I wish I could be perched, like Zaccheaus, overlooking but uninvolved in this scene, hanging on limbs high above, hid in the branches and leaves of trees, but peering through, watching in moonlight...
The bearded men whispered, mocking each other about their sleepiness, dreary of another night of prayer, and drowsy with wine and dinner. They stayed hushed, some bent over their knees, some lying prostrate, others already dropping their head to sleeps temptation.
A stones throw away, on the other side of me, groaned their Rabbi. He seemed angst, blood mingling with his sweat; his prayers fervent and full of tenacity; tense, like electricity, bolting his emotions heavenward. I could only make out some of his bellows, for they came like groans from his body, reverberating in the dark garden.
I recognized him, fear and awe and curiosity all alert within me. That Rabbi - the one whose teaching was stories and Scripture, scrutinized by the Sanhedrin. The One who gathered himself the boys from boats and spoke to women and welcomed children. The One who confused my concept of King, but many claimed he was one. He's the guy graveling in the garden, just a few bushes away.
I monkeyed myself to a lower branch; there was something coming, but I couldn't quite see.
Gruff voices, feet hitting the hard dirt quickly; it sounded like a mob forcing its way up the hillside. An angry mob at that. following one guy, who seemed be leading like he knew where he was going, waiving them onward, forward, upward. He looked nervous but certain, hesitant but jaw clutched with perseverance. He paused, they paused.
I drew a quick breath -- the chief priests were in the mob! I'd recognize their robes anywhere! And the scribes and the elders! They waived clubs, and kept a hand on their swords. They were angry, yelling "Blaspherer!" and worse. Clubs flailed, swords grasped tighter, the jostled against each other as they climbed.
I saw that praying man pause. He was quiet, tense, but unafraid as the mob pushed up into him, knocking his feet of tilt, faltering but still standing. His eyes seemed sad, the moonlight caught their heaviness in a way that took the breath from my lungs.
He looked at the leader, who kissed him, then withheld, with a tear unashamed trickling down his olive cheek.
The friends scrambled, I felt my tree shake as they pushed at the guards, no longer sleepy but awake, stealth and watchful. They pushed the crowds, unafraid of the mighty religious men, shoving and pushing to get to the Rabbi. All defenses were on.
Torches lit the blackness, fires licking the dark like tongues of evil in the night. They flickered amongst the pulsating crowd, catching edges of clubs and batting the stillness of air.
I sucked in a breath -- the armored guards reached out a grabbed the Rabbi! Seized him, without mercy, hands suckled around his wrists, twisting and yanking.
"NO!"
It was Simon Peter, his voice squealing into the air.
He grabbed his sword, the metal flash reflected by the fires, and hurled it out before him, one gesture but an effort full of heart, body, and soul. His full gumption swung in the air.
And it sliced him. The high priest's servant! Blood gushed out the side of his head, his right ear fallen to the ground.
Everybody below gasped. Some of the disciples ducked, fearful and freaked. The elders and scribes screamed obscenities and shouted for more soldiers, who clanked with armor as they pushed forward.
But Jesus, the man who's name they all said, shook his head at Peter, bent slowly and picked up the ear, dusting it off the ground. He used his wrist to wipe his own tear and then sighed in the watchful, sudden silence.
All were quiet, for a split second, and I bent farther over to see.
He licked his thumb and touched it to the detached ear, bloody in his hand.
Then He breathed, hovering wind over the ear in his hand, like a graceful whisper, a breath of life.
The air held still, for just a moment, a star twinkled, and the Rabbi placed the ear on the injured right side. The Rabbi breathed once more toward it, then used the same thumbs to smear away the drips of blood on the man's chin and neck.
The man called Jesus withdrew his hand. The ear, the very same ear, was back on the wounded's head, no longer wounded! No longer bleeding. Seamlessly mended back to flesh.
I sunk lower into the leaves to see. Surely my eyes failed me. No! It was true, the very same ear that was just sliced and wicked off, then touched by the Rabbi, was back on the man's head! How could it be?!
I shook with belief. Startled with awe. As if beholding God for the first time, with my very own eyes, with my very own soul. Surely this man must be the Christ! Surely this Rabbi Jesus was the Son of God!
I nearly fell from the tree in my realized state, overtaken by the miracle and the majesty, by the whole seen of this Lord before me! I wanted to meet him, to greet him, to see him. To know him!
I looked back at the servant again, he was lacing his fingers around his ear, eyes widely staring at the Rabbi. His mouth hung open, shock and amazement overtaken his composure. Sure enough, no blood on his hands. He seemed to concentrate, lean this way then that, testing the hearing, as if squinting to use his ear, face registering with wonder.
The crowd went back to manic, rumbling and shoving and demanding arrest. The soldiers twisted the Rabbi's arms, skewing his limbs behind him though silent he stayed. The high priests and scribes and elders viciously spit accusations and with hatred yanked him down the hill.
The disciples, the men who knew him, all fled.
And there I blinked, perched in that tree, trying to make sense of the moments and miracle beneath me.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I read this story last week with fresh eyes, awakened insight, and was caught by that one line -- "
And he touched his ear and healed him." An overlooked miracle. Hardly mentioned, only one gospel writer even mentions the healing.
But as I read, it stopped me. Boom. Done. Healed. And in the midst of arresting for claims of being the Christ. Having the power and possession of a God, the God. Before their very eyes, Jesus heals.
How did this not lead to pandemonium?! To crazy awe?! Belief?! To the scales falling off their eyes? At least reconsidering the arrest in the affronted process?
Did not one of the High Priest flinch at this crazy occurrence? Did not one Pharaissee pause and think it could all be true? Did not one of the soldiers question their goal of arrest? Did not one bondservant stand in awe, recognizing surely he was the Christ?!
The Bible doesn't even seem to pause here, to give note or attention to this moment, this cruxes of God being man, being hated but healing.
I couldn't help but pause, stop. And see, peer over, look in and listen to, this moment of hatred and healing amidst a powerful, overlooked miracle.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"
And one of them struck the servant of the high priest and cut off his right ear. But Jesus said, 'No more of this!' And he touched his ear and healed him." Luke 22:50-51
"
a crowd with swords and clubs, from the chief priests and the scribes and the elders" [Mark 14:43]
"
And behold, one of those who were with Jesus stretched out his hand and drew his sword and struck the servant of the high priest." Matthew 26:51
"
But one of those who stood by drew his sword and struck the servant of the high priest and cut off his ear" Mark 14:47
"
Then Simon Peter, having a sword, drew it and struck the high priests servant and cut off his right ear." John 18:10
