They Met Jesus

The Demoniac


I cannot tell you his name; our grandfather forbade us to ever utter it again. People called him “the mad man”. In time, we came to think of him that way too. Everyone but me. He was my brother and we were twins, born together, bonded by a tie only we could see or understand.

When the madness darkened his mind and grandfather cast him out of our family, I went too. I gave up my name and my dwelling. Some thought me mad as well, but they were wrong. I only pretended madness so I might stay near my brother and watch over him.

He was clearly mad, and for no cause we could see or understand. Wiser people than I told us he was possessed by a demon, and it surely seemed so. We would have sunny days of happiness and think the scourge of madness had gone. Then, as quick as lightning, and as unexpected, his face would twist into a tortured mask and he would spit vile words at me as if I were the madman and not he.

“You tormentor, you torturer, you demon from hell!” he would scream, and try to throttle me with hands that had the grip of a lion. He seemed obsessed with my clothes, as if my robes somehow offended him, and if he could, he would rip them from me and tear them into useless shreds. I learned to go naked, quickly stripping off my clothes and hiding them from him. Thus I protected my garments.

My parents soon gave up providing clothes for him. He would not tolerate them. It was his nakedness as much as anything that shamed my family, and when I exposed myself to the world too, they hated me as well.

When the fits passed, my brother would weep like a child. His body shook with his sobs and he begged me to end his life, he was so miserable. Then, as if some noxious cloud had passed the sun, he would suddenly smile, throw back his head and laugh at the sky. He never remembered his agony, or the rage. He would embrace me with love in his eyes, and kiss my lips and invite me to ramble in his magic land of make-believe.

Only his magic land was no Garden of Eden - it was the city of tombs , the resting place of the dead. It was dreary and neglected and avoided by the living, for it was also the city of the damned, the demons that afflicted others. Their moans and cries could be heard night and day, and people feared their touch every bit as much as the contamination of a leper.

For my brother, there was no fear. If there were demons there - and of course, I never saw them for they had no bodies - they did not seem to disturb him. He saw only a land of spectral dreams and delights, which he contemplated with the face of a child examining a world of ceaseless wonder. I did my best to see his world with him, but I could only pretend. I watched only his face.

You learn to avoid normal people when you live in that awful shade. You want to hide your loved one from curious eyes and the insults and the cruel taunts that come from outsiders. I found it was easier to pretend I was possessed too, rather than try to resist their vicious attacks. You see, they could tolerate me if I was as mad as my brother, they could not accept my living with him if they believed I was in my right mind.

Then it happened.

We had not been bothered in a long time, people had grown tired of making fun of us, we were left alone to wander among the tombs. Some kind neighbors saw that we had food, and I also was skillful at finding things we needed. I could still go to our Mother who always helped me, and my father too - if I was careful not to let grandfather or anybody else in the family know.

That particular day, we had finished our lunch and were resting in the warm sunshine and not talking. Suddenly my brother sat up, startled, a look of wonder came over his face and then fear. I saw the rage boil up in him and fly out of his eyes like flames of fire, and I knew his shouting would begin. I hastily removed my robe before he turned on me, and I echoed his growls, thinking somehow or other that this might calm him. There had been times when it seemed to. But not this time.

His scream was heartbreaking, his oaths shook the heavens and he howled at the stranger who had appeared out of nowhere - “Get away from me Jesus, what do you have to do with us, you Son of God?” I echoed his words but did not know their meaning. Son of God? I’d never heard of such a being. But my brother continued to scream, as if God had come to kill him.

The stranger did not flinch, or curse him. He stood quietly and spoke calmly - “Come out of him.”

I remember being surprised that the stranger never looked at me, never spoke to me, never took any notice of me. It was as if he knew I was only pretending madness to be with my brother.

I suddenly felt ashamed of my nakedness and tried to hide, but not my brother. He only screamed louder and I was afraid he would attack the stranger as he so often did others. But he did not. He cried, he bellowed in rage, he cursed, but he did not approach the stranger. Instead, he cringed, and was obviously afraid the man might come nearer, might even touch him.

