Miracles: One from heaven

Posted on October 9, 2018 by Jill English Johnston

Following this traveling Rabbi means weeks on the road. We’ve traveled all over Galilee and regions around the sea. He preaches everywhere we go. Telling people about the kingdom of heaven being near. A true enough statement, it does seem so. For who can do the miracles he does, if not one from heaven?

As we sit around the fires at night, we talk about what he’s done, what he’s said, the new interpretations to old teachings he’s given. Everyone has different ideas.

There’s talk of the Messiah. About a revolution. An overthrow of the Romans. Those discussions are spoken in whispers and with wary eyes.

If it weren’t for the healings, many would consider him a gifted Rabbi with new, controversial,  and sometimes even dangerous ideas.

Others say he’s a prophet. Like the old stories. God has been silent for so long. It’s about time he’s sent another prophet.

And the miracles. Healing servants, sons, daughters, rich, poor, the blind, those with leprosy, a woman with bleeding issues. Casting out demons. Even raising a daughter from her deathbed and a son from a funeral pyre. For who can do these things, if not one from heaven?

And that’s not the all of it. The disciples even talk about him calming a storm on the sea. I wasn’t there for that one, but oh how I wish I could have been. Only his closest followers were on the boat when it happened. Imagine. He even commands the gods of the winds and waves to obey him. For who can do so, if not one from heaven?

Some don’t like his methods. Breaking the Sabbath. Questioning the practice of the law. Wining and dining with disreputable people. Of that, I’m grateful. Any other Rabbi would have chased me away long ago. But he’s not any other Rabbi.

And now he’s retreated to the mountains. There’s been news, that the Baptizer was beheaded. Somehow they were related. The Rabbi and the Baptizer. So he mourns. His disciples are with him. The rest of us give them space and make a small camp on the grassy area nearby. But as we rest in the shade, we hear a distant commotion. I stand and look out over the rolling hills. Surely it can’t be. But it is. They come. Thousands of them. A string of humanity across the countryside. Like the Israelites in the desert. Heading our way.

Have they no respect? No consideration for the Rabbi’s need for rest. And the disciples. They’ve only recently returned from their own preaching trips. Can’t they be left alone for one afternoon?

I look to the hillside. He’s noticed them as well. He and his disciples make their way down and sit down on rock outcroppings near our camp. The people point and run and gather around him. Of course he welcomes them. Then teaches them throughout the afternoon. When he calls those who need healing to come forward, I turn and look out over the crowds and gasp. So many. They must have emptied every city and town in the area. And still they come.

The Rabbi is undeterred. He heals the sick, gives sight to the blind and hearing to the deaf, makes the lame to walk, restores the flesh of those with leprosy. They draw near. He touches them. And he heals them.

As the sun begins her decent to the west, my stomach rumbles. Those in our small camp have set up a fire and are baking bread and roasting some fish. The warm yeasty smell drifts across the grassy area. We receive jealous looks from people nearby. I realize then, many of them have failed to bring any sort of food for dinner. So desperate, so excited, so eager, they left their homes and workshops without plan or provision.

Andrew, one of the disciples, eyes our dinner then steps up next to the Rabbi. “The place is isolated and the hour is already late; send the crowds away, so that they may go into the villages and buy themselves food.”

The Rabbi studies him for a long moment, then turns and surveys the crowd. “They do not have to leave; you give them something to eat.”

His disciples stare at him with open mouths.

Philip starts to say something then stops when the Rabbi looks at him. “Yes, Philip? Where will we buy bread for these people to eat?”

Philip chokes. Then says “Two hundred denarʹii worth of bread is not enough for each of them to get even a little.”

The Rabbi’s smile eases away the tired lines from his eyes. “How many loaves do you have? Go see!”

Andrew comes over to our camp and assesses our dinner preparations. My stomach rumbles again. We only have enough for ourselves. And the Rabbi and his disciples. One of the children in our group picks up the small basket his mother has been filling with bread and roasted fish. Before we can stop him he runs it over to Andrew.

