Bread and Stones — A Transgender Messiah is Tempted in the Wilderness

“Are you not the Son of God?”

The dust stretches out as far as Yasha can see, hot and dry. The sun beats upon his head like a living thing digging its claws into his scalp. He kneels in the sand, waiting — for what he is not certain.

Yasha has lost track of the time he has spent here in the wilderness. At first, he counted the days by the sun’s rising and setting, but around thirty-some days, his count was lost in the heat and the dust.

“How long, Oh Lord? Will You hide Yourself forever? Will Your wrath burn like fire?” He means to cry out the Psalmist’s words into the hot parched air, but his dry throat allows only a hoarse whisper. His head falls back onto his shoulders and he closes his eyes.

“Are you not the Son of God?”

Yasha opens his eyes. A person stands before him, so close as to be silhouetted against the sunlight. A sense of knowledge falls over Yasha: this is what he has been waiting for. “My name is Yasha,” he says.

The stranger’s face is hidden in shadow, but somehow Yasha knows that he is smiling. “You may call me Loukios.” He crouches in front of Yasha, and his face comes into focus. It is ageless and beautiful and perfect, but there is something malevolent in the depths of his eyes, and his smile edges into a sneer. Picking up a dusty stone from the ground, Loukios turns it over in his soft uncalloused hands. “If you are the Son of God, could you not command this stone to become bread?”

The stone’s surface is pocked with tiny imperfections from the desert wind. Yasha can almost see Yosef’s head shake at it for it is too small to be much use for building. If it were bread, it would be no more than two or three mouthsful. Still, Yasha’s stomach clenches at the thought, yearning for a morsel of bread. He could do it. He can feel the power as always, burning in his belly. It would be nothing to reach into the substance of the stone and turn it just so — he can see exactly how to do it, and he nearly reaches out, his fingers itching with potential. But Yasha’s heart sends a warning, and he knows with an awful clarity that to do this would be wrong. Not because of the act itself, but because of who is asking and why. Curling his fingers into his palm, Yasha pulls his gaze away from the stone and meets Loukios’ eyes. “It is written, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of the Lord.’”

Loukios’ smile grows sharper, more mocking. “Are you a man?” he asks scornfully.

A flash of alarm goes through Yasha’s heart. What does Loukios know? Is he simply asking if Yasha is human?

When Yasha doesn’t answer immediately, Loukios laughs softly. “Son of God,” he says softly, sardonically. “He didn’t make it easy for you, did He?”

There is truth in the words. The path that lies before Yasha will not be easy. At times, he is not certain if he will be able to endure it. Often, he simply refuses to think on it.

Loukios’ hand darts out and grabs Yasha’s shoulder, his grip tight and almost painful. Yasha opens his mouth, but before he can say a word, the desert vanishes from around them, spinning away like dirty water down a drain. And then they are standing on the summit of Har Hermon, looking down upon the lands of the Amorites, the Assyrians, and the Canaanites. The ha-Yarden winds past far below their sandaled feet, the sound of the water lost to the distance.

Loukios raises his free hand, the other still gripping Yasha’s shoulder. He gestures broadly at the vista below. “Do you see these kingdoms and their glory? It has all been delivered to me, and I give it to whomever I wish.” He bends his head toward Yasha, his fingers digging deeper into Yasha’s shoulder, his voice very nearly a hiss. “I will give it all to you, without cost or penalty. You can be a king.” He pauses, then says, “You need only bow to me.”

Yasha steps back, twisting free of Loukios’ hand. A sprinkle of gravel spills free below Yasha’s sandals to fall down the mountainside. His hands clench at his sides. “It is written, ‘You shall worship the Lord your God, and Him only you shall serve’.”

Loukios’ smile is gone. His comely face is cold, his voice biting. “I am trying to help you, Yasha. If you persist in following His plan, the cost will be too high.” A pleading note slips into his voice. “Let me protect you. Let me be your shield.”

Yasha turns away to hide his face. He needs no one’s protection. He must walk the path before him. He must bear it.

A sound halfway between a laugh and a growl and Loukios grabs Yasha’s shoulder again. And again the world spins away around them, then they are standing on the pinnacle of the Temple, the city of Yerushaláyim arrayed dizzyingly below. For a moment, Yasha imagines he hears a mob of voices crying out for his blood, but it is a quiet afternoon and only a few people mill about in the Temple courtyard, their voices lost to wind and distance.

Loukios’ flawless features are twisted into a sneer. He points down toward the ground far below. His voice is a sharp challenge. “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here — for it is written, ‘He shall give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways. In their hands they shall lift you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone’.”

Suddenly Yasha feels a deep sorrow for Loukios. His voice is gentle when he says, “And it is also written, ‘You shall not test the Lord your God’.”

The Temple and the city of Yerushaláyim twist away and they are once again in the desert where they began, standing in the dust below the unyielding sun. Loukios glares at Yasha, his face still and cold like carved marble, his eyes burning with naked hatred. “You are an artificer from Nazareth. Your hands are dirty and hard. You are neither truly man nor fully God. Who will follow you?”

Knowledge comes to Yasha again, memories of Loukios from long ago before he was bitter and cold. Tears come to Yasha’s eyes and he reaches out and touches Loukios’ arm. “I am sorry, Son of the Morning.”

Snatching his arm away, Loukios steps back so quickly he loses his balance and nearly falls. “Do not pity me, Son of God!” he spits. “I would not be you for anything in all the world!” They stand for a moment, staring at one another, Loukios’ breath harsh in the hot dry air. “You will come to regret the choices you made today,” Loukios says. And then he is gone.

More about Yasha:

Esther learned to read when she was four years old, and began writing shortly thereafter. She is a queer Christian poet, crafting with words to create art and music.

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