(I've lost track of what # excerpt this would be)
I went to hear him speak.
There was a large crowd and I was far from him. At the beginning things were chaotic as those of us on the fringes strained to catch his voice through the incessant incidental music of human gatheringsómen coughing, children crying, whispered side conversations. To these noises we added our own as we poked those closer in to hiss, ìWhatís he saying?î Then an orderly flow began. A chain of listeners murmured the phrases back behind them until all had heard. Jesusí words pulsed outwards like he was the stone and we were the ripples in the pond. I did not hear Jesusí voice at all that day; I had to trust those around me to transmit his speech faithfully.
Here is why I believe they did. The phrases that came back to me were beautiful. The concepts were startling in their implications, yes, and that was part of it. The crowd was only too eager to pass on such subversive talk. But the way he phrased this subversion was poetry. ìBlessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.î I could see all the mouths savoring these words while passing them on. Some repeated each new saying to themselves after giving it to their neighbors, so gradually the air filled with echoes. I started to let myself listen to the whole crowd, not just to the whisperers near me. I listened to the rise and fall of all this talk of blessings, mercies obtained, kingdoms inherited. Every phrase harmonized with every other oneóJesus was playing this crowd like a lyre; we were all sounding his chords.
The phrases that rang with me longest were the last: ìBlessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven. Thus they persecuted the prophets who were before you.î Here was a genuinely dangerous idea. Tell the people to ignore shame heaped on them by the communityóthat in fact being scorned has positive implicationsóand who knows what they will do? How will any standards of behavior be upheld if public shame is no longer effective?
Next time I came a little earlier and staked out a position closer to where Jesus would stand. People were wedged against me in all directions. Crowds are always smelly, but this one seemed unusually so. I looked closer at my companions and noticed the sores, the swollen legs, the festers of various kinds.
This time I heard Jesusí voice, though still not very clearly. I concentrated on watching him as he taught. I have seen good preachers; even one I considered the best of his time. There is often something compelling about watching a good preacher speak that goes beyond whatever it is that he is saying. He may pace the field, or raise his arms in triumph or warning, or bow in sudden supplication to heaven. Jesus did none of these things. In fact, at first I found him entirely dull to watch. He stood motionless, more rooted than a tree (which at least sways in the wind) and he kept his eyes shut as he spoke. The way the afternoon sunlight touched his face, he almost appeared to have no eyes at all. ìIs this what Iíve come to see?î I found myself thinking. ìThe absence of a man?î
I looked around. All the faces in the crowd were trained on Jesus. Some eyes were closed, either in straight imitation of the preacher or in a focus mirroring his. I saw savage hunger in other eyesónaked, frightening need. I turned away to look at Jesus again.
He was moving a little now. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rocking in place to the rhythm of his words as one does in prayer. I had to shade my eyes to see him properly as the sun hit an awkward angle. I couldnít be sure of what I was seeing. There was something foreign about the way his eyes were closed. It wasnít as if he was blocking a sight, it was more like he was looking atÖbut how could he be looking at anything? I shook my head. I was reading too much into things.
Still. I was seeing something unusualótotal concentration. Jesusí focus on what he was doing was absolute, like it was physical strain to draw the words from his body. It made me want the same for myself. I wanted to know how it felt to do a jobónot necessarily preaching, just whatever job I could doóand pour my whole spirit into it at every moment. It surely meant confidence in oneís abilityóI saw no worry creasing Jesusí face and heard nothing tentative in his voice. It looked so wonderful. What I at first thought dull was now all I wanted to see.
I have heard of a spirit descending on a person or a gathering, like how Saul caught the frenzy of the prophets. I had not ever seen it or caught it myself. But when Jesus spoke and the crowd responded it was like the heavens opened. His words had such elegant rhythm: ìAsk and it will be given to you, seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.î They moved me to tears. I looked around and saw tears on hundreds of faces. I could look strangers in the eye; the same emotions in me glittered in them. I wondered if Jesus, if he would open his eyes, would look out on a sea of diamonds. He did open his eyes. He stepped back, looking suddenly shy, then beamed.
Afterwards the sick started moving to the front. There was a long line of them. One would step forward; Jesus would look at him close, touch a hand to his face or shoulder or leg; occasionally the two would embrace. He acted much the same if a woman stepped forward. Most of the time I did not see if a cure came about, but I was not standing very close. There were occasional shouts or quickly suppressed murmurs of surprise. By these I knew something dramatic had just happened. Mostly, as I said, the line moved forward quietly.
The end of the line was near where I was standing. The last man shuffled his feet, hummed a little, slapped his hands to his side. I grew anxious just looking at him. He noticed my noticing him, turned and smiled. ìHere,î he said, taking my hand and pressing something cold into my palm. It was a coin.
ìWhat is this?î I asked.
ìNot much. Itís justÖplease, give it to Jesus for me.î
ìBut Iím notóî
He put up his hand to stave off what he clearly thought was a different sort of objection than what I was actually giving him. ìAll of you have to eat too. I want you to have it. I want Jesus to have it.î His smile was sad. ìTwelve years ago my hand was crushed while I was working on my roofósee?î He held it up so I could see the fingers out of place. ìI came here today to be healed, but this line is too long. Iíll be back, but in the meantimeÖî He patted my hand holding his coin. ìIt means so much more than we can say to have Jesus here. He listens to us. He looks right at us. Thatís everything. Thatís the healing, you know? So tell him ëthank youí for me.î
ìI will,î I promised. The man with the crushed hand left. I debated with myself about whether I should join the line and present Jesus with the coin when I reached him. No, I finally decided; that would take too long. I went instead to a part of the field where a few of the apostles were gathered. I surrendered the coin and told them the message that went with it. They smiled and thanked me in the pleasantly vacant manner born of constant repetition. This sort of thing had happened to them before.
ìYou know what I really want?î I heard a girl say to her companion as I was leaving. ìI want my sickness back so I can go through the line and have Jesus look at me like that again.î