Zacchaeus

Zacchaeus

Luke 19:1-10

 

Before I unfold my story, I should tell you this:until I met Jesus, my life was a monument of resentment. A paean of anger. A tribute to bitterness. A waste.

I can number many reasons for my woes, the most obvious of which is that I am an oddity. You see, I am exceedingly short. There are dogs in Jericho that stand taller than me. To be precise, I am a dwarf. In the jargon of the street, a dak. And, in that food has long been my sole friend and refuge, I have succeeded in girth where I have failed in height. Some say I am bigger around than I am tall. They are not wrong.

At my birth, Chulda, my mother, was dismayed that such a creature could emerge from her womb. Despite her misgivings, she tended to my basic needs until I could walk and feed myself. It was not long after that she left the house, never to return.

Haran, my father, now left to tend to his half-size son and having no idea how, employed a progression of amahs to keep me fed and clothed.

I have dim recollections from when I was two, three years old where people found charm in the baby-dak: “Oh, look how he waddles … his little bow legs are so cute.” By the age of four, I became fully aware of my difference – how could I not?

Born a dak. Die a dak.

Most of my early years were spent at the dining table – my favorite place – or in my bed chamber, entertaining myself with my menagerie of clay animals. Naturally, there came the day when curiosity overcame the safety of seclusion and I had to go out of doors, to explore, to learn about this place where I lived, Jericho, was about.

On my first venture out of doors, neighborhood boys, Geder, Bebai, Nimshi and worst of all, cruel Jahath, invited me to join them in play only to pelt me with fruit while chanting, Dak, dak, piggysack, go away and don’t come back!

The fruit, rotted and foul, was wretched enough. The jeers were far worse, for my tormentors likened me to the vile sack gentiles used to dispose of the offal from butchered pigs. Indeed, their torment was such that, for a time, I actually believed I was something akin to a useless, revolting sack of pig guts.

A sycamore tree that grew near Jericho’s main gate became my sole refuge. Whenever I was out and about and was discovered by my demonic tormentors, I would run as fast as my little legs would take me, grab hold of its low limbs, clamber up and up and up beyond the reach of fruit and stones. Alas, there was no defense against the dak, dak, piggysack that burned my heart.

As I grew – my, oh, my, the irony of that word – the casting of torment continued not only from children but by adults as well. Interesting, isn’t it, how some people are so tainted by their own low opinion of themselves that they delight in every opportunity to spew their venom on others less fortunate? If you don’t know this already, please take my word: A lifetime of names cast in malevolence not only wounds the spirit but befouls it. I shall not trouble you with my twisted fantasies of revenge.

It was in these unhappy childhood years that I prayed desperately for a friend. When none was forthcoming, I concluded that God, like my tormentors, had deemed me unworthy of regard. There has not been a single day of my life in which I have not wished to be normal. Search as I may, I found no cause, no purpose for his thoughtless mistake. A psalm of David rings true to my ears: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Happily, my education was left to providence. As you may know, when Hebrew boys are of an age, they are sent to sefer at the synagogue to receive instruction in Torah and Talmud, the Law of Moses. I was granted no such opportunity, barred from sefer by Rabbi Lemek’s narrow interpretation of the Law. Because priests are holy to God, reads the Torah, no Israelite having any manner of defect may serve any priestly duties in the temple. The exclusions are many and include cripples, hunchbacks and dwarfs. Rabbi Lemek, with a graceless adherence to the letter of the law, cited this passage to ban me from sefer. Thus it was that Mahalath, my amah at that time, taught me to read.

As a scribe to Jericho’s government, it was Father’s station to issue legal documents such as warrants to marriage and divorce, the recording of the sale of properties and the like. Thus there was any abundance of scrolls and parchments in our home, many of which were citations from the Torah. As I progressed in my reading ability, questions arose. I was grateful for the times Father explained the various interpretations. Thus my education progressed, and, I believe, surpassed that of my contemporaries.