Andrews looks in the basket and shakes his head but takes the boy by the hand. He walks the beaming child back to the Rabbi. “Here is a little boy who has five barley loaves and two small fish.”

Those in our camp grumble protests, but not loud enough for the Rabbi to hear. The other disciples chuckle.

Andrew glances at the crowds and shrugs. “But what are these among so many?”

The little boy’s shoulders slump.

But the Rabbi’s eyes twinkle and he squats down and gestures to the boy. “Bring them here to me.”

Excitement spreads across the boy’s face and he approaches the Rabbi, holding out the basket. The Rabbi nods. “Have everyone sit down,” he tells his disciples.

It takes a little while for everyone to figure out what is going on, but soon everyone settles into camps of people like ours, but with out fire or food. Anticipation and expectation grow.

The Rabbi watches, the boy standing next to him. Then the Rabbi takes one of the loaves and lifts his eyes to heaven and says “Praised be you, Adonai our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.” He breaks the bread and drops the two pieces into a couple of nearby baskets. He does the same with the other four loaves, then tosses the two fish into the remaining baskets. He looks as excited as the little boy when he tells his disciples, “feed the people.”

They do. Like the servants filling the water jars at the wedding, they get to work, dumping baskets of fish and bread at every camp. Over and over and over again. Like the widow’s oil flowing from the jar, the bread and fish continue to flow from the baskets.

Ecstatic chaos follows. The excitement blossoms with every delivery. Like manna from heaven. A happy confusion of baskets and hands, and people and laughter, and bread, fish and feasting. The people recline, and eat, and talk and rejoice.

From my place by the fire, I pop a piece of warm fish in my mouth. I don’t know that I would believe it if I weren’t seeing it. Imagine. He even commands bread and fish to multiply. Who can do so, if not one from heaven?

The little boy sits next to the Rabbi and eats his own chunk of bread. Their heads are close together and I can’t hear what they’re saying. But from the look on the boy’s face, he’s enjoying his meal companion.

When the sun dips over the horizon, the Rabbi stands and stretches. “Gather the leftovers,” he tells his disciples, who, like the rest of the people, have eaten their fill. “Let nothing be wasted.” And the twelve baskets are filled again.

Of course, the one from heaven would let nothing be wasted.
Not his time of rest and mourning.
Not the crowds looking for him.
Not a little boy’s dinner.
Not the overflowing leftovers.
And maybe, just maybe, not a hopeful follower like me.

Grace & Peace

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Miracles: and walk

Posted on October 2, 2018 by Jill English Johnston

Jerusalem. A cacophony of sounds. A myriad of colors. Bursting with life. Everyone from everywhere comes to her. Romans. Greeks. Egyptians. Jews. All claiming her grand walls. All seeking her fortunes. Bringing goods to sell or trade. For the Jews, another festival; they come to worship God, to offer sacrifice.

We, the small crowd of followers, dash and dodge through the people, as we hurry to keep up with the Rabbi.

“Where’s he going today?” the woman keeping pace next to me asks. They’ve accepted me now. Somewhat. At least, they acknowledge my presence without chasing me off. And even offer me bits of food now and then. I’m grateful.

We pass through the sheep gate but the crowds do not thin. If anything, they grow thicker. People, rich, poor, nobles, common. We approach the covered porches surrounding the pools and beyond the porches lies the shrine to Asclepius.

“It’s shabbat. Why are we here? Why are we not going to the temple?” another asks.

“He seems to have a purpose.”

I agree. The Rabbi’s stride does not change. He makes for one of the arches leading into the pool area. His disciples, and the rest of us, follow. The cool shade offered by the covered porches battles against the press of human body heat. Everywhere, seekers of healing swarm. They camp along the outer walls, they mill about the wide porticos, they sit on the stone steps leading down to the pools, they wade in the shallows of the ruddy waters, they even dip themselves in the depths.

As we survey the crowds, the Rabbi seems to ignore them all. He makes his way toward whatever destination he has in mind. In this place, unlike the towns in Galilee, no one recognizes him, no one gives him a second glance.

