The touch of God

047 the touch of god

Nobody touched me for five years. Nobody. No soul. Not my wife. Not my child. Not my friends. Nobody touched me. They saw me. They talked to me, I felt love in their voice. I saw concern in her eyes. But I did not feel her touch. I demanded what is commonplace for you. A handshake. A hearty hug. A tap on the shoulder to grab my attention. A kiss on the lips. There were no such moments in my world. Nobody bumped into me. What would I have given if someone had jostled me if I had barely made headway in the crowd, if my shoulder had touched another. But it had not happened since five years ago. How could it be otherwise? I was not allowed on the street. Even the rabbis kept away from me. I was not admitted to the synagogue. I was not even welcome in my own house.

One year, during the harvest, I had the impression that I could not pack the sickle with my other strength. My fingertips seemed numb. Within a short time I could still hold the sickle, but hardly feel it. At the end of the main operating time, I did not feel anything anymore. The hand holding the sickle could just as well have belonged to another - I had no feeling at all. I did not tell my wife, but I know she suspected something. How could it have been different? I kept my hand pressed against my body all the time, like a wounded bird. One afternoon I dipped my hands in a pool of water because I wanted to wash my face. The water became red. My finger was bleeding, even quite violently. I did not even know that I was hurt. How did I cut myself? On a knife? Was my hand streaked over a sharp metal blade? Most likely, but I did not feel anything. "On your clothes, too," my wife whispered gently, standing behind me, looking at the blood-red spots on my robe before looking at her, standing for a long time over the pelvis and staring at my hand, somehow I knew that My life changed forever. "Should I go to the priest with you?" she asked. "No," I sighed, "I'm going alone." I turned and saw tears in her eyes. Next to her was our three-year-old daughter. I crouched down, staring into her face, silently stroking her cheek. What could I have said? I stood there and looked at my wife again. She touched my shoulder, and with my good hand I touched hers. It would be our last touch.

The priest had not touched me. He looked at my hand, which was now wrapped in a rag. He looked into my face, now dark with pain. I did not blame him for what he said to me. He had just followed his instructions. He covered his mouth, holding out his hand, palm forward. "You are unclean," he told me, with this single statement I lost my family, my farm, my future, my friends, my wife came to me at the city gate with a bag of bread and coins, she said nothing, some had friends In her eyes I saw for the first time what I have seen in all eyes ever since: anguished pity, and when I took a step, they stepped back, their horror of my illness greater than their concern for my heart how many times did I shed those who saw me, five years of leprosy had deformed my hands, the tips of my fingers were missing, as well as parts of an ear and my nose Mothers covered their faces, children pointed to me and stared at me, the rags on my body could not hide my wounds, and the scarf on my face could not hold back Do not cover anger in my eyes either. I did not even try to hide it. In how many nights did I clench my crippled fist into the silent sky? "What did I do to earn it?" But the answer did not come, some think I have sinned, others think my parents have sinned, I only know that I've had enough of all this, sleeping in the colony, I had enough of the cursed bell I had to wear around my neck to warn people of my presence, as if I needed it, one look was enough, and the shouts began, "Impure Unclean, unclean! "

A few weeks ago I dared to walk along the road to my village. I did not intend to enter the village. I just wanted to take another look at my fields. Look at my house from a distance. And maybe by chance see my wife's face. I did not see her. But I saw some children playing in a meadow. I hid behind a tree and watched as they whizzed and jumped. Their faces were so cheerful and their laughter so contagious that for a moment, for just a moment, I was no longer a leper. I was a farmer. I was a father. I was a man. Infected with happiness, I came out from behind the tree, stretched my back, took a deep breath ... and they saw me. They saw me before I could withdraw. And they screamed, ran away. One, however, lagged behind the others. One stopped and looked in my direction. I can not say for sure, but I think, yes, I really think it was my daughter. I think she was looking for her father.

This look led me to the step I did today. Of course it was reckless. Of course it was risky. But what did I have to lose? He calls himself God's son. Either he will hear my complaints and kill me or answer my request and heal me. These were my thoughts. I came to him as a challenging man. Not faith moved me, but desperate anger. God has brought this misery to my body, and he would either heal it or end my life.
But then I saw him, and when I saw him, I was changed. I can only say that the morning in Judea is sometimes so fresh and the sunrise so splendid that one does not even think about the heat of the past and the pains of the past. When I looked into his face, it was as if I saw a morning in Judea. Before he said anything, I knew he was feeling with me. Somehow I knew that he hated the disease as much as I did - no, even more so than me. My anger turned into trust, my anger in hope.

Hidden behind a rock, I watched him descend the mountain. A huge crowd followed him. I waited until he was only a few steps away from me, then I stepped out. "Master!" He stopped and looked in my direction, as did countless others, and the crowd was seized with fear, all covering their faces with their arms, children taking cover behind their parents, "Unclean!" Someone shouted. That's why I can not be angry with them. I was the walking death. But I hardly heard her. I barely saw her. I had already seen her panic a thousand times. However, I had never experienced his compassion. Everyone stepped back, except him. He came up to me. I did not move.

I just said, "Lord, you can make me healthy, if you want." Had he cured me in one word, I would have loved it. But he did not just talk to me. That was not enough for him. He came closer to me. He touched me. "I want." His words were as loving as his touch. "Be well!" Power poured through my body like water through a dry field. At the same moment I felt heat where deafness was. I felt power in my haggard body. I stretched my back and raised my head. Now I was facing him, looking at his face, eye to eye. He smiled. With his hands, he gripped my head and pulled me so close to him that I could feel his warm breath and see the tears in his eyes. "See that you do not tell anyone, but go to the priest, have him confirm the healing and bring the sacrifice that Moses has prescribed. Those responsible should know that I take the law seriously. "I am now on my way to the priest, I will show myself to him and hug him, I will show myself to my wife and hug her, I will hug my daughter. And I'll never forget the one who dared to touch me, he could have cured me in one word, but he did not just want to make me well, he wanted to honor me, give me value, get me into the company with him to take.

Imagine not being touched by a human, but worthy of the touch of God.