I never meant to follow Him. Not at first. Men like me did not follow untrained Galilean teachers. We examined them, evaluated them, corrected them if necessary—and dismissed them. That was the order of things. And when I first heard His name, “Jesus of Nazareth,” I expected it to be no different. Nazareth! What prophet arises from such a place? We had our Scriptures, our teachers, our traditions. We knew where righteousness dwelled.
Or so I thought.
It began with the crowds. Wherever He went, people gathered in a way I had never seen before: tax collectors, fishermen, beggars, women with questionable reputations, the sick and the unclean—all of them pressing near Him as though holiness flowed from His garments. We watched from a distance, the way righteous men watch the ignorant. And yet… there was no chaos around Him. Somehow, in His presence, the shame that clung to those people seemed to loosen its grip. When He touched the unclean, they changed—not He. This should have bothered me more than it did.
At first, I told myself I watched Him because it was my duty. We Pharisees are guardians of the Law. It is our task to protect Israel from deception. “Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” we asked His disciples one day, pretending it was a simple question. But it wasn’t simple. It wasn’t even honest. The truth is, I wasn’t shocked by His lack of caution. I was terrified by His lack of shame. He ate with sinners as though they belonged at His table. He reclined among them as though they were old friends, as though purity were more powerful than impurity.
He made us look small.
The fishermen sat close to Him that day. The tax collectors leaned in as though hearing the voice of God for the first time. And when He heard our question, He didn’t scold us. He didn’t defend Himself. He simply said, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick.” And then, quoting the prophet Hosea—Hosea, of all prophets!—He said, “Go and learn what this means: I desire mercy, not sacrifice.”
I felt a chill run through me.
Mercy? Not sacrifice? Did He not understand that sacrifice was the backbone of purity, the lifeblood of temple worship, the marker of distinction between the righteous and the sinner? But He spoke as though mercy were the true sanctuary, as though compassion were the altar upon which God’s favor rested.
Still, I told myself this was theological error. That is why we returned. That is why we watched. That is why we questioned.
But then came the matter of fasting.
We fasted. John's disciples fasted. It was a sign of devotion, a mark of seriousness. And there He was—this Jesus—eating again. Laughing even, surrounded by people who had not earned the right to be joyful. How could anyone trust a teacher who relaxed spiritual discipline? So we asked Him, “Why do we and the Pharisees fast, but your disciples do not fast?”
This time He looked at us—not past us, not through us, but into us. It was unsettling.
“Can the wedding guests mourn while the Bridegroom is with them?” He said.
The Bridegroom. He spoke as though He were the center of Israel’s hope, the One we had prayed for, the One who would restore God’s presence among us. But if He was the Bridegroom, then what did that make us—the self-appointed guardians of holiness? What role did we have in a wedding where the outcasts were honored guests?
And that is when something in me broke.
Until that moment, I had believed I rejected Him because He was wrong. But suddenly I saw the truth: I rejected Him because He might be right. If He is the Messiah—if God truly chooses to sit with the broken, to lift the unclean, to seek the sinner first—then everything I built my life upon is dust.
How do you accept mercy when your honor has been built on judgment? How do you embrace compassion when your power depends on separation? How do you admit that God’s presence is found at the very tables you refused to sit at?
I felt exposed.
That day, I realized I did not fear a false Messiah. I feared the real one. I feared a Messiah who would not look to us first, who would not validate our sacrifices, who would not praise our righteousness, who would not applaud our boundaries. I feared a Messiah who would call sinners before the righteous, who would heal the unclean before He noticed the observant, who would choose fishermen for His companions while leaving our halls untouched.
I feared a Messiah who came for them instead of us.
After that day, I followed Him more closely—but not to learn. I followed Him to protect myself. To protect the world I had built. Because if He is right, then my righteousness is hollow, my purity is a mask, and my certainty is a fragile illusion.
And yet… sometimes, in the quiet moments, I wonder:
What if the God He reveals truly is the God of Israel?
What if mercy really is the heart of holiness?
What if we—so sure of our cleanliness—are the ones who need healing?
I do not know the answer yet.
But I know this: I no longer follow Him to expose Him.
I follow Him because, deep down, I fear He has exposed me.