I Listen to the One Who Wrote It

A twelve-year-old boy walked into the Temple and sat down. The scholars of Israel couldn’t answer his questions. Nobody moved.

The Temple smelled of blood.

Not incense. Not stone. The Passover slaughter had been running since dawn, the channels carved in the limestone doing their work, and when the wind shifted it crossed the outer court like weather.

Yeshua stood at the edge of the Court of the Gentiles and breathed it in.

Twelve years old. First …