The Stranger In The Sand

           THE STRANGER IN THE SAND

             How Jesus—Yahshua—Was

                                                   

 Okechukwu C. Ezechi

© Okechukwu C. Ezechi

First published 2025

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                                                                                                    Description

     The Stranger in the Sand is a powerful historical narration that re-envisions the life and final days of Yahshua HaMashiach—far removed from the Western image of Jesus. Based on ancient descriptions, forensic evidence, and forgotten accounts. The story follows Flavius Josephus, a young Jewish historian tasked with spying on a rising figure said to perform miracles and stir rebellion.

     But Yahshua is nothing like the messiah people expect: short, black-skinned, with a hunched back and piercing eyes, he walks among the poor, heals with a touch, and speaks truths that threaten both religious and imperial powers. As Josephus navigates secret scrolls, Roman surveillance, and a divided band of disciples, he finds himself drawn into a story too divine to erase—and too dangerous to publish.

     Blending myth, memory, and mystery, The Stranger in the Sand challenges readers to reconsider what they thought they knew about the man called the Son of God.

            The Witness of Josephus

     Josephus, still in his early priesthood, was watching from a shaded corner, half-disguised by his cloak. He had been sent by the temple elite—not to marvel, but to measure. Reports had called this man Yahshua. The same whom peasants were whispering about as Messiah. The Sanhedrin feared messiahs. Rome hated them.

      Josephus took notes under his breath:

     “He speaks with the weak. He dines with the dirty. He touches the sick. A prophet… or something else?”

      A week into his quiet observations, Josephus was summoned to a hidden meeting by a Levite elder named Azahel.

“You've been watching the Galilean?” Azahel asked.

“I have. And he is no ordinary man.”

Azahel’s lips tightened. “You’re not here to admire him. You’re here to report. He is dangerous.”

“He teaches love, not swords.”

“And yet crowds form. Miracles occur. That is a threat to both temple and throne. The Romans are watching.”

     Josephus looked away. “If he is who they say he is... then history will not forgive our blindness.”

Azahel leaned forward. “We are not historians. We are guardians of the Law. Write him down. Then we’ll decide what to erase.”

      Josephus left with a heavier heart—and secretly began keeping a second scroll, hidden beneath his robe, full of raw, unfiltered accounts: healings, exorcisms, resurrections, teachings that unsettled kings and comforted beggars. It would be the scroll no one would see until after his death.

     Rome never looked directly—it watched from the corners.

Lucius Varro, a Roman centurion stationed in Jerusalem, had his own reasons for tracking Yahshua. He'd heard of a strange man healing a servant of his colleague in Capernaum—without ever seeing the boy.

“Impossible,” Lucius scoffed. But his curiosity burned.

He shadowed Yahshua from town to town, blending among foreign merchants. In Bethany, he witnessed Yahshua raise a man named Lazarus from his tomb. The air, Lucius swore, had cracked like thunder.

“Judean trickery,” he muttered.

But later, alone in his tent, he stared at the candle flame. If such power existed outside of Rome... what else was possible?

     One cool evening in a grove near the Jordan, Josephus finally approached Yahshua directly.

“You know I follow you,” he said.

Yahshua nodded. “You've seen much.”

Josephus studied him. “Why don’t you stop the rumors? Stand in the temple. Declare yourself. Make Rome kneel.”

“I did not come to sit on Caesar’s throne,” Yahshua answered.

“Then what are you?” Josephus whispered.

“I am a mirror. I show men what they are—and what they could be.”

Josephus hesitated, then unrolled his secret scroll. “I’ve been writing everything. Not for the priests. For the future.”

Yahshua took the scroll and smiled softly. “Then you are a prophet, too.”

     In the shadows of the olive grove, Judas delivered his infamous kiss.

Lucius Varro, now assigned to the patrol, stood in the arresting squad. He looked at Yahshua as soldiers tied his arms.

“You could run,” Lucius said quietly. “No one would stop you.”

“I choose this,” Yahshua replied.

Simon the Zealot tried to fight, cutting a soldier’s ear. Yahshua healed the man instantly.

Lucius trembled. “What kind of prisoner heals his enemies?”

