My name is Aura and I’m Greek. My father was a great artist, known in the Decapolis for his paintings of Hermes and Athena.

He liked to remind me to pray to Hermes to make me a messenger of good news and to Athena to discern truth from falsehood. I followed his advice and we offered sacrifices to both gods.

One day, my father received a strange commission. A wealthy man from the Decapolis asked him for a painting of the Temple in Jerusalem. My father hesitated at first because the city was a three-day journey from our home, but his desire for a challenge, together with the payment he was promised, won him over. I was curious about the Jewish holy place too, so I offered to go with him.

We arrived a few days before the celebration of Passover, and the streets were buzzing with activity.

The Temple was amazing, an immense construction with golden details that gleamed in the sun and a monumental central gate towering over the courtyard. My father and I stayed in the Court of the Gentiles, because only Jews were allowed to enter the Temple.

That’s where my father started working. I circled the Temple in the meantime, wondering about the Jewish families I saw entering and exiting. What was it like inside? Where was their God? I thought about Zeus, the Greek god of the sky and storms. Was the Jewish God anything like him?

I stood near the door to the first inner courtyard, lost in thought. I could see a stone path surrounded by columns about 3 meters high through the arched opening. There were crowds of merchants all around, shouting and arguing about whose prices were best. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of livestock. It didn’t seem like a place of worship. It reminded me more of a market.

There was a loud noise at the end of the Temple, but I couldn’t see what caused it from the doorway. The merchants started scrambling to gather their belongings, complaining and glancing over their shoulders as they did so. Then they fled.

A tall man strode into my line of sight. I knew immediately that He was the reason the merchants had fled. His eyes shone as if they were lit by an interior fire. He was breathing heavily, like He’d just run a marathon. A group of young Jews stared at him from farther back, astonished and afraid.

The man then spoke to the merchants, who were watching him angrily from outside: “In Scripture it is written, ‘My house will be called a house of prayer,’ but you have turned it into a den of thieves!” His voice was as low and as strong as thunder. Then he turned and saw me.

I realized two things at the same time. First, I was Greek, not Jewish, and therefore impure to him. And second, if those merchants angered him by selling doves within the Temple, he must hate seeing me so close to the Jewish place of worship.

I thought he would drive me out too, and I was afraid. But something changed in his eyes. He smiled slightly and to my surprise, I smiled back. Even though I’d just seen his anger, something about him seemed very trustworthy.

He fixed his eyes on me and repeated: “My house will be called a house of prayer for ALL nations.” And he winked at me.

Some sick people approached the Temple gate then and he laid his hands on them. That afternoon, I saw lame people walk and blind men regain their sight. Jesus spoke with authority and simplicity at the same time, and more and more people came to listen to him. I didn’t understand everything he said but I spent the rest of the day listening and watching the way he met each person’s eyes.

Times have changed since then, but you have to understand that there was a lot of tension between the Greeks and the Jewish people then. The fact that a Jew, a PROPHET, looked at me, a Greek woman, as an equal was incredible.

Jesus withdrew from the Temple at dusk. I heard that he was going to Bethany. As he walked away, some children shouted, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Hosanna!” Without knowing exactly what the words meant, I echoed them in my heart.

Maybe later I’ll tell you about the way I became a Christian through Paul’s [reaching, or how my father, who was also baptized, sold his paintings to help the newborn Church. We stopped praying to Hermes, but we became real messengers of good news. We dedicated ourselves to sharing Christ and the Gospel with our friends and neighbours.

Years have passed since my first meeting with Jesus, but I’ll never forget it. It was the first time I felt totally loved just the way I was. I hope you have the same experience with Him.