Blind faith
-a convention short story
He was coming. We had heard the rumours for several days; we had
listened to the excited chatter of distant travellers. This amazing, healing
man was coming to Jericho – the city was brimming with suspense. The
anticipation was thick and tangible. You could sense the awe, the expectation,
the fear all jumbled together in a giant cauldron of feelings. It was rumoured
that from miles away you could hear them coming, like a mighty army marching
down to battle, and it was easy to understand why the authorities feared them
and why they wanted this man. But here, sat under this fig tree, it all seemed
so distant and made-up, as for me, I have no part to play in this story.
Rain pounds thick on my face, its droplets soak down my eyes and
follow their path down to sit upon my broadening cheeks. The salty liquid slips
from the tips of my hair, down onto bare feet, my head tilts up towards the
heavens, my ears filling with the euphoria of the rain’s drumming beat. The
wind sings its high-octave song, the leaves crackle and clash, the waves
thunder and thrash. My body is soaked wet with freedom. The rain releases my
soul. It brings me back to where I started, back to where my thinking began…
Someone once told me: Seeing is believing. I only believe. To me, it’s a
choice. Others will never understand. The years go by, it’s all the same for
them, all so different to me. I’m an outcast. They like to call me a nobody, a
figure they try to avoid. It doesn’t matter to me-because I’m always
journeying, always moving on and forgetting them, like some old sojourner on an
eternal pilgrimage.
We sit on these wet rocks and wait far outside the city’s mighty
gates. Waiting for nothing. You can always tell it’s one of your own kind: the
shuffling of clumsy feet, the heavy smell of dirty clothes, the stench of unwashed
bodies, the usual scratching of long, knotted beards and the ruffle of robes
shifting and fidgeting. We sit, as always, never breaking our code of silence,
waiting for a miracle.
It was just as the heat was settling and the evening breeze
began to drift into night, that the first touches of reality were felt. It was
felt through the tremors in the voices of excited travellers, in the heavier
breathing of mules and horses, and in the distant child, running and laughing. He
was near. A group of travellers had set up camp, close to where we lay, they
spoke almost without ceasing about this man, the prophet man, who healed the
blind, cleansed lepers and even forgave sins. What man forgives sins? Only God
forgives sins!
I cannot sleep. I am riveted with the thought that he might finally
be here. Something that one of them said, weighs heavy on my mind,
‘This man, is so much more than we all
first thought. This man, might be the Messiah, the chosen one, This man, is
greater than our feelings, deeper than our thoughts, he’s more than a human
prophet, more like a bridge from man to God, from heaven to earth.’
For a moment, I lost a
grip on my senses and looked reality dead in the eye. For a split second,
Heaven came crashing down to earth, like some explosive cosmic supernova
filling the night sky, like light bursting through darkness revealing truth in
all its beauty. I didn’t sleep.
I am silent and listening. Waiting for fulfilment and waiting
for my hopes to be confirmed. Then I heard it: a distant marching, a faint
vibration, the rumbling of a thousand men, the chatter of a multitude of women,
the laughter of child upon child. They were here! I scrambled from my rock and
began to run towards the road. I couldn’t miss them, I wouldn’t miss them, but
I am blind. My foot slams hard against a stone, I trip and fall headlong onto
rocky ground, the unforgiving rocks bite away at my clumsy body, my knees, my
feet, my hand, are open and bleeding. I keep going in a frantic frenzy not to
miss them, not to miss him. I must be healed, but I know I can run no further,
I cry out,
‘Son of David! Son of David!’
In my blind panic I feel my way to the road with my hands,
crying out with all my might, scraping away rocks and thorns in vain. I sit and
wait.
I hear them come. My chance is now, so I shout out in a loud
voice,
’ Jesus, son of David! Have mercy
upon me! Son of David! Have mercy on me!’
I hear the grumblings from the crowd, and with bitter disgust
they try to keep me quiet,
‘Be on your way!’
’ Don’t bother the master!’
But I cry out more, desperation straining from my voice, from my
very soul,
’Jesus! Son of David! Have mercy
upon me! Have mercy upon me!’
With that I sink to the floor, my energy spent, my soul drained.
But then hope.
‘Get up!’
‘Cheer up!’
‘The Master calls you!’
I hesitate, doubts and fears, worries and uncertainties, all hit
me, but without uttering a word, he simply speaks my name,
’Bartimaeus’
I cannot help but fall to
my knees I cling to his coat and between the sobs I utter out,
‘Rabbi… I want to see!’
Even as the words fall out of my mouth, Heaven hits my heart.
His love overwhelms me, His peace draws me to Him, and His joy fills my soul.
‘Go, your faith has healed you!’
And then it happened, colour drains in from every corner, light
bursts through darkness, I am overcome, I cannot utter a single word, I cannot
think. Trees leapt out at me, flowers sparkle, the sky so blue, the grass so
green! All the things I heard of, all these things I had felt, I now saw! I
laughed almost uncontrollably. The unbelievable- believed, the madness all made
sense, the confusion cleared, my life created anew, my heart restored and my
body healed! The others dance and laugh and share my joy as we go on our way.
He heals me. He restores my soul. He makes me new. He has
finally come. My story is Him.
Someone once told me. Seeing is believing – I just to believe.
To me, it’s a choice, others will never understand. The years go by and it’s
all the same for them, all so different to me. Often I’m an outcast, they like
to call me a nobody, a figure they try to avoid, it doesn’t matter to
me-because I’m always journeying, always moving on- following him, an old
sojourner on an eternal pilgrimage.