It was then the strangest thing happened. My brother fell on his knees, and reaching his hands upward to the stranger, he pleaded - not so much with words, for what he murmured I could scarcely hear, but with the earnestness of his eyes. And I tell you, of all the years of my brother’s life until that moment, I never saw him more in his right mind. He was asking for something, and the stranger, now grown dazzling white in the sun, nodded his head once.

At that moment, my brother was returned to me. There was no quaking or shivering, no rending of his body as the demon left him. He was still on his knees, his eyes fastened on this mysterious stranger, but there was an aura of peace that spilled from him that reached out and washed over us like a blessed benediction. Fear left me, shame was no more, I knelt down beside him before the stranger and thanked the unknown power that had healed my brother and freed me.

That was two years ago, and that peace continues in us. I returned to our family and we still live together. We do not see my brother often. The people in the town were afraid of him and his new-found sanity, and preferred that he live elsewhere. He was not offended. He has traveled throughout the region of Decapolis telling his story to anyone who will listen, and many have been drawn to God in a new and powerful way.

For a while we heard much of the teachings of the stranger, and my brother thought once of joining the wandering teacher, but Jesus - that was the stranger’s name - urged him to stay here. Perhaps it was just as well, for the world has not been kind to the miracle worker. He was crucified as a criminal in Jerusalem, causing me to wonder if there are more mad men in Judah than ever dwelt in the land of the dead.

However that may be, when I last saw my brother he still smiled, and his inner peace and joy were as real as the first day I saw it in him. “Don’t worry,” he told me, “Jesus is not dead. He rose from the dead. There is no tomb that can hold him - just as those tombs where we once lived could not hold us.”

Today grandfather came to our house and ate Passover with us. It was the first time since the sickness had come upon my brother. Grandfather was curious to hear what we could tell him of the stranger that brought my brother out of the caves of death. I told him all I knew.

Grandfather listened carefully to my words without making any sign of what he thought. But when I finished, he looked away for a moment and then turned back to me, and said “It is time I knew your brother again. Ask him to come to me that I may learn his new name.”

I wonder if, when he comes home, I will be given a new name too?

Nicodemus


He helped bury him you know. My master. He buried Jesus. It was a strange choice for him to make, we thought. After all, he was not a follower - a disciple - of the teacher from Galilee. I know for a fact he only saw the man once, saw him to speak to that is. I transcribed the memo he wrote about it. It’s gone now. He had to destroy it to protect his own life. But I remember what he wrote, remember it as if it were only yesterday. And it was clear he was not a believer. Could never be. Yet he revered the teacher and could not bear to see his body further abused and spat upon.

Nicodemus was a respected leader among the Pharisees. His deference for the Law of Moses and his daily study of the requirements of the commandments was known to all who knew him. His only love was the Law and upon it he meditated day and night.

He had no family that could make demands on his time. His wife had died in childbirth years ago and there were no other children who needed him. He was a solitary man, a man with enough wealth to keep himself in food and clothes, and he could devote his time to study and the observances of the Law.

I was his slave, I had been since we were boys. When he married and went into his own house, he took me with him. I knew him through and through. He treated me kindly, and I was content. When I came to him and asked permission to take a wife, he was generous and thoughtful. He made space in his home for my family, for in time we would have three children who all were his slaves as well. But when they reached an age, he released them, making them free to do as they wished in the world. I loved him.

My wife was the one who made him curious about the Teacher. Some of her friends had urged her to go hear him, and what she heard amazed her. He was not like other teachers she had heard. He spoke with a calm self-assurance that was kind, gentle, and never overbearing. He did not ask people to make him their leader; instead, he spoke of a new society where God was King. In that kingdom, men and women alike were respected and we were to cherish one another as of infinite worth.

This did not seem so strange to us, for our master Nicodemus was also kind and treated us with respect. But the God he spoke of was strict and unforgiving; one who could punish those who neglected or broke his law. That law was difficult; people like us could never live up to it. It asked too much. The best we could do was serve our master and help him to keep the Law. In helping him, we found our place in the world.

