serenity that was both restful and enticing. Even Rebecca was speechless—a rarity indeed.

A gentle breeze blew swirls of dust into the air, as inaction led to awkwardness.

In a flash of insight, she saw how her village must appear to someone who was more worldly and cultured: rows of dull homes covered in brown mud, people dressed in coarse robes, men out working with their hands and looking old and bent by the time they were forty—if they lived that long. She realized in that moment how little she knew of life beyond Nazareth, or of men like this stranger.

Finally, he broke the silence that had stretched far too long, putting into words his obvious intent. Would be grateful if young ladies help procure water. Is warm day for winter, yes? Makes throat dry. He spoke in the common tongue, Aramaic, but it was confounded by a peculiar accent and rhythm. His speech was halting, his sentences mostly fragments, but understandable.

Rebecca shied back a few paces, suddenly wary now that he had spoken and was more than a passing fascination. He was a man, and a Gentile, and they were alone and vulnerable.

With a bemused expression, the stranger shrugged apologetically and held out his earthenware cup.

After an awkward pause, Rebecca barked a laugh, breaking the tension. What kind of people would we be to refuse water for a guest in our village? Surely you mean us no harm. She narrowed her eyes in question.

The stranger smiled in response and lowered his eyes.

Boldly, she stepped forward and lifted her urn of water, tilting it on the rim of the well. She nodded for the man to approach and hold his cup nearby, into which Rebecca poured cool water. Her face and hands shook slightly, but the stranger’s cup remained steady enough to receive the water with no drops spilled.

The man drank greedily and held it up again. Mean no harm, surely. Came to see village, yes? Am man of peace, merchant, sell nice things. Do not wish make you uncomfortable. Thank you for water.

Once more, Rebecca filled his cup, then backed away.

There are other wells in village, yes?

Several, Rebecca said, pointing. One by the iron workers and potters, another at the far end of Nazareth.

The man nodded slowly, as if digesting this precious information. As I thought, he said.

He sipped more slowly, his thirst having been slaked. A blessing on your head, he intoned in Hebrew, which startled the girls. Then he switched back to his peculiar Aramaic. You very kind. So, I am Achmad, son of Beliazar. Caravan of uncle here for maybe week. Sell goods in Sepphoris. Like quiet setting for camp, near nice village. Many thieves in city and men who look for trouble. Here is nice. Have tents at bottom of hill. Forgive if seem forward, but may ask names?

Mine is Rebecca, she said quickly, then seemed to regret having given him personal information. She added in a stern voice, You should not be here with us. It is against our Law for unmarried women to talk to men alone, especially those not of our faith. Our people would be very angry with you. Lucky for you the men are at work this time of day.

Achmad bowed deeply. Apologize. Mean no disrespect.

The girls glanced at each other, each wondering once more if they should return to their homes.

To their surprise, the stranger stepped back a pace and laughed. His teeth were very white, like fine ivory, although some were tilted. Ironic, no? I read stories of your people. So, Rebecca at well! Was wife of Isaac, yes? Lovely story. Romantic. Do not worry, I not imply I am Isaac. He laughed again, in a disarming way that showed dimples in his cheeks. Enjoy meeting people, learn new cultures. Each very different, yes? Yet, all people one family with much in common. People make large difference and fight each other. Pity, no? Maybe stupid.

The women were speechless. This stranger garbed in desert cloth, this Gentile man, knew Hebrew stories and spoke of oneness, not conflict? Everyone knew Gentiles were savages, uncouth and ignorant, idol-worshippers, to be shunned, feared, and ridiculed. They were not part of God’s chosen people. Rebecca looked away, uncomfortable.

After a strained silence, the stranger spoke again, while remaining at a respectful distance. Apologies. Once again, offend. Excuse poor attempt at humor. So, I leave. Thank you for kindness. He bowed and turned away.

