If I May But Touch
Page 3
There, in the crowd, it was easy for me to lose myself. From what I’d heard, throngs of people always followed Jesus of Nazareth. Ilan hadn’t seen me. Even though I’d never met her, I knew the woman beside him was his wife.
His second wife, the woman he had married after he left me. His life had gone on, as it should have. I tried to be happy for him. One would have thought that would have come easier to me by then, especially because that wasn’t the first time I’d seen them together. It had been harder the first few times, particularly the first time I saw him with her. From a distance, I’d seen them.
That afternoon, they had also come to see Jesus. There were children around them; I counted five, with a boy who must have been the oldest.
That would have been my son. They could have all been my children…but they aren’t.
Fortunately, I didn’t have time to think about that. Ilan and his wife were there, either for a healing or out of curiosity. Maybe they had made the journey from their home just to hear the Teacher speak.
He spoke with authority. I’d never heard him speak, myself, but I’d heard about the way Jesus taught. Sometimes he would illustrate his lessons by telling parables. Amazing stories that were mysteries, not easily understood. He spoke about God and about loving the Lord with all your heart and soul and spirit, and loving your neighbor and treating your neighbor the way you yourself would want to be treated. He talked about forgiving those who mistreat you and loving your enemies. We were to “turn the other cheek” rather than repay evil with evil.
Things that were easier said than done—but what a world it would be, I thought, if we could all really live by those words of wisdom! Truly, it was what God expected of us.
Was he going to speak today? My heart beat faster with anticipation. I hid my face as best I could with my cloak and pressed through the crowd.
How wonderful if I could hear him! But what I truly needed was to be healed by this man. They said he was the Son of God.
Frowning, I watched Jesus from a distance. If God—El Shaddai, the Creator of the Universe—had a son, would he really look like this man? Wouldn’t he have the appearance of a handsome, regal prince? Instead he looked…like an average man. Like any man at all. Strong, because he had worked as a carpenter, with a beard. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing special. Just a person who looked like everyone else.
Yet there was something different about him. Something hard to describe. Something that made demons tremble at his presence, that made people travel great distances to see him.
What if he’s nothing more than a man? Just a carpenter? You would have wasted your time with this dreamer. Son of God? Bah! You’re putting yourself in danger for nothing!
Where had that voice come from? That voice in my mind that brought discouragement and fear with it?
I recognized that voice. Very distinctly, I recognized it. I had heard it before, years ago. At the time, I was only twenty-five years old. A few years had passed since that afternoon, but I’d heard that voice before.
Back then, it had whispered in my heart, There is no hope for you. Death would be better than this. You have no life. You mean nothing to anyone…
****