The Paralytic - Through the Roof

   

 The mat lurched to the side. He wanted to fling out a hand to catch himself, to tense his body to keep from tumbling to the side, but he didn't. He wanted to cry out a warning to his friends, but his tongue wouldn’t obey. At last they realized he was slipping, and quickly leveled the thin mat that had been his prison for over a year now. 

“Sorry about that,” his cousin turned his head, looked back to him, and smiled encouragingly. “It’s not much longer, don’t worry.”

Don’t worry. He might as well have been commanded to stretch these shriveled limbs and run through the ripening fields. His starved eyes tried to see above the edge of cloth, and he swallowed with difficulty. He was always drooling, he disgusted himself. 

  He had been so proud of his strength and his bearing. The local girls had glanced his way when he passed, and he had laughed a little louder, spoken a little bolder, and thrust his chest out a little more. That was before. Before he had been struck down with a fever that ravaged his body for more than a week. He had barely managed to keep alive.
     In his hazy memories he recalled his mother and father had spoken over him in hushed tones. He had heard them discussing calling a priest to rid him of the demon that was sapping his strength and stealing his words. He had laid, trembling with aches and pain, while voices were chanting, droning, and he had closed his eyes with feeble hope of healing. Unrequited hope.
     His father journeyed to Jerusalem and offered sacrifices on his behalf in the Temple. Meanwhile, his mother had to change his clothes like he was a swaddling babe.

It was humiliating. It was torturous, and he didn’t even have the words to cry out in anguish as his life was leached from his bones. 

Utterly paralyzed. 
     Living on sips of broth, his body shrunk. As his mother lifted his arm to wash with a damp rag, he saw it had shriveled, his hand bending towards his wrist, his fingers - claws. He had closed his eyes, refusing to look, and tears leaked out of his closed lids and ran unchecked down his cheeks to tickle his ears.

     His father came home from Jerusalem and rushed into the house full of hope, and his crushed expression when he saw his eldest son lying by the hearth still, nearly broke Eli’s heart.

  His friends stopped coming to visit, his younger siblings were scared of him, and even his parents seemed to forget there was a mind trapped within, and forgot to talk and share their day with him. He had nothing to do but think. To reflect on his life. A life of selfishness, of gluttony for every scrap of pleasure he could grasp in a hard word, of caring little for the things of the Lord. He had attended Passover, kept the feasts, and attended synagogue, but he had been more delighted with meeting with his rowdy friends than serving the Lord. The God of Israel was distant, untouchable, and little concerned with him. So why should he bother with God? Did not the sun rise and spread over the land, even when Eli shrugged off his faith? Did not the Romans sacrifice at pagan altars, yet revel in wealth and superiority? 

While he was lying by the hearth, his mother often sang the lilting melodies he had heard his whole life. Heard, but not comprehended. With nothing else to do, he meditated upon the psalms she sang: of hope, of redemption, of judgement for evil. He swallowed hard. He knew, deep inside, that he had no place in God’s favor. He had play-acted faith, and his heart was far from the Lord. 

The day came when something changed within. He longed to make it right, with an ache that clutched his chest and dug under his ribs. Yet, how could he? He needed to go to the Temple in Jerusalem, and sacrifice for atonement. He needed to stand before the altar and watch the smoke rise up to God, and know that God could see him and see the repentance on his heart. He tried to beg his father to take him, but the words came out garbled, and his mother shushed and tried to soothe him.

He had laid for months, wallowing in guilt for his sin, with no possible way to atone. Would he die with this burden upon his heart?

Then, one morning, his friends had burst into the house. Their youthful steps, their tumbling words had been like a slap in his sagging face, but then he listened to what they were saying. There was a prophet with healing powers, and he wasn’t far. Could they take Eli to him? Hope surged in his heart. If he was healed, he could go to the Temple!

