Isa sat with Christa beneath an old fig tree, its roots gripping the earth like memory itself. The evening light was soft, forgiving. Jerusalem breathed.
Christa said quietly, “They argue about the Mahdi again. They expect thunder. Armies. Blood.”
Isa smiled, the kind that carried sorrow and patience in equal measure.
“They always do.”
“He is prophesied to come from the family of Fatima,” Christa continued. “Daughter of Muhammad. They say he will fill the world with justice after it has been filled with oppression.”
“Yes,” Isa replied. “Justice, not conquest. Peace, not spectacle.”
Christa looked at him. “Then why do so many imagine him as a warlord?”
Isa picked a fallen fig leaf and turned it in his fingers.
“Because humanity confuses drama for destiny. They mistake noise for truth.”
She laughed softly. “Like those desert epics—where prophecy means endless war. Chosen ones drenched in blood. Even the actors look exhausted carrying all that death.”
Isa nodded. “A messiah who only brings death is not a healer. He is a mirror of fear.”
“The Mahdi,” Christa said, “is meant to restore balance, isn’t he? Courts that are fair. Bread that is shared. Children who sleep without fear.”
“Exactly,” Isa said. “He does not arrive riding missiles or myth. He arrives correcting weights and measures. Ending lies. Protecting the weak. That is harder than war.”
Christa leaned her head against his shoulder.
“So no holy genocide. No galactic jihad. No dunes soaked in blood.”
Isa chuckled. “No. Only the slow, stubborn work of justice. The kind that never makes for a blockbuster.”
They sat in silence as the sun dipped low.
At last Isa spoke again:
“When the Mahdi comes, people will be disappointed.”
“Why?” Christa asked.
“Because he will look ordinary,” Isa said. “And peace is never as glamorous as destruction.”
The fig tree rustled in agreement. 🌿