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J esus lay on his pallet gazing at the night through a casemented window. A small section of cosmos fell away before him. Who was he? Why had he not so much as flinched with embarrassment at being called the ‘Son of God?’ How is he able to perform these miracles? These were not questions that truly disturbed him, for he knew the answers. Yet, they haunted him. The dove on his shoulder and the words from the clouds had taken away any doubt as to his identity and his mission. Whence come these thoughts, these feelings that I have lived before this life? Occasionally the memories of being with the Father were so vivid that he actually thought he was caught up again into the Abode of God. There were flashbacks to certain events that took place, moments when his body, his mind, his heart surged with omnipotence, moments when his intelligence soared beyond anything human. His thoughts shifted, These three men, Peter, John and James - the sons of Zebedee . . . He considered each carefully. They are so imperfect, yet they have such capacity for belief in me . . . such obvious and simple love . . . These basic qualities, he decided would be the signature of those who would be his. Belief and Love. That is all I shall require. Beyond these, the flesh is weak. He eyes closed. His face bathed in the light of a rising moon, the Son of God slept.
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