Yeshua nodded at Phasa. “You will be safe here. Your covering is not required.” He passed a bowl of water but did not wash his own hands before sitting on the stone bench across from Judah.
Levi ushered us to the table without making eye contact, allowing Saba to sit at the end and Phasa and me to sit on either side, at the corners. Phasa moved haltingly, without removing her covering, surely terrified that she was known and at the mercy of conspirators.
To all this Yeshua paid no mind, occupied instead with uncovering the food and pouring the wine. He gave me a glance and an encouraging smile as we were seated.
His eyes were brown, but to describe them so misses the point. They did not look at me; they swallowed me. They cherished me. With even one glance from him, the world seemed to still and shift. How can such a thing be described with mere words?
I don’t recall their blessing of the food, only that there was one. Nor can I recount the small talk, for there was little. Nor any weighty talk, for they all seemed to be waiting. Yeshua did not immediately offer any teaching on the kingdom, occupied for the moment with each bite of his food.
Phasa finally slipped the covering from her face so that she could eat, but she left the mantle over her head. She looked at me with the eyes of a child but remained silent, as did Saba.
I watched Yeshua’s strong hands as he tore off bread and dipped it first into olive oil, then vinegar before eating. I watched his throat as he swallowed, and his mouth as he chewed. His light-brown eyes, glinting warmly by the firelight. The way he lifted his cup and drank.
I didn’t see him the way a woman sees a man, but as a mystic who had seen things I couldn’t begin to fathom—one who could affect my heart from across the table without so much as a look.
And yet certainly a man, perhaps not yet thirty.
One who was hungry and thirsty and enjoyed food, particularly the ripest of the olives and figs.
A man with dust on his cloak and hair, tangled by the wind in the hills where he’d gone for his contemplations. A man who looked bone-weary save for his bright eyes, which shone with a life that could not be extinguished. I wondered what was in his mind as he ate. What had his childhood been like? What did he think of his mother, Miriam? Why had his brothers dismissed him as a madman? What kind of suffering had delivered him to this place? What kind of woman had he loved or married, if any? What was he like when he became angry or when he wept?
I dared watch him, wondering if he knew my thoughts as well, not caring if the men thought my gaze offensive, for I knew that their master did not.
I knew men to exchange the news while eating food, always, but in that room even Judah remained silent. There were only the sounds of eating and the occasional comment regarding the food or the weather. Few remarks were added except a “Yes, of course,” or a “Very good, yes, very good indeed.”
They were waiting. Waiting for Yeshua. We were all waiting.
We were this way for perhaps half of the hour before matters of significance were finally set upon the table by Judah, the lion who had anticipated this night for so long.
“Master…” He leaned into the table, voice low and intent. “I have come from—”
“Yes, Judah,” Yeshua said, lifting his intriguing eyes to him. “And you too wish to know what Nicodemus has come to understand.”
Judah glanced at the Pharisee. “Yes.”
The master reached for a fig and turned it in his fingers. Not a soul stirred.
“My Father has hidden these things from the wise and intelligent and revealed them to infants. Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”
In response to this Judah only stared. I assumed Yeshua meant that one could not enter this kingdom of heaven without first becoming like a trusting child. Did an infant have great intellect? Then the mind must be changed to be like that of a child who simply trusted. This then was his way, as the Pharisee had suggested. And even if I was mistaken, I could not doubt that he spoke the truth because of the unwavering surety and gentleness with which he uttered each word.
Yeshua looked from one of us to another, gathering each of us in his gaze.
“And yet you wish to know more of the kingdom of heaven.” A mischievous sparkle lit his eyes, daring us to hear. “Then know that it is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field.”
This then was one of his parables—these moshel, as suggested by Nicodemus earlier—and the master said it as if its meaning should be unmistakable.
But he said more.
“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.”