Around us, voices cry out to the heavens, to the waters, to whatever they believe will heal them. Prayers to Asclepius. To angels. To Jehovah.

Next to the steps, near one of the thick columns, the Rabbi stops. At his feet lies a grey haired, grey bearded, man on a dingy, tattered mat. An equally dingy, thin blanket covers the man’s legs. With so many people about, the man doesn’t notice the Rabbi. His eyes are fixed on the waters. His face is lined with sadness, resignation, hopelessness.

Shouts and cries burst from the crowds and the man’s eyes widen. I turn and look. At the far end of the  pool, bubbles erupt the murky surface. People surge forward. pushing and shoving each other as they scurry to the water. Several actually swim toward to the stirred up area. At the feet of the Rabbi, the man frantically claws at the stone floor as he tries to drag useless legs toward the water’s edge.

The frenzied activity stretches for long minutes and suddenly ceases with the last bubble. In the relative hush that follows, several shouts of joy echo off the walls and columns.

Throughout the entirety of the commotion, the Rabbi’s gaze never moves from the man. The man, having crawled barely a few inches, sinks back onto his mat. He quickly pulls the thin blanket back over his thin, twisted legs. He finally notices the Rabbi and his tortured eyes looks from the Rabbi to the waters and back again.

The Rabbi had offered the man no assistance. He squats down next to him.  They stare at each other.

“Do you want to be healed?” the Rabbi asks.

The man’s mouth drops open. His eyes dart again to the now still waters, save for the areas where people wade. “I have none to put me in the pool when the water is disturbed.” A simple statement. An unspoken accusation.

Another cry of joy nearby. A woman’s voice. She’s well dressed. A nobleman’s wife, I’d guess. She holds up her hands for others to see. Comments of awe and praise to Asclepius.

The Rabbi shakes his head, but his eyes remain on the man.

“When I try to get there,” the man pauses and looks at his dirty, raw, fingers, “someone goes in ahead of me.”

The Rabbi stands. He holds out his hand toward the man. “Get up.”

Confusion covers the man’s face. He opens his mouth, then gasps, staring at the blanket covering his legs. He looks back up at the Rabbi’s extended hand. He reaches out his own and takes it. The blanket falls away as the man jumps to his feet, his legs straight and muscled. He lets go of the Rabbi’s hand and laughs, a ringing sound of delight. Weary lines slip from his face, replaced by awe. He wiggles his toes and his eyes twinkle with delight. “Praise Jehovah,” he whispers.

The Rabbi smiles. “Pick up your mat. And walk.”

The man scoops up his mat and blanket and rolls them up, tucking them under his arm. He takes a tentative step. Then another. And another. His own cry of joy echoes off the walls. I watch as he stops every person in his path, points to his legs, holds up his mat. Then on to the next who will listen. Someone must have asked how, who. Because the man turns back to where he left us.

He scratches his head, a puzzled look on his face. It’s then I realize, the Rabbi has slipped away in the crowd.

Grace & Peace

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Miracles: A Man’s Son

Posted on September 25, 2018 by Jill English Johnston

Spring flowers cover the fields and fill the air with sweet fragrance as we travel north through Samaria. I’ve now become a part of the small band of travelers who follow after the Rabbi. When he visited Jerusalem for the Passover with his disciples, some of us stayed outside the city. We waited, and then went with him when he returned to the countryside along the Jordan River, where his disciples baptized many people. When the Rabbi sets out for the north again, we follow.

We travel through Samaria and stop at a small village along the way. The disciples leave the Rabbi at the well to rest and head into the village. I watch from a distance and see him start a conversation with a woman of obviously questionable reputation.

