They Knew Jesus

An old man shuffled slowly along a broad stone corridor. He was met, and largely ignored, by noisy young acolytes on their ways to their dinners; and, gradually, to their own old ages. He looked at them, as always, with a beatific smile.

It was early evening, his customary time for prayers. He had found that the school’s small temple was usually quiet around the dinner hour, often even deserted. Only rarely did students ask to talk with him anymore, and so he would find himself free for introspection, contemplation—and for his thrilling memories, and even more thrilling hopes.

He slowly passed a great library, and one or two gardens that were said to have dated from the time of Nebuchadnezzar himself. The school had indeed been founded in his time: not many changes had come about since then, even with the numerous conquerors of the land. Fresh scents and cheery bubbling waters greeted him as he descended worn steps into the temple. It was his favorite place in all the old city.

But tonight it was not quite deserted. One small boy was seated, properly cross-legged, on a thin worn carpet. The old eyes could not discern its detail at the distance; its pattern was in fact from one of the northern Armenian tribes. This boy had come a long way to the school.

He could see, though, that the boy was very small; and that his hair was cut so as to identify him as a first-year acolyte. “Good evening!” he smiled at him warmly. “Do you want me to tell you how to get to the dining area? You are new here, are you not?”