A
pproximately two miles away lay the village of Chorazin. A Roman temple was there erected to the glory of Hercules who appeared engraved on a wall holding a club. Other engravings such as a medusa and a centaur adorned the gray, stone walls. Outside the temple there hovered in the shadows a man hunkered over, clothed in burlap and assorted colored rags, gray with the dinge common to dirt mixed with outdoor exposure. He sat still and unmoving, head drooped, his hands wrapped in rags resembling bandages. He held a walking stick broken from some unfortunate sapling, still green with ebbing life.
The stick was like the man himself, who could not be more than a few winters past twenty, yet he huddled as if four times that age. The rags on his blackened feet covered with blood, toes protruding, elongated black toenails, what few there were left, trimmed only by the rough rocks of the road. Rheumy eyes glanced furtively around looking for something, anything, someone, anyone to release him from this body of ulcerated skin, bone and viscera, this paralyzed body extinct of sensation, this rotting body of gangrenous flesh and deformation. All who saw him averted their eyes and put as much distance between him and them as possible whilst they continued on their way, doing their best to think of something else, anything to push his image from their minds and his smell from their nostrils. And then the rheumy eyes blinked.
One of the passersby had stopped and was looking at him.
The man who had stopped took a few steps toward him. Seeing the approach through orbs that could barely see, the sick man cried out, “Unclean! Stay away!” This seemed effective. The man halted his approach momentarily and then ignoring the warning, continued. “Stop, I say! Unclean! I am a leper!”
“You are also a man.” Quiet. Soft-spoken. Gentle. Inviting inquiry. “Do you know me?”
Rheumy eyes searched the man’s face.
“No.”
“I am Jesus, of Nazareth.”
The man emitted a deep-guttural sigh. “Oh-h-h.” He knew of Jesus of Nazareth. Who in all of Galilee didn’t? Especially those in the colony of lepers where he spent most of his days. The talk, the rumors, the gossip. “He can heal leprosy,” some said. “He is a faker,” said others. “He holds out false hope. He is dangerous!” “He is of God.” “No, . . .” And so the buzz continued. The man in rags had heard just about everything that could be said about someone others had claimed could heal. Now he actually faced this famous man, or infamous, depending on one’s perspective. What had he heard? Simple words. But the tone in which they were issued. Could he not hear . . . something? Hope? Something beckoning him to . . . believe? “Lord,” he said, just above a whisper that began in the remotest reaches of infected bowels, “Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.”
Jesus reached out his hand and took the man’s face in his hands, “I am willing,” he said gently as if this man were the only man on earth beside himself. And the man heard the words spoken as if meant for no other, “You are clean!”
And so he was.
Then Jesus said to him, “Don’t tell anyone about this, but go now,” with vehemence, waving his hand toward the pagan temple, “Get away from this place. Show yourself to the priest at the synagogue, and offer the sacrifices that Moses commanded for your cleansing.” He spoke the word, Moses, with emphasis, indicating clearly the demarcation between the pagan god and the God of Israel. The vehemence in Jesus’ tone was not lost on the man. He vacated the temple area instantly and sought out the priest at the synagogue. He did not however, remain quiet. He could not restrain himself. He told all he met of the healing that had occurred and how Jesus had warned him to avoid the Temple of Hercules.
This did not go down well with the civic leaders of Chorazin, or with the Romans whose pretense at worship and jealousy for their gods was well known. Jesus knew this. That is why he told the man to remain quiet. He would only bring trouble on himself as well as for Jesus by speaking of what had occurred. The Roman authorities required of the locals a certain respect for their gods and if there were someone spreading notions that they were vacuous deities, then that amounted to sedition.
How quickly and widespread the news traveled of the young leper being healed on the very steps of the Temple of Hercules was truly amazing. “There is not a trace of it left!” Animated discussion among the people of the village. “He gives no allegiance to the gods!” Rumors flew. “He publicly challenges the Romans!” People began to choose sides. “He is the Prophet,” said some. “He is a seditionist!” said others. In a matter of hours almost everyone in Chorazin knew of the healing and of Jesus’ anti-government preaching. Hence, Jesus could no longer go about freely in the village. He was forced to withdraw.
Still, they sought him out. Some to be healed, some to hear his teaching, and some to see if he was really insane enough to take on the Romans. It was impossible to keep a low profile. Deeper and deeper he went into the countryside, yet the crowds followed. At length he was able to elude them enough to find a place off the pathway where he could enjoy a moment of privacy. For him, it was a most uncomfortable episode. He had escaped with his life, but had he stayed in Chorazin, he likely would have been killed or at best, imprisoned. He found a rock, upon which he sat, chest heaving, he buried his face in his hands. When his heart stopped pounding, he prayed.
He would not forget this town.