Thus I spent much of my childhood in our home, surrounded by parchment and tablets. Upon the arrival of my thirteenth year, however – that auspicious date when Jewish boys are declared to be men – something within me shifted and hardened. So unbending was this change that I rendered dak, dak, piggysack null and void. At least, that is what I believed at the time.

As I pondered how an adolescent boy of my shape and size could hope to

achieve the stature of a man, a nugget of defiance rose up in me and I felt the accumulated dreads of my childhood harden into a stone of onyx. A miracle perhaps? Hardly. Rage against my oppressors? Perhaps. Against God? Who could know. All I knew was where inadequacy once dwelled, obdurate arrogance now filled that space. Rich with spite, rife with spleen, hubris took dominion of my heart.

It was at this time Father moved to Jerusalem, leaving me to my own devices in our small house and dependent on an even smaller stipend. My amah, concluding I had no further need for her, departed.

My sense of myself as a man was no longer subject to my height or girth. Instead, my concept of myself, this dak-who-is-now-a-man, depended on me! My character, my determination, my refusal to capitulate to my detractors. My strength. My courage. My will.

Looking back, I must admit how this thing that lurked in the depth of my soul had but one commission: to insulate me from the truth. In a word, it was a lie I told myself, to defend me from a lifetime of having been cast aside like a the k’hara of a toad.

God’s truth? In all of Israel, there was no one more forsaken than I.

I told myself it mattered not, certain my outsized arrogance, doubled and redoubled, would be my vindication. In truth, it did nothing to assuage the loneliness that swallowed my heart.

I attribute much of my transformation to Nebat, Jericho’s collector of tolls on the Via Bet’simuth. I remember his words on that day, “Little dak, how would you like to be my errand-boy?” I jumped on the opportunity, as they say, like a rooster on a beetle. Never had I considered such a boon, but oh, my, what a cause for joy! This could lead  the accumulation of wealth, O heart of my heart. With wealth would come power to stem the tide of being judged as a person without value, without merit … a repair to the damage of having been cast to the margins of life.

Was Nebat’s offer borne from pity? Doubtful, for I never knew him to be merciful. Rather, I suspect he saw in me adequate hubris and guile for one engaged in the collecting of taxes.

Jericho, should you not know, stands on the trade route of Via Bet’simuth, connecting Via Nova to the east with Via Patrum to the west. Trade from Damascus and all points beyond and between makes its way to Jerusalem, making Bet’simuth a prime thoroughfare for levying taxes, taxes, and more taxes.

My duties were simple. I was to wait at the toll station while Roman soldiers brought every convoy  to a halt. Nebat would calculate the tariff on their goods, the trader would pay the toll, and the merchants would continue on their way.

Once Nebat’s purse became swollen with fees, it was my charge to tuck the pouch under my tunic and hie to the Roman offices in the city. There I would deposit the fees, a scribe would tally the funds. So long as merchants came and went along the Via Bet’simuth, I was kept busy.

Not long after I had proven myself dependable, Nebat took me aside. “Little dak,” he said, “as you deliver the pouch to the compound, consider how a shekel here, a shekel there may curiously find its way into your pocket? And, of course, should that happen, I’m sure you would see to it that one or two of your newfound wealth might find their way into my pocket, as well?”

Moses’ Seventh Commandment notwithstanding, how could I resist? In pursuit of my collecting taxes from every possible source, it was given for me to add arbitrary, even fictitious dues to those required by Ceasar for my own purse. Theft, you say? Yes, but a pittance compared to how Rome gleaned wealth from its Empire.

I think of it like this: You know how a ravenous tick attaches itself to its victim to engorge itself with blood? Growing three, four, five times its normal size, it will resemble a blood-filled grape. That is the Roman Empire. Taxes are its ingestion of blood. I find this a supreme irony: Rome compels Jews to pay their oppressors to oppress them.