For some slaves that place was cruel and hard but we were fortunate. Because that was so, my wife wondered if Nicodemus was not following the teachings this new Teacher taught without knowing it, for he seemed to live the teachings this Rabbi preached. When our master heard of this, he was disturbed. As he listened to what she said, he shook his head. How could these teachings be made to agree with Moses and the prophets?

You see, my master was given to times of melancholy when his sadness darkened the whole house. He withdrew into his study, surrounded himself with his books, and searched them day and night, as if seeking some secret that would grant him ... what? We did not know. He did not have need for wealth. His body was strong. There was no work to worry him, no family for which to provide, no son to instruct and guide. Yet something ached inside him, like a cancer - not in his body, but his soul.

One time when he thought he was alone I heard him groan and mutter “What must I do, O Lord, what must I do to gain your favor?” For such a good man to cry out in such pain frightened me. If he doubted his worthiness, what must God think of the rest of us? So when my wife told him how kind and gentle this new Rabbi was, Nicodemus wondered.

He did not seek the Master out immediately; he asked questions instead. He talked to some who had heard the new teaching, and some who even claimed to have had miraculous healings. He grew more curious, more anxious to see the man they called Jesus.

He chose a dark, quiet night to seek him out. It would not do to be seen talking to this strange teacher. For he was strange. He talked in riddles. His words puzzled my master. He told me what the man had said.

“He said I must be born again. I only asked what I must do to be made right with God, and he said ‘be born again’. Like a baby, only not so. This was some new kind of borning which I could not imagine. ‘You don’t understand me,’ he chided, as if he were somehow disappointed in me. ‘You are a teacher of the Law, and you do not understand my words?’ I wanted to protest, to point out that his words were not reasonable, that he spoke in riddles. He only nodded and said, ‘The wind blows where it will; you do not know where it came from or where it is going. It is like that with the Spirit of God.’

“And be sure to write this down" he stressed to me, "as he spoke, I understood it clearly. I could see that wind and I could feel it cool upon my face and I knew it was the benediction of God, touching and blessing me. I knew it. Such knowledge has never been granted to me before. All I have read in the Law never stripped away the darkness the way that moment did. I wanted to throw myself down at his feet, grip them, kiss them, worship them.

“But such a thing would have been blasphemy. No mere mortal can ever claim that kind of worship and adoration. It is unthinkable. Then why did I understand him? Why did his words go directly to my heart? Why, why, why?”

Nicodemus was afraid, even as Jesus told him of God’s love, a love that was big enough and full enough to embrace the whole wide world, he was afraid. How can we ever be frightened before such a gracious and loving God? But he was afraid. All his life he wanted to believe just that, and now that he did believe it, he felt as if he were tumbling through time and space into a deep abyss with only God there to save him. It was too much.

I wrote out all my master told me and he kept it near by where no other eyes could see it. He read it again and again, wanting to find something in these words that would be familiar, that would give him firm proof, that would assure him he had heard the true voice of God and was listening to God’s words said clear. He could not find it.

But it gave him light, that much I could see. I watched my master ponder this mystery, and that light was not to his liking. Perhaps he had too much to lose, his standing amongst the Pharisees, his long years of study, his beliefs that had guided his every step and determined his every decision – I do not know.

I did see the light, I heard the words, and I had nothing to lose. I sought out Jesus and I listened and learned. I wanted to tell my master, but he would not let me.

The temple lawyers spoke evil of Jesus and urged people to demand his arrest and execution. Nicodemus tried to soften their hearts by asking if our law did not require us to let the accused be heard before we condemned him? It was a mild rebuke, but bravely spoken, and it earned him the hatred of the other Pharisees. He said no more, and when Jesus was finally taken before the Romans and sentenced to death, Nicodemus burned the scroll I had written for him. I never told him I had made a copy of it for myself that I studied and revered. If he must reject Jesus, I did not.

But he was also kind and generous to this strange teacher: as kind as he dared to be. He helped his friend Joseph of Arimethia bury him. Perhaps because he had had that moment of understanding when Jesus spoke to him. Perhaps because he was so hungry he longed to believe even though what Jesus had said was far from what he had learned in the Law of Moses. He respected Jesus and revered his example.

The tomb was thrown open in three days. The body my master had lovingly cleansed and laid away was gone, and none could explain what had happened.

