The Big Fisherman (42 page)

'They came in out of the rain, sir,' explained Jairus.

'But they have no business here!' expostulated Nathan.

Jairus was about to say that if they wanted to put the people out, they were at liberty to do so—if they could—when a sudden commotion overhead raised all eyes toward the roof. The portable roof-panels were being rolled back, letting in a downpour. Hurriedly dragging their chairs away from the opening, the men of Jerusalem were astounded at what they saw above them. A cot was being lowered into the room. It bore the rain-soaked, shivering, emaciated form of a young man. The roof was quickly replaced as the cot came to rest on the floor. Everyone in the room remained standing. Nobody spoke. Jairus tried to frown, without success. The situation had become ludicrous. It was quite clear that the servants had connived with the sick man's friends to give him this extraordinary entrance to the crowded house. It had all the appearance of an atrocity that old Rachael might have conceived, probably in collusion with Joseph the butler, who was reputed to be much interested in the Carpenter.

At this juncture, Jesus stepped forward and gazed down into the bewildered eyes of the invalid. Anybody could see at a glance what ailed the emaciated young fellow with the twisted, shrunken limbs. Every few years a dreaded epidemic of paralysis, to which children and youths were unaccountably vulnerable, would make helpless cripples of a dozen, a score, a hundred. No one knew the cause—or the cure.

Jairus edged in closer, full of curiosity to see what might happen. The silence in the room was tense. The Carpenter had quietly become the commanding figure in this company. All eyes were upon him.

'My son,' he said gently, 'your sins are forgiven.'

There was an impatient stir among the critics from Jerusalem and a sullen rumble of indignation. Nathan, the High Priest's representative, growled angrily, 'This is blasphemy!' Old Obadiah, Chief of the Temple Scribes, called out, 'How does this man forgive sins?' Ben-Sholem snorted, 'That is not what the sick man came for! He wants to be healed of his paralysis!' 'Aye!' they all muttered. 'Heal him!'

Jairus' heart was pounding hard now. He had found himself instantly attracted to the Nazarene and had hoped that he might give a good account of himself before these surly pedants; but it was clear that he had got himself into an indefensible position. The wiseacres from Jerusalem were right. It was sheer blasphemy for any man to forgive another man's sins. The Carpenter was merely temporizing with his problem—and doing it in the worst possible way. How could he expect his enemies—or his friends, either—to endorse this stunning sacrilege? Jesus would have to do better than that if he hoped to combat the criticism of his detractors.

Now the room was suddenly hushed to silence again as the Nazarene, stretching forth an arm toward the sick man, calmly addressed the murmurers:

'You have questioned my authority to forgive sins. Let me ask you: is it easier to forgive sins or to say to a paralytic, "Arise and walk"? To assure you that I have been given this authority . . .' He broke off here to turn his full attention to the young man on the cot. Lowering his hand until it touched the thin arm, he commanded, 'Rise up, my son, and walk!'

It was the craning crowd, massed in the open doorway, that broke the strained silence with a gasp and a cry of astonishment. The paralytic had reached up to take the proffered hand of Jesus, had pried himself up on his elbow, had sat erect, had struggled laboriously to his feet!

Jairus' throat was tight and dry and he had a sickish feeling. Confusion broke loose now among the men from the Temple. 'A fraud!' they shouted derisively. 'Prearranged! . . .' 'The man was not a cripple! . . .' 'Away with this impostor!'

Out in the broad corridor the wide-eyed throng backed away to clear a path for the young man, who advanced with short, experimental steps. His eyes were swimming and his lower lip twitched. The open-mouthed spectators stared into his contorted face as they lurched back to give him room, trampling their neighbours' toes. No one offered him a word or a smile as he passed. He was as one risen from the dead.

The rain had ceased while this strange event was in progress, and the sun was shining brightly. Slowly and silently the awe-stricken crowd was moving out of the house. The visitors from Jerusalem had circled into a compact, whispering group by the breakfast-room window that gave upon the front verandah, now congested with the departing multitude. Nathan was addressing them. Old Rabbi Ben-Sholem was solemnly nodding his head. Jairus gave them a brief glance, and decided that his obligations as their host had been discharged. The venerable Ben-Sholem could attend to them from now on.

