Cook

The following is my dramatization of the experience of one man involved in a famous Biblical event.

As a scribe I am meticulous. I trained for 15 years before I was declared an expert in the copying and interpretation of our scriptures. Notice how I dress. Clearly everything is in order, just as we count every letter of the Torah and check and recheck. There are 304,805 letters and 79,976 words in the Pentateuch, the first five books of our holy text. And the letters in my manuscripts may not touch, so I’m a bit uncomfortable sitting in this crowded room. With these… people.

I arrived early to claim my spot. They should know my position and that my tunic needs to be kept unsoiled. As more of them kept coming, the smells became more difficult to endure; at least someone brought perfume.

But now the room quiets when he starts talking. They say he speaks with authority. As do I. He has a strong, clear voice, not harsh or condemning. He smiles as he speaks. He obviously loves the scriptures as do we. I’m at ease. I nod in approval.

But what’s this? Something just dropped on me! I look up and dust falls on my face. I hear rustling and movement in the roof tiles above. This is unacceptable! Jesus keeps talking, but I find it difficult as a hole appears in the roof and light pours in. Large chunks of the roof are pulled away! Why repair the roof now? I’m trying to listen! More bits are falling on me. I brush them off.

Now everyone starts talking at once. Jesus doesn’t seem to mind. I do! Someone is lowering a large pallet or mat or something down on top of me! Ugh. I must get up, but I can’t leave as there are too many people, and I do want to stay to hear more. Oh, to sit I must squeeze in between some others. I must touch them. I shudder.

Why are they allowing something to be lowered to the middle of the floor? Oh, I see a wretched man on it; he looks poor. And, oh no, a paralytic. I admit that it bothers me that I’m forced to give up my place for a beggar such as this. Who do these men above think they are?

Jesus looks up to them with a grin. They rudely interrupted him! I’d be furious. He looks directly at me. “It’s okay,” he says, smiling again. “Life is full of interruptions. God likes to mess with our agendas sometimes. We must be humble and accept what he brings.”

No! I scowl back at him. I want Order. There Are Rules. Every letter must not touch the next! I’ve burned entire manuscripts when an error has been discovered. Now, my afternoon has been ruined by this beggar.

Jesus looks at him, studying him for a moment. The man on the pallet is afraid. I can see it in his eyes. He also looks hopeful. What does he want?

Jesus speaks then and says, “Your sins…” The lame man hangs his head. Here comes the condemnation. “They are forgiven.”

What?? Oh, and he calls him “my son.” Why would he say that? Why would he take the position of father? Forgive sin? Only God can do that! Jesus’ attention suddenly flicks back to me. How does he know what I’m thinking? He focuses his eyes and his questions at me. My seat is suddenly uncomfortable. I squirm.

“Which is easier,” he asks, “to say ‘your sins are forgiven’ or ‘get up, pick up the mat and march out of here healed’?” I avoid his eyes and glance back at the cripple who looks confused but is mumbling something about his need for forgiveness, and then Jesus who now is claiming authority on earth to forgive sins, looks down at the man and he DOES say those words! The man nods and slowly stands up. We are all shocked! He takes a few steps then jumps up and down, eyes bright but watering, and lets out a whoop!

He looks up at the hole in the ceiling. “Thank you!” He rushes to Jesus, their eyes meet for too long, and Jesus gives him a hug. But he’s filthy! The wretch gathers his mat and heads for the door. I can smell him as he passes by. They are all amazed, but I’m glad he’s gone. Everyone is looking to Jesus again, but I haven’t had my chance to speak! I can’t stop thinking about this blasphemy. Forgive sins? This shall not be condoned.

Once I get back and change my garments, I will write a report on my best parchment!

Unlike the scribe above I tend to skim over well-known passages and miss important points. It can help me engage more by entering the scene, watching the events play out, even asking questions to the people involved or in this case imagining the event from a man on the scene. Doing so helps me see the power of friendship and faith to bring joy (last week’s column) or the power of pride that causes one to miss the miracle in front of one’s eyes. Contact me at 3upquarks@protonmail.com if you have any comments or how such meditations have helped you.