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CHAPTER XIX Walking Trees
So, what to make of these things?
It was clear to even the thickest mind that Jesus was who he said he was--the Son of God, although he kept referring to himself as the Son of Man. Yet the routine events of the life we all lived virtually precluded our absorption of these facts. It seemed for most of us that the miraculous nature of the things Jesus did was almost to be expected. Commonplace. To be considered among the things of life as it should be.
After we had eaten, Jesus dispersed the crowd and we all went home. They to the various towns and communities from which they came; we back to the shores of Galilee, to Capharnaum, to the warm hospitality of Joanna and Peter. There we spent the night.
We slept later than usual. The sun had risen over the lake, light danced across the ripples. The morning smelled fresh with promise. Then we heard them. A group of Pharisees and Sadducees approached and gathered around Jesus like a swarm of mosquitoes hovering in a swamp, waiting to draw blood.
"Show us a sign from heaven," they demanded. "We understand you've become quite good at it." They enjoyed baiting Jesus, asking questions just to see how he would react. They had no real interest in the answers he gave other than the hope that he might make himself look foolish. They never learned. Instead of Jesus embarrassing himself, it was they who were inevitably embarrassed.
"Oh 'Wise Ones,' how foolish you are! In your religious arrogance, you've become frauds and bigots. You strut and make a show of great powers with your weather predictions, as though they were signs of great wisdom. And then you attempt to use these 'signs' to impress and control the lives of others. You are demented, blind imposters! How is it that you cannot see what even the simplest of men know? How is it that you do not see the presence of God in your midst, that you do not see the clear signs of something of far more consequence than the weather?
Jesus then turned and walked away, leaving them wide-eyed and indignant.
We got directly into the boat and headed again for the comfort of Peter and Joanna's home. Good conversation, good company. Jesus rose early the next morning, as was his custom, and accompanied Peter down to the waterfront. Gentle waves slapped the piers of the dock. In no time Peter had his nets readied for a morning of fishing. "Coming with me, Master? Should be a great day for musht, sardines and biny." "You go on ahead, Simon" Jesus responded. "I think I'll take some time here." Peter knew better than to argue. Moreover, he respected Jesus' need for private time. He and his colleagues set sail and soon the boat was a speck on the horizon. Jesus wandered for a time among the boats, nets and cursing sailors of the fishing fleet, the dog trotting contentedly at his feet. Abishag loved these trips to the docks. Jesus would often throw a stick into the water, which she'd swim out to get, and bring it back and then vigorously shower him with water. Then she'd drop the stick at his feet, fix it to the earth with one paw as if to tease him and, hunching down, wait for him to take it from her and throw it. Again and again he'd throw the stick; again and again she'd bring it back, enthralled with the game. This animal, this gift, brought such simple joy to Jesus. Always there, needing nothing, demanding nothing, offering much. They walked the shores together for a while, then turned home for breakfast.
A few days later we could tell that Jesus was ready to move on. We gathered our belongings and headed for the lake. Once on the waterfront, Jesus stepped into Peter's boat. We all followed, and Andrew cast off. The sail raised, the brisk air biting our cheeks, the spray wetting our clothes; we felt good! What a great pleasure these moments were--the smell of the water, the loud conversation between men, Peter's shouting mariner's commands. It was wonderful! At moments like these, Jesus did not seem so godlike. He was one with us, one of us, laughing, enjoying the ecstasy of sailing with the rest of us. After a couple of hours, we were at the shore across the lake. I am often amazed at the smallness of this lake we call a "sea." To sail from one side to the other in a brisk wind easily took less than two hours. After such a sail, we were all hungry for good bread and wine. Maybe a little cheese. But of course, plan-ahead thinkers that we were, we had forgotten to provision ourselves. We depended too much on the women for such things, I suppose.
We came at last to Bethsaida, close by the sea; the smells of a fishing community filled the air with rich aromas. Fresh fruit from the market, bread baking, roasted fish. Within minutes we were filling our bellies. We were not there long before it was known that Jesus had arrived, and soon after that, once again, as it seemed everywhere we went, they began to come. This time, some people brought a blind man and begged Jesus to touch him. It didn't take much begging. Jesus took the blind man by the hand and, placing it on his own arm, led him outside the village. This is the second time he has done this, I thought. So I followed, staying back so I would not interfere with whatever was going on between Jesus and this man. They made a fascinating spectacle. Jesus leading the blind man, telling him where to step, warning him of ruts and stones. The man held tightly to Jesus' arm at complete peace. I thought, what total confidence, what infinite pleasure to know, even though you are blind, that you are being led by him! And then as with the previous deaf man, he did a curious thing. He moistened the man's eyes with his saliva and asked, "Do you see anything?" Why was he doing it like this? Why didn't he just speak the word for the man to be healed? Why his spit? God willing, may he anoint my black heart with his spit! The man raised his eyes and said, "I think I see people. They look like walking trees." Once more Jesus put his hands on the man's eyes. When he removed them, his eyes opened; his sight restored. He saw clearly. Tears of joy cleansed the spit from his eyes, ran down his face and onto the ground. He covered his eyes with his hands and uncovered them again. Several times he repeated this. Each time more tears would flow. I observed Jesus' expression as he healed people. This time was no different. He beamed at their joy. He was fulfilling his purpose, this was why he was with us, these were times when he felt the Father's omnipotence in himself. Jesus patted the man on the shoulder and said to him, "Go home now, but don't go into the village where people will notice you. Hold your words. They will all know in time." I tried to stop the man, to speak with him. I wanted to know how he felt, what he was going to do. He merely paused, looked at me with flawless brown eyes and shook his head. "He asked me not to speak of this," he said, and then he left. Why? Why did Jesus try to conceal the good things he did? I did not understand.
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