************
Her words touch my heart, but I turn away from them, my practical nature wresting control.
"Will they believe us, Mary? I am a simple laborer whom they have known all their lives, not a learned man, neither priest nor Pharisee but a humble carpenter. And you, a young girl still, all of 20 years and with no formal education: Why would they believe God would choose us to raise His child, when I still can't believe it myself?"
I take her hand.
"And if instead they believe our child to be possessed of demons or in league with them, surely they will shun us and my business will dry up and blow away like sand in the desert winds. How will we care for him then, this child of God? We must talk to Him Mary, we must reason with Yeshua to stop using His powers, at least for now. He is frightening our friends," I shake my head: "He is frightening me."
Eavesdropping
I hear them talking through the thin walls of my bedroom, but I am still too angry to have any sympathy. Don't they know that they need not worry about bread on the table, that my Father in Heaven will provide all that we need? Don't they understand that God, who knows all, who plans all, who causes all, has a good reason for sending me to be raised with humble people in a small village, rather than with nobles, kings and Pharisees as He could have? How can they hold onto such ignorance in the light of what they do know, that the Son of God lives with them? That I am He? I am! How can they deny me still?
I burst into tears at this, sobbing into my pillow, both hurt and frustrated....and odd, even to myself, that I can be who I am, know what I know, and still cry like a petulant child sometimes.
After a while I calm down, and then consciously and purposely withdraw into myself. I will show them they needn't worry about putting food on MY table, for I can eat the air itself if I so choose: Or nothing at all. Just watch!
Joseph
That night I get down on my knees right after supper and begin to pray loudly and earnestly to the God that made me, asking for guidance, asking why this burden was placed on me of all people.
"G-d," I say aloud. "Yahweh, how can you expect me to know how to raise a God, when I've never even raised an earthly child? I don't know how to be a good father, and I feel so lost. I try to invoke the scriptures, try to teach Him the laws, but He has his own mind about what these mean, and how can I argue when His is the Mind of God? Yet at the same time He is just a small boy still, and no one will listen to Him or believe He knows what He knows - Maybe when He is older, but not now. So what do I do in the meantime?"
I wait for the voice to come, that silent answer in my head. Instead I feel my wife's cool hand lay upon my shoulder. I turn to look up at her, and am surprised to see a shy smile on her face.
"God just spoke to me, Joseph. He said it was time for Yeshua to have some brothers and sisters, so He can learn to get along with others who are mortal. He needs to learn how to share our love, and also how to behave. Our earthly children can provide the example of how to be obedient, as all children must be to their father and mother."
I look up at her, hope and confusion interplaying on my face.
"You mean, children of our own? Made the....you know, the old fashioned way?" I ask.
"Yes," she smiles. "The old fashioned way."
Me again
I can tell something has changed between mother and father. They seem happier, more affectionate towards each other, with little looks and touches that hadn't passed between them before.
I myself remain aloof and withdrawn since the incident with the clay birds; my pride still smarting from the way I was judged so unfairly by everyone. Rachel no longer comes to play with me, and no one else either, so I practice my letters and songs alone, and spend a lot of time just watching nature and learning from it the secret balance of all things in creation, the natural laws that mirror the spiritual laws. There are clues everywhere, I discover, but most people seem content to just wander mindlessly through their day, stumbling blindly past all the signs in a stupor, unseeing those things which to me stand out like giant monuments cast in gold and lit by the sun, impossible to ignore.
I lay on the soft carpet of grass looking up into the leafy branches of our walnut tree, and as I do I begin to see how the leaves breathe in our exhalations, taking up the tiny glowing particles of air that I blow up at them, absorbing them through their soft undersides, and releasing others back into the air which I swoop back into my mouth and nose. The body of the tree holds these small green engines of hers up to the sky, thousands of them breathing in and out the invisible ocean of air that surrounds them. Silently, patiently, they absorb the rays of the sun: I see the energy go in, but it doesn't leave again, its glow remaining within the leaves, traveling down the stems and branches and into the body. This is its life, this is how it grows, taking the immeasurably small and converting it to become huge in their leaves and branches, trunks and roots. What is a tree, I realize, but a continuous recombining of the invisible vapors of the atmosphere through the vital force of light. Here stands the mighty tree, enormous and solid and heavy in appearance, while in truth it is still only air and sunlight and mostly empty space. Can no one see the magic in that, the magic of Creation happening before their very eyes?
