33 AD, JERUSALEM: THE WEDNESDAY BEFORE PASSOVER
A stranger has walked up to me. He looks tired. his face is dirty and streaked. Without me telling him anything about my purpose, he tells me he is looking for this Teacher as well.
The man has kind eyes. Although there is some fear there, and a sense of urgency bordering on obsession, they are eyes that I feel an allegiance with, somehow. I can trust this stranger. So, I tell him that I am also looking for him: the Rebel from Nazareth.
He smiles, relieved. We start walking aimlessly through town, my new friend and I, listening in on conversations, peering into places where no holy man would be, for that is where he is most often found.
Looking back, the few times I’ve seen him I was… well, I guess I don’t want to say where I saw him. It was in towns in the region, and once near the sea, and once in town at a healing pool. That’s all I want to say about places I’ve seen him right now. My friend has never seen him personally. He's only heard of him, and a few of his words second-hand. He seems more desperate than I, but we both feel time is running out to find him.
My family is worried about me because of this. People that get mixed up with him… sometimes “things happen.” I tell my new friend this stuff, and it turns out that he has the same problems.
He’s drawn to him. And he doesn’t know why, and it doesn’t matter. It’s the same for both of us.
My friend says he heard that Jesus had a white robe. I frown and correct him immediately. Jesus doesn’t wear a white robe. It may have started out that way, but it probably didn’t stay that way for long, and it is certainly not white now.
The one time I mentioned seeing him on the seaside (Mark 2:13) I was taken by the contrast between his message that infused my soul with unbearable light, and his deteriorating attire. I remember feeding more on the beauty of his presence than the message itself, which I couldn’t really understand.
So, my mind wandered. As a result, my eyes went to his robe. It was that item, that worn cloth, which told me many stories about this mysterious teacher.
My friend and I now come to a small store where we can sit. We are despondent because we cannot seem to find him. Together we have been all over Jerusalem and have very few leads. People are talking, no doubt, but we don’t dare ask them his whereabouts because we can tell by their conversations they are not friendly to him.
We are sitting heavily in wooden chairs now. My friend says he is troubled because for three days he has been searching for a white robe, and now I am telling him it is not white.
I smile at him.
“Close your eyes, my friend. Go ahead, close them, and Jesus will appear in your mind. You will see his robe. This is the simple gift I can give you today to aid in your search. Now… close them.”
His eyes close. I see his face relax into repose. His breathing steadies, and deepens. At once I hear and feel a sharp intake of his breath. “I see him! I see him!” he whispers excitedly.
Sitting next to my friend at the rough, dusty table I lean over to him and whisper into his ear, “Look, there on his sleeve. Do you see that dirty streak? It is from wiping what must have been not one, but many, many runny noses. Don’t frown, look; there on his left sleeve, can you see it?”
My friend nods solemnly, eyes closed.
I continue. “The last time I was in his presence, I saw him wipe the noses of several children that came just to look into his eyes (Matthew 19:14). Three cried in relieved joy from the experience alone. They said things like, ‘I remember you from before’, although they had just met him. One said nothing but just had a bad cold and needed doctoring.”
My friend smiles, his eyes remaining closed.
I continue, “But there’s more. You remember that crippled man that always, always, always sat by the Pool of Bethesda, that was always making noise about not being able to get into the water fast enough to get healed by the pool’s angel that supposedly sat nearby? (John 5:2-15).”
My friend nods, his eyes still shut. I continue.
“That man laid by that pool for what, about forty years? I mean, most of our lives we’ve heard about or seen this guy. You remember how he was kind of disgusting, and how he just lay there in his torn clothes that were so dirty where he dragged himself along that it made you wonder if they had ever been clean? You remember him? And his missing teeth, and his rotten breath… oh, he was a sight! But the day Jesus saw him, that was the difference. That day was the day that Jesus bent down and made it so this man would not sit by this blessed and cursed pool another day. He healed him on the spot - and then gave the glory to God. I saw it myself.”
