When Jesus Wept - By Bodie Page 0,97
big grin.
“Then I was known as Simon the Pious; Simon the Pharisee. That was before I became known as Simon the Leper. Jesus took away both my diseases—my skin ailment and my heart trouble! And do you know what meant more to me than anything else?”
“Tell me!”
“His embrace,” Simon said. “I tried to hide my leprosy. I tried every medicine you can imagine, even sorcery.” He shuddered at the recollection. “When my secret came out, everyone abandoned me. My friends turned against me. Not really their fault,” he admitted. “I would have done the same to them. Forced to live away from everyone, to cry, ‘Unclean!’ wherever I went. When I went to Jesus, I was afraid he would not want to heal me, knowing who and what I had been, how I had treated others. I said to him, ‘Lord, I know you can heal me … if you want to.’ And he replied, ‘I want to,’ then hugged me. Me! A leper! He could have stood far off and healed me without coming close. I believe it! But he did the opposite. His touch meant more to me than anything in the world, if you understand me.”
“I do!” I fervently agreed. “With me it’s his voice, calling my name: ‘Lazarus, come forth!’ ”
Halfway between Ephraim and Jerusalem a Roman centurion galloped up on a black horse. The file of pilgrims moved off the road to let him pass. Some spat on his shadow as he went by.
But when he reached me, he reined up and got down to walk beside me. “Shalom, David ben Lazarus,” Marcus Longinus greeted me. Then he added, “So you could not persuade him not to come.”
“I didn’t even try,” I said. “Jesus made it clear he knows the danger but is determined to go anyway.”
Marcus nodded. “He is in danger, you know. Every mile nearer the city increases the risk. Your chief priests would like to arrest him openly and charge him with heresy or sorcery or leading others astray.” The Roman looked around. “They won’t do it, though. Not while he’s in the middle of a crowd. Whatever they do, they will do secretly. If they can, they’ll kill him and blame someone else.”
“I know,” I said, recounting the tale of my own encounter with a would-be assassin on the Temple Mount. “So we keep to big crowds … not a problem during Passover week, eh? But what of Rome, Marcus?”
The centurion considered. “Pilate has made too many missteps already. He will take action only if he thinks it’ll be seen favorably by the emperor. Pilate came to Judea headstrong and sure of himself and sure of his support in Rome. Now he’s lost both his backer and his backbone. That’s both good and bad, I suppose. As long as Jesus does not raise a riot or preach treason, Pilate won’t act unless pushed to do so. And he can’t be pushed unless he’s threatened with another bad report to Rome that’s undeniable. Is that clear?”
I shook my head and laughed without mirth. “About as clear as all the rest of the political intrigue in Judea. I know Rome doesn’t care about Jewish religion. You know that Jesus teaches meekness. What about him is any threat to Rome?”
A pair of mockingbirds flitted in and out of the brush ahead, keeping pace with the cavalcade. “I did not see you there, but I hear you witnessed it when he miraculously fed the thousands on the hillside?”
I agreed that I had been present to see that astonishing event.
“Here’s what Rome saw: he had the crowd sit in groups of fifty and one hundred—just as Roman soldiers are fed—only Jesus doesn’t need a quartermaster or a commissary or a supply train. If a Roman soldier is wounded, he must be cared for, and he is a drain on the army’s resources. But one of Jesus’ soldiers can be healed by him. And if one of them should be killed …” He met my gaze directly. “You know, the last time I rode out of Jerusalem to Jesus’ camp it was to carry the news that you were sick enough to die … and then, you did die. Yet here you are, marching again beside him.”
“Oh,” I said. The kind of threat Jesus represented to Roman rule was suddenly very clear. “But he preaches no sedition. Never has.”
“I know,” Marcus said. “That’s why Rome makes no move against him.” He stopped me with a hand on