     Pontius Pilate sat in judgment, his eyes hollow. Yahshua stood before him, bloodied yet calm.

“He says he’s a king,” the priests cried. “Blasphemer! Rebel!”

Pilate turned to Yahshua. “Are you?”

“My kingdom is not of this world,” Yahshua said.

“What is truth?” Pilate muttered to himself.

Josephus was among the crowd, helpless. His pen would do more than his voice ever could.

Pilate, trying to wash guilt with water, handed Yahshua over to be crucified.

                         The Story

     The sun was fierce over Judea, painting the rocks gold and the skies silver with its mid-morning blaze. The marketplace at the edge of Sepphoris buzzed with life—donkeys brayed, tradesmen shouted prices, and the smell of fresh dates mixed with sweat and dust. But near the well where beggars often gathered, a small group had formed. Their eyes weren’t on the water or the coin bowl. They were fixed on a man who had just walked into the town like a shadow given flesh.

     He was not what they expected.

     He was short, no taller than three cubits, his shoulders slightly hunched as though the years of burden had bent him. His skin was dark—melagchrous—like rich soil after rain. He wore his hair close to his scalp, short and tightly curled, with a part running through the middle like a Nazarite. His beard was thin and patchy. His face was long, the nose prominent, the brow heavy, and the eyes deep-set and bright, staring into you, not at you.

A boy watching from a vendor’s stall whispered, “He has the face of a prophet... but a body like mine.”

     An old woman with milky eyes leaned in closer, whispering to herself, “The Nazarene.”

He was known, and yet not. Rumors had arrived long before him. Some said he healed the sick with a touch; others claimed he raised the dead. Some feared him—a magician or worse, a madman. But in the dry air of that day, he stood as a contradiction: common in flesh, divine in energy.

     Josephus, still a young priest-scholar at the time, had heard of this man. He’d been sent to observe him—not with faith, but with skepticism. The Sanhedrin needed records. If this man stirred a rebellion or moved crowds too deeply, Rome would respond, and Jerusalem would burn again.

     Josephus approached.

The man turned, meeting his gaze as though he’d known him forever.

“You are Joseph ben Matthias,” the man said.

Josephus faltered. “I am.”

The man smiled—not a smile of amusement, but of recognition. “I know.”

He turned back to the crowd, where a paralytic lay near the well, arms twisted by time, legs shrunken. The man bent—slowly, carefully, as though pain lingered in his own back—and whispered something to the boy. Then he touched him. The child gasped. So did the crowd.

Josephus didn’t blink, but he felt the fear in his throat. The boy—whose name was Jabez—stood. His limbs realigned, his back stretched upright for the first time. There were no fireworks, no chants, no magic powders. Just touch. Just presence.

“Who is this man?” someone whispered.

“Yahshua,” another replied. “The one the Greeks mock as a son of God.”

“He is no man,” said a third. “He is a storm wrapped in flesh.”

Josephus took notes silently, but he could not write the truth his soul trembled with.

Over the next few days, Josephus followed Yahshua closely. Not once did the man eat in the homes of the rich. He slept outside, wrapped in nothing but his own robe, speaking softly with fishermen, lepers, tax collectors, and women who’d been exiled from the temple courts. His words were strange, yet sharp, like thunder dressed in poetry.

Once, in a town by the Galilean coast, a group of Greeks came to see him. One of them—bronzed skin, thick beard, polished sandals—stood forward and asked, “Are you truly the son of God?”

Yahshua looked at him. “Do you not carry the breath of the same Father?”

“You evade the question” the Greek replied.

“Then I invite you into it” Yahshua responded. 

     The Greek frowned.

“Tell me then,” the man pressed, “what god gives power to a hunchbacked man with no sword, no armies, no kingdom, and no coin?”

Yahshua touched his own heart. “The one who first breathed fire into dust.”

That night, Josephus could not sleep. His scroll was filled with contradictions: This man is simple, poor, dark, hunched—yet followed. He heals without effort. He speaks without fear. He walks among outcasts. He does not seek power, yet wields it with ease.

One morning, Josephus caught up with Yahshua beside a dry fig tree. The man was seated, watching a family of ants drag crumbs back to their hill.

“You confuse the world,” Josephus said.

