A Certain Mercy follows a neglected wife in first-century Jerusalem whose attachment to her husband’s slave charioteer unfolds beneath the shadow of Yeshua’s ministry, forcing her to confront desire, guilt, and the costly meaning of mercy. What inspired you to write this story?

For many readers, the account of the woman caught in adultery raises more questions than it answers. Women in particular often ask: Where was the man who was with her? Why was he not brought before Yeshua as well? And what did Yeshua write in the sand?

Though He was certainly literate, this is the only moment in Scripture where Yeshua is described as writing. What He wrote has been left a mystery—words carried away by the wind.

As I studied the passage more deeply, I also became intrigued by how the Pharisees intended to trap Him. Some suggest they were attempting to force Yeshua into violating either Roman law, which prohibited Jewish courts from carrying out executions, or Jewish law, which required stoning. But I believe the trap ran deeper.

If Yeshua had declared that the woman should be stoned, He would have appeared to contradict His own teachings on mercy while upholding the law. Yet if He had said she should not be stoned, He would have seemed to dismiss the law altogether. But this is only a surface reading.

Under Jewish law, a formal accuser and at least two witnesses were required to carry out judgment. The Gospel account mentions neither. When Yeshua says, “Let the one among you without sin cast the first stone,” He exposes their willingness to violate the very law they claimed to defend. The moment any one of them threw a stone, they themselves would be in breach of that law. I was also struck by the detail that the accusers left from oldest to youngest. These small narrative details are often rich with meaning. In a culture still deeply rooted in tribal structure, the eldest would lead. What we see here is, in a sense, the ultimate passing of responsibility. As the first leaves, the others follow, each silently acknowledging his own lack of authority to condemn

What first drew you to Zara as the center of this story, and what made her the right character through whom to explore mercy?

Mercy requires repentance—a true turning away from sin. Yet how often are we more grieved by being exposed than by the sin itself?

The Gospel account does not tell us that the woman asked for mercy or expressed repentance. This silence creates a profound and compelling tension. She has been spared. She has been forgiven. But how does she live with that?

Does she truly regret the adultery, or only the shame of being caught? Does she reject the man with whom she sinned? What was the nature of that relationship? These unanswered questions opened the door to Zara. Through her, I could explore the deeply human struggle of receiving mercy while wrestling with guilt, identity, and the challenge of forgiving oneself. Her journey became a way to examine what mercy truly costs—and what it requires in return

How did you balance writing an emotionally intimate, character-driven story with the spiritual and historical weight of Yeshua’s presence in the novel?

I strive to take care not to sacrifice Scripture for the sake of story.

When Yeshua appears “onstage” in scenes recorded in the Gospels, I take great care not to deviate from the biblical account. In early drafts, however, I found that this caution led to something that felt more like retelling than storytelling. Yeshua began to dominate the narrative in a way that flattened the emotional depth.

I realized I needed to remain anchored in my characters—their thoughts, their reactions, their lived experience of witnessing these events. This approach allows the reader to step into the scene and consider how they themselves might have responded. When Yeshua is “offstage,” or when Scripture is silent—such as in the moments following Lazarus’s resurrection—I allow myself the freedom to imagine what would be consistent with His character. For example, I can envision Him embracing Mary and Martha, rejoicing with them. Even then, I am careful that He never teaches or acts in ways that contradict what is revealed in Scripture.

Reah feels like a moral counterweight in the book. Did you always envision her in that role, or did she grow into it as you wrote?

Reah grew into that role organically. It was not a conscious decision.

In fact, it was not until you asked this question that I realized how often she functions as a truth-teller within the story. Many of the novel’s themes find their voice through her. Interestingly, several readers have expressed a desire to learn more about Reah’s story in A Certain Refuge, which has been both surprising and deeply encouraging.

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