Miriam acted before she could think, as if having been startled awake from a dream. She quickly stepped forward and reached out, stopping just short of touching his arm, which would have been a dangerous and forbidden thing to do. Wait. I see no harm talking to you. We are warned against mixing with non-Jews, but you are a gentle man, yes? Good. We have been rude. Our Law also tells us to be kind to strangers. She laughed nervously and wondered why she was acting so boldly. It was not like her. One never knows when an angel will appear in human guise. It happened to Abraham and Sarah. So, I am Miriam, she said.

Achmad made a small bow. So, pleased meet you, Rebecca and Miriam . . . Was not Miriam sister of Moses? Yes?

Miriam’s eyes widened. Yes. You know our stories. Miriam was very brave—a holy woman. Her name is popular among my people. She gazed with new appreciation at this Gentile who surprised them again and again, then caught herself and looked away quickly, fixing her gaze on a stubby tree on a nearby hill.

Achmad nodded. Am curious about things. Is how I learn. For me, is greater thirst than for water. He laughed lightly. So, I read much. Ask questions. Study in Alexandria, big library, yes? Read holy texts, many kinds. So, thank you for water and kindness. Next time we meet, we no longer strangers. Yes? May God bless your days, they be full and happy. He bowed again, pivoted sharply and walked away, not turning back, heading to the hill that sloped down to his encampment below.

After he had gone, Rebecca and Miriam looked at each other and burst out laughing. They could think of nothing clever to say about their bizarre encounter with this Gentile. They laughed so hard and shook that tears came to their eyes. When the laughter died, they sighed in mutual understanding, hefted their urns of water, and returned to their homes.

Two

Two days later, Rebecca and Miriam saw Achmad again.

The sun sat low in an evening sky of gold-flecked clouds. It had rained earlier in the day; the air was damp and had a slight chill, a reminder that winter was not yet ready to release its grip. The young women sat atop a wall of heaped stones on the western edge of the village. Despite the coolness, the air was redolent with the scent of moist earth. The fields below them, spreading as far as they could see, had been hoed and early spring crops planted. Splotches of colorful lupines on the distant hills were a vivid purple and dark blue in the fading light.

The young women were tired from their day’s chores, which had begun before the sun rose. They had milled grains for bread that had to be baked before the men left for work. Now, content in their quiet companionship, the friends spoke only sporadically, needing few words. As they basked in the tender evening light, the shadows of distant trees and low bramble bushes took on the shapes of hulking, but benign, animals.

They both spotted the stranger at the same time, trudging up the hill to Nazareth, moving at a crisp pace. Uneasiness crept into their serenity as they watched him approach. In dismay, Miriam wondered if they’d picked this spot near the edge of the village, overlooking his campsite, in hope he’d come by. Now she recognized how foolish it was for them to be here unattended. She wondered if she should get up and leave. It would be a mistake to engage this foreigner again, especially without her father or any village men present. And yet she was intrigued by this stranger.

While Miriam hesitated, Rebecca, ever the rebel, voiced no concerns. She stood as Achmad neared, to be seen more easily.

Ah, young women from well, he said, slowing down as he caught sight of them in the gloaming. A tunic of blue cloth was draped over his shoulder, hanging loosely over white desert leggings. May I approach? Sit and enjoy evening, yes? No longer strangers. I sit at discreet distance, yes? Am tired of listening to men tell same stories of camels and oxen in sandstorms, or thieves who try steal silver rings and how uncle’s men have eyes too sharp to miss such mischief. Such is their love to boast. Is good to get away, clear head. Just was to walk up hill, not go to village. You understand, yes?

We should leave, Miriam said, starting to get up. This was improper. And wrong in so many ways. If they were caught, their punishment would be severe—and probably much worse for the Gentile.

Rebecca put a hand on her friend’s shoulder, pushing her down. You may sit, she said to Achmad. But do not come closer. That would be unseemly. You are forgiven for not knowing our customs.

Miriam was still unsure. No, we should go. She looked around uneasily. This was the time of day when families gathered for dinner in the safety of their homes, which is where she and Rebecca should be.

Rebecca shrugged. What harm is there in conversation? It’s almost dark. No one will see us. We should be hospitable to a stranger.

