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CHAPTER IX City of Nain
The hours wore hot into the day.
Jesus and his disciples had walked hard all morning. As he went through this community or that, he was recognized and many followed. "Why is he in such a hurry?" Keeping up was a strain and Jesus didn't seem to tire. On he pressed, the hills flattening before his stride. More and more curious hangers-on followed until a great crowd once again stretched out behind him like the wake of a boat under strong sail.
At length he came upon a town called Na-im (which some call Nain). It was the ancient town of Shu-na-im made famous by another prophet (Nahum) many years ago. Its walls had fallen upon disrepair, its gate dilapidated. As he approached, exiting from the town gate, there came a funeral procession. He ceased his gait and waited for the mourners to pass. The horde behind him gathered around as spectators to some curious event.
When the funeral entourage reached Jesus, he raised his hands requesting them to stop. It was an unusual gesture. Who would stop a funeral procession? Why? Yet, the beasts of burden were reined and black-garbed mourners halted, looking inquiringly at this strange man. Who is he? What does he want? Does he know the deceased? And what means this great crowd following him?
A woman bent with sorrow, walking immediately behind the bier shook with sobs, dabbing her eyes with a kerchief. Jesus approached her. "Her son," said her companion. "She is now alone. Her husband also is dead." Jesus stood quietly as if nothing else existed but this sacred sorrow, this grieving mother.
He raised his hand and touched her arm. She lifted her eyes to his, "Dear Mother," he spoke in tones soft and comforting, "Do not weep." His eyes fixed hers as he reached to touch the shrouded corpse. "What is his name?" She heard herself reply, "Thomas?" A question, questioning unformed hope. Her eyes followed his hand. He is touching my poor son! She did not know what to say, what to feel. Who is this man? Why does he . . ?
"Thomas, I say to you, get up!"
The grey mottled hue of the boy's skin began to take on the flush of life. Shockwaves of murmur throughout the crowd. She heard the words of Jesus but could not accept them. It could not be. This is not happening. The eyes of her son blinked. She saw him raise himself to his elbow and softly, so quiet that only she could hear, this solitary word fell from his lips, "Mother?"
She fainted.
Simon the Pharisee was among those standing in the crowd. He was enthralled by what he had just witnessed. To touch a dead corpse was something that deeply offended him, but when the boy came back to life, it abrogated any criticism he might have had. He had to know more of this man. There were many standing about him listening to him speak and watching the emotional reunion between the boy and his mother, once she had recovered. Finally, Simon got close enough to speak. "Sir," he began awkwardly, "the sun is at its zenith. Your disciples advise me that you have been traveling all morning and you have yet to eat. I would be pleased if you and your friends would dine with me at my table." "I would be pleased as well, sir." Jesus responded, touching Simon's elbow, "Come, lead the way." There was yet another in the crowd, a woman who also had a son. Her son, however, was a child. And while he had a father, none knew who that might be, least of all the woman herself. She had slept with many men, indeed; that was how she supported herself and her child. She had no husband and no family to help. First to be considered was her loveliness, her satin-olive face and china-blue eyes, dark hair in soft curls falling down well below her shoulders. She knew well how to dress to please men. Her robe slung low in front, a delicate fragrance, not enough to overpower the senses but enough to turn one's head, escaped from a translucent phial of alabaster, hung about her neck containing expensive aromatic oil. Hanging upon a golden filigree necklace nestled between her breasts, it more than all else advertised her for what she was. The folds of her garments fell about her so as to reveal furtive glimpses of flesh. She was an enticing, beautiful woman who expertly applied all the accouterments of her trade. Not surprisingly, one of her most frequent clients was none other than Simon the Pharisee. It was no secret. Everyone knew. It was understood and tolerated. Even the righteous Pharisee had to take some comfort now and then. She had stood that day in the crowd with Simon. Well, not exactly with him but some distance away, far enough so that the connection would not be obvious except to those who already knew. Not many stood close to her. Women avoided her as much as possible. Men stared at her greedily and secretly wished they could afford her. She was long past caring what others thought of her and ignored all of this. But she did want to see this man about whom so many rumors had spread. An honestly kind and sensitive man? The incredulity of such a thought amused her. A prophet? This only provoked her curiosity. A healer, teacher or sage? She was there to see if Jesus approximated any of these things. When she saw a dead boy open his eyes and call for his mother, her breath caught in her throat and tears surged into her eyes. "Oh!" she cried and fell to her knees there in the crowd. Some glanced in her direction but most were too taken with the event.
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