The Tower of the Flock, Part 7 – Feroze’s Story

Feroze’s story

Matthew 2:9-12

Shaking my head in disbelief, I stared at this ragtag cluster of lean-tos, huts, and shanties that comprised this little town of Bethlehem.  Was it truly home to the King of the Jews? But as we hesitated, the light of the star grew in intensity, and it pulsed as if impatient for us to get moving. One look at my companions told me we were of one mind. We didn’t understand, but we were in the right place. No doubt about it.

Ihsan had fallen to his knees in worship. “Ihsan,” I said. “Let’s go. You can worship at the feet of the King of Kings.”

My son Jamshid wrapped me in a tight embrace and breathed, “We’re here. After over five hundred years of waiting, this is it.”

Throwing on our wrinkled ceremonial robes, the ones we’d stuffed in our saddle bags before we fled Jerusalem, we did our best to make ourselves presentable. With trembling hands, we retrieved the gifts. They’d seemed extravagant before, but now they seemed paltry. How could we offer anything of significance to the King of All Creation?

I offered a prayer of thanksgiving for the star, and then we headed up the hill. All of us. Every guard, camel boy, cook, and servant. Every camel, horse, and donkey. Yes, even the animals. Even the cranky, nasty camel Govad. Govad – his name means good wind. I’ve never known an animal with fouler wind. And an attitude to match. The crafty beast loved to sneak up behind me and spit in my hair. Even Govad, looking reverent and well behaved, walked up the hill, drawn by the pulsating star.

Can a star show emotion? This one did. I feared it would burst with anticipation. The star’s jubilation was mirrored in my own soul.

Three of the shepherds we’d seen by the watchtower stood by the stone mason. Two of them looked cautious, but the youngest, the one who’d run up the hill earlier as if a swarm of bees were on his heels, looked positively ferocious. He clearly saw himself as this family’s bodyguard.

Though the stone mason had all the markings of a common tradesman, he had a regal air, an ancient nobility. He laid down his flint hammer and bronze chisel and wiped his hands on a towel before approaching us. Spreading his arms in greeting, he said, “Welcome to Bethlehem, my lords, we are honored by your visit. I am Joseph.”

“Are you the Son of David?” I couldn’t stop the question from bursting from my lips.

For one moment, his face froze, and then he nodded. “I am Joseph, Son of David.” The solemnity of his expression made his humble home seem like a palace.

I am Joseph, Son of David.

The heir to David’s throne lived in a backwater hamlet. What better place to hide from the Roman Empire till the time was right? With joyous laughter bubbling up in me, I bowed before him. “Hail, Son of David, I am Feroze of Persia, chief of the magi. We have come to worship the Child, Immanuel.” I held my trembling hand out to Joseph, and he clasped it in both of his powerful, callused hands. With a broad smile, he pivoted and stepped back, allowing me to see within their courtyard.

At the gate stood a lovely young woman with a sleepy toddler holding her hand. He rubbed his eye with one little fist and then hid his face in his mother’s skirt. Then, peeking out, he offered a small wave. This Child was the Son of God, and he liked to play peekaboo. He had his mother’s searching eyes and radiant smile. I couldn’t see anything of his father in him, but that made sense. How could he be both awe inspiring and adorable? I couldn’t decide whether to prostrate myself before him or ask if I could take him on my lap.

This Child was the Son of God, and he liked to play peekaboo.

Over a feast of freshly roasted lamb and Persian delicacies prepared by our cooks, the shepherds told their tale. We sat rapt while Tobiah, the boy who was Jesus’s self-appointed guard, recounted seeing angels announce  the birth.  They’d found the baby swaddled in the cloths he’d prepared that very afternoon.

I was beginning to grasp the pleasure Elohim took in surprising His flock.

With Jesus asleep in my arms, I paused to pray. I thanked the Lord for his kindness to us, for leading us here by His star and allowing us to see His Salvation. I opened my eyes and let out a long breath. “When our forefather Daniel received knowledge about the coming of the Messiah, this Child. . .” Looking down at Jesus’s long lashes resting against his cheeks, I cleared my throat and collected myself. “He established our caste. The signs and the significance of his arrival have been passed down from father to son for hundreds of years. Nevertheless, when the star appeared, we were thrown into a panic. We grabbed the scrolls and the gifts and set out to find Him.”

Jamshid, Sarush, and Ihsan came forward and knelt, offering the treasure we’d brought. Ihsan said, “Daniel set aside his personal wealth, gold and frankincense and myrrh, to offer to the Messiah. Our fathers guarded it for centuries, waiting for this day.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “But now, knowing who He is and what He will do, I realize how insignificant a gift it is.”

Placing her hands over her mouth, his mother gasped. It truly was a king’s ransom. “We thank you, my lord.”

Sarush, the theologian of our group, spoke up. “Jeremiah prophesied that one day the Lord would establish a new covenant, one written on our hearts, and that He would forgive our sins once for all. Our tradition says that Daniel tore his clothes and wept, moved by both hope and intense longing. Our forefather, in some small way, wanted to take part.” He looked at our party with eyes full of wonder and gratitude. “And God Most High chose us to bring it to you.”

We talked long into the night, wishing we could prolong our visit. But Mary stifled a yawn, and I knew we needed to leave. And we would have no opportunity to deepen our friendship. As I’d slept in the inn at the caravanserai, an angel warned me not to return to Herod and to leave by a different route. We would leave that very night.

To be continued . . .