Tag: miracles of Jesus

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Arise!

Soon afterward he went to a town called Nain, and his disciples and a great crowd went with him.  As he drew near to the gate of the town, behold a man who had died was being carried out, the only son of his mother, and she a widow, and a considerable crowd from the town was with her.  Luke 7:11-12

Widows’ sons die every day.  If the mother is blessed by extended family, not to mention other sons, she the-widowwill at least have shelter and food in exchange for watching the children or grinding the grain.  If not, she will have to piece out a living on charity.  The pressing nature of What will I do? crushes every other concern, even proper grieving, so on top of all her other problems is the burden of guilt: she is forced to worry about her own life even while grieving for his.  Why could their fates not be reversed?  Better for all concerned to let her go, let him live—take a wife and raise his children and continue the family line, as is proper and fitting.  Sad and angry and worried, she follows the pitiful bier, having spent her last pennies for the bare minimum of a respectable funeral, with a few paid mourners and a drum.

Widows’ sons die every day, but this day would see a turnaround.  As two “considerable crowds” meet at the city gate—his followers and her mourners—it’s not the dead son but the weeping mother who catches his eye.  He raises a hand to stop the procession, and to her he says, “Don’t cry.”

It’s one of those statements that, from anyone else, would seem almost cruel, especially to the chief mourner.  What do you mean, ‘Don’t cry’?  I have every reason in the world to cry, and there’s nothing to be said about it.  Shut your mouth and cry with me, or just move along.

But if she knows who he is (the crowd of eager rubberneckers behind him might have given her a clue), she would stop crying, her tears caught in her throat.  He heals the sick but he can’t raise the dead.  Can he?  She knows her nation’s history, and remembers that Elijah, the greatest of prophets, raised a widow’s son: he stretched himself out on the boy’s lifeless body and cried aloud to Yahweh, three times.

Jesus puts his hand on the bier—really nothing but a plank carried by two men, signifying a poor man’s burial.  Who is on the bier?  A young man, that’s all we know.  Perhaps a pious dutiful son or a casual jokey son—his mother’s joy or exasperation, either one, equally dead.  And Jesus is speaking to a corpse.  “I tell you . . .”  Not crying aloud to the Blessed one, not placing mouth to mouth or heart to heart.  Imagine the thoughts racing through the observers, especially the religious elite:

I (Who does he think he is?)

Tell (Tell?! What words can get through dead ears into a dead brain?)

You (Who is this ‘you’? That’s just a–)

“ARISE!”

Death is a mystery, both then and now.  Some ancient cultures kept watch over the body for a certain number of hours in case the spirit returned to it (rumored to happen, though almost no one has actually seen this).  Wise men of all cultures debated this most-common phenomenon: Does the spirit stay with the body, or how soon does it go, or is there a spirit, and can it return?  In this particular case, all agree it’s not near-death that confronts Jesus at the gates of Nain—it’s death.  The body and the spirit have parted company.

Was the spirit lingering nearby, or was it speeding toward the afterworld?  In either case, the Son of Man’s voice darts out like a harpoon; with a word it captures the young man’s spirit and pulls it back to the lifeless body.

Arise: air surges into the stilled lungs; the flaccid chambers of the heart clench; a rush of blood to the brain revives its memories.  Suddenly awake, the young man feels a hand close on his, lift it and place it in the last hand he remembers as life left him: Mother.  All the busy little engines of his body, down to the last threadlike capillary and blood cell, charge back into operation.  The broken connection is restored.

And awe fell over everyone.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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Just Say the Word

After he had finished all his sayings in the hearing of the people, he entered Capernaum.  Now a centurion had a servant who was sick and at the point of death, who was highly valued by him.  Luke 7:2

Back to Capernaum, where it all began.  There’s a centurion stationed in the town, a man who has reason to know of Jesus by reputation.  Stories get around, and since some of those stories happened right there in Capernaum, they don’t have to travel far.  This officer seems to be stamped from the same mold as Cornelius in Acts 10, also a Centurion stationed in Palestine: a sober, respectable, God-fearing man.  Both feared God coming too close to them, perhaps; God-fearer, in this context, means uncircumcised.  They admire from afar, until something happens to bring God near.  For Cornelius it was a dream; for this man, a crisis.

There’s one indispensable person in household, the man who keeps things in order while the master is on patrol or on maneuvers—the rare slave (or freed servant) whom one can totally trust with business, and who is also a friend.  Let’s call him Decius, and suppose that the officer comes back from patrol one day, calls for help removing his armor, and the houseboy appears.  What’s this?

“Where’s Decius?”

“He’s taken ill, sir—the physician fears he may die.”

The bottom drops out of an ordinary day.  Everywhere the master turns, he bumps his nose against some little matter that Decius always attended to, some loose end left awkwardly hanging, some thought that could not be shared.  Perhaps, after a few days spent distractedly, trying to carry on between visits to the bedside, watching a life fade away as its value multiplies, someone mentions that Jesus has returned.