“I’m not here to confirm its understanding,” Yahshua replied.

“You are not as the people imagined. You do not fit prophecy.”

Yahshua smiled again—that same unreadable expression. “Prophecy was not written to paint my face, but to open men’s eyes.”

“But they expect a king.”

“I am a king.”

Josephus looked around at the empty desert. “Where is your kingdom?”

Yahshua stood slowly. “In the breath of the widow. In the faith of the outcast. In the heartbeat of the child who forgives.”

He walked past Josephus then, toward a group waiting in the distance.

That same week, Josephus recorded Yahshua healing a blind Roman centurion’s servant with nothing more than a word, feeding a crowd of hundreds with a few fish and bread, and raising a widow’s only son from death’s grip in the quiet corner of Nain.

Josephus, hardened by politics and trained in reason, felt the scaffolding of logic cracking. His writings grew shaky. "I saw a man who defied the boundaries of matter. He walked in time, but owned none of it. He was called by many names: sorcerer, madman, son of a carpenter… Son of God. The Greeks mocked, but his disciples wept. They did not worship him because of tricks, but because of truth."

But truth had a cost.

In Jerusalem, whispers grew teeth. The temple priests called him a blasphemer. Rome called him a threat. One night, Josephus overheard two Sadducees planning his arrest.

"He has no army," one said. "Yet he threatens all empires."

"He must be silenced."

Josephus tried to warn him. He found Yahshua praying alone in a garden. The hunch of his back was more visible now, as though the world had leaned on him.

“They will arrest you,” Josephus said. “Tonight or tomorrow. You must flee.”

Yahshua opened his eyes—dark, infinite, worn.

“Would you flee your own hour?”

“You’ll be killed.”

“I will rise.”

Josephus shook his head. “You speak madness.”

“I speak light.”

The arrest happened before dawn. Josephus watched from the shadows as Yahshua was dragged, beaten, mocked. Pilate washed his hands. The crowd shouted “Crucify!” louder than the sparrows could sing.

On a hill outside the city, the man of “magic power” was crucified between thieves.

He did not resist. He did not scream. Only wept—for them.

Josephus turned away. He wrote only one line that day: “They hung a light on wood and called it finished.”

But the story didn’t end.

Days after, a woman from Magdala ran through the streets saying she had seen him alive. Josephus laughed—until another man swore the same. Then two more. Then ten. They claimed to have eaten with him, touched his hands, heard his voice.

Some called it hysteria. Others, resurrection.

Josephus never admitted belief. But he never denied the records either.

In a private scroll, found only after his death, he wrote:

 “At that time appeared a man unlike any other. Black-skinned, hunched in posture, eyes like fire buried in olive pits. The Greeks called him son of God. His own called him Yahshua. I do not know what to call him.

But he made the blind see, the lame walk, and the proud kneel.

If it be meet to call him a man, I will. But I saw no man when he looked at me. I saw the Beginning clothed in dust.”

Notes: 

     It is important to note that it was the Greeks who began the act of deifying Yahshua who was then named Iesous (Jesus), and actually calling him God. They had witnessed the scenarios, his life and acts, and being that the Greeks were prone to pantheism, just like they had intended to do to Paul and Apollos, they created a God. However, with a doubt, Yahshua HaMashiach is undoubtedly the greatest Prophet to have walked the earth, and his purpose and calling was to lead those who cared to listen—to lead them to the one true God—the God of light, love and righteousness—EL. And this must be done through a form of gnostic transcendence and self-consciousness, because to know God is to be one with God. And this God doesn’t need to be accessed from heaven but from within. Just as Christ said: “You in me and I in them, so that we shall become one”. 

     From records, Yahshua had been known and recorded to be a man of dark complexion. This has nothing to do with his spirituality, but if it didn’t matter that much, should we not ask why Europe and the Church had to obscure the original and true images of this prophet? Should a serious and ardent student not bother to know why the images and pictures of Jesus (Yahshua), that line up the walls of chapels and cathedrals worldwide, happen to be that of a European effeminate man? 