For sixteen years have I served as a tax collector here and have now risen to the role of Chief Publican. I am also the most disliked, reviled, hated man in all of Jericho. There is no doubt that dak, dak, piggysack is ever far from our citizen’s thoughts much less their lips when they consider me. In retrospect, I imagine we were quite the a ludicrous parade we two made, me, marching ahead like a Persian Pasha the shape and size of a large melon, followed by this giant of an oaf whose sole responsibility was to silence my objectors.

On a positive note, because the levying of taxes provokes spirited resistance, Rome has provided me with Bos. A seasoned legionary with shoulders of an ox, arms of wrought iron and height thrice my own, my praetorian brooks no patience for those who whinge at paying their taxes. Ever grateful for Bos’ guardianship, he has on more than one occasion assured my well-being simply by drawing his sword a mere two finger’s breadth from the scabbard.

Well aware of the animosity that thrives in the hearts of all Jericho’s residents, Jew and Gentile alike. I was therefore accustomed to the baulks of resentment and contempt from the Jews in particular. According to the twenty-fifth clause of the temple instructive, Sanhedrin, all Jews engaged in the collection of taxes shall be treated as social outcasts. If that were insufficient, the Baba Qamma that governs all civil matters disallows tax collectors from money-changing for the purchase of sacrificial animals on days of worship. In that I am both tax collector and dak, our citizens bear no restraint in casting me to the social margins. Dak, dak, piggysack. Ostracization wields a merciless blade.

So. Am I deterred by such exclusionary protocols? Not at all. My wealth and influence serve me quite well.

I have a fine home near the top of Jericho’s hill, a stone’s throw from the enclave of the city’s elite. A spacious and shaded courtyard. A well-stocked larder. Elegant clothing. Two servants, Sidamo, to prepare meals, and Talt for everything else.

And, of course, Puah – my wife of convenience.

Puah is not a dak. Simply put, she is very short.

On the day she came to me, her proposal – yes, she proposed to me – was direct.

“Zacchaeus, Mother passed on some years ago. Father is ill unto death, and his days are short. Before long, I will be alone – just as you are, yourself. Although I am of marriageable age, I am not comely nor I will ever be. I bring but a small dowry but I am well-versed in attending to the care of the home. And, of course, there are the pleasures of the marriage bed.

“So, Zacchaeus, I come to you with this proposal: in that we are both short and stout, I believe we two could nonetheless make a quite amiable partnership. Will you consider this?”

Having already faced a lifetime of loneliness, more of the same held no appeal. I did not doubt that it was no different for Puah. We had both been stung many times by Jericho’s wasps of scorn.

For three days I considered this, concluding it to be a most agreeable notion. Was this, perhaps, how God finally chose to answer my childhood prayer? I did not know.

Although I remained tentative, my reply three days hence was, “Yes, Puah, we shall wed.”

Now, our score of years together has gained us an amiable union. She does indeed attend to our home and servants not only with efficiency but with the eye of Epicurus, for Puah has endowed our home with lavish appointments. Our courtyard features a lovely tesserae of colored stones depicting doves amid a spray of flowers. Water from our marble fountain sings notes of tranquility. Tables, chairs and benches made of Lebanon cedar, inlaid with touches of ivory, are all custom made to accommodate my size.

Puah enjoys soft linen garments embroidered with subtle trims of purple or gold. As to gold, Puah warms to its charm by layering the precious stuff about her ears and neck, fingers and wrists. I recently told her, “Woman, in the light of day, you are wreathed in a nimbus of light.”

At day’s end, we often take our private bath, relaxing in the heated water. Supper follows; quail baked in clay is one of my favorites. Puah enjoys bream, fresh from the Jordan, broiled. Fine wines are always at hand. After all the rejection and humiliation I had received from the citizens of our city, was I not entitled?

On the day before Jesus’ arrival at Jericho, that was the state of our lives. That was also the day of my confrontation with Rabbi Lemek.

The ringing of the brass bell at my front gate summoned me. Seeing the rabbi who had lifelong prohibited me from attending synagogue, standing at the gate was more shock than surprise. I unlatched the gate.