Another day I watch the bees for hours and hours, amazed at all they reveal to me. I watch one return to the hive my father has made, and see how the others gather round. I watch with them, entering their collective mind, watching the scout bee with intense concentration as she runs up and back on the side of the hive, and then again at a different angle. I count her runs: each time they are the same number, each time the same angle. With the rest of the hive members, I look up at the sun, and back at her dance, up and back, up and back. Then, my mind with them, we lift into the air on our fragile, vibrating wings, and begin to fly, following the exact angle relative to the sun which she has shown us. Our sister has remained in the hive, but when we have flown for the exact distance she described to us - as measured in her number of runs - there is the new field of wildflowers we are to harvest the nectar and pollen from for our hive, and we plummet down on it with joy and begin our work. I come back to myself then, still staring at the hive: How can these tiny fragile things with no apparent brain at all follow a set of complex directions which leads them unerringly to a new field of clover great distances away? There can be no explanation for that tiny miracle, other than that it is the mind of God within and without that directs them.
And what of the bee's ability to fly at all, I wonder, thinking of the long flight I just took? How can it lift its fat body into the air on such tiny wings, how can it zip from flower to flower, gathering nectar and pollen for use in the hive, but consuming almost none for energy during the foraging? Truth is, it cannot; but truth is also that it does. The same is so for the hummingbird, who uses far more energy to keep its body aloft than the nectar it drinks could ever provide...and yet provide it does. There are tiny miracles all around us, things that cannot be explained other than by the fact that God creates them thus, yet no one seems to notice these discrepancies, nor to question them.
When I meditate on the stuff of which this world is made, I find I can visualize it with a clarity that at first confounds me. I begin to see that everything is made of tiny moving grains of matter which whirl around their centers at incredible speeds, bumping into each other and rebounding away; or held reluctantly together and vibrating as if each part wanted to escape their bonds with the rest. When I slow these down even further with my mind, I find that each one is constructed of even smaller parts which mimic the relationship of moon and earth. I discover that two of these motes contain opposite energies, forces which can both attract and repel each other, and a third particle has none, so that it can simultaneously separate and bond the other two. Something about this awakens a fuzzy knowledge in my heart, something to do with the mystery and meaning of the image in which Man was created, the immanent and the transcendent nature of creation, of God, but it i
s just beyond my grasp.
I give up trying to figure that out, and return my focus to these essential particles of which all things are made. As I do, I become aware that even these tiniest specks are constructed of parts that are smaller and smaller still, until at last I discover that they are all made simply of pure energy, that they are nothing more than motion; and that matter itself does not really exist at all.
I fall back against the ground breathless, my mouth agape in wonder. This is the nature of the illusion that I already intuitively understood, its proof. It is only through the belief that matter must exist and persist that the concept of time and space is created, and with that concept comes the creation of this material world; a world which at its essence is all a lie, a ruse, a magician's misdirection and a grand illusion.
I see this all so clearly in my mind and in my heart, but I have no vocabulary with which to express it. How do I explain to others what I see and know in my 6 year old voice, still learning the words of my fathers?
Besides, some of the things I see are not of this age but of an age far in the future where such discoveries will yet be made. I can step outside of time's limitations and know and understand what these future generations have uncovered, but how can I convince these simple farmers, living in the now, of such things?
So I keep my silence and brood, feeling quite alone.
One day father finally insists I go into the village with him to a local shopkeeper, to deliver some shelves he had made. I do my best to ignore the sideways glances, the whispers and stares from some of the townspeople as we walk up the dusty road, carrying the heavy lumber. Then as we come back out of the shop I see Rachel and her mother up ahead, and I call out to her. But when she turns her head to wave, her mother grabs her roughly by the arm and hurries her along. As she is hauled away from me, I notice a crowd of boys about the age of Rachel's brother, or maybe a little older, cross the street and begin towards me. Their fists are clenched, faces hard, and I know they mean trouble.
"Just ignore them Yeshua," my father whispers.
That advice proves impossible. One of them purposely runs straight into me, colliding with my shoulder hard enough to knock me down: The rest jeer.
"What's the matter Wizard? Have you lost your magic powers?" The one that hit me calls down. Another spits in my face.
"I still have enough," I say, and immediately the boy who ran into me falls to the earth, unmoving. "As you have thrown me down, you shall not rise again."
One of the others kneels beside the fallen lad, putting his face close to the other's lips, then after a moment lifts his head with a stricken expression."
"He has no breath! He is dead!"
The other boys back away from me now as if I were a viper, their eyes wide with fear. One goes screaming into the nearest store: "Yeshua has killed one of us!" He cries. "Esau is dead, where but a moment before he was fine. With one word the wizard has killed him!"
Immediately the street is aswarm with a venomous crowd, pushing and shoving at me angrily.
"From what cursed womb did this son of yours arise that he can kill with just a word?!" One of the village elders accuses, thumping his stubby finger against my father's chest.
Just then the parents of the dead boy arrive on the scene: The mother falls to her knees in the dirt, wailing and holding the limp child to her breast, as her husband turns on me and my father in deadly fury.
"You cannot remain in this village, Joseph, not with such a child as this, one who slays our children at a whim with his vile curses!"
I can see that my father is sore afraid by now, and so he turns on me, lifting me by the ear and hauling me apart from the others.