Sharp need brings God near.  What the master admired by reputation—for Jesus is a prophet, obviously close to God–becomes painfully relevant.  He requests an audience with some of the Jewish elders, with whom he’s maintained respectful, formal relations: “If you would, please speak to Jesus, and pave the way carefully with any kind words that you may feel led to say on my behalf . . .”

centurion

He sees them off.  Perhaps an hour or two passes while he paces and frets.  Suddenly he smacks his forehead: Argh!  What am I thinking?  I know how authority works.  I don’t have to be standing over my soldiers all the time to see that they do their duties—I give a command; it’s done (or else).  The prophet is obviously too busy to come himself, but all he needs to do is speak to the evil spirits, or say a word to his all-powerful God.  The work of a moment, if he’ll only do it.

“Go, boy, tell him this: Just say the word, Master, and my servant will be healed.  Yes? Repeat it to me, so I know you have it . . . Good; now go—hurry!”

More pacing, as the fever rises and his faithful right-hand man tosses and turns in delirium.  My right hand—exactly.  Without him I’m hobbled, hindered, half-blind.

Perhaps, as Matthew says (Matt. 7:5ff), the officer cast all caution and decorum aside, flung himself out the door and went pelting down the road in search of the prophet.  If you want to get something done, better do it yourself. Perhaps he dashed up to Jesus, thrust aside the Jewish elders and gasped out his request.

Whether this centurion delivered it himself, or left it in the mouths of servants or representatives, we know the message: Just say the word, Lord; just say it, and I am completely confident it will happen.

But here’s another word—amazed.

Jesus heard this and was amazed at him . . . and said, “I tell you, I have not found so great a faith even in Israel!” (Luke 7:9)

I’m amazed that Jesus is amazed.  I forget his profound humility.  He’s already healed every disease, escaped a lynch mob, cast out demons, and established a new order of thinking.  He does it all!  He knows it all!  And yet he allows himself a cleared blue space that’s open to surprise.  Not by the unexpected mechanics of creation or the hidden beauties of the earth, but by us.  There is room in him to truly connect and honestly compliment where there is any small thing to praise.

It also shows what matters to him, what genuinely pleases him.  Not just words, but faith.  Real faith, no less real for being pushed roughly against a wall.

And speaking of “the word”–he says it, and the servant is healed.  All his servants are healed, sooner or later.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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“I Am Willing”

While he was in one of the cities, there came a man full of leprosy.  And when he saw Jesus, he fell on his face and begged him, “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.” Luke 5:12

Some diseases don’t show.  Cancer can eat away at a person’s insides for months or years before it begins to pull their appearance in after it.  People can be sick without showing it, sometimes without know it.

But leprosy—or whatever “serious skin disease” this is–leaves no doubt.  The body becomes a map of its ferocious advance.  The curse is evident, the corruption undeniable.  So when this man (Luke’s first leper) approached Jesus, it’s likely everyone around the teacher fled.  He’s exposed!  And so is the leper, whose faith may be born of desperation but it’s still a powerful faith to brave such a scene.  It’s also a humble faith: “Lord, if you are willing . . .”

Time stops.  Just the two of them, forever.  The leper was driven to this moment: saddled and mounted by a terrible curse that, as soon as he heard the name of the Lord’s, became a bountiful blessing.  Because he can’t hide his need.  He wears his need, not like a sandal or a cloak but like an ear or a nose—can’t hide it, can’t get rid of it.  Need pushed him out of whatever hovel he was living in and steeled his determination against the horrified reactions of others along the way; need took him by the hand and pulled him through the crowd that sprang apart when they get wind of him.  Need quivers like a compass needle, seeking and finding its true North, because North is there to find.

healing hand

The leper is us, all just as disgustingly diseased even if we don’t show it.  But if we know it, by instinct or circumstance or sheer grace alone, this is our only plea: If you are willing—

In the short, aching space between the two of them, a hand reaches out; the healer’s hand.  I would love to see his face—is he smiling?  The words smile.  He came to say these words: If you are willing cues it up nicely.

“I am willing.  Be clean.”

For the first post in this series, go here.

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Authority, II

And when he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into the deep and let down your nets for a catch.”  And Simon answered, “Master, we toiled all night and took nothing!  But at your word I will let down the nets.”  Luke 5:4-5

They say a fish is the least able to understand water.

But suddenly, you do.

Life so far: cool/warm, fright/flight, gulp-shimmy-splash.  Out/in, spinning fin; up/down, whip around.  Eyes flick, tail ticks, that’s it!

Until

the light comes.

A seawashed brightness streams electrically along your scaly side.  Muscles flex with the unsuspected pleasure of you.  One could leap; one does.  Aimed like an arrow toward the sparkle-green surface, a powerful tailkick thrusts you into the light—pure fire, live energy, too rare to breathe, but oh!  A twist and a tumble, a silvery flex in the air, a cunning flick of tail—

A salute!

You slide into the element—water—cool and welcoming, stroking your sides with loving attention.  Ancient echoes:

Let the waters swarm . . .fish

It is good . . .

Be fruitful . . .

Multiply . . .

Multiplying, you swarm.  Scales, fins, tails, eager golden eyes bogle all around.  All hungry, not for food.  All desperate, not for escape.  Lead us, bring us, take us!