He shows her incredible respect, despite who she is. I have not approached the Rabbi during our travels. I always keep my distance. But as I watch him talk to this woman, I  wonder would he also talk to me? What would he say? The woman’s surprise at his words and her animated responses makes me think the Rabbi understands more than she tells him. My face flushes at the thought of my past and I quickly dismiss any idea of talking to him. The disciples return and surprise and shock cover their faces when they see their Rabbi chatting with the woman. The woman rushes away but in no time she comes back with a crowd from the village. I’m surprised they even listened to her. But something in her excitement draws and engages the people. And something in the Rabbi’s message keeps them.

We finally continue north and stop in Cana again. Many of the townspeople point to the Rabbi and talk about the wine marvel at the wedding. Some stop and  talk to him. Others greet him like a brother. I see the man approaching from a distance, hurrying towards the Rabbi and his disciples. He’s dressed in the robes of an officer in the royal service, and several junior officers and numerous servants accompany him. But something in his chiseled features and resolute stride speak of desperation.

The servants retreat to the edges of the crowd, close to where I stand. As the man speaks to the Rabbi, asking him to come heal his dying son, the servants whisper among themselves about the many healers and priests of various gods the man summoned to Capernaum, paid to cure his son. Asclepius, Febris, Panacea, and even the Egyptian goddess, Isis. None had succeeded.

The Rabbi’s voice carries over the crowd. “Unless you people see signs and wonders, you simply will not trust!”

Such an odd response to the man’s wretched situation. Did the Rabbi know of the man’s previous attempts for his son’s healing? Or was he speaking to the crowds gathering out of curiosity?

“But of course,” a servant grumbles. “Healing requires spells, chants, sometimes even magic. Naturally, we expect these things.”

I’d seen healers at work before. With their herbs, their songs, their cutting on the patients and even demanding sacrifices. They reminded me of the Egyptian priests mimicking Moses. Or the priests of Ba’al in their frenzy to gain the attention of their god.

“Sir, please,” the officer implores. He falls to his knees and holds up open hands, an odd position for someone in expensive, royal robes. “Come with me, before my child dies.”

Another servant snorts and receives a knuckle in the head for his troubles.

Compassion fills the Rabbi’s face as he looks down at the man. I adjust the straps of the small pack I carry, holding my precious few belongings. I assume we would begin the trek to Capernaum with the officer.

“You may go,” the Rabbi says. “Your son is alive.”

The man looks up at him and blinks several times. So do I. The crowd falls quiet.

I hear a servant whisper, “Surely he goes with our master. A healer must see the one sick. How can he determine from afar what ails the child?”

Another servant shakes his head. “Who can heal without attending to the patient?”

The officer stands and brushes the dust from his robes. His mouth works as if he wants to say something. He pauses, and looks into the Rabbi’s eyes, then, he nods to himself, summons his junior officers, and turns. The servants scurry after him as he strides towards the town gates.

I clutch my pack to my chest. Such a long way home. What will the man find when he returns? What had he seen in the Rabbi’s eyes to make him have such trust, to leave, and take him at his word?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grace & Peace

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Miracles: Water into Wine

Posted on September 11, 2018 by Jill English Johnston

The wine ran out, and Yeshua’s mother said to him, “They have no more wine.”
John 2:3

 