We really should go, Miriam repeated.

But Rebecca was determined to stay. You mean us no harm, do you? she asked the foreigner.

Achmad placed a hand over his heart, looking hurt. Promise. So, I sit here, apart. You uncomfortable, I leave. Or could get father or brother, is fine. Thanks for kindness. He sat on a hump of earth covered with pale, twisted grass spears, some ten feet away, clasping his knees. Miriam noticed his tapered fingers that seemed supple yet strong. He remained comfortably quiet, peering into the dusk settling over the valley like a soft gray blanket.

When I travel, he said after a while, speaking in a low voice, see many customs, hear many tongues. Yet people much the same; just look different. Fear is what keep people apart, I think—separate, like sea between two lands... Ah, forgive me for foolish talk—rambling, no? Has been long day. Much barter for sales in Sepphoris. Is tiring. So, where third friend, one who left when I was at well?

You mean Ruth, Rebecca said, then added sarcastically, "She’s with her betrothed."

Ah, but is so young.

Not really—Ruth is almost sixteen.

Almost sixteen, Achmad echoed. "So, to marry, no?’

Yes, after the high holy days.

When is that?

The Day of Atonement and our New Year begin after the summer harvest, Rebecca explained, when the desert winds blow.

Achmad nodded. So, she knows man she will marry.

Miriam spoke up. Sometimes it is done that way. Other times a woman hardly knows her husband until the day she weds. It’s an arrangement between families, to preserve land and businesses. Ruth and Baruch sit with their families after dinner and plan their future. They even hold hands, if no one sees, but they’re never alone together.

Achmad fell silent. After a pause, Rebecca changed topics. What do you sell?

He turned and his eyes fell on Miriam, who had been peering intently at him. She looked away quickly and blushed, praying the deepening darkness hid her face.

Ah, small treasures, he said, with a gentle laugh. Art and finery. Silks, jewelry, small rugs—make life not so mundane, yes? Nice things in life, like music—help ease drudgery of work. Oh, also nice spices. When all items sold, we go home. Maybe later return to Alexandria or Baghdad or Ethiopia, search new things to sell. Maybe I lead caravan, if uncle trusts me.

You have been to all those places? Rebecca asked. You are not old.

He smiled wryly. Traveled many years, first with older men from home country. Now help Uncle Dawar. Learn much, pick up languages. Speak little Greek, some of Aramaic, bits of Hebrew, some Latin—is good for when Romans stop us.

Then, what is your religion? Miriam asked, genuinely interested. She was getting used to the odd lilt of his voice and incomplete sentences. Strangely, to her ears, his broken Aramaic began to sound normal, her mind filling in the gaps. Surely you don’t worship Roman gods.

No. He tilted his head, then laughed deprecatingly. Unless necessary. The way water takes shape of its container. Is wise to adapt, no? In Roman territory, we worship Jupiter and Venus. In Egypt, Osiris and Isis. Here, One God of Abraham and Isaac. Ah, you must think me hypocrite. But, healthy tree bends with wind, no? For business, is not good to insult hosts. Appearance does not change truth in my heart. So, to tell truth, I see God in all people, as if to see behind the masks we wear. Spirit of person is free, like bird that soars in sky. People are more bound to earth, not so free. Only rituals and interpretation of God differ place to place. To me, how person lives is important. Can be kind and helpful or cruel and selfish, no? Ah, excuse bluntness. For me, no concern about how one sees God. I look into heart. You ask important question, so I answer honestly.

If the men of our village heard you speak this way, Rebecca warned, they would run you out of town, or worse. They take the Laws of Moses seriously and do not like being mocked. We have deep traditions and beliefs, specific ways of doing things. Some of our men, bravely or foolishly, have challenged the Romans and their idols. They are incensed over their defilement of our Temple—but their protests often lead to getting themselves killed. It accomplishes nothing. She let out a sigh. No, that’s not true. We are rebuilding the Temple and the Romans are keeping away, for now at least, to appease us, I think.

