I had no name. I had no glory.
I was chosen to serve, not to fight. Unknown until that fateful day. Among the earliest followers of Yeshua, I was selected to fill the humble place of serving the widows and ensuring they were not overlooked. I wasn't meant to hold the greatest place of honor in the Lord's Kingdom—a martyr! Nor did I wake up that crisp, dry morning planning to die!
It happened so quickly.
Lying back flat on the dusty ground just two hours after waking to the shrill cry of my baby girl, I'd had breakfast and made my way down the short hike from the Mount of Olives to the Temple Mount. I entered the gates and looked to the peak of that spectacular hill, where I saw a sight that should have made me shrink before the authority he carried.
Sitting high and straight, adorned from head to toe with protective armor and the finest weaponry, was the one who had been given authority to kill any follower of the Way who dared resist the powers of the religious establishment.
Saul, they called him. He carried the namesake of that mighty, ruthless king who walked these same roads a thousand years ago. The one known to have killed eighty-five priests at Nob, along with their families and livestock, simply because they had helped the mighty David escape his grip.
And there on that horse sat another savage beast! At least at that time, before his encounter with the Light.
Just a year prior, I would have trembled at such a display of authority. Even after being sought out as a follower of the Way. But not now. Now there was an iron-like resolve among us who followed the Nazarene. After what we had witnessed and experienced during His time walking among us as the resurrected Teacher, we were fearless.
Please don't misread me. We weren't foolish. We suspected we'd die. Many of us talked around the fire at night, anticipating a brutal end as we followed the Teacher into eternity. But we were willing—yes, even anxious—to pay the ultimate price to advance His kingdom.
I walked briskly, intentionally diverting my eyes from his as I passed along the cobblestone road past the colonnade. I could feel his head turn slowly as his eyes pierced the back of my head. The usual scowl decorated his face, making it warlike. His horse kicked the ground, causing a loud crack that punctuated his power over our lives.
A hundred yards farther into the courts, I met a small band of Sadducees. They scoffed loudly as I passed, calling out mockingly, "Followers of the Way! Deserving the fate of their false King. Away with them!"
I quickened my pace as I began to feel my pulse rise and blood make its way upward toward my face. From the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman being taunted as rocks were hurled toward her. Her black hair draped over her innocent and fearful face. A scream pierced the air as a large stone struck her on the back of the head.
I wished the Teacher were here to rescue her. I didn't have the voice or authority to do so, but the heat continued to rise in my temples. I looked the other way just in time to see another religious leader strike Josiah across his cheek as the Pharisee raised his voice and yelled, "Heretic!"
I realized I was reaching my limit. My blood began to boil as I watched my brothers and sisters being oppressed and persecuted at the hands of the powerful. I reflected on all the miracles we had seen in the days since the Messiah left us. I myself had called down God's power to see blind eyes and deaf ears opened. But I knew it would defy the will of the Father to use my authority for earthly vengeance. That's not what the power is for. Yet my flesh wanted to rage.
As I walked farther into the courtyard, more heads turned and more eyes fixed on me. Then came a blow to my back! I felt the clash of a wooden object against the back of my head. I fell forward. My head hit the dusty ground. My nose began to bleed.
"Blasphemy!" cried the voice that rang out in the open air. Then my ear began to ring. I felt a hand grab the hair on the back of my head, jerking it back quickly and violently. I looked around and saw four Pharisees surrounding me with vengeance in their eyes.
After three miracles in as many days, I shouldn't have expected to be treated any differently. You can imagine my shock as they turned and walked away.
Pushing myself off the ground, I scanned the horizon and saw three men standing to my left. I could tell by their garments that they came from the synagogue of the freedmen. They motioned to a fourth to come over and stand with them. They began to ask questions, and answers came to me as if I'd rehearsed them. It was as if the very Spirit of God was speaking through me.
They moved on, and so did I. Until they didn't. They were back thirty minutes later. And they were not alone! One of them pointed at me and yelled, "That's him! He blasphemed Moses and he even blasphemed the Almighty!" Religious leaders, priests, and curious onlookers came running and circled me with shouts and waving fists. They dragged me before the high council and hurled lies like they were skipping stones on a glassy lake.
