50“’Go home,’ said Jesus, ‘your son will live.’ The man believed what Jesus had said and went on his way home”.
It was clear to me very early, even as a young boy; the eyes that burned into me as I rode past, and those that refused to even drift in my direction, were part of the same chastising strike. Not that this insight, gained so early, had anything to do with a profundity of wisdom on my part, or any sort of instruction or warning from my father. However consistently dark and mysterious, even bright and mysterious, this world is, she has truth to share that is unavoidable, even for the weak-minded. Like gravity, or the need for food or the heat of the sun, knowledge of the hatred of entire villages of you and your horse and garments and the clinking of the gold in your purse, is inevitable. For all people ignorance is bliss. For a few people ignorance is impossible.
The leper is cursed by God and so he is a leper. The rich man is blessed by God and so he is rich. Yet both are hated, one for being cursed and the other for being blessed. It really is- almost –funny. And so I laughed as I rode to the last place I could have chosen to spend the day, in Cana of Galilee, to beg a man who would either glare and spit like the others, or listen and acknowledge with the compassion of a 5’8’’ rock. Dismal prospects indeed, my family was thoroughly convinced I’d lost my mind; my son was on his deathbed and the best solution I had come up with was to throw myself into the lion’s den. Taking Daniel as my example I rode straight into Cana and immediately found the man I’d been hearing about.
His name was Jesus. He was the center of the endless commotion surrounding last Passover, the subject of stories spreading like wildfire throughout the countryside. They say that when he looks at you he sees straight into your heart, sees who you were, who you are, who you will be. They say that his prayers strike both the proud and the humble, offending one and embracing the latter. That he provokes the wrath of the elite and the adoration of the weak. That his touch, even his shadow, is enough to heal a man. And yet, while I knew where I fit into the stories I’d heard (the meaning of the sideways glance of my own servants upon discovering my eavesdropping) I remained drawn to this man. A peculiar mystery pervaded these stories, pervaded him, provoking my reminiscence on my most precious memories, like the first time I read the story of the burning bush, or smelled the holiness drifting out of the inner sanctuary of the Temple. And I could see this same effect move like a breeze across the town squares and temples, producing the oddest mix of fury and compassion on the countenance of its subjects. Sooner or later I knew I would need to see, hopefully hear, this man for myself.
Of course everyone within a days journey of Cana heard quickly of Jesus’ return, hence the tension, the strain in the air of the entire town. It’s difficult to say whether I would have felt compelled enough to make the journey, to press through the crowds, to sit with the lions, for the opportunity to see for myself, were my son not slowly and steadily approaching Abraham’s bosom. But I had to. I had to see, to ask, to beg if necessary. I guess I did. But not at first. It was easy enough to find him and less easy to draw near enough to have a hearing. I persevered despite the exceptional firmness of the social chastisement. I thought I was ready for the hate but had not thought through the implications of someone like me trying to have a word with “their guy”. Glares turned to shoves and spit struck my feet. I’m not positive, but it seemed that my purse grew progressively lighter as I pressed through the crowd. Divine encouragement? Unlikely. I didn’t care. The life of my child depended upon this conversation.
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