He greeted me, “Shalom, Zacchaeus. I have come to discuss a matter of some import. May I enter?”

I looked up at Jericho’s rabbi, old, now, still twice my height yet a supplicant, wanting, hoping that I could favor his request. Ah, such a moment, for was prepared to respond with a resounding no! It was a quite delicious moment.

“Indeed,” I said. “Surely. Come in, Rabbi, please. Might I offer you a cup of water? Wine?”

“No, no, I have no time, much to do this day. Much to do.”

“Rabbi, pray tell, why you have come to my home?”

Lemek drew a deep breath, exhaled heavily, drew another. “Ah. Yes. You have heard, perhaps, of the teacher from Galilee, the one people are flocking to hear?”

“The one who is said to heal the sick?”

“Aye, that is the one. Jesus, they call him.” Another deep breath. “This morning I have received word that he and his followers have left Bethsaida and are on their way to Jerusalem to celebrate Passover. They were seen on Via Nova yesterday afternoon, near Ramoth-gilead. It is our hope that Jesus may want to tarry in Jericho tomorrow, you see, for our elders are quite … inquisitive … about this man, want to know more about him. We propose to offer him rest and a fine meal, perhaps to question him, his beliefs, you know, how he perceives Israel under Roman occupation, what he has to say of God.” Lemek spread his palms in the manner of a poor beggar, beseeched me with sorrowful eyes – “To do this, we … we are short of funds. Might you …?”

And there it was. The request, made even more delicious by Lemek’s failed humility. I leaned my head back to better see his face and there, there it was, the truth of his heart: dak, dak, piggysack.

Gut afire, heart racing as if to gallop from my chest, my words took on the blades of knives. “Allow me to better understand your request, Rabbi Lemek. For my entire life, although I am no less a Jew that you, yourself, Rabbi, you have denied me worship at the synagogue. These many years you have denigrated me, banished me because of my deformity, an accident of birth for which I bear no responsibility. Know this: I, as have you, have read in the Law of Moses how the Lord commanded Jews to show no partiality to the poor or favoritism to the great, but to judge our neighbors fairly, be they Jew or Gentile. So, in the light of God’s command, I ask how it is that Jericho’s synagogue, having scorned me for my entire life, comes now, begging for alms?”

I declined to mention that God and I were not on speaking terms.

Lemek’s fists clenched, his throat constricted, his voice was that of a hen. “The Law of Moses so states! No man who is a hunchback or a dwarf – a dak! – may approach the temple of the Lord! It is written!”

“Even one whom the Lord has made? Hypocrite! We both know the Law makes no such prohibition! You beg the truth, Rabbi! To be precise, this stipulation of the Law restrains any man with a physical defect from offering a sacrifice to the Lord. It speaks to restraint from priestly duties! Nowhere does the Law ban him from worship!

“So tell me, how is it that you who have deliberately perverted God’s word, denied me worship as a Jew yet have the cheek to come to me now, begging for benevolence when you, yourself have offered me none?”

The bright red of a coxcomb, I thought, was the color of Lemek’s face. His voice, a quaking shout, sent birds from the trees. “Arrgh! Blasphemer! You dare to oppose the word of the Lord! The Sanhedrin shall hear of this! I shall see you stoned!”

“Raca! If blasphemy is to be found here, Lemek, it is yours!

“Shkarim! Lies! My interpretation of the Torah, the Mishnah, is correct! I declare you anathema, Zacchaeus!”

I took in my next breath slowly. A calm fell over me. “None can dispute that I am a dak. I am also a Jew. Heed the words of the Lord, Lemek, for he declares Jews are his chosen ones. All Jews! Even such as me!”

A trembling came to Lemek’s hands and lips. “Kofer ba-Torah! Blasphemer! Apostate!”

A breeze brought a sudden chill to the courtyard. Lemek wrapped his arma about his chest and shivered.

“It is time for you to leave, Lemek,” I said. “There is nothing more to be said.”