Jesus had slumped into a chair near the doorway, his posture denoting complete exhaustion. His elbows rested on the broad arms of the chair and his bowed head was supported by white, trembling hands. As Jairus neared he slowly lifted his head and smiled wanly. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted his pale brow.

'I shall go now,' he said huskily, 'if there are to be no further questions.'

'You are welcome to remain, Master,' said Jairus. 'You seem to be very tired. Tarry with us—and rest awhile. Come with me.'

Wearily acquiescing with a nod, Jesus rose slowly and followed his host down the long corridor and through the atrium and on to the adjacent library. As they entered, Adiel and Sharon, who had been seated by the window, apparently in complete ignorance of the amazing thing that had happened, rose to go.

'My wife, Master,' said Jairus. . . . 'Adiel, this is Jesus—of Nazareth.'

Sharon, hugging a small harp in her arms, stood staring up into the stranger's face as her mother murmured a response to the introduction. Jesus looked down into the child's wondering eyes with a smile.

'Our little daughter, Sharon,' said Jairus.

Laying his hand lightly on her curly head, Jesus remarked that it was an appropriate name. 'Name of a rose,' he said. Sharon nodded soberly and continued to stare bewilderedly into his face.

'Come, dear,' said Adiel, taking her hand.

'Let her remain, Adiel,' said Jesus. 'I shall tell her a story.'

His calling her by name—a familiarity not to be taken by a stranger—warmed Adiel's heart. For an instant she felt as if they had been long-time friends, but this sensation was quickly succeeded by the feeling that he had addressed her as if she were a child, though she surmised that she was somewhat older than he. Jairus, taking note of her pleased bewilderment, remembered his own surprise and gratification when Jesus had spoken his name. It was not customary for village carpenters to address him as 'Jairus.'

'May I stay too?' asked Adiel.

Jairus pushed the luxurious leather chairs into a smaller circle and they sat down. For a little while Jesus' head drooped and his eyes were closed. It was apparent that he was utterly spent.

At the conference in the breakfast-room the question had risen whether it was easier to forgive a man's sins or to cure him of his paralysis. As Jairus sat sympathetically regarding the exhausted Nazarene he reflected that it must have taken a tremendous volume of energy to have done either of these mystifying deeds. According to the widespread but largely unsubstantiated tales of the Carpenter's marvels, one gathered that the self-confident magician had moved from one spectacular event to another with no diminution of strength. Now it appeared that these outgivings of vital force were made at great cost.

Sharon, who had a child's natural diffidence in the presence of adult strangers, now surprised her parents by drawing her low stool close beside Jesus. Becoming aware of her nearness, he opened his eyes, sighed, smiled, and took her small hand in his. Expectantly, Sharon drew her legs up under her and rested her dimpled elbows on the broad arms of his chair. Jairus and Adiel exchanged puzzled glances.

'This story,' began Jesus softly as if to the child alone, 'is about a Kingdom in another land.'

'A fairy story?' asked Sharon hopefully.

'No—it is a true story, my child.'

In a quiet voice and with simple words, Jesus talked of his Kingdom where all who wished to do so might live in happiness for ever. Occasionally little Sharon interrupted with a query, somewhat to the embarrassment of her parents, though Jesus regarded her questions with interest and consideration.

As the colloquy proceeded, Jairus found himself yielding to the infatuation of an ideal life to come, in a land where there were no storms, no quarrels, no courts, no prisons, no slaves, no tears, no fears. And when Sharon wanted to know whether we would all go there, Jesus had replied that not everyone would want to go; for it was a brightly lighted city, and many people, accustomed to performing their deeds in darkness, would not like the perpetual light. And many people who had been proud of their control over others' lives would not enjoy a land where everyone was free.

The calm voice was interrupted now by a light tap on the door. Joseph's face appeared. Jairus, roused as from a dream, rose, crossed the room, went out, and softly closed the door behind him.

'It is the Big Fisherman, sir,' whispered Joseph. 'He wonders how the Master is feeling—and whether he is to wait.'

'The Master is very tired,' replied Jairus. 'When he is rested I shall give him conveyance to wherever he wishes to go. Tell the Big Fisherman he need not tarry.'

