Pursuit: Chapter 1

Preface: This is a story about pursuit. Not the pursuit of a man chasing after God, but of God chasing after us.

It is the tale of a beggar invited to a feast, who carries both his hunger and his mistrust into the King’s hall. A reminder that we all wrestle with doubts, with fears that mercy is too good to be true.

The story is not told to explain everything, but to draw you in. To invite you to sit with the tension—and perhaps, in time, to see yourself in the beggar.

The Invitation

This whole situation doesn’t make sense. Why on earth would the King invite me? I’m nobody. I’ve lived in a gutter all my life, begging for every crumb I’ve ever eaten.

But the letter and seal are real. Authentic. The parchment is heavier than any scrap I’ve touched. And the letter has my name. My name. How does He know my name?

It has to be a trick. Too elaborate for a street-corner prank, but a trick all the same.

If this is from the King and I don’t show up, I’ll be put to death. If I show up and it’s a forgery, I’ll be put to death as well. I could skip town. Nothing is stopping me. It would be easy enough to slip through the city gates and vanish into the wilderness.

But then what? What if the letter truly is from the King and the guards catch me trying to flee? What if I make it into the wilderness only to starve or be torn apart by beasts?

Every choice is death.

But what if it’s true?

I’ve heard whispers that He is kind. But this seems too good to be true, too good to bear the weight of reality. I’ve also heard what He does to His enemies: complete and overwhelming destruction. Not one serpent has risen against Him that He did not crush swiftly and mercilessly.

According to the letter, I must be there tonight.

I need to decide quickly. If I run, it must be now.

…I’ll go.

If death is waiting for me either way, I’ll at least choose how I meet it.

Maybe this is legitimate. Or maybe, better yet, it’s all a mistake. They sent it to the wrong man. That’s it. I’ll bring the invitation, the guards will see my rags, we’ll have a good laugh, and they’ll send me away.

No harm done.

Hours pass, and the time finally comes for me to make my way to the King. I try my best to dust off my rags and comb my hair with my fingers. It’s not much of an improvement, but it’s all I can do.

Time to go.

The letter feels heavier with every step I take toward the gates. My thumb rubs the seal until it hurts, as if I could wear it down and prove this whole thing false. If I had any sense, I would have turned back by now. But I keep walking. This is ridiculous.

The guards see me coming. I brace with a smile for their mockery. I expect their laughter first, then their blades. Instead, their eyes go to the seal, not to me. They open the gates without a word. Just like that. I almost collapse with relief, but dread rushes in to replace it.

Now what? I didn’t think I’d actually make it this far. I stand in awe as the massive gate swings wide for me to enter.

The world is dark, but my path is lit by torchlight and moonlight. The castle is much larger up close. Moonlight makes each stone seem to glow. The towers stretch like fingers toward heaven. Who could have built something like this?

Inside, it’s worse. The air is too clean, too sweet. I still carry the gutter on me: the sour stench of mold and sweat, the bite of alley smoke in my hair. It doesn’t belong here. I don’t belong here. The contrast only deepens my uneasiness. This is too much.

And then I hear it.

Laughter.

Full, unguarded, alive.

It pours from the banquet hall like wine from an overfilled cup. I step closer. My stomach twists when I see the table—meat glistening, bread steaming, cups brimming with red. The smell alone nearly knocks me over.

But the food isn’t what steals my breath.

It’s Him.

The King.

I don’t need anyone to tell me. I just know. His presence fills the hall like sunlight fills the sky… warm, radiant, inescapable. And yet it shifts, slippery, like that same light broken through stained glass. One moment His gaze is heavy, like the weight of mountains pressing down. The next, His eyes are steady, familiar, almost like a friend I had long ago. Then, without warning, His nearness brushes me like wind across the skin—gentle, unseen, undeniable.

Three in one. Intimidating. Welcoming. More than I can name. Is this what all royalty is like? Is the gap between us so drastic? I’m not sure. I do know, however, that I’m not worthy of any of this.

And yet He’s looking at me.

I want to run. I want to drop to my knees. I want to disappear. His eyes are not suspicious, not disgusted. Worse—they’re kind.

“You came,” He says. His voice is low, steady, and the whole room bends to hear it.

I nod. I don’t trust my voice.

“Eat,” He says, gesturing to the table. “Rest. You are welcome here.”

I take a seat, my body rigid, my hands trembling. I bring the cup to my lips, but I can’t drink. I can’t stop staring at Him.

Then, just as suddenly as He spoke, He rises. He steps away, speaking softly to one of the servants. The hall watches Him go, then returns to its laughter.

And that’s when I see it.

The crown.

Why is it here? He wasn’t wearing it. Or maybe He was. I’m not sure. But there it is, resting in the torchlight. Gold braided with fire and sea, every gem alive like a star trapped in metal. No guards. No lock. Just sitting there, waiting.

Something like that must cost a fortune. A man could make himself a king by selling it.

I could… no.

My chest tightens. My throat burns. It can’t be this easy. It has to be a trap. But what if it’s not? Why would they leave something so precious in the presence of someone like me? To show their superiority? To remind me of what I could never have?

The longer I stare, the louder the thought grows:
Take it. Take it and run.

My legs move before my mind decides. My hand seizes the crown. The metal bites cold against my skin, heavier than I imagined—yet in my arms it feels like freedom.

I don’t look back. I run.

“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
Psalm 23:1