When I returned to Jesus, I found him entering Capernaum. A group of three pharisees approached him. Two of them had well-trimmed black beards. One stood straight and tall, the other leaned forward. The third was older with a wild gray, almost white, beard. He limped when he walked. All of them wore fine garments, both clean and new.

Jesus' disciples and followers retreated from the three--almost as if they were afraid. Jesus, however, stood and watched them approach.

The old man waved to him. "Rabbi, we've heard many good things about your preaching and about the miracles God has done for you. We were wondering if you could come and speak to our group."

"I teach openly in public places. Come to me there," Jesus replied.

The man smiled. "Sir, we know you keep company with sinners, prostitutes, and tax collectors. The things you are doing to help them are laudable, certainly, but there are many among us who prefer not to associate with such people."

Upon hearing this, Jesus gave the man a stony stare. I knew how this sort of thing upset him.

How could I use it?

To be honest, though, I sympathized with Jesus. Did these people imagine they were better than these people they preferred not to associate with?

"If it makes you feel better," I said to Jesus, "I plan to conjure some deathstalker scorpians to sting these men in their sleep."

Despite their fun names, the sting of a deathstalker was merely painful and not deadly. The fear and screams they inspired in their victims, though, were hilarious. You might say, they were to die for.

Jesus glanced in my direction.

I treated him to a demonic smile, full of the malice I felt for these self-superior sons of vipers.

"We can pay," the man added. "Or rather, make a donation. We can also provide food and wine during your visit--even lodging for your stay."

"Please," Jesus said. Again, he flicked his eyes toward me. "I don't want that."

Yes, it was kind of clever the way he answered both of us at once, but I frowned.

"I wasn't asking what you wanted," I muttered.

I turned to Judas. He was a good man. The best in the group, in my opinion. He loved the poor deeply. That was also his weakness. Ultimately, I knew I could turn him against God by simply encouraging him to really see how much suffering God allowed.

"Think of the poor," I whispered into Judas's ear.

Judas stepped up as quickly as if I'd yanked him forward by a leash. "Master, we can use the money to take care of those without means."

Jesus put his hand on Judas's shoulder. "Peace, my friend."

He faced the three. "Instead of coming to your group, I will offer you this lesson, today, hear and now, for the three of you who have come to see me."

"But--" the old man said.

Jesus raised a hand. At once, he became still.

I did as well.

Could any of these men feel the power in that gesture? It did more than simply make us stop and open our minds to what he might say, it drove a shaft of peace into us.

A demon's mind often burns with the anger he or she feels toward God, like a pot on a slow boil. Even after Jesus forgave me and temporarily lifted me from my fallen state, that anger persisted in me and drove me to undo the change he'd made in me.

Now, though, the anger faded like a dying man's breath.

"When I started my ministry," Jesus said. "I went to a synagogue. There I saw a pharisee, much like yourselves, stand and say, 'God, I thank you that I am not a sinner like this tax collector.' He then gestured to the man sitting beside him."

The three men looked at each other. "Was the man truly a tax collector and a sinner?"

"Yes," Jesus said. "And the pharisee kept himself ritually clean, fasted three times a week, and had trumpets blown in the streets as he distributed alms to the poor. To make matters worse, the tax collector, had used his position to extort more money than he was owed."

"M--m--most of--of them d--do that," the pharisee with the bent back said.

The others nodded, then they shared a puzzled look.

"Rabbi, what is the meaning of this story?" the older one asked.

"All of us who attended that synagogue knew this tax collector," Jesus explained. "He took his position, as well as the extra money, to pay for treatments for his sick mother. He felt bad about what he was doing, though. Each week he would come to synagogue, beat his breast, and say, 'God have mercy on me, a sinner.' That day, though, out of shame, he merely mumbled the words and did not raise his head."

The three men folded their hands and adopted thoughtful frowns. You could almost hear their brains work in an effort to draw meaning from Jesus' story.

"The synagogue should have taken up a collection and paid for it," Judas suggested.

Again, Jesus put a hand on his disciple's shoulder to calm him.

Once more, silence and peace filled the air. Jesus let it linger. A bird sang in the distance.

At last, Jesus spoke in a quiet voice. "I tell you, it was the tax collector who received justification from God that day, and not the pharisee."