With a turn, head hunched between his shoulders, Lemek shuffled past the gate, turned down the hill and was gone.

Puah, roused by the sound of our shouting, came from our doorway. “Husband, was that Rabbi Lemek I saw leaving our courtyard?”

“Yes. He came to ask for a donation.”

“Really? From you?”

“Yes. Seems this person, Jesus, everyone is prattling about is expected to visit Jericho tomorrow. Lemek and his toadies want to wine and dine him, want to know more about this man. Probably want to chastise him, too!”

“And you could not send him on his way without your peals of thunder?”

“Mnn. I do not care to discuss it.”

“Of course not. Surely Lemek can extract a shekel or two from more from his more prosperous supporters. Come inside. Talt has prepared fruit and cheese.”

“And wine?”

“Yes, wine.”

“Good. I could use some.”

As we reclined at table. I sipped from my cup of wine mixed with fresh spring water. “Ah. Nice. This is quite good. Tell me, Puah, what have you heard of this Jesus?”

“Oh, he wanders from town to town, all over the Galilee. Crowds attend to him. He teaches from the Torah and Prophets with a new voice, they say. People seem to like what they hear. Well, the am ha’aretz like him, you know, the poor. Pharisees, skeptical of anything new, behold him with suspicion. Others say he is the Messiah.

“As for the Sadducees, well, who knows what they think. What is most compelling about this Jesus is that he heals people of their illnesses. He restores sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf. Crippled limbs are restored. Leprous flesh is cleansed. Ah, even demons are cast out! It’s all quite amazing … if it is true. Rumors float like shemen ha’ari seeds in the wind. Alas, too often rumors are but that. This is not our first rumor of a messiah.”

“I think when he comes, Puah, we shall make an effort to see him.”

A day hence, clatter and bang at Jericho’s main gate announced the teacher’s arrival. All of Jericho, it seems, was there to meet him. Celebrants, eyes bright, smiles broad, hands aloft in jubilation cheered hosanna! and yavo ha-kadosh!

Jesus entered the main gate followed a dozen or so of his devotees, another twenty or thirty Galileans in the van. Children and dogs ran alongside, their laughter and barks a swath of joy.

As happens whenever there is a crowd, if I am not forefront, I am unable to see lest I find some vantage. I thought to ask Bos to lift me onto his shoulders, decided not to; embarrassing, even for such as me.

Aha! My old sycamore tree! As I hoisted myself up, I had to stifle a laugh, for in the crowd I spotted two of my old nemeses, Nimshi and Jahath. Up, up, and up I went, coming to a familiar branch, I searched the crowd for Jesus. I did not have to look far, for right below, there he was, looking directly at me.

I must say, I hold that day dear in my heart. It was the day everything changed. I still recall how he raised his hand, how his smile was welcoming even through the branches of the sycamore. As if we’d known one another forever, he called my name.

“Zacchaeus!”

How was it that he knew my name?

My old alarm rang in my soul … Dak, dak, piggysack. …

Again, he called – “Zacchaeus! Come down, come down!”

Why was he smiling?

“This day we shall dine together, you and I. Come, lead the way to your home!”

Surprised? How could I not be?

What was happening?

I had no idea nor I could deny his invitation.

As I scrambled down the tree, I heard sideways grumbles and snarls from the crowd. “What manner of man is this Jesus? … he goes to the home of a sinner like the tax collector? … what next, prostitutes and drunkards …?”

In the midst of crowd gathered ‘round, I saw Rabbi Lemek, garbed in a silver-trimmed talith so white as to blind the eye, at the same time hopeful yet forlorn as a cast-off orphan. I imagined his unspoken words, “But … but Jesus … we have prepared a table for you … a fine meal … surely …“

Bos and Puah surely heard Jesus’ invitation and, bless them, waited for me at the foot of the sycamore. Jesus’ hand on my shoulder was a welcome that warmed me through and through … I felt something stir in my heart.