Nicodemus called me into his room the next day and declared me and my wife henceforth free. I was speechless. Why? What had happened to make him do this. He looked off into the distance and said “the wind blew, my old friend, the wind blew.” And he turned away and did not speak of it again.

My wife and I stayed on with him, but as his servants and not his slaves. Where would we have gone after all that time? There was much confusion in Jerusalem after that, many died, the temple was pulled down. Great darkness covered the land.

But here is the strangest part of it all. My melancholy master was a changed man. We watched him, amazed. Nothing seemed to disturb him, he never saddened, never appeared lost or afraid. He lived in peace and we did too. I told my wife, “he has been born again, he is a new man.” And when he died, my wife closed his eyes and kissed his forehead and said, “He has joined the wind” .

The Samaritan Woman at the Well


He stayed two days, think of it. Stayed here. Right here in Samaria. Jews never stay here any longer than they have to, and few ever come here at all. They know they don’t belong in our city. Who knows why.

We common folk don’t. Forced to scrape out a living any way we can, we tolerate the Jews who pass through, though we know they despise us - and we them, if the truth be told. We give them our blank faces, and they give us the same.

Of course she was different; my aunt, the woman he spoke to at our well. Anyone could speak to her. Some whispered he stayed so long because he was infatuated with her charms. Not that I would ever repeat such a scandal. There now, I just did, didn’t I? Well, perhaps you will forgive me when you know more of our story.

You see, she was my aunt, my mother’s sister, and when things went wrong with her, it hurt my mother deeply. Mother loved Bebe - that’s what we called her in our family, a childish name that meant nothing at all, but made us children love her even more - and my mother tried to help her as best she could. Then my father said, “No more, she is not your sister any longer. Stay away from her.” At first my mother wept for Bebe, then she became angry with her. Why did she act that way and make my father hate her so? She blamed Bebe, and forbade me and my sisters to speak to her.

We disobeyed of course, or would have, had Bebe allowed us. But when she heard of what my father said, she told us to leave her alone. She must live by herself lest she get us into trouble. We protested we didn’t care. We loved her. We loved her laughing eyes and her thick wavy hair. Her voice was like the sound of a harp, and no matter how sad we were, she could find an imaginary spot on our forehead that, when she kissed it, made all the unhappiness disappear.

Most of all I loved her voice. She used to sing the loveliest songs - soft, crooning, like a lullaby - only not for babies. She used to tell us there were big strong women sleeping in our little bodies and one day they would stand proud and strong with laughing eyes and waving hair like hers, and we would dance - yes, dance like lilies blown in a soft spring breeze. And we would hear the voice of our beloved call our names, and we would be filled with joys we could never explain. And then she would sing her crooning song to the women who were waiting inside us to awake.

But those songs ended, and while we saw her walk the streets of our village, carrying her water jar to Jacob’s well, we did not dare to speak to her. She never grew angry with us, or gave us harsh words; even her eyes still smiled when she saw us, but she also sent us a caution. “Do not come near me, little angels, I must walk alone.”

Once I disobeyed her warning and followed her at a safe distance where she would not see me. I saw that there were some men who would speak to her, and sometimes they walked with her to her house where they stayed a while. And I thought that was why she walked alone. She would never let us see her with those men.

For I was grown old enough to know why they came to her, and why she walked alone, and why the neighbors looked at her with hard eyes. She did not seem to mind their looks, as I did. I wanted her to defend herself, to declare her innocence, to explain how her husband had tired of her and left her for another wife, to find whatever food she could.

Then the Master came. None of us saw them meet, Bebe and the Master. She told us about it later. She had gone to Jacob’s well in the hottest time of the day - that was when she knew she would be left alone and not have to risk the evil looks of the other women. He sat at Jacob’s well, a Jew by his appearance, and hated even more than she. When he asked her for a drink, she thought his words were only an invitation to consider other favors. She knew the ways of a man.

