The
cold wind whistles through the lambing cave. The scent of straw and animals mix
with the smell of the chilly night air. The sheep stir in their pens as if they
know that this night is different from the rest. I lean against the stone wall
holding in my arms my newborn son. As I hold this Perfect child my heart is
overwhelmed with love and joy at this precious gift. Yeshua. Salvation.
Yeshua’s
tiny hands reach out as if embracing his world. Drawing it to him, loving them.
Perfect hands, ten fingers, skin so soft and wrinkled. I bend my head down and
kiss his palm.
As
if from a nightmare they appear from the grave yards. Dead, yet living in the
waking world. The gnarled claws of hands reach out to the travelers. The gaping
holes where there used to be faces yawn at the Teacher and his followers. The
people draw back in alarm, many pulling the corners of their head pieces over
their noses to keep the smell of death from choking them. The Teacher however
does no such thing. Instead he goes towards them, much to the distress of his
followers. He reaches out to embrace the leader of the lepers. The man draws
back in alarm, his husky voice, so like a death rattle, cries out “Unclean!
Unclean!” Instead of being alarmed this
great man enfolds the leper in a hug. The leper struggles, stiffens, and then
finally collapses into the embrace, tears streaming down his marred face. The Teacher holds the man at arm’s length and
brushes the man’s tears away. The people watching gasp in astonishment, the
marred face is whole again! The nerveless claws are now hands, feeling,
touching, moving. Thick brown hair covers the once bald scabby head. With just
a touch of the Healer’s hand the leper is healed. He touched the untouchable
and saved them.
His eyes are open now. Big dark blue eyes. So innocent yet so ancient. I breathe deeply
as a thought comes to me and I marvel. These same eyes watched as the universe
was created, as Noah and his family were tossed for 40 days and nights in the
great flood, he watched over our forefathers as they lived their lives and over
all the events in the scriptures. These same eyes see the spiritual worlds and
the dwellers in them.
The little boat
docks at the beach. The fishermen secure the boat as the teacher makes his way
to the shore. Suddenly a ragged man comes running at the boat. His beard was
scraggly, his hair greasy and unkempt. He fell on his knees in front of the
teacher. “What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? In God’s
name don’t torture me!”
Jesus eyes were fire as he asked “What is your
name?”
“Legion,” the
man spat, “for we are many” His voice turned to a whine “please cast us into
the pigs and not into the Pit.”
The
burning fire in Jesus eyes intensified as growled “Be gone you impure spirit!
Depart from this poor soul!”
The demons dared not look back.
I
adjust the swaddling clothes around Yeshua’s body. A little foot peeks out at me and I adjust
the blankets to keep him warm. Before covering him I trace his foot with my
finger, smiling at the newborn chubbiness of his little legs. One day these
legs would be strong, toned and tanned from the hard life of the Am ha'aretz,
1 but for now they are the legs of the innocent.
A story teller sits among a group of people. They
are all enraptured by the story he is relating. “The rain is coming down in
torrents, lightning streaks through the sky in terrible patterns in the stormy
black sky. A lone figure is seen climbing the craggy mountain face. Rain whips
his robe, biting his face and arms. The wind grabs and pulls on his hair. The man stops, closes his eyes and listens.
Suddenly his eyes are open and alert. His long, confident strides lead him to
the edge of a steep precipice. A small cry is lost over the sound of the
tempest but to this man whose ears have been tuned to the cry of his lost one,
the sound catches his heart. He makes his way down the side of the mountain.
His legs are caught in briars and they leave bright red trails down his legs as
he pulls away. He reaches the bottom of the cliff to where his little lost lamb
is lying. He picks her up and tucks her in his robe. Pulling his robe closed
against the wind and rain he makes his way back up the mountain. His legs
muscles bulging as he climbs the steep incline. Rain bites into the scratches
but the man hardly notices the pain, so great is his joy at finding his lost
lamb.”
A young boy speaks up from the front of the crowd.
“Teacher, is this a true story?”
The storyteller looks down at the small child, a
smile in his dark brown eyes. “Yes it is.”
“Who was this kind man who was so willing to be hurt
for such a small animal?”
The teacher smiles and with a single tear, pulls his
robe up to reveal red, angry scars winding in different patterns up and down
his legs.
The
sound of rustling pulls me from my reverie and looking up I see my husband
entering the cave. He kneels down beside me and hands me the water bag.
“I
am so glad Yahweh provided this lambing cave. It’s not what I wanted for you
Mary, but at least it’s out of the wind and cold,” Joseph says as he settles
down beside me. “Strange that the only shelter we could find was a cave where
the temple lambs are born.”
“Are
you surprised Joseph? Everything means something,” I whispered, my heart
suddenly strangely heavy. The passage from Isaiah flittered through my mind; ‘He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did
not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep
before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth.’2
I pulled Yeshua to my
heart and cradled his tiny head in my hands “Joseph?” My voice sounded small in
my ears. “What is in store for our son?
Joseph rubbed his large
calloused hand over Yeshua’s small head. “I don’t know Mary, but I know he will
save his people from his sins.”
“Yes,” I replied “But
at what cost?”
The whip cracks like summer thunder. It snakes
around the prisoner’s leg turning him on his side. The deep gash oozes bright
red blood. Again and again the whip snakes and cracks, slithers and snaps like
some cruel monster. The man’s back is streaked with lash marks, blood dripping
onto the pavement. Cruel helmet clad faces loom over the man. His eye swollen,
lips cut, and his legs so wounded and bruised he can barely walk. One of the
soldiers pulls the man’s head up and thrusts a circle of thorns onto his head.
Blood pours down the swollen, bruised face.
“Hail King of the Jews!” The soldiers laugh as they
bow drunkenly to the bloody man sitting on the ground.
The man bows his head and his lips barely move but
if a simple request can be heard
“Father, please forgive them. They do not know what
they are going.”
And
Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.3
*******
1 Am ha'aretz~ people of the land, country people
2
Isaiah 53:7
3
Luke 2:19
