Jesus approached, stopped at the threshold and placed his hand over his heart in the sign of greeting. “I am a foreigner,” he said, “a Galilean. I am hungry and cold, and I have no place to sleep. I am an honest man. Allow me to spend the night in your home. I found the door open and entered. Excuse me.”

The young woman turned, her hand still full of chicken feed. She regarded him from head to foot tranquilly, then smiled. “We’re at your service,” she said. “Welcome. Come in.”

The weaver extricated herself from the loom and appeared in the yard. She was thin-boned and pale, with her black braids tied in a double bun on her head. Her eyes were large, fuzzy and sad. Around her frail neck she wore a necklace of turquoises as a charm against the evil eye. She looked at the visitor and blushed. “We’re alone,” she said. “Our brother Lazarus isn’t here. He went to the Jordan to be baptized.”

“And what difference does it make if we’re alone?” said the other. “He won’t eat us. Come inside, my good man. Don’t listen to her: she’s scared of her own shadow. We’ll call the villagers to keep you company, and the elders will come also to ask you who you are, where you’re going and what news you bring us. So, if you please, enter our poor house. What happened to you? Are you cold?”

“I’m cold, hungry and sleepy,” answered Jesus, striding across the threshold.

“All three will be remedied, have no fears,” she said. “Now I want you to know that I’m called Martha, and this is my sister Mary. And you?”

“Jesus of Nazareth.”

“A good man?” Martha laughed, teasing him.

“Yes, good,” he answered, his expression severe. “Good, to the best of my ability, Martha, my sister.”

He entered the cottage. Mary lighted the lamp and hooked it in place, illuminating the room and its immaculate whitewashed walls. There were two trunks of embossed cypress wood, several stools, and along the wall a long wooden platform with mattresses and pillows. The loom stood in one corner; in the other were two small earthenware jars for the olives and oil. The jug of cool water was on its shelf to the right of the entrance. Next to it a long linen towel hung on a peg. The house smelled of cypress wood and quince. At the back was a wide, unlighted fireplace with the cooking utensils suspended all around it.

“I’ll light a fire so that you can dry off. Sit down.” Martha found a stool and placed it for him in front of the hearth, then raced to the courtyard and brought in an armful of vine twigs, laurel branches and two logs of olive wood. She squatted, arranged the kindling into a little hut, and ignited it.

Crouching, his head between his two palms, his elbows on his knees, Jesus watched. What a holy ceremony it is, he reflected, to arrange wood and light a fire on a cold day: the flame comes like a merciful sister to warm you. And to enter an alien house, hungry and tired, and to see two other sisters, strangers, come and comfort you… His eyes filled with tears.

Martha got up, went to the larder and brought bread, honey and a brass pot of wine, which she placed at the stranger’s feet. “This is the appetizer,” she said. “Now I’ll put the pot on the fire so that you can taste something hot, and renew your strength. I imagine you’ve come a long way.”

“From the ends of the earth,” he answered. He bent eagerly toward the bread, olives and honey. What marvels they were, what joys! How generously God sent them to men! He ate and ate, blessing the Lord.

Mary, all the while, stood next to the lampstand and silently watched first the fire, then the unexpected guest, then her sister, who, swept away by the joy of having a man in her house and serving him, had sprouted wings.

Jesus raised the pot of wine and looked at the two women. “Martha and Mary, my sisters,” he said, “you must have heard of the flood in the time of Noah. All men were sinful, and everyone drowned except the few virtuous men who boarded the ark and were saved. Mary and Martha, I swear to you that if there is another flood, and if it is up to me to invite you to enter the new ark, I shall do so, my sisters, because this evening a poorly dressed, unknown, barefooted guest appeared at your door; you lighted a fire for him and he was warmed; you gave him bread and he was filled; you spoke a kind word to him and the kingdom of heaven came down and entered his heart. I drink to your health, my sisters. I’m delighted to meet you!”

Mary drew near and sat down at his feet. “I can’t hear enough of your voice, stranger,” she said, blushing terribly. “Speak more.”

Martha put the casserole on the fire, set the table and drew cool water from the well in the yard. Then she sent a young neighbor to announce to the three village elders that she would like them (if they would be so kind) to call at her house, because a visitor had come to her and her sister.

“Speak more,” Mary repeated, seeing Jesus quiet.

“What do you wish me to say, Mary?” Jesus asked. He lightly touched her black braids. “Silence is good. It says everything.”

“Silence does not satisfy a woman. Women, poor things, need a kind word.”

“Don’t listen to her. Not even a kind word satisfies a woman,” interrupted Martha, who was feeding the lamp with oil now so that it would last, for the elders were coming and would engage the visitor in profound discussions. “Not even a kind word satisfies poor womankind. A woman wants to hear her husband shake the house with his tread; she wants to suckle a baby in order to soothe her breast. She wants many things, Jesus of Galilee, many-but what do you men know about such matters!”

She tried to laugh but could not. She was thirty years old and unmarried.

They remained silent, listening to the fire devour the olive logs and lick the earthenware casserole which was bubbling away. The eyes of all three were lost in the flames.

Finally Mary spoke. “If you could only know how much goes through a woman’s mind while she sits and weaves! If you knew you would pity her, Jesus of Nazareth.”

“I do know,” said Jesus, smiling. “I too was once a woman, in another life, and I used to weave.”

“And what did you think about?”

“God. Nothing else, Mary, just God. And you?”

Mary did not answer, but her breast swelled. Martha heard their conversation and sighed, but restrained herself from speaking. Finally she could endure it no longer.

“Never fear,” she said, her voice suddenly harsh. “Mary and I, and all the unmarried women of the world, think of God. We hold him on our knees like a husband.”

Jesus bowed his head and did not speak. Martha removed the pot from the fire. The supper was ready. She went to the larder to bring the earthenware dishes so that she could serve the meal.

“I want to tell you something which struck my mind once while I was weaving,” said Mary, whispering so that her sister would not hear her from the larder. “I too was thinking of God on that day, and I spoke to him. ‘God,’ I said, ‘if you ever deign to enter our poor house, you will be its master, and we shall be the guests. And now…” She choked, and was silent.

“And now?” said Jesus, leaning forward to hear. Martha appeared with the plates.

“Nothing,” Mary whispered, getting up.

“Come and eat,” said Martha. “The elders will be here any minute. They mustn’t find us still eating.”

All three knelt. Jesus took the bread, lifted it high and pronounced the blessing so warmly and with such pathos that the two astonished sisters turned and stared at him. But when they saw him they were terrified, for his face shone and the air behind his head was afire and quivering.

Mary put forth her hand. “Lord,” she cried, “you are the master and we the guests. Command us!”

Jesus lowered his head so that they would not see how troubled he was. This was the first cry, the first time a soul had recognized him.