How many had come to her begging favor. Some came boldly as if it were their right; others came shamefaced, eager to enjoy her embraces yet fearful of what people might think of them. In truth, not much was thought of them, was that not the way of men? It was the woman who was to be despised. Still they approached her hesitantly and she thought he was doing the same. Yet no sooner had that thought crossed her mind than she knew that this man was different. He wanted nothing from her, not even water. He needed nothing. Yet he spoke to her and she was at a loss what to say.

“I tried to put him in his place,” she told us, “to remind him who he was and what I was. What business had he, a Jew, talking to me, a woman of the town?” You see, she thought he was one of those Pharisees who practice their religion very strictly, and he had no business breaking his own laws by even speaking to her.

And that was when he told her of the living water.

She said later he had no sooner uttered those words than she felt a joy leaping up inside her, like nothing she had ever felt before. She imagined it must be something like what women speak of when they first feel life stirring in their wombs. It was so precious it almost choked her; but it also frightened her. It was too wonderful. Were she to contemplate it, she would lose herself in its wonder.

“So I gave him short answer, “ she said, “telling him he must tell me how he was going to get water out of a well without a jug or a rope. The words sounded silly when I spoke them, but they weren’t meant to be taken seriously. That is the way you talk to foolish men, matching their words with nonsense of your own. What I should have done is ignore him, given him the back of my head and walked away. That was the proper rebuke for such boldness.

“But it wasn’t boldness, nor was it silly talk. There was a gentle honesty in his tone that told me I had just been spoken to by a truthful man, the first such man I had ever met. He spoke with no fear and no need for favors. Suddenly his nonsense about living water no longer seemed foolish.”

And although she did not know it at the time, she later realized she was already feeling that stirring deep inside herself. All her life, until that very moment, she had been waiting for that stirring, waiting for that waking up, waiting for the true woman inside her to rise up and claim her.

She thought of all the times she had sought that woman in embracings, thought that giving pleasure to all those who sought her favors, was the key that would free her to dance. And she remembered the contempt she felt for those same men afterward, and for herself. Instead of dancing, she mourned at the dimming of a dream that never arrived, never burst forth, never became real.

“You thought I was lonely, Anna,” she said to my mother, “I was not. When I walked alone, I was safe. No one could see the real me deep inside. And if they did not see me, I did not have to look at myself. Yes, you did me a favor leaving me alone and keeping your daughters from me. It is a terrible thing becoming real in the sight of those you want to love you.”

That was the price for the living water, you see. As difficult as it was for us to understand her words, that was what she tried to tell us. “One must have a real face” she said, “not the mask we all have learned to wear. When he told me to go get my husband, I knew he had seen clear through me, past my laughing eyes, and my bold steps. For a moment I wanted to jump and run away, only the thrill that was coursing through me was too wonderful to risk losing. And I found myself babbling something foolish about getting this water so I would not have to come to this well again - foolish because I knew the water he spoke of did not come from Jacob’s well.” She smiled and shook her head at the memory of that childish remark. Then she hugged me close and kissed that magic spot on my forehead.

I am grown now and have daughters of my own and I still don’t know what that water was Aunt Bebe prized so. And when I asked her she only smiled and said, “you will know one day. You will know. Be honest with others and speak truth to yourself, and the spirit he promised will be there. It will not disappoint you.”

Jesus stayed for two days, two precious days where no Jew would linger longer than a heartbeat. Many people listened to him because of what my Aunt told them. And when he left, she followed him. Then the sad time came, the time when the Romans crucified him outside Jerusalem. So it is they treat people near their holy mountain.

When she came home to Sychar, I asked her about the evil thing they did to him and wondered why he had not stayed safe here in our village. She smiled and shook her head. “He would not have been much safer here” she said, “He once told us the birds of the air have their nests and the beasts of the field their holes, but there would never be anywhere that he could lay his head. That was true for us too, child, that was very true.” and she became strangely quiet as she remembered what she had seen and heard about him.

“Aunt Bebe,” I asked her, “some say although he was crucified, he did not stay dead:. Can that be true?” She smiled quietly and shook her head. “Oh child, there is much we cannot understand. This much I know, he is not dead. Not while we are alive. Not ever.” When I asked her what she meant, she merely shook her head, as if remembering something very tender, very private.

“Living water child, living water. How could it ever die?”