Now his parents went to Jerusalem every year at the Feast of the Passover. And when he was twelve years old, they went up according to custom. Luke 2:41-42
We’ve seen the picture of the calm-faced lad with the glowing aura and one finger upraised as though making a point, surrounded by old guys with gaping jaws. But it wasn’t like that.
His first time in Jerusalem, probably, during the solemn clamor of Passover: the rituals, the formulas, the endless squeals and screams of animals at the altar. Every Jewish boy knew the q & a and the works of the outstretched hand and mighty arm of the LORD, but let’s suppose this particular Jewish boy has been mightily stirred by it all. The lamb, the meat, the bitter herbs—he knew what it meant, but what did it mean? That’s why he stayed behind—this exemplary boy, full of grace, who had never caused his parents a moment of fret, was about to put them through a wringer of anxiety for three whole days.
Three days doing what? Suppose he packs up dutifully with friends and neighbors from Nazareth and 
turns his feet toward home. As they pass through the gates of the city, something catches his attention: maybe two rabbis on their way to the Temple, deep in learned conversation about the Passover lamb. His ears perk up; he peels away from the Nazareth party so swiftly they don’t notice, follows the rabbis all the way into the Temple complex, to the rabbinical school for promising young Jewish scholars.
It’s an open discussion format, let’s say, where young men ages 12 to 21 mostly sit and listen. They’re all a little soft around the edges: pale and thin and Levites all, students of special aptitude tapped for a career of holy service. Perhaps Caiaphas is there, age 15 or so and already betrothed to the High Priest’s daughter. Nicodemus might be there, striving to follow the twists and turns of the discussion. The new kid sticks out, with his rough traveling clothes, springy muscles and tanned, keen face. At first he only listens.
When he starts asking questions, his Galilean accent turns everyone off until they begin to actually hear him. Why . . . that’s a good question. He follows it up with another, and only the most learned of the rabbis is able to answer. But immediately he has another, and another, and by the end of the day he has them stumped; they tell him to come back the next day for answers.
Where does he sleep? What does he eat? We don’t get the story from his point of view, only that of his crazed parents who are just realizing he’s not with them. “Have you seen Yeshua?” “What, he’s not with you?” “I remember him tagging along this morning when we set out, but, come to think of it, haven’t seen him since . . .” Any parent knows exactly what Mary and Joseph are feeling—if we haven’t actually lost a child in a crowd we’ve had nightmares about it. Do Mary and Joseph start back to Jerusalem immediately, in the dark? Not a wise plan unless they can catch a lift with a caravan heading south; otherwise they could end up by the side of the road with their throats cut. If they wait, though, they don’t sleep. Yeshua, Oh, Yeshua—where could he be? Was he kidnapped somehow, or did he do this on purpose? Inconceivable! And yet . . . Mary may be wondering if this is the sword that would pierce her heart.
Meanwhile: suppose there’s some sort of lodging for Jewish boys studying the Torah; the Nazarene might go there and eat what’s put before him, all the while savoring every word that proceeds from the mouth of God. (My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to finish his work.) Next morning, he’s the first to take a seat, the first to raise his hand—Who is this boy? everyone wonders. He wants to know about Messiah—Why do the prophets say he must suffer? What does it mean, “By his stripes we are healed?” How will Israel be redeemed? What? Who? When? He can hardly sit still; as the Scriptures open to him he is opening the Scriptures, with a delight that’s both contagious and alarming. He stirs impromptu debates and sharp disagreements; Pharisees and Sadducees and scribes tie themselves up in doctrinal knots until he, this untaught boy from Nazareth, breaks in with the penetrating question that clarifies the issue and gets the discussion back on track.
By the third day he’s answering their questions.
It’s almost a relief to the rabbis and scribes when his parents barge in. I’m sure he was easy to find once they got to the Temple complex: “Please, sir, we’re looking for a boy, age 12, who–” “You’re from Galilee? Nazareth, by any chance? Oh yes, I can tell you where your boy is. Everyone knows him by now.”
We know this part of the story. When his mother berates him, Yeshua seems genuinely surprised: “What? Where else would I be?” The words sound rude, but he’s not being rude; he’s simply blurting out the first thought on his mind. Then he seems to come to himself and look around as though he just woke up from a dream. Yes, Mother. Yes, Father. I’m ready to go home . . .
Though they’re glad to be let off the hook—that boy was just about to take over the whole school!—teachers and students both find themselves missing the electric atmosphere, the incomprehensible air of authority the boy from Nazareth had brought with him. They murmur amongst themselves: a phenomenon. Oh yes, we’ll hear from him again. Better study up before next Passover.
But they don’t hear from him, not for another 18 years. No one does. At age 13 he was wiser, at age 14 wiser still, but he had learned to keep his profound thoughts and stirrings to himself. Still, he lived for Passover, longed for his first view of the Temple every spring, felt its pull while going to and fro during the days of the feast: That’s my Father’s house. All the while songs play in his head, tunes he can’t remember learning, scraps of Scripture that crackle or glow when he thinks of them:
Here I am! It is written of me in the scroll—I have come to do your will, O God!
For the first post in this series, go here.
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