P ut yourself in the old man’s place. Walk for a moment in his sandals. You have lived better than your threescore and ten years and never once have you ever encountered a being extra-terrestrial. You have read about them, studied past encounters between men and angels, but did you really believe it? Did you own the story as if it were your experience and not just some religious quasi-fictional tale from the past? Isn’t your faith a bit tempered by the routine day-to-day “realities” of living? I surmise that you are likely not that much different from Zechariah.

I should speak, perhaps, for myself. It is unwise to surmise. I spent four years with the Son of God and his chosen twelve; now well past my own threescore and ten, I wonder sometimes if it were only a dream, an apparition of a mind not entirely tethered. No matter. Whether real or imagined, my dream has shaped the rest of my insignificant existence. I consider myself an unprofitable servant. Unlike Paul, the famous teacher from Tarsus, I make no claim at having seen Jesus since that day he ascended through the clouds. There have been no visions, no heavenly encounters. Only silence. Only silence.

I’m afraid Gabriel would have more trouble with me today than he had with Zechariah then.

Still, I haven’t forgotten my dream. Or my reality. Whatever it was. Deep in the place where I am centered is the unalterable and unshakable truth that I am yet loved by him. And that my friend, mitigates all doubt. I have visited the portal of death more than once. I confess that when those ominous Shadows of the Valley fall over me, I tremble. Yet there is in the core of my being, that in my flesh I shall see God. He has been near all these years, yet I have missed him. It will be a pleasant reunion when once again, I see his face; when once again, I feel his warm embrace. Despite my stumblings here, my heart trips in anticipation.

-- Joseph bar Sabbas, called Justus

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