“Come, Zacchaeus, Puah,” he said. “Let us to your home.” With a beckon to his disciples, they came close after, their smiles telltales of joy.

Our house was not far, across one street, up two blocks. Bos opened the gate, stood aside for us to enter. In the courtyard, I paused to welcome Jesus, his men. The gate clanged as Bos shut it. Arms akimbo, he stood steadfast, his scowl enough to deter even the most hopeful of the crowd milling outside.

I glimpsed Rabbi Lemek again, standing, stiff with indecision, eyes wide, his smile that of a simpleton. I must confess my delight as I showed him my right fist, thumb down.

Puah ushered our guests to the dining hall. Talt busily placed pitchers of wine and water, plain and flavored with lemon on the table. Sidamo carried a platter of figs and dates in her right hand, another of cheese and grapes in her left. Bos, standing at the doorway, peered in, wondering what to make of this. He was not alone in his awe.

“Please, everyone,” cheered my wife, “be seated, slake your thirst, sate your appetites. The fruit is fresh, the cheese is tasty, enjoy our meager fare.”

Such was her joy. I suspected that she danced on air.

The disciple called Peter asked, “Rabboni, might we have your blessing on our celebration?”

Jesus gave thanks to his ‘Abba’ for the table offering and for our coming together. Then, with a clap of his hands, he said, “Zacchaeus, Puah, come, sit at my side that we may talk. Sidamo, Talt, Bos, join us at table.”

I thought to object, thinking Puah and I were the hosts, Sidamo and Talt, well, they were … servants. Bos? A soldier of Rome. Surely not!

Oddly, my tongue was stilled.

As I made my way to Jesus’ side, the disciple called John began to sing a psalm of praise. No sooner had he voiced three words of the hymn, the disciples’ joined in, filling our home with hearty joy and thanksgiving to God.

“Praise the Lord, you his servants –

let the name of the Lord be praised,

from the rising of the sun to the place where it sets,

now and forevermore –

The name of the Lord is to be praised –

he raises the poor from the dust and

lifts the needy from the ashes –

He seats his children with the princes of his people –

Praise the Lord.”

 

Puah and I sat. Talt made sure everyone had wine before he took his seat.

Jesus said, “Thank you, Zacchaeus, Puah, for your grace, your generosity. Talt, Sidamo, Bos, thank you for your service. We are grateful indeed.”

Grateful? For what? It was not I who invited Jesus and his cheerful flock! The man had invited himself! He and his men came in, sat down as if my home belonged to them, ate my food, drank my wine! They prayed, sang hymns, chatted and prattled about fishing of all things, what do I know of fishing!

I was about to ask what this visit was about when Jesus offered, “Zacchaeus, Puah, may I share a parable with you?”

What to say other than, “Surely. Of course.” My question could wait.

He began, “A certain rich man’s crops yielded an abundant harvest. It was so great that he thought to tear down his old barn and build an even larger one. In this way, he said, I can store my surplus grain, then enjoy a life of leisure with fine food and drink. Then God spoke to the man, ‘O foolish one, should your life be exacted of you this night, what good, then, will be your earthly treasure be, that moths and vermin may destroy, that thieves may steal? Instead, store up your treasure in heaven.’”

Jesus paused, taking Puah’s eyes, then mine with his own. “Where your treasure is,” he said, “there will be your heart as well.”

I peered at Jesus, wanting to utter words of rebuke but was struck dumb with alarm by the change I saw in my wife. Puah’s head was bowed. Her hands were clasped. Tears flowed on her cheeks.

What …? Had she heard unspoken words, words I, myself, had missed?

As if he knew my heart, Jesus spoke and I felt his kindness, his grace touch my soul. “Beloved ones … friends … I have come to bring light to the world,” he said, “to set the captives free from darkness. In have come that you may have life.”

I asked, “Who … who are you?”

Her hand on mine, Puah said, “Be at peace, husband. I know who he is.”