     The distortion of the actual image of Jesus—from a likely dark-skinned, Afro-Asiatic Jewish man to the familiar white, European-looking figure—was a deliberate cultural, political, and theological maneuver that unfolded over centuries, and this move also lends credence as to why he was deified as God. Here are concise but comprehensive explanations as to why it happened:

1. Eurocentric Power and Colonial Theology

    As Christianity spread beyond Judea into Greco-Roman territories, it was reshaped to reflect the culture and ideals of its new rulers. By the time the Roman Empire adopted Christianity under Constantine (4th century CE), Rome needed a Jesus that looked like its citizens—not like an oppressed Jew under imperial occupation.

The whitewashed image of Jesus served to legitimize European dominance, making the faith more appealing to imperial power structures and later European monarchies.

2. Renaissance Art and the Influence of European Ideals

     Artists like Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael painted Jesus using European models—white, tall, soft-featured, with long flowing hair and blue or hazel eyes.

These images were not meant to be historically accurate. They were based on the aesthetic ideals of the time, and over centuries, they became the standard image in churches, cathedrals, and eventually in colonial Bibles.

3. Theological Supremacy and White Divinity

     In order to justify theologies of European superiority, especially during the Crusades, Inquisitions, and later colonization, Jesus had to look like the oppressors—not the oppressed.

A Black or Semitic Jesus would have aligned Jesus with colonized, enslaved, or marginalized peoples—which threatened the narrative of divine right and white supremacy.

4. Colonialism and Missionary Work

     During European colonization, Christian missionaries brought with them a white image of Jesus, which psychologically reinforced the inferiority of Black, Brown, and Indigenous peoples.

Converting people with a white savior was a subtle but devastating act of erasure, disconnecting communities from the Middle Eastern, Jewish, and African roots of the faith.

5. Silencing Alternative Images and Traditions

     Early Christian communities in Ethiopia, Nubia, Egypt, and Syria often depicted Jesus with dark skin and African features, as seen in ancient iconography.

These images were either suppressed or dismissed by European scholars and churches as heretical, primitive, or unorthodox—despite their theological authenticity and historical proximity to the actual Jesus.

     In Summary, the image of Jesus was whitened to align with European power, aesthetics, and colonial objectives—erasing his historical identity to make him look like the rulers rather than the ruled.

This distortion wasn't just about skin color—it was about control of narrative, theology, and global identity. Recovering the original image isn't just a historical correction—it's an act of decolonization and spiritual truth.

BIBLIOGRAPHIES:

 Books and Academic Sources

Aslan, Reza. Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth. Random House, 2013.

Blum, Edward J., and Paul Harvey. The Color of Christ: The Son of God and the Saga of Race in America. University of North Carolina Press, 2012.

Cleage, Albert B. The Black Messiah. Sheed and Ward, 1968.

Cone, James H. The Cross and the Lynching Tree. Orbis Books, 2011.

Okechukwu C. Ezechi. The Stranger In The Sand: How Jesus—Yahshua—Was. Selar, 2025

Crossan, John Dominic. Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography. HarperOne, 1994.

Ben-Jochannan, Yosef A.A. The African Origins of Major Western Religions. Black Classic Press, 1970.

Forensic and Anthropological Sources

"The Real Face of Jesus." Popular Mechanics, Dec. 2002, pp. 56–60.

BBC. Son of God. Directed by Jean Claude Bragard, narrated by Jeremy Bowen, BBC One, 2001.

Neave, Richard. Facial Reconstruction in BBC's Son of God. University of Manchester, 2001.

Ancient and Apocryphal Writings

Josephus, Flavius. Antiquities of the Jews. Translated by William Whiston, Hendrickson Publishers, 1987. (Note: Some references to Jesus are disputed or considered interpolations.)

Origen. Contra Celsum. Translated by Henry Chadwick, Cambridge University Press, 1953. (Cites the second-century critic Celsus' descriptions of Jesus.)

“Letter of Lentulus.” In The Apocryphal New Testament, edited by J.K. Elliott, Oxford University Press, 1993, pp. 450–451. (Note: Authenticity debated, but historically influential.)

Iconographic Evidence

“Healing of the Paralytic.” Dura-Europos Church Wall Painting, ca. 235 A.D., Yale University Art Gallery.

Ethiopian Orthodox Church Art. Various Icons and Murals, National Museum of Ethiopia, Addis Ababa.