Achmad lowered his head. Is good they let you worship as you will. He paused. Yet, I find it sad, war and killing. Senseless. Does it matter what name we call God? God is God, no matter word used, no? In my travels, I see holy men, wise, but humble and poor. Also, I see men who claim to be holy and dress in fine robes, but are callous and mean to slaves. So, I look deeply to know people, yes?

Our Laws tell us all we need to know, Rebecca snorted. They come from God, through Moses.

We are his chosen people, Miriam added dutifully.

Achmad shrugged. Perhaps. What do I know? He paused, then asked carefully, No offense meant, but why then God’s chosen people live under shadow of Roman Empire? Is painful question, but worth pondering, no?

God does things his own way, Miriam said, suddenly angry at his belittling of her people and their belief in God. Who is this man, this Gentile, to challenge our ways?

Achmad nodded. Yes, yes, no doubt. Jewish people have great heritage. Yet, I ask hard questions of world, and of myself. I wrestle with what I see. To learn, one must ask uncomfortable things, yes? Maybe I say too much out loud. Being honest can get me in trouble.

Rebecca, tired of the metaphysical discussion, and seeing no point in badgering this Gentile who could never understand Jewish ways, asked, Can we see your wares?

Achmad hesitated, perhaps wondering if that was a good idea. He dared not risk the village discovering he had spoken to these young women. Finally, he said, We sell in Sepphoris, at market. Is busy place where money flows, yes? We usually not sell in villages. Then he brightened. But, if uncle agrees, we can set up showing for your people.

That would be nice, Rebecca said. We could tell everyone.

I’m not so sure, Miriam said.

It will be fine, Rebecca insisted. The winter has been long. Everyone would benefit from something to take their minds off the drudgery.

Then is done. Achmad grinned, pleased at the prospect of doing business with these people, and certain his uncle would approve. Tomorrow evening, at our camp, below the hill leading to Nazareth. We not go Sepphoris, set up here. So, bring fathers and brothers. They can select silks and bracelets for you and your mothers, if they like. Will never see more beautiful things.

Still unsure, Miriam murmured, Maybe we shouldn’t get involved.

"Well, I want to see these beautiful things, Rebecca insisted. It will be like going to market, except the market comes to us."

Yes. Exactly, Achmad agreed. He glanced at Miriam and sensed a purity and depth in her, and was moved by the kindness in her eyes. He kept his voice gentle. Do not worry. We give you best prices—not like in cities. Not have to carry wares to Sepphoris or be vigilant for those who forget to put back bracelets not paid for. Will be good for Nazareth and good for us. If you not like what you see, do not buy anything.

I suppose there’s no harm, Miriam nodded.

So, is settled, Achmad said. I tell no one we spoke. He laughed lightly. And, I promise, will not speak of God to Jewish people. My talking was for your ears only. Maybe I said too much.

The girls glanced at each other, silently questioning whether they had done the right thing. Evening had settled over the land and their mothers would be wondering where they were. Now that they had agreed to let Achmad’s people set up their goods, the problem was how to get that information to the villagers without revealing that they had been in direct contact with Achmad. If their parents found out, they might be confined to their homes until their wedding days, and the men of the village could be so incensed they’d raze the Gentiles’ encampment.

Rebecca had a solution. They could merely drop hints, saying they’d heard about the sale from others, as if they were simply perpetuating a rumor that started elsewhere; they would keep it vague to deflect attention from themselves. Gossip takes on a life of its own, and in a village as small as Nazareth the coming of a traders’ caravan was big news. When the rumor came back to them, they could say they, too, had heard about the sale, mentioning the time and place, while reinforcing the idea that it had not originated with them. They had to be careful. A misplaced word or hint at inside information would turn attention back to them. They could say things like: Did you hear about the merchants selling jewelry at low prices? Yes, you’ve seen them camped below the village. So have we. What a rare event! I hope to talk my dad into taking us. Can’t hurt to look. Maybe they’ll have silks and jewels . . .

