“Most people hardly believe that anymore, Uriah.”
My older brother kept his eyes on his work while he spoke. A drop of sweat slipped down his face as he bent over the stone he was cutting.
Standing and watching him in the work yard, I was frozen by his words. Our busy village of Nazareth hummed and bustled around me, but I was numb and deaf to anything but our conversation.
“Most people hardly believe it anymore?” I echoed, my heart racing. “But we’ve heard of Ha’Mashiach all our lives, Ahitophel. The scriptures say there is a Messiah coming, and the priests . . .”
“I know, brother,” interrupted Ahitophel. “Some still cling to the idea. A warrior, a savior, coming to solve our problems and save us from the filthy Romans.” He straightened, hands on his hips, and stretched his back. “But Uriah,” he continued, his dark brown eyes now locked with mine, “how long ago were these predictions? What has become of them? How do we know they are true? How do we know the words were really from God, spoken through man? How do we know the words were even spoken?”
His gaze had been annoyed at first—demeaning. Now his eyes softened, troubled, and he looked away. “All we believe could be only fables, Uriah.”
I watched him, speechless. Each word from my brother pounded in my chest, flaunting the possibility that our faith may be only a lie. Never before had I doubted my family’s religion, nor the hope of the coming Messiah. Even the thought that it might not be true terrified me because it threatened to crumble the pillars of all I believed, even at age eight.
I tried to gather my thoughts.
“But suppose it is true,” I blurted. “You want to be free from the Romans just as much as anyone, nu?”
Ahitophel still hadn’t resumed his work. He took in a breath and nodded in the direction behind him, where Nazareth’s square could be seen. The temple was the centerpiece of our town, visible from almost anywhere. I could see it now in the distance behind Ahitophel. I could see the crowds of people, too, but none of that registered in my mind. I couldn’t understand what my brother was trying to say.
“Can you go anywhere,” he demanded then, “without seeing the blood red of those soldiers? They are everywhere. They hate us, and they own us. They’ve all but conquered the world. Do you realize what it would take to defeat them? Even our rebels are not strong enough. It would take a miracle from Jehovah . . . and what if He does not really exist, like father has taught us all these years?”
My eyes remained stuck on the scene behind Ahitophel—people hurrying about in the market, a few priests standing on the temple steps, the red blurs of Roman uniforms. A soldier could often be spied on a street corner or off in the far distance beyond Nazareth.
The scene melted together in my vision as doubts screamed in my mind.
What if He does not exist?
“Don’t say that!” I said finally. “Father would not want . . .”
Clink.
The sharp striking of Ahitophel’s chisel broke my thoughts and stopped my words. He was bent over again, hammering at the rock now with a fierce energy.
“I am only saying what . . . think . . . you believe . . . you want to.”
I only caught pieces of what he was saying in between strikes.
That was where I left my brother on that hot day in Nazareth when he was sixteen and I was only eight. In the time that followed, questions swirled in my mind constantly, along with a new fear and despair.
We had been ruled by the Romans for longer than I could remember. They oppressed us in every way, taking away anything they pleased and even amusing themselves with our misery. They took my sister as a slave when I was only a baby. My cousin had been killed in a revolt against them. They confiscated most of my father’s money for taxes and debts. We were not free here in Nazareth or anywhere else. And in the big city, Jerusalem, I knew that there were even more Romans—more oppression and stinking fear.
There was no escaping these Romans, and no defeating them. They hated us; we hated them. The very word, ‘Roman’, was like spit to us and our anger only escalated because we could do nothing against them.
But we Jews had a promise. Prophets such as Isaiah prophesied of a Deliverer, one who would heal our people and destroy our enemies. He would be a legendary captain, I surmised, one whom our warriors would want to follow.
Many times in my eight years I tried to picture how this Deliverer would look. He must be strong and powerful, of course, if he were to defeat these Roman legions. Probably he would be like Samson of old, big and strong. Stronger than any man. It was said that Samson killed a thousand men with the jawbone of a donkey, so surely Ha’Mashiach could do much more! There would be an exciting battle, a thrilling victory. The Romans would be destroyed, and then this new Deliverer would be our king.
The anticipation of this had always given me hope. But what if it wasn’t true? Ahitophel’s words were a storm inside me. Father was a rabbi; he believed in the prophecy more than anyone. I had always taken for granted what he taught us. I never doubted a word of it until that day I approached Ahitophel with a casual question about the Messiah and his answer frightened me to death.
“Most people hardly believe that anymore, Uriah.”
If all this was not true, there would be no hope! We would surely live all our lives under Roman rule, suffering as we waited for a savior that would never come.
“Sssst!”
A sharp nudge in my ribs jerked me out of my thoughts. I opened my eyes to a crowd of heads around me.
I was thirteen.
It was Shabbat, and during this whole temple service my thoughts had been on the subject of the Messiah. It was all most real to me now—here, in the temple. This place that represented everything we believe enclosed me and pressed me to come to grips with what I believe.