"Why do you do such things Yeshua? Can't you see that you make our neighbors our enemies, who will hate and shun us on your account? "
"Let go of me father!" I yell in anger and pain, for he had never treated me this way before.
I feel a welling fury, a small beast growing in my heart. He drops me and takes a step back, wary now.
"I know these are not your own words, but said for the sake of these who persecute us because of their own blindness and ignorance. So I forgive you," I tell him coldly, then turn to the crowd, glaring at them." But these who condemn what they refuse to understand, I don't forgive. Instead I condemn them to their chosen path of darkness."
And no sooner have I said this then all around arise the cries of the people in fear and horror as they stumble into one another.
"Help me!"
"I cannot see! What is wrong, what has happened to me?"
"Help me, please help! I am blind!"
My father looks at me, stricken at what I have done, shaking his head with tears in his eyes.
"Take it back, boy. I beg you; take your curses back now!"
I sigh, petulant and unwilling at first. But then I relent: Perhaps they will have learned their lesson and will at least leave me alone after this, even if they won't respect me.
"Your sight is restored," I say.
Instantly the villagers begin rubbing their eyes, looking around in wonder and fear.
My father nods at the child still lying in the dirt, so I grab the dead boy up by the ear, as father had done with me, and say to him: "Breathe! Then go your way."
Immediately the fellow Esau leaps up and runs down the street, crying and screaming like a little girl...which makes me smile in grim satisfaction.
Then I feel myself grabbed roughly by the arm and, before anyone else can react, my father drags me home at a dead run.
Mary
I can't believe what I am hearing, that my child, my beloved gentle little son, would kill another boy and turn the people of our town blind. I close my eyes and cover my ears.
"Enough!" I cry.
But Joseph is in a blind rage, and will not let me hide from the truth. He pulls my hands away and makes me look at him.
"He did what he did, Mary. He did what he did."
"But he took it back," I plead.
"Yes. This time. But what if I wasn't there to beg him for such mercy? We have to do something about this, Mary. We have to reason with him. Every day his powers increase, but not, it seems, his common sense."
I collapse to the floor to hear this coming from my husband's mouth.
"But, He is God! How can you speak of Him thus?" I whisper , then fling myself onto the dirt face down and begin to pray in earnest fear of Yahweh's reprisal.
"Father in heaven forgive us, for we are unworthy to judge You or your Son. Please, just help us know what to do."
I repeat the prayer over and over, and then, though my eyes are closed, I sense Joseph prostrate himself on the floor beside me, hear him muttering prayers of penitence and petition as well. After a time we stop, and go together to talk to our son.
Father Joseph
Yeshua is lying on his cot, feigning sleep as we enter, but I know he is awake.
"Sit up son, we must talk with you," I say, my voice stern.
He sighs and rolls over, sitting with his legs hanging over the side of the little bed.
I clear my throat, uttering one last silent prayer that the words coming from my mouth be from God, and righteous.
"Your mother and I need to talk to you about, about your ...gifts."
He looks up at me, now alert and interested in what I have to say.
"You realize that you are very special, and that your talents come from your Father in heaven, don't you?"
The boy nods.
"But do you know that you are actually not our son at all, not in the normal sense, but are the Son of God himself?"
"Of course I know that, father," he says steadily. "I thought maybe you didn't, the way you treat me sometimes."
Mary and I exchange looks. I go on.
"The angel of the lord came to your mother before we were wed, and told her that she was to carry the Son of God in her womb. Then he came to me, and told me that she was carrying God's only Son, and that I was to marry
her and raise the child as my own until the time came to fulfill His purpose. Do you understand?"
"Did he tell you what that purpose was? When it would be time?" The boy asks carefully.
I glance over at Mary again, who shakes her head.
"No," I say. "He told us Mary would bear God's son, that we were to raise Him, but we know nothing beyond that of His plan for your life.
"Oh," the boy says, sounding a little disappointed.
"But we do know that you can't go on scaring the people of our village as you did today," Mary interjects. "They have no idea about your miraculous conception and birth: To them you're just an ordinary young boy."
"Why don't they, mother?" He asks her seriously.
"Because we went to Bethlehem before the birth so they could not be counting the days and questioning your mother's morals," I tell him. "People are quick to believe the worst in man, and slow to believe in miracles."
"So we never told them," says Mary, kneeling down beside her son and taking his hand. "Maybe if we had they would treat you with more respect. We just want to follow God's will, but we're not always sure what that is. Do you think we should tell them now?"
Yeshua is quiet for some time, contemplating this with such a serious expression wrinkling his tender brow, he suddenly seems much older than his six years.
"No," He finally answers, but offers no explanation.
"Then can we ask you, son, to work hard to hold your temper and not try to teach our neighbors manners and respect, at least not in the way you have been...that is, unless you are certain it is your Father's will for you to do so."
The boy blows out a breath, sighs, looks down at his feet, and then raises his head again.
"I will try, father. I promise."