As she lay in bed that night, Miriam wondered if they had gone too far in accommodating this stranger. But a part of her was glad they were doing this. She couldn’t explain why to herself, but she wanted to see Achmad again. In fact, she couldn’t stop thinking about him, especially his greenish eyes that seemed wise yet had a subtle hint of humor. She thought of his shoulders, strong yet not like the bulky shoulders of the local men who lifted bricks and rocks each day. He carried a kind of inner strength she had not felt before in a man.

She was fascinated by this stranger, yet circumspect. He was a Gentile, and Gentiles were crude and ungodly. That is what she had been told. But Achmad was not like that. He did not seem bound by laws or conventions, yet he did not appear wild or evil. In fact, he carried a glow of holiness that took her breath away, and he had shown them only respect. He was oddly untroubled and free in a way she couldn’t wrap her mind around.

It was this unexpected intrigue and sense of wonder that was bothersome and contrary to her notions of foreigners that made her even more wary of him.

Three

The next afternoon, during a break from weaving fabric on the house loom, her fingers aching, Miriam walked to her favorite lookout, partway up the stony hill near the village, to sit upon a flat rock that sat above a twisted carob tree. Down below, lemon trees were ripening into bloom, having endured the winter’s cold clutch.

The mountain sentinels that ringed Galilee seemed cold and aloof, enduring and unperturbed, which only mocked the conflicting thoughts and feelings that roiled inside her. In the far distance, she saw the peak of massive Mount Carmel thrust proudly above a shroud of mist. To the east rose Mount Tabor, and to the north, stately Mount Hermon. Looking from one stolid mountain to the next, Miriam mused how people come and go, but mountains persist, impassive and implacable. She wondered if they were amused by our brief existences and petty foolishness, at our foibles and silly concerns.

She hated the discomfit this stranger stirred up in her. He had no right to criticize her people or think he knew better. Part of her wanted her to tell him how wrong he was, how he could never understand her people and their beliefs. But a small voice within challenged these very beliefs that she had taken on faith as being right. Was there another way to look at Jewish assumptions? As heretical as it was, she wondered, Does God laugh at our complex array of rules and laws, of how to live—supposedly coming from Him, but maybe they are just human concepts that set artificial boundaries and predetermined ways to live? Is there meaning in mindless obedience that shuts out new thoughts? To the enduring mountains, and to God, our lives must seem as no more than a flicker, like the brief light of a lantern blown out on a windy night.

Miriam was shocked at such irreverent thoughts, which had never occurred to her before. As a woman, she had always been told to not question, to simply live as the Law demanded. If she had spoken these words aloud at home, her father, Joachim, would have given her a sound beating. Maybe such an inquiry was the foolishness of youth agitated by a Gentile who presumed to understand what could never be understood. After all, who was she to question the wisdom of the priests and the Laws of Moses, the very traditions that sustained her people? She was neither rebellious nor unappreciative, and certainly not a heretic! A wave of guilt washed over her. She needed to redirect her thoughts and live within the boundaries set by her people, to be a good Jewish woman, and one day a good Jewish wife.

Achmad has no right to judge our people. Who does he think he is?

Perhaps his not-so-innocent questions were meant to subvert her faith. Even to entertain a hint of disobedience frightened her, and she hated Achmad for that. She would not start down a path that led to destruction.

Miriam’s gaze turned to the valley south of her, where the green fuzz of young wheat and new flax was already breaking ground. Far away, beyond the Jezreel Valley—a two-day journey, she had been told—was the Sea of Galilee, although she had never seen it; and far to the west, the great Mediterranean Sea. One day she hoped to see these wondrous places. She realized just how constrained and sheltered her life was. She had only been to the nearby city of Sepphoris a few times. Was it so bad to envision a world beyond her boundaries, to see the world as Achmad did, in a larger context? But these were dangerous ideas. Did she want to expose herself to the unruly and dangerous world of Gentiles?

As she considered further, she saw how Achmad must see her village as confining and prosaic. Was she a coward for not daring to think more deeply about things? Was the truth so fragile that it needed to be protected and never challenged, kept in a box no one was allowed to open? Did accusations of blasphemy stop