Music drifts across the cool autumn air, tumbling between the village homes, dancing over the harvested fields and dipping in and out of the rows of the now empty grape vines.
It tickles my ears, teases me, beckons me.
The whole village of Cana has turned out for the wedding. The feasts have gone late into the night and the traditional ceremonies are taken up each morning.
I have resisted the temptation to join in, for certainly someone would turn me away. But I can’t restrain myself any longer. Especially since I heard he is also here.
I don’t enter the town through the main road, crowded as it is with wedding guests coming and going. Instead, I slip between the baker’s house with its warm smell of yeast and oil, and a small, smelly pen filled with bleating sheep, most likely waiting to take their part in the feast.
I keep my head covered and my face hidden, hoping no one will recognize me. A quick glance at the merry goers tells me I should be safe, for I recognize no one.
Except him.
He strides down the street with a small group of young men. Not long ago, I had been privileged and delighted to be near the lake when he invited several of them to join him. A few are beyond the typical age of being called by a rabbi, yet they left their father’s boats and followed him. I fall in step next to some others who trail behind, not part of his company, but intrigued enough to shadow them.
As we walk, hushed murmurs slither about the townspeople. Not loud enough to be heard above the music, but seen in their faces as they discuss a matter, in an ear, behind a raised hand, in a turn of a head. With furrowed brows and pursed lips. What was causing dismay on a day of celebration?
The rabbi pauses outside the gates of a large home and a woman approaches him. Is it about the hushed secrets? As casually and indiscreetly as I can, I work my way forward until I’m close enough to catch the conversation.
“…no more wine.”
The comment darts like a hummingbird among the young men.
Eyebrows raise. Eyes widen. Mouths open.
How could they run out of wine?
Did the host not purchase enough?
Had they not expected the whole town to turn out?
I strain to hear the rabbi’s response. After all, what is he to do? He is a guest.
He looks down at the woman, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Mother, why should that concern me? — or you? My time hasn’t come yet.”
Ahh, his mother. But again, what does she expect him to do?
Yet she laughs. Then turns to the servants who accompany her. “Do whatever he tells you.” They give polite nods and wait for further instruction. The rabbi watches as she slips through the gates and disappears into the courtyard.
I hold my breath. Is he going to do something? There had been talk. That he had powers from God. But no one had seen him do anything in public yet.
Yet.
Others in the street slow and stop, adding to the gathering crowd.
The rabbi turns back to his small group of men and says something only they can hear. Oh, to be privy to his private comments. He then looks to the servants and to a row of tall jars standing along the wall next to the gates. To these he nods. “Fill them with water.”
Surprise blossoms on their faces. It quickly vanishes and they hurry away. Throughout the village, music still plays, conversations still buzz and laughter still breaks by those unaware of the crisis. Those of us who are aware, wait.
The servants return, carrying barrels of water, which they pour into the jars, then hurry away again. Three times they pour, until the six jars are filled. The rabbi steps closer and inspects each one. “Now draw some out.”
Again surprise covers their faces. And hesitation. But one of the servants plucks the ladle hanging next to the jars and dips it in. Another servant presents a cup to which the liquid is poured. Deep, rich, red liquid. Sparkling in the afternoon sun.
Gasps escape from the lips of everyone watching. Including mine.
Another smile plays on the rabbi’s lips. “Take it to the man in charge of the banquet.”
The other servants open the gates wide for the one with the cup to enter.
Of course the others follow. But slowly, because each one pauses to look into the jars and wonder at their contents.
I remain behind as the rabbi and his men go inside; I dare not be bold enough to enter the home. I glance around. From the folds of my cloak I pull out the chunk of bread I lifted from one of the servant’s trays when she wasn’t looking. I edge my way closer to the nearest jar and peak in. Dark red liquid reflects the sky above. I dip a corner of the bread into it. Red quickly soaks in. I bring it to my lips and taste. Spicy rich flavors fill my mouth.
Inside the house, the music pauses and hush falls.
I quickly retreat and climb up and sit a wall where I have a view of the gates.
Then a burst of joy, a shout carries through an open window. “Quickly, call the bridegroom. Bring him here.”
The rest is lost in the jubilation as the celebration starts up again. The musicians take up a lively tune that make one’s feet itch to tap and move.
The gates open and the servants return, shooing away those dipping fingers and tasting the wine. They pick up the jars and take them into the courtyard.
The news scampers with delight about the townspeople. Loud enough to be heard above the music, shouted from one to another across the street, proclaimed from the corners, told with awe and wonder.
From my perch on the wall, I watch the gates as I nibble on the rest of the wine soaked bread.
And wait.

Grace & Peace

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Miracles: This Man

Posted on September 4, 2018 by Jill English Johnston

This man. Jesus.

