A.D. 30(109)

Tears filled my eyes at his words. What I would give to be accepted into my father’s house! I too had shamed my father in being who I was, and longed only to be honored in his house. All my life I had longed for it.

And yet I was a daughter, not a son. I was a woman made lower by slavery.

“But while he was still a long way off”—his voice came louder now, reaching far—“his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him, and kissed him. The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ So they began to celebrate.”

I could not stop tears from slipping down my cheeks. A terrible knot filled my throat, for I had never known of such a father. Surely the story was about Yeshua’s Father, not my own, nor any other, for Yeshua’s Father did not judge his son.

A murmur again spread, for the story seemed to be finished. But Yeshua lifted a hand.

“Meanwhile, the older son was in the field. When he came near the house, he heard music and dancing. So he called one of the servants and asked him what was going on. ‘Your brother has come,’ the servant replied, ‘and your father has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.’ The older brother became angry and refused to go in. So his father went out and pleaded with him. But he answered his father, ‘Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!’ ”

Yeshua paused, pacing upon that rock, and not a soul dared make a sound. The good son was angry and judged his brother, and therefore refused to go into his father’s house. So now both sons had rejected the father, each in his own way. But would the father judge his firstborn?

“ ‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ ”

The master paused.

“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

Now a cacophony of questions and exclamations rustled through the crowd. The story was over.

A ringing sounded in my ears and I felt as though I could not breathe. Three truths seared themselves into my heart at once. The first, that though the sons had separated themselves from their father’s table, first the younger and then the older, both remained sons of their father, possessing everything that belonged to him, for he judged them not and embraced them with equal joy.

The second, that both sons would find themselves only by letting go, as Stephen had said. The younger son, by letting go of what he thought might make him happy apart from his father. The elder son, by letting go of his grievance against his brother.

And the third, that I too would give all the life I had to be such a son. Though lost, to be found. And to have such a father. To sit at his table, sharing in all his great honor.

I was only half aware that one of the disciples had approached Yeshua and quietly spoke to him. Dazed, I watched Yeshua step off the rock and make his way up the far slope. Those seated there scrambled to make a way for him.

Sarah was already four paces gone when I became aware that she was rushing forward, hurrying through the crowd as Yeshua walked away.

“Sarah!”

I ran after her, flogged by worry. There were many people and she was moving quickly. What did she intend to do?

Saba spoke from my elbow. “We should return, Maviah. He leaves!”

“Sarah!” I ran faster, determined to stay with her. She seemed to know something I did not.

Perhaps I hoped that I could share what she had already found.

We were already running up the far slope when she reached the thick of the crowd and slowed to a fast walk, weaving past people.

“Maviah, we will come back!” Saba insisted. “There are too many!”

I pushed forward, close on Sarah’s back, and when I finally caught her, I grabbed on to her cloak.

She pressed on, now clambering into the throng like a rabbit desperate to make its burrow. I couldn’t see Yeshua—there were too many people on all sides, many who were poor and ill and foul-smelling. None of this mattered to Sarah.