The touch of God

Nobody touched me for five years. No one. Not a soul. Not my wife. not my child not my friends Nobody touched me. you saw me They spoke to me, I felt love in their voice. I saw concern in her eyes, but I didn't feel her touch. I requested what is commonplace for you, a handshake, a warm hug, a pat on the shoulder to get my attention or a kiss on the lips. There weren't any more moments like that in my world. Nobody bumped into me. What would I have given if someone had pushed me, if I had hardly made any headway in the crowd, if my shoulder had brushed against another. But that hadn't happened for five years. How could it be otherwise? I wasn't allowed on the street. I was not admitted to the synagogue. Even the rabbis stayed away from me. I wasn't even welcome in my own house. I was untouchable. I was a leper! Nobody touched me. Til today.

One year, during the harvest, I felt that I could not grasp the sickle with my usual strength. My fingertips seemed numb. Within a short time I could still hold the sickle but could hardly feel it. Towards the end of the harvest season I felt nothing at all. The hand clasping the sickle might as well have belonged to another man, I had lost all feeling. I didn't say anything to my wife, but I know what she suspected. How could it have been otherwise? I kept my hand pressed to my body the whole time, like a wounded bird. One afternoon I dipped my hands in a basin of water to wash my face. The water turned red. My finger was bleeding profusely. I didn't even know I was hurt. How did I cut myself? Did I wound myself with a knife? Had my hand grazed a sharp metal blade? Most likely, but I hadn't felt anything. It's on your clothes too, my wife whispered softly. She stood behind me. Before I looked at her, I noticed the blood-red stains on my robe. I stood over the pool for a long time and stared at my hand. Somehow I knew my life had changed forever. My wife asked me: should I go to the priest with you? No, I sighed. I go alone. I turned around and saw tears in her eyes. Next to her was our three-year-old daughter. I crouched down and stared into her face, wordlessly stroking her cheek. What else could I have said? I stood there and looked at my wife again. She touched my shoulder and I touched hers with my good hand. It would be our last touch.

The priest hadn't touched me. He looked at my hand, now wrapped in a rag. He looked into my face, now dark with pain. I didn't blame him for what he told me, he was just following instructions. He covered his mouth, stretched out his hand, palm forward, and spoke with a firm tone: You are unclean! With that single statement, I lost my family, my friends, my farm, and my future. My wife came to me at the city gate with a sack of clothes, bread and coins. She did not say anything. Some friends had gathered. In her eyes I saw for the first time what I've seen in everyone's eyes since, fearful pity. When I took a step, they stepped back. Her horror at my illness was greater than her concern for my heart. So, like everyone else I've seen since, they stepped back. How I repelled those who saw me. Five years of leprosy had deformed my hands. The fingertips and also parts of an ear and my nose were missing. Fathers grabbed their children at the sight of me. Mothers covered their children's faces, pointed and stared at me. The rags on my body couldn't hide my wounds. The scarf on my face couldn't hide the anger in my eyes either. I didn't even try to hide them. How many nights have I clenched my crippled fist against the silent sky? I wondered what did I do to deserve this? But there was no answer. Some people think I have sinned and others think my parents sinned. All I know is that I've had enough of it all, sleeping in the colony, the foul smell, and 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 they shout loudly: Unclean! Unclean! Unclean!

A few weeks ago I dared to walk along the road to my village. I had no intention of entering the village. I just wanted to take another look at my fields. Look at my house again from afar and maybe see my wife's face by chance. I didn't see her. But I saw some children playing in a meadow. I hid behind a tree and watched them dash and jump around. Their faces were so happy and their laughter so infectious that for a moment, just for a moment, I wasn't a leper anymore. I was a farmer. i was a father i was a man Infected by their happiness, I stepped out from behind the tree, straightened my back, took a deep breath, and they saw me before I could pull away. The children screamed and ran away. One, however, lagged behind the others, stopping and looking my way. I can't say for sure but I think, yeah I really think it was my daughter that was looking for her father.

That look prompted me to take the step I took today. Of course it was reckless. Of course it was risky. But what did I have to lose? He calls himself the Son of God. He will either hear my complaints and kill me, or heed my pleas and heal me. Those were my thoughts. I came to him as a challenging man. It was not faith that moved me, but desperate anger. God created this misery on my body and He would either heal it or end my life.

But then I saw him! When I saw Jesus Christ, I was changed. All I can say is that sometimes the mornings in Judea are so fresh and the sunrise so glorious that one forgets the heat and pain of the past day. Looking into his face, it was like seeing a beautiful Judean morning. Before he said anything, I knew he felt for me. Somehow I knew that he hated this disease as much as I did, no, even more than I did. My anger turned to trust, my anger to hope.

Hidden behind a rock, I watched him descend the mountain. A huge crowd followed him. I waited until he was a few steps away from me, then I stepped forward. "Master!" He stopped and looked my way, as did countless others. Fear gripped the crowd. Everyone covered their face with their arm. Children took cover behind their parents. Unclean, someone shouted! I can't be mad at them for that. I was the walking death. But I hardly heard her. I hardly saw her. I'd seen her panic countless times. However, I had never experienced his sympathy until now. Everyone resigned except him. He approached me. I didn't move.

I just said Lord you can make me well if you want. If he had healed me with one word, I would have been thrilled. But he wasn't just talking to me. That wasn't enough for him. He got closer to me. He touched me. Yes I do. His words were as loving as his touch. Be healthy! Power flowed through my body like water through a dry field. In the same instant I felt where there was numbness. I felt strength in my wasted body. I straightened my back for warmth and lifted my head. Now I stood face to face with him, looking into his face, eye to eye. He smiled. He cupped my head in his hands and pulled me so close that I could feel his warm breath and see the tears in his eyes. Be careful not to say anything to anyone, but go to the priest, have him confirm the healing and make the sacrifice that Moses prescribed. I want those responsible to know that I take the law seriously.

I'm on my way to the priest now. I will show myself to him and hug him. I will show myself to my wife and hug her. I will hold my daughter in my arms. I will never forget the one who dared to touch me - Jesus Christ! He could have made me whole with one word. But he didn't just want to heal me, he wanted to honor me, give me value, bring me into fellowship with him. Imagine that, I wasn't worthy of man's touch, but I am worthy of God's touch.

by Max Lucado