“Men of Isra’el! Listen to this! Yeshua from Natzeret (Jesus from Nazareth) was a man demonstrated to you to have been from God by the powerful works, miracles and signs that God performed through him in your presence. You yourselves know this. This man was arrested in accordance with God’s predetermined plan and foreknowledge; and, through the agency of persons not bound by the Torah, you nailed him up on a stake and killed him!
“But God has raised him up and freed him from the suffering of death; it was impossible that death could keep its hold on him.
Acts 2:22-24 (CJB)

As Oak Hills embarks on a series on the miracles of Jesus, I too want to take a closer look at this man, the one we call Savior, Messiah, the Christ. But I’d like to get up close and personal, to see the dust he raises as he walks, to see the sweat upon his brow, to see the emotion in his eyes. I’d like to hear to hear the murmurs, the cries, the arguments of the crowds. I’d like to see the miracles, talk to those Jesus healed, touch their healed bodies, hear their testimonies, and wonder at it all.

Yeshua (Jesus) went about all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the Good News of the Kingdom, and healing every kind of disease and weakness. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them because they were harried and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.
Matthew 9:35-36 (CJB)

I follow from a distance. For what would this Rabbi, this healer, this prophet have with me? But I, I want what he had to offer. So I follow. I have followed him from one little town to the next. Down dusty roads. Up steep inclines. Through ravines. Across rocky terrain. And I’m not the only one. With each town, this man, Jesus, adds to the number of people following after him.

If news of his arrival reaches the town before he does, which is often the case, the crowds come out to greet him. I usually find a place, something I can climb up, somewhere I see over the mass of humanity and watch. They bring with them everyone who is ill, those suffering from various diseases and pains, and even the demon possessed.

And he stops. He listens to each one. He touches them. And it happens. I’ve seen it. A lame man walks. A blind woman sees. A child with a withered hand is made whole. Even the ones tormented by evil spirits are freed. So many. So many. It’s amazing to watch.

I squint my eyes in the hot afternoon sun, shading them with a grimy hand, trying to get a glimpse of him through the swarming, pressing crowds. Several of his disciples stand around him and urge the people to leave some room, to keep a space cleared for him, to provide a place where he can teach. But the people are desperate. They are lost, overwhelmed, hurting, sick, broken, hopeless. And his words have Life. Power. Promise. So, they press in.

This town is different than the others. Natzeret. The crowds say its where he grew up. Surely the people must be excited to have him home. Undoubtedly they will have some sort of feast in his honor. Certainly he will do great things here.

He is speaking, but in this place, unlike the hillside outside the last town, his words do not carry enough for me to hear so far away. Against my better judgment, I slip between those in front of me. For my efforts I receive a jostle, an elbow in the face, a shove backward. But I’m not angry. They suspect who I am. And if they don’t, I know they, like me, must also want what he has to offer.

I cast a quick glance around the area, then scramble up and perch on the side of a nearby cart. I can see better, but instead of hearing him, I only hear the murmurs of those around me.

“Where do this man’s wisdom and miracles come from?” one man asks. But it’s skepticism in his voice, not curiosity.
“Isn’t he the carpenter’s son?” a young woman comments.
An older woman nods. “Isn’t his mother called Miryam? and his brothers Ya‘akov, Yosef, Shim‘on and Y’hudah?”
Heads bob up and down. And another woman adds, with a sweep of her hands toward a young women standing with a couple of older girls. “And his sisters, aren’t they all with us?”
A older man crosses his arms and glares toward Jesus and his disciples. “So where does he get all this?”

The murmurs work their way forward, jumping from lips to lips, until they reach the front.

From my adventageous position, I see him with a furrowed brow. He slowly turns, eyes moving from face to face. “Who will come?” he calls.

The crowd buzzes, but no one steps forward, no one cries out.
No one? No lame? No deaf? No demon possessed? Don’t they want healed? Don’t they want what he has to offer?

With a visible sigh, he shakes his head. “The only place people don’t respect a prophet is in his home town and in his own house.”

The crowd buzzes all the more loudly, like a swarm of angry bees. He says nothing more. He leaves, followed only by his disciples, and heads into town.

As the crowd disperses, I remain where I am. And I wonder.
Why could this man not perform any miracles in this place?

Grace & Peace

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