A.D. 30(118)

This was the way of the world, protected by position and sword and gold and knowledge. Yeshua’s way was to protect nothing and let go of all grievance, as Stephen had said.

His way was faith, dismissing the Gnostics’ expectation that knowledge would save. His way was to be the kingdom among those who suffered on earth.

His way was to turn the other cheek when the evil one came. His way was to forgive seventy times seven. His way was to let go of the belief that the storm threatened, and to offer it peace through a child’s faith.

His way was to offer love rather than offense at every turn, for offense only empowered the storm.

You of little faith.

Was I one of little faith? What kind of power might be seen among those who truly followed Yeshua’s way and trusted him as that way? This was now my path, for nothing could compare to what I had seen.

According to Nicodemus, letting go of belief in the world’s way was like being born once more with the simple trust of a new child. And now I understood why: the old heart could see only offense and fear when the sword was raised against it or when unfair treatment stormed the gates of one’s mind and body.

But the newborn mind saw in spirit, having not yet learned offense. It then could return love instead of fear. Why would it fear a storm if it drew no offense from that storm?

What then were my storms to fear?

Aretas. Rami. The Thamud. The loss of Judah. My own failure, should I waver.

You of little faith.

“Father…” I whispered under my breath. “Give me Yeshua’s eyes to know you and follow his way. Give me your hand on this earth, to be your daughter and show your power.” Then I whispered that word again, lost in its wonder.

“Father…”

The word sounded foreign to me. And yet my fingers tingled with the raw power I felt in uttering such an intimate understanding of God, for he ruled the realm within me, as Yeshua had said so many times.

As we approached Petra this is how I understood Yeshua’s way, knowing that I had only seen the half of it, as he himself had said. But the half he’d shown me was true.

Our column of twenty camels, each heavily burdened with five talents of gold, was not the largest to enter Petra. A caravan of over three hundred camels came from the south that same hour, bearing spices. But so much gold had not been brought to Petra that year, nor the one before, I was told by the guard.

Among the Nabataeans, wealth and power were displayed for all to see. Nothing mattered to Aretas as much as his reputation, for this kept his enemies far away.

The king’s warriors had given me garments for my entry—a blue tunic with a golden shawl and sash. Gilded thongs held the fabric close to my legs so as to give me freedom on the camel. My sandals were leather inlaid with silver.

I had veiled my face for the journey and none of the warriors, neither Herod’s nor the Nabataeans’, had seen my eyes. The head covering I wore now was black with a golden cord, and the lace before my eyes as dark.

I knew, then, that they wanted me to come as a victor, not as a slave. But Aretas had gone to extraordinary lengths to receive me.

The children ran out to greet us a mile before we reached the city. “Maviah comes with gold!” they cried, running alongside. “The queen of the desert comes with gold for Aretas, friend of his people!”

“They know too much!” Saba said, scanning the cliffs. If these children knew, the whole city must as well. “He wishes for us to be robbed?”

But we both knew that any fool who attempted such a feat would quickly perish.

Women stood along the cliffs, sending their ululating voices through the canyons, announcing our arrival for all. Men and women of all ages soon joined the children, watching from the side of the road as we approached, then surging alongside to match our pace. I rode in silence, swaying with the camel’s plodding gait, keeping my mind on the scope of my mission.

Like the good stewards in Yeshua’s parable, I had seen past my fear to bring these talents of gold to Aretas. And yet so far from the hills of Galilee, his way now seemed distant.

I had expected to be led through the streets of that great rock fortress to the columned temple where the king and his queen had first put me on trial. Instead we were funneled to the arena built into the cliffs on the city’s southern perimeter. It was into this arena that thousands of Petra’s inhabitants now flowed.

“He wishes to make a spectacle,” Saba said, riding by my side, tall and naked to the waist. His muscles were taut, glistening like crafted onyx under the hot sun, and the hilt of his broadsword lay by his hand, ready for the least of threats.

“Better a spectacle than a prison,” I said.

“Unless the spectacle becomes your prison.”