My friends’ eyes sprung open in surprise. “You saw this?” A single tear made a path down his dusty cheek. I looked into his eyes and nodded. The man shook his head lightly and reclosed his eyes. I continued again.
“Yes, he healed the man and gave glory to God. The rejoicing in this poor man’s eyes was beyond words, and the tears he shed were a mute testament to the broken heart of gratitude inside him. He left a huge streak on Jesus’ right shoulder that remains from when he hugged him.
'When they pulled apart, Jesus looked into his eyes like only he can seem to do, with that look, that look that says, ‘You? You are welcome here.’
'Then he wiped that man’s tears, in a way so tender it was almost feminine, but yet the very definition of masculinity.”
My friend has a peaceful smile on his face, and he nods, seeing behind closed eyes the same thing I am describing.
“Look carefully, for there are many more stains. Under the dust of his robe there, there on the back and at the garment hem, can you see them? They’re brownish, with reddish tints to them? I’m told that is from the hand of the woman that had an issue of blood for so long (Luke 8:43-48)! She just kept bleeding, this poor woman. People would look at her and shake their heads in either disgust or pity but no one, not the Rabbis, nor the Scribes, nor her family, or friends (before they all left her), could do anything for her. Not until the day she reached for Jesus’ robe.
‘When she did that, she felt something seize deep inside her – it hurt her – and she cried out involuntarily. The crowd stopped and Peter, asking what Jesus meant when he asked “Who touched me?” looked down at her sternly, his hands on his hips, wondering what new strange thing this was.
‘But when Jesus bent down to look into her downcast eyes, neither heaven nor hell could keep this woman from grabbing Jesus into a hug of inconceivable gratitude, leaving that other dark smudge on his back from her hand; a hand that would seek to stop her own blood, no longer. On his wide shoulder and into his coarse, dusty hair she sobbed, letting go of a decade of hurt, mistrust, and cruelty.”
My friend breathes a sigh, seemingly letting go of her hurt, too.
“And what about the general condition of his robe?” he nods silently with eyes closed, frowning.
"I wouldn’t call it threadbare, but I wouldn’t call it new, either. This is a man that is not dressed to impress the masses, is he? It’s said that he uses his robe as a towel almost daily, and that he bunches it up to use as a pillow if he has a blanket to sleep under. Otherwise, it has doubled many a night as a sleeping bag. They say he’s homeless, and has been for almost three years now.” (Luke 9:58)
I see another tear start down the cheek of my new friend, washing a new track on his worn face. He opens his eyes and he looks into mine as a small cascade of joy and love and pain give in to gravity and rain onto the dusty table, making small spots under his chin.
We sit for a while in silence at the dusty table as the sun starts down. It is the Wednesday before Passover. Neither of us really know what to make of him. Only that the politicians, the Scribes, and Pharisees, and most of the Rabbis, are really upset about him. They don’t like that he has so many poor people following him, taking what they’ve worked so hard for, for so long. And they have worked! It’s not easy to become a Scribe, or a scholar, or a Rabbi. They feel it is their right to serve the people and to gain their love and respect. Not this poor carpenter’s son, this homeless vagabond. And yet he talks like a God (Matt 7:29)!
Knowing a few of those in the ruling class, I bet that’s a big part of the problem they have with him – his assumption of authority, and the power he has over the people. What if he’s dangerous? What if he were to turn the people against them? Or worse, the Romans? What then would happen to God's people?
What’s troubling both me and my friend is that we’ve heard the Scribes and Priests are coming after him tomorrow. Just before Passover, of all things (Luke 22 1-7). I don’t understand those guys sometimes. They should just leave him alone, or find a way to work with him.
In the last few days, I’ve overheard some conversations. The loud conversations are bad enough. But when a few of them get really quiet and talk in low tones among themselves, that’s when I get worried. I get worried for Jesus’s safety when I see them do that.
They seem dark. Their eyes, red with hatred.
I wish I could find him to warn him.
March, 2014
