‘And he did the same with the rest of the debtors. Now, what did the master say when he heard about this? Whatever you think, you’re wrong. What he did was to commend the dishonest manager for his shrewdness.’

What Jesus seemed to be saying with these stories, Christ thought, was something horrible: that God’s love was arbitrary and undeserved, almost like a lottery. Jesus’s friendship with tax-collectors and prostitutes and other undesirable characters must also have been part of this radical attitude; he seemed to have a real scorn for what was commonly thought of as virtue. He once told a story about two men, a Pharisee and a tax-collector, who both went to the temple to pray. The Pharisee stood by himself looking up to heaven and said, ‘God, I thank you that I’m not like other men, a thief, an adulterer, a swindler, or like that tax-collector over there. I fast twice a week, and I give away a tenth of my income.’ But the tax-collector didn’t dare to look up; he kept his eyes down and beat his breast, saying, ‘God, I beg you, be merciful to me, a sinner.’ And this, and not the other, Jesus told his listeners, was the man who would enter the Kingdom.

It was a popular message, no doubt; the common people delighted to hear about men and women such as themselves winning undeserved success. But it troubled Christ, and he longed to ask the stranger about it.

He soon had his chance. As he walked one evening beside the Sea of Galilee, thinking he was alone, he found the stranger beside him.

He was startled, and said, ‘Sir! I didn’t see you. Forgive me for not greeting you – had you been beside me for some time? My thoughts were elsewhere.’

‘I am always close to you,’ said the stranger, and they fell into step and walked along together.

‘When we spoke last,’ said Christ, ‘you said that next time we would talk about my brother.’

‘And so we shall. What is his future, do you think?’

‘His future – I can’t tell, sir. He’s stirring up a good deal of animosity. I worry that if he’s not careful he might meet the same fate as John, the Baptist, or else provoke the Romans as the Zealots are doing.’

‘But is he careful?’

‘No. I’d say he was reckless. But to him, you see, the Kingdom of God is coming very soon, and it makes no sense to be cautious and prudent.’

‘To him, you say? You mean you don’t think he’s right? This is just a guess of his, and he might be mistaken?’

‘Not quite that,’ said Christ. ‘I think we have a difference of emphasis. I believe the Kingdom is coming, of course I do. But he thinks it will come without warning, because God is impulsive and arbitrary. That’s at the root of it.’

He told the stranger the parables that had troubled him.

‘I see,’ said the stranger. ‘And you? What do you think of God?’

‘I think he is just. Virtue must play some part in whether we are rewarded or punished, or else why be virtuous? What the law and the prophets say – what Jesus himself says – doesn’t make sense otherwise. It’s just not consistent.’

‘I can see how it must trouble you.’

They walked on a little way in silence.

‘And besides,’ said Christ, ‘there is the matter of the Gentiles.’

He left it there, to see how his companion would respond. If, as he thought, the man was Greek, he would naturally be interested.

But the stranger merely said, ‘Go on.’

‘Well,’ said Christ, ‘Jesus preaches only to the Jews. He’s said clearly that Gentiles are dogs, for example. It was on the scrolls I gave you last time.’

‘I remember. But you don’t agree?’

Christ was aware that if this man had come to tempt him into rash words, this was exactly the way he would do it: lead him by soft questions.

‘Again, sir,’ he said carefully, ‘I think it’s a matter of emphasis. I know that the Jews are the beloved people of God – the scripture says that. And yet God surely created the Gentiles too, and there are good men and women among them. Whatever form the Kingdom may take, it will surely be a new dispensation, and it would not be surprising, given the infinite mercy and justice of God, to find his love extending to the Gentiles… But these mysteries are deep, and I may be wrong. I wish, sir, you would tell me what the truth is. It lies beyond time, as you told me, but my knowledge is lacking, and my vision clouded.’

‘Come with me,’ said the stranger.

And he led Christ up the hillside to a place where the setting sun illuminated everything brightly. The stranger was wearing clothes of pure white, and the glare from them was dazzling.

‘I asked about your brother,’ said the stranger, ‘because it’s clear that a crisis in the world is coming, and because of it you and he both will be remembered in times to come just as Moses and Elijah are remembered now. We must make sure, you and I, that the accounts of these days give due weight to the miraculous nature of the events the world is passing through. For example, the voice from the cloud you heard at his baptism.’

‘I remember my mother told you about that… But did you know that when I told Jesus about it I said that the voice spoke of him?’

‘That is exactly why you are the perfect chronicler of these events, my dear Christ, and why your name will shine in equal splendour with his. You know how to present a story so its true meaning shines out with brilliance and clarity. And when you come to assemble the history of what the world is living through now, you will add to the outward and visible events their inward and spiritual significance; so, for example, when you look down on the story as God looks down on time, you will be able to have Jesus foretell to his disciples, as it were in truth, the events to come of which, in history, he was unaware.’

‘Since you spoke to me of the difference between them, I have always tried to let the truth irradiate the history.’

‘And he is the history, and you are the truth,’ said the stranger. ‘But just as truth knows more than history, so you will have to be wiser than he is. You will have to step outside time, and see the necessity for things that those within time find distressing or repugnant. You will have to see, my dear Christ, with the vision of God and the angels. You will see the shadows and the darkness without which the light would have no brilliance. You will need courage and resolution; you will need all your strength. Are you ready for that vision?’

‘Yes, sir, I am.’

‘Then we shall speak again soon. Close your eyes and sleep now.’

And Christ felt overpowering tiredness, and lay down where he was on the ground. When he awoke it was dark, and he felt he had experienced a dream stranger than any other he had known. But the dream had solved one mystery, because he knew now that the stranger was no ordinary teacher, no member of the Sanhedrin, no Greek philosopher: he was not a human being at all. He could only be an angel.

And he kept the vision of the angel, his white garments dazzling with light, and resolved to let the truth of that vision into the history of his brother.