If I did not believe in the Messiah, how could I believe what Jehovah says? If I could not believe what Jehovah says, how could I believe in Him?
If I could not believe in Him, how could I sit here in His temple?
My friend David nudged me again.
“You were sleeping!” he hissed.
I shook my head. “No. I was thinking.”
David snorted with laughter. The heads in front of us turned and faces eyed us with disapproval. On the other side of the room, father caught my eye and frowned pronouncedly. I tucked in my chin and sat up straight.
It was time for the scripture reading. Every person in the temple sat or stood to attention. On Shabbat, men took turns reading from the holy scrolls. It was a reverent time because we believed the scrolls were from the mouth of Jehovah Himself, as given to His prophets who wrote His words down.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man stand up to read. David and I strained to see who it was.
“Yeshua bar Yosef,” David whispered, proud to be the first to recognize the reader.
I sat a little taller, my head craned to see him.
“He has come back then,” I replied quietly, for Yeshua bar Yosef had been gone for over a month—I wasn’t sure where. I eyed him now as best I could from my seat. He seemed much thinner, more pale than when I had seen him last. Yet he looked very alive.
Yeshua was well-known here in his hometown, but I had seldom talked to him. He was a good man, in my opinion—not very tall or very handsome, but humble and kind. If you looked into his eyes from up close, you could see a bright, gentle sparkle in them—a depth very unique. I first saw this as a small child when Yeshua had come into my uncle’s carpentry shop for a certain kind of stone.
Carpentry in our land, you see, involved stone and not wood, for stone was plentiful and wood was not. I spent many days in my uncle’s carpentry shop because two of my brothers were employed by him and I followed them around whenever I could.
Yeshua looked over at me, I remember, while he stood waiting on my uncle. I was six years old and sitting cross-legged on a stone seat, a chisel in my hands.
“So you are a carpenter too?” he asked, smiling.
“A carpenter one day,” I replied shyly. “And a teacher like my Abba, maybe.”
“Good . . . good!” He nodded. His smile grew even bigger. Taking a step toward me, he gestured at the tool I held.
“You have fine tools,” he said. I grinned and held my chisel out to him. He took it and gripped it firmly for a few seconds, only looking at it. Then he squatted down in front of me and placed it back in my hands.
“You see how the stone must be broken and chipped away at to become something useful, something beautiful?” He tilted his head to some of uncle’s work behind me.
I nodded vaguely. He continued.
“That’s the way it must be with man sometimes . . . pain and sacrifice bringing beauty.”
I looked into his eyes. They seemed distant and thoughtful.
The rustling of paper caught my ear and hauled me back to the present again. Now in the temple, here in front of us, a scribe handed Yeshua bar Yosef a scroll.
We watched as he rolled it open and held it before him, his eyes searching the text. The room was filled with the familiar silence that always occurs before someone is about to read.
Yeshua breathed in slowly. He lifted his head to look at us for moment, then back down to the scroll. Then he opened his mouth and I heard his voice break the silence.
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me,
Because He has appointed Me to preach the gospel to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives
And recovery of sight to the blind,
To set at liberty all those who are oppressed;
To proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord.”
Then he rolled up the book and gave it back to the attendant and sat down.
The eyes of all who were in the synagogue were fixed on him.
I stared along with everyone else.
At thirteen years of age, after years of Torah school, I knew the passage Yeshua had just read. It was well-known; it was from Isaiah’s writings. But in that moment, everyone felt what I did, that Yeshua was speaking directly to us. That Someone was speaking through him.
The verses from Isaiah were speaking of Ha’Mashiach.
Yeshua bar Yosef was not a mighty man. Yet it seemed right that those words belonged to him. He claimed them somehow. I will never be able to describe it.
You have heard of this Yeshua by now. Perhaps you follow Him; perhaps you have heard what He has done for us. Perhaps you have rejected Him like my fellow Nazarenes did then.
I grew up to watch Yeshua bring freedom in a way we could not have predicted. Instead of war, He brought peace. Instead of killing, He gave His life for us.
I could never have foreseen this, nor could I have seen how He would conquer death itself in a powerful warring of love and hate.
But I can tell you honestly that there in the synagogue on Shabbat as a thirteen-year-old boy, I made a choice in my heart that has changed my life. I made a decision that, no matter what, I would follow this Yeshua.
Yeshua Ha’Mashiach: Jesus the Messiah.
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Note: This story is fictional except for the circumstances in Jesus’ time, the account of Jesus reading from Isaiah in the Nazareth synagogue, and what He went on to do afterward. Uriah and his family and friend are fictional characters. The story of Jesus in the synagogue can be found in Luke 4:16-20.
Click the link to listen to Veishma Koli, a song in Hebrew based on Psalm 55:17,18 (“He has heard my voice”).The artist is not affiliated with my views or writing.
They were so sad and so was the little girl so they took her to the hospital 