  His mother had frowned, and looked on Eli with concern. She wasn’t sure if he could manage even the short journey. Surely he was too frail, she said. Eli’s heart pounded, and he tried to plead her with his eyes. At last she had relented, and his friends had picked up the corners of his mat, and carried him outside.
     The bright sunlight had nearly blinded him. The fresh scents of growing life, the buzz of insects, the call of birds, had assaulted his senses until he was dizzy. His friends chattered constantly, telling him all the things they would do when he was better. His heart lit up with hope at all they said, but above all, he wished to have his sins forgiven. He would live his life in faith, if only this prophet would give him the chance.

  He could hear they had entered a town, and he recognized the market by a glimpse as they passed. The town was busier than he remembered, but maybe he had been too concerned with his own life to notice before. 

“Let us through!” His cousin called ahead, then looked back frustrated. “The house is packed,” he said to the youths behind. They hovered outside, and Eli’s doubts grew until he was sure he would be taken back home, laid at the hearth, and die. He took comfort that his friends seemed undeterred. They went around the back of the house, and climbed up the stairs to the flat roof, Eli’s mat swaying between them. Eli was laid on the thatched top, and his head was turned so that he could see with wonder as they began to tear into the mud and straw, breaking a hole in the roof.

“Get some rope!” One called, and Eli’s heart pounded with fear as they tied the ends to his mat, and lifted him to test the weight. He wanted to cry out in protest as they shuffled sideways, and he could hear exclamations below him. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed his friends would not drop him. He felt if he were to fall, his bones would crumble like dust.

  He felt something beneath him, and then he settled to the ground. He opened his eyes, and all around him faces peered down. He saw judgement, concern, pity and surprise. He looked past them, up to the jagged hole in the roof, where his friends’ eyes were shining with hope. Then he saw another face, with eyes that pierced him to his very soul. The eyes of a prophet. Those eyes cut him open and laid bare his heart and saw every failing, and every prayer for the chance to atone.

  The prophet grinned at the hopeful faces above him, then smiled down on the cripple at his feet, “My friend, your sins are forgiven.”
Eli opened his eyes wide, as light poured into his heart, and filled him from head to the ends of his toes. He couldn’t explain why, but he believed the prophet. He was forgiven, absolved before God. Tears ran unchecked down his face in gratitude. If were to die now, he could die in peace.

  The prophet’s eyes snapped up, and his gaze was fixed across the room. “Why are you doubting in your hearts? What is easier to say, 'your sins are forgiven', or 'pick up your mat and walk'? So that you understand that the Son of Man has the authority on earth to forgive sins -“ he looked down on Eli again, and power seemed to radiate from him. “Get up! Pick up your mat, and go home.”

     Eli’s skin crawled. Tingles ran up and down his limbs, and hope surged in him. He dared to twitch a finger, and felt it obey. He wiggled his toes, and they moved. Joy flooded into him. He smiled, and his cheeks obeyed. He rose up to his feet, and felt his muscles returned to their previous vigor. He stood straight and tall, but not proud. Gratitude coursed through his veins now. 
     The entire room was silent as he rolled up his mat, tucked it under his arm, and looked for the door. He glanced to the side and nodded to the prophet, happiness instead of sickness choking off his words. He walked to the door, and crowd pulled back. He stepped out into the sunshine and heard the exultant shouts from his friends, and laughed aloud. God had seen him suffering on his mat, and had worked to bring him before this prophet. God is glorious!

Read this story for yourself in Luke 5:18-25

My thoughts: 

     Every time I read this story I wonder why Jesus forgives the paralytic before healing him. Jesus does a lot of healing, but it sounds like this forgiveness was a new thing in his ministry, it got the Pharisees grumbling anyway!
     I often wondered if perhaps the paralytic truly understood what I often forget, that the health of my soul is more valuable than my bodily health. I can be in peak physical condition, but if my soul is rotten, then what will be left when my body fades in bad health or old age?
     I didn't give the paralytic a deep, dark secret either. I made him struggle with what I, and perhaps you, struggle with. Loving God with more than just outward righteousness, but with my whole heart, soul and mind.

Your Turn!

     I assume you care for your body. You brush your teeth, shower, eat, drink, sleep, wear clothing to protect yourself from the elements etc. What could you do today to care for the health of your soul?