"How can you know that?" One of the black-bearded pharisee with the better posture said. "Only God can see men's hearts."

Fear clouded the older man's gaze, though. Did he see Jesus for what he was?

"It's a story," the older man said. "Meant to make us understand the need to approach God with humility. Am I right, rabbi?"

To this Jesus gave a nod. He did not, of course, deny that he'd known the man was justified.

"Still, though," the younger man insisted, "He should have phrased it as a question. He should have asked which do you suppose went home justified before God? He can't really know."

"And it's--it's not j--just a story," the other pharisee with the bent back said. "He--he said it hap--happened to him."

At this, he pointed.

"It is an effective teaching style, though," the older man countered.

And the three proceeded to argue and debate with one another. Jesus watched them, impassively.

I drifted over to Judas. "Remind your master about the money. Think of the poor."

Again, Judas stepped up at once. He came closer to Jesus and spoke in a low voice. "We could use their donation, rabbi."

"We will have it and more," Jesus said. "Even though I do not do as they ask."

Judas frowned. "But why?"

"Wait and see."

While we were still standing there, two more pharisees approached. One was thin and wore patched robes. The other could have been his brother--their faces and red beards were so similar. The second, however, was quite heavy and his robes were new.

"Teacher, we need your help," the thin one said. "There is a centurion whom we know, a friend of our nation. He even built a synagoge for us. Anyway, a valued servant of his is sick to the point of death. None of the doctors we have found have been able to help."

"What my brother says is true," the heavier man said. "This centurian is worthy of God's help. Please, we have heard that the Lord hears and answers your prayers."

On hearing this, the three pharisees who'd approached before stopped their arguing and stared at the two who had just approached.

"Another lesson for the three of you," Jesus said. "If you will walk with me to this man's house."

The three regarded each other and shrugged. "If it's not too far for my old legs," the older one said.

"It will not be," Jesus promised. "Come."

As we walked, Jesus' disciples and other followers drew closer, and the three moved further away. Some of the streets we followed were narrow, and the group spread into a long line. Keeping track of everyone was a logistical nightmare. Everywhere we went, the disciples were counting heads to see if anyone had gotten lost.

Before long, the old man was huffing and puffing. "Is it much farther?"

No sooner did he ask this question, two servants in white came and bowed before us. "Please, rabbi. You need not come any closer. Our master knows that you would be ceremonially defiled by entering his house. He says it is enough for you to give the command that his servant be healed."

The thinner pharisee looked confused. "But the teacher has agreed. Doesn't your master want his servant healed?"

"Rabbi Jesus often associates with prostitutes and tax collectors," the older pharisee offered. "Surely, he will have no difficulty entering a centurian's house."

To this the servant shrugged and said, "Our master says that, as a soldier, he knows how authority works. He is sure that if Jesus gives the command, the servant will be healed."

The thin red-bearded pharisee looked at Jesus. "Does it work that way? I mean--don't you have to lay hands on him or something?"

Jesus grinned like a young boy with a bag full of dates. "I tell you the truth, nowhere in Israel have I found such trust in God as in this centurian. From this moment the servant, whose name is Linus, is healed."

Still smiling, Jesus turned to the three pharisees who'd approached him as he entered the city. "Go with these men and see, then ask yourselves how I know what has happened."

At this the older man's eyes grew rounder. I knew he both understood and believed. To the young men who were with him, I went and whispered in his ear. "It's a trick," I said. "His followers staged this just for you. Linus was never ill."

The man with the bent back and the stutter did not listen, but the one with better posture did. His thoughts whirled. "Could it be?" he whispered to himself. "But then, how did he know we'd meet him at the gate?"

I grunted. "He didn't. The plan was to con the first group that approached him."

"I must go and see this Linus," the pharisee said.

I smiled to see the doubt grow in his heart.

It was odd. When I'd first taken this assignment, I'd assumed that I would have no chance and that I'd simply be blasted into sheol before I could make a move. That could still happen, of course, but for whatever reason, it seemed this strange game was not entirely rigged. I could win sometimes. Maybe even the entire war.

The trick would be to get Mikal out of harm's way if I thought a real confrontation was coming.