The butler made off with his instructions and Jairus laid his hand lightly on the library door, but hesitated to re-enter. In some curious manner, Joseph's intrusion had broken the strange spell that had stilled his mind and had brought Jairus back abruptly to familiar footing on solid ground. His mind had resumed its normal process. There had been much too much mystery that day. He had drifted along on the compelling tide of it, offering no resistance, asking no questions. Now that he had been suddenly and roughly beached by this clutch of the commonplace, he began—rather dazedly—to put his thoughts in order.

One thing was sure: his credulity had been severely overtaxed. He had always been a practical fellow, with no talent for belief in things he could not see, hear, taste, or handle. Today he had allowed himself to be influenced by a succession of mysterious events for which the strange Carpenter was responsible.

To begin with, he had had a friendly interest in the Carpenter because he had determined that the man should not be mistreated in his house. . . . Then, in the excitement and confusion of the storm, there had been that peculiar incident under the dome of the atrium. The Carpenter had calmly assured him that it was safe, and Jairus had taken his word for it. But—so had the architect assured him that the dome was safe. Doubtless his fears had been groundless. Now that the storm was over, Jairus felt ashamed of his apprehensions.

Then, there had been a miracle; or, so it had seemed, though until now he had had no opportunity to examine it calmly. The young man was ill and crippled; there was no doubt about that. Indeed, he had been far from well when he departed, as one could see by his pallor and weakness. Whether he had been helpless and quite unable to walk at all—well, there had been no testimony about that. The sullen critics from Jerusalem, whatever might be the unfairness of their hostility to the Carpenter, certainly had a right to raise that question. To what extent was the young fellow paralysed?

Jairus had been willing—and was still willing—to give the Nazarene the benefit of the doubt concerning the validity of this miracle; though, with all respect for the Carpenter's obviously honest belief in his own power, it would be less disturbing if it could be shown that the young man had been able to walk; maybe not very well or very far, but—able to walk.

But now another factor had been injected into the strange case of the Carpenter. He had been describing—and in a tone of deep sincerity—a Kingdom prepared for all who might be presumed to enjoy living in a land where it never stormed, where no one was ever sick or sorry, where no one owned anything for himself, and all were equal in the sight of the King.

Perhaps these were reassuring words when addressed to people who, in this lifetime, had never possessed anything. Jairus wished that Jesus had not ventured upon this story of his Kingdom. Let every man have his own hopes and illusions about a world to come. It distressed Jairus that Jesus had turned out to be a visionary. Apparently his imagination had been affected by his efforts to deal with the invisible.

Turning away from the library door, Jairus strolled through the atrium and out upon the trampled path that led to the rose-garden. He would return presently and resume his duties as Jesus' host, but he felt the need of this brief respite under the open sky. It had been his intention to invite the Nazarene Carpenter to stay for supper—and to spend the night if he wished. But now he felt that it would be a relief to see this Kingdom-to-come dreamer on his way. What would he do with Jesus if he remained as their guest? What would they talk about? What had they in common? No—the man's presence here was an embarrassment.

The rose-garden had taken quite a beating. In several places the splintered arbours hung limp over the drooping bushes they were intended to support. Jairus sauntered across to a damaged trellis where old Abner, the head gardener, was making repairs, bracing the arbour, cutting away the broken branches and re-tying those that remained unhurt. Life, reflected Jairus, was something like that. It had its misadventures and injuries; but, more often than not, you could tie up what was left and expect it to blossom and bear fruit again. For all its buffeting, our life here was worth all the worry and work it cost us. It had its frights, frustrations, and storms, but it also offered many satisfactions—and these satisfactions were real—and they were to be had here and now. What folly to spend one's days in brooding anticipation of a Kingdom-to-come where it would always be fair weather! Jairus doubted whether he would enjoy such security even if it were to be had. He had accustomed himself to uncertainties; he knew how to deal with them. He was not so confident of his ability to deal with certainties. Even the promise of endless happiness threatened one with a manner of living for which one had had no training. Far better, mused Jairus, to content ourselves with come-what-may. Let the Carpenter dream of his fair-weather Kingdom: Jairus would feel more at home in a world beset by storms.