And in that very moment, I also knew. Here, in my home, was the Son of Man, sent by God. The Messiah. The long-awaited Messiah sat at my side.

How strange to feel tears wend their way down my own cheeks. How many years had it been since I had wept? The grim days of ridicule, of derision, more than a decade of dak, dak, piggysack darkened my mind, and then, it was as if they never were. The scars upon my soul inflicted by knifeblades of scorn withered to hairlines, and disakppeared.

Like a seed newly awakened by Spring rain, like a tendril pressing its way upward to the light, something deep within me awakened, turned to draw this wellspring of light close to my shriveled heart.

A cascade of joy began to flow over me, to fill me. Here was this man of God blessing me with a gift I had never known of, yet a gift my heart had hungered for. Like a stream of cool water, like rays of sunshine, like fresh breeze, Jesus’ grace embraced me and my wife, our servants, his disciples. Everyone.

It mattered not that I was a dak. For all he cared, all he knew, I could have been the size and stature of Bos or a thimble-sized shrew, yet I would have been blessed with the self-same grace that he poured out on Talt and Sidamo, my Roman protector, Bos, or upon Puah, my wife. He gave no favor of one over another yet each of us knew the breadth and depth of his love. No shadow of judgment could be found in him.

Jesus drew my wife close with his left arm, me, with his right, and spoke into our hearts. “Friends, I am the resurrection and the life. Truly, I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes my Father in Heaven has sent me will not be judged, for I am the way and the truth and the life. If you believe this, you have crossed over from death to eternal life.”

He paused, capturing our eyes with his. “Do you believe this?”

Puah’s answer was swift. “Yes, Lord. I believe this. You are the Messiah.”

I reached to take her hand. “I, too, believe, Jesus. You are the Holy One of God.”

Talt, light of skin, blue of eye, leaned forward. Close at hand was Sidamo.

I make no claim to prescience but I knew what was to come.

Sidamo’s dark eyes full with hope, her dark skin glowing in the candlelight, she made but one request: “Jesus?”

He replied, “My Father gives to me all who hunger and thirst for righteousness. The Son of Man is the water and bread of life. On the last day, I will raise up whoever believes in me. Sidamo, do you believe this is true?”

Sidamo bowed and wept. “Yes, Lord. I do.”

Talt, could make but a croak, nodded, yes, and yes.

A sound like the rumbling of farwaway thunder came from the shadowed corner

where Bos sat. My Roman protector’s deep voice carried the weight of tears: “Jesus, you say you have come to save the lost? Have you come only for the Jews…?”

“Ah, Bos. Dear Bos. I am the good shepherd to many kinds of sheep. Because my Father in Heaven gives my sheep to me, no one can take them away. My sheep hear my voice and follow me. Bos, have you heard my voice?”

Arms raised in exaltation, joy shining on his face, Bos cheered, “Yes, I believe! I believe!”

As never before, a new peace came to our gathering. Jesus said, “Peter, John, James – my friends – know that on this day, salvation has come to this house. Welcome your brothers and sisters, Zacchaeus and Puah, Bos and Talt and Sidamo.”

As if to burst, I could not contain the joy that rose in my heart. I stood and my proclamation was a song from my lips. “Lord! As chief of the tax collectors, I have accumulated an abundance of wealth. Shame moves me to say that not all my dealings have been done with honor. So I say here! Now! I pledge to give half of all my wealth to the poor! And to those I have cheated – I vow to repay four times the amount I took by dishonest means!”

Peter, the boisterous one, led us in song, our voices filled with exaltation.

The Lord remembers us and will bless us:
He will bless his people Israel,
he will bless the house of Aaron,
he will bless those who fear the Lord—
small and great alike.

From that day forward, every morning I awaken to Jesus’ words. “I have come into the world as light. No one who believes in me shall remain in darkness. Believe in the light while you have the light.”

I believe.

I am loved.

I am no longer alone.

God has lanswered my prayer.

 

Copyright © 2025 Peter K. Schipper