From the long-ago echo to the right-now call: a voice from Outside, from light itself, heard not by ear but by being.  The voice that calls us to ourselves, the voice that all our brief lives we have longed to hear and with all ourselves respond: Lead us, bring us, take us!

Like a single fist of longing, charging the net, crowding in as much as it can hold, leaving a few desolate slivers outside: Lead us, bring us, take us!  Milling, squeezing, rising, striving, breaking the water at last, at last, to spill upon the hot splintered surface of sunrise near his feet.

Flopping, flipping, meeting our meet, gasping in ecstasy—

The boards shudder as a pair of knees hit the deck and pour out a lament with only one word we understand:

LORD

But when Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord!” . . . . And Jesus said, “Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching men.”

When the boat reaches land, other hands pull it to shore and gather the bulging nets.  Two hundred pairs–at least!–of visionstruck eyes gaze steadily, while a handful of sinful men gather a few belongings and kiss their startled wives and follow the light, headed for the greatest fishing expedition ever.

For the first in this series, go here.

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Authority

And he went down to Capernaum, a city of Galillee.  And he was teaching them on the Sabbath, and they were astonished at his teaching . . .   Luke 4:31

Word is, there’s a new teacher down in the synagogue in Capernaum.  He doesn’t seem to be a rabbi, at least not on the classic model (the argumentative type who sides with Hillel or Shammai, and can think of eighteen ways to call you a heretic if you don’t agree with them on every point).  He doesn’t argue; he unfolds the scripture in a way no one has ever heard.  Almost as if he wrote it himself!  Talking it over among themselves, trying to describe what’s distinctive about his teaching, someone says, “I think . . . I think the best word is authority.”

That’s the best word, indeed; the teacher proves it when the demons barge in.

demon_possessed

That morning

Oh yes, the word has spread even among unclean spirits, and they’ve been kicking up a ruckus lately.  More demon activity than anyone has ever seen—what’s up?  Word is getting out among them, that’s what.  Satan himself has encountered the Man-not-like-any-other-man and has issued some warnings and dispatches.  The local demons send a scout on a mission: check out this fellow.  Obediently, the unclean spirit wrestles his hapless host from his keepers, marches him down to the synagogue and drops him onto a bench.  There they—both demon and host—listen quietly for a few minutes.  That voice, those words—the one inhabits the other and sends a shiver through the listening spirit.  Or rather, a quake.  It’s as if he, the possessor, is possessed, with confusion and a fear like he’s never known.  He can’t help himself; he cries out in a voice that shakes the synagogue: “What is it between you and us, Jesus of Nazareth?  Have you come to DESTOY us?!”

The moment seizes; the company freezes.  It’s as if they recognize each other, the foul spirit and the teacher.  The spirit, accustomed to casing the place everywhere he wanders, seeking souls to ruin, is now aware of nothing else but The Voice.  The Voice answers him, reaching out to grab him by the throat, squeezing as the host squawks helplessly, like a chicken.

“Come out!”

The demon has no choice: he comes out, howling, throwing his host on the floor.

That afternoon

After that exciting morning, the teacher enters a house belonging to Simon the fisherman.  (Imagine the muttering in the background from local rabbis and scribes: You’d think we could offer enlightening comments on the day’s events, or at least ask intelligent questions!  Why does he accept the invitation of a workingman who only shows up at synagogue once a week and can’t wait to get out?)

Turns out, though, it’s not a good time.  Sickness reigns, and Simon’s wife has interrupted meal preparations in order to attend to her mother, who was taken with a violent fever only hours ago.  Jesus stands over the woman and rebukes the fever.  Speaks to the fever, mind; you in the 21st century, take notice.  A smackdown with a demon is one thing, but communicating with microbes is something else again.  The fever departs; the lady’s eyes open and the first thing she sees is him.  He smiles.

“Get up.”

The lady has no choice: she gets up, smiling back.

That evening

And word gets out, of course.  By sundown Peter’s house is like a triage center because everyone within twenty miles has dragged their relatives or their aching, limping, festering selves to the house in Capernaum.  Demons, too, both whether dragged or dragging. The word has spread among them like a plague.  After dinner (served on the roof by an amazingly spritely grandma), the teacher comes down to the leveled ground outside Simon’s front door.  It sounds like a barnyard, with all the groans and howls.  It’s been a busy day, but he takes time.  His hands reach out.

His hands . . . first here, first there, on leprous sores and misshapen bones and feverish wounds, they all feel his touch.  And immediately they close up, straighten out, cool off.  The sick feel his hands; the demons feel his voice as though they were all the way back in the garden with curses raining down on their snaky heads.  One by one, they recognize him:

You are the Son of G–!

You are . . . !

You are the Son . . . !

One by one, he silences them.  This is not the time, especially with the residents of Capernaum clamoring for him to stick around.  Stay with us; be our teacher and healer!  They want to define the mission for him.  It’s ironic: his hometown kicked him out, his new town clutches him fiercely.  Both are wrong.

For the original post in this series, go here.

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