Then I noticed some stopped their railing and started staring. Their faces filled with curiosity, their gazes asking questions instead of burning with rage. I felt a strange warmth come over me and faintly overheard one whisper to another, "He's glowing. His face is glowing bright!" The mob surrounding me started to step back. The circle widened.
Stepping forward from among them was one I was stunned to see. One who didn't show up just to observe. The twelve stones on his chest shone with intimidating glory. His extravagant robe spoke of his power. As he quieted the crowd and they fell silent, he turned his head toward me and asked, "Are these accusations true?"
The next moments are absent from my memory. But I know that I followed the pattern of my great leader, Peter, and recounted the story of God's people. I know that I spoke with confidence and resolve. I know that I didn't cower—I did not shrink. I remember thinking at some point that this would be my last chance to tell the good story of the Almighty.
And I seized the opportunity as if it would never come again—because somehow I knew it wouldn't!
Ten minutes of dialogue and only one single line I remember. One line that sealed my fate that day. One line that would lead to my death. One line that launched a persecution that would claim the lives of many in our faith family.
"Name one prophet your ancestors didn't persecute! They even killed the ones who predicted the coming of the Righteous One—the Messiah whom you betrayed and murdered."
Fists flew into the air. Voices rose in rage as I flinched. The cry of the enflamed crowd seemed to cause the ground to shake beneath me—but above me! Above me is where the most radical proclamation was seen. I lifted my eyes to heaven. It took me some time to process. Not because it was blurry, but because it was unbelievable! I saw the heavens open up. I saw the sky crack and the blue expanse part. And I saw into a space that few have gazed upon—the throne room of the Most High God!
What I saw next cannot be explained. It cannot begin to make sense. I saw Jesus Himself—not sitting next to the throne—but standing! He was standing as if He was preparing to return. He was standing as if to stand for me! My chest began to heave. Groans rose from the depths of my being. My face burned, but not with painful fire—with a burn that lit up the temple mount.
I saw Him standing at the Father's RIGHT hand!
In a split second that felt like a day, I knew what was coming. But I couldn't hold it inside. I yelled as loud as my voice would allow:
"Look, I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing in the place of honor at God's right hand!"
Although my eyes were still gazing into the heavens, my intuition felt tyrants encircling me. My ears told the story. There was a rumble of voices and a thundering gallop of people coming toward me from every direction.
I closed my eyes. I covered my head. I prepared for what was coming swiftly.
I felt a hand grab my tunic and begin to drag me. Then another hand and another. They tied my arms with a belt from one of their robes and began to drag me to the edge of the city. As I passed by the godless king's namesake, Saul, I looked up to see the hatred in his eyes. I was dragged over a pile of tunics that had been placed at his feet. I momentarily blacked out as the pain of the rugged road scraped the skin off my back.
As much as I thought I should be hating them, I didn't—I couldn't, as much as I tried. It was as if I had crawled up on that rugged cross with the Rabbi the day He died, and I looked through His eyes and saw them like He did. Even as stones began to find my temples and forehead, and even as I cried my last breath, begging Jesus to receive my spirit quickly, I pleaded for something different altogether. Something I couldn't understand, but it was all I could ask for.
As tears flowed from my eyes, radical, unadulterated love flowed from my heart.
"Father, please don't charge them with this sin."
As soon as it came out of my mouth, it flooded into my soul as a tension I couldn't reconcile. Why would I ask for this foul sin against me to be forgiven? How could I ask such an unimaginable request?
As I felt large stones begin to steal away my consciousness, I remembered the prayer He'd prayed that John had shared with us. A prayer that hadn't made one ounce of logical sense to me until that moment, as I was fading into darkness.
"Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches."
"In that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you."
The Spirit of the Rabbi was in me that day as the rocks found their target and began to take the physical life from me as surely as they couldn't take the spiritual life.
That was the last memory I have before the pain subsided—the physical light faded—and nothingness overtook my experience of life on earth and I entered into life eternal.