Never the Same

Yeshua. The son of the carpenter. I'd heard his name before. Ha, of course I'd heard his name before. Who hasn't around here? Though uneducated by all formal standards, though claiming a stunningly uncomplimentary origin from no less than Nazareth, though relatively unnoticeable in outward appearance, this man has made quite a name for himself. He is a teacher, a healer, a great speaker. Crowds and crowds of people have gone to listen to him for hours on end. The blind and the sick have been healed; the outcasts have been accepted. He's really got a great thing going on.

The interesting thing about teachers and healers, though, is that sometimes the idea of going to see one sounds far better the first time your friends suggest it than it does in your solitary reflections afterwards. You see, initially, I agreed to go and hear him when I first heard he was in town—but now, as we make our way there, I'm not so sure. Won't he know? They said he has eyes that seep into every part of your soul—dark depths of brown fire that see and love and heal all at once. I wanted to see them at first, but now...Oh, won't he know? Won't he see right through me? All the dirt, all the grime, all the messy, muddy filth—the deep, dark sins that have made me who I am? 

I know he'll see it. I know he will. It's not like I can mask myself—when every part of me reeks with sin and shame. There's no way a man of any insight will be able to look at me and miss it all. Envy burns within my heart. Anger seethes through my veins. Why? Why can't I just...

My thoughts are penetrated for a minute by the soft touch of my brother, who walks by my side. His calloused fingers brush across my forehead, carefully wiping the beads of sweat that had formed there as my soul tumbled in agony within me. He looks into my eyes with a gaze so gentle that my insides writhe in shame. He squeezes my hand and whispers, "We're almost there."

The others are silent. They've been pretty silent the whole time. It's a serious journey. They're probably praying. They're probably praying for me. Why? Why waste their time?...

I stop thinking for a moment and raise my gaze to the sky. Two clumsy puffs of cloud hang in the blue expanse, drooping as if they are as hot and exhausted as I am. I stare at them for some time, half-observing, as I do so, that my thoughts have been drifting in some strange tension between wanting, desperately, to see Jesus and thinking, painfully, that I really don't deserve his time. I'm a sinner. I'm a mess. My whole being is a wretched testimony of my mistakes. This thought is almost overwhelming. Ah, if only I hadn't agreed to come!

My musings are interrupted again, this time by the distant ringing of a deeply gentle but strikingly authoritative voice. I look at my brother. His eyes don't meet mine; they are fixed instead in the direction of the voice, and they burn with longing and, somehow, hope and joy. I look up to the sky again, my mind racing. We're here. That's him—the Teacher, the Rabbi. Oh, how I wish I could run! 

My companions dutifully usher me closer and closer to the sound, gradually pressing up against the many cloaked figures that make up the edge of the quivering crowd. My brother looks at me again, a twinge of angst flickering across his gaze. "There are too many," he says. "We can't get through."

A disgusting relief surges through me as I hear his analysis of the situation. I part my lips, hoping that I can somehow eek out some sort of advice on leaving quickly and trying again another day—you know, another day on which I won't be coming. Before a sound leaves my mouth, however, I find my companions nodding to one another and shuffling away with me towards the side of the house.

Oh no. I shut my eyes as tightly as I can, clenching my teeth and wishing—oh, I've never wished harder—that I could be somewhere else. No, no. I know what they're thinking. No. Don't—No. No!

Silence. I am too ashamed to even cry. I keep my eyes closed, crumbling in embarrassment. Oh, why...?

"Son."

I catch my breath. I open my eyes. There he is. Every thought fades from my mind as I hold his gaze. For the first time—really, for the first time in my life, I feel...hope. I can do nothing but stare into his face. He stares—so gently—into mine.

"Son," he says, a soft smile turning up the corner of his mouth, "Your sins are forgiven."

Sheer joy rushes through me. Peace ripples through my mind. I continue to stare into his eyes, feeling those words drive out the self-contempt, the shame, the fear. He keeps looking at me, that gentle smile stretching farther and farther across his face.

Then, suddenly, he looks away from me and into the crowd, as if responding to something—though I myself had not heard anyone speak. The smile evaporates from his face. He calls out, "Why do you question in your hearts?"

I follow his gaze for a moment. The Pharisees. Part of me wants to flinch. If they condemn me, I—I—would this Teacher's words mean anything then? But the Rabbi's peace calms my heart, holds me in the tension. He continues to speak. "Which is easier, to say, 'Your sins are forgiven you,' or to say, 'Rise and walk'?"

They're speechless, but I can see their jaws tighten. 

"But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins—"

Suddenly the Teacher turns to me again, stretching out his hand.

"I say to you, rise, pick up your bed and go home."

His words seem to hit my chest with a force that—wait. My chest? Since when...? Then I notice a peculiar weight. I look down. Limbs. I can...I can feel them. I can...I can move them. They're heavy because they're there! I jump to my feet. My whole body quivers with excitement, relishing in this new feeling. Standing! I'm standing! I look at my brother, words escaping me as I face him, for the first time, on my feet. His grin is gigantic, and he wraps me in a great hug, kissing my cheek as tears roll down his worn face. I look back at the Rabbi, the Healer. Words are, um...I know not what to say.

He smiles at me again, so gently. His quiet joy calms my heart and reminds me of his command. I reach down, pick up my bed, and make my way through the astonished crowd. They part for me as I exit. I'm not sure what they are thinking. I don't care. As I close my eyes and smile, I can feel the Rabbi's warm gaze on my back. He healed me. I am forgiven.

Yeshua. I've heard that name before. "Yahweh saves." Mmm. That he does.

They were right about those eyes, you see. Dark depths of brown fire—they do see. They see everything. Hm. And they love. They heal. I am forgiven.

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Quotations from Scripture are pulled from Mark 2:1-12 and Luke 5:17-26, ESV. This narrative was originally written for and performed (by me) as a dramatic reading during a Lenten service at Faith Worship Community, Costa Mesa, CA (2016).