The Gift of Sight

“…and he saw everything clearly.” (Matthew 8: 25)

The hot, dry, Judean sun beat down on my face, forcing me to shift down to a cooler spot on the wall, one that was still in shadow.  I picked up the bowl that sat in front of me, shaking the handful of denarii that had been tossed to me so far that morning.  It wasn’t much, but it had been a hard summer, and crops were meager, leaving the neighborhood farmers feeling more vulnerable and less inclined to generosity towards the neighborhood blind man.  A thin film of dust covered everything -- a drawback to sitting on the side of a busy road.  

Many times of late, my aunt had encouraged me to find a different begging spot, one that was closer to the growing market district in the center of town.  This had the dual advantage of the potential of greater income (which she coveted) and greater distance from the judgment of our neighbors (which she resented).

For most of my life, our town of Bethsaida had been a modest fishing village on the north shore of the Galilean Sea, just where the Jordan empties itself temporarily before continuing its journey south.  More recently -- for some reason known only to himself -- the Tetrarch Philip had chosen our little backwater to be the location of a host of new building projects, transforming us into a vibrant, growing town.  As was to be expected, this metamorphosis was met by the locals with a mixture of greedy joy and continual grousing.

Our community was part of the original village, and my grandfather had fished the sea with our neighbors for many years.  He still fished, although his prime earning days were well behind him.  His daughter – my aunt – supplemented his small income by taking in laundry.  Her brother, my father, had been the great hope of the family, a fisherman with an uncanny sense of where the fish would be on any given day, and the good business sense to market his catch in the areas of the emerging city that would pay the most.  He had been on one of these trips to the new city, when the scaffolding around a building project collapsed, killing both him and my mother, and leaving me – at the age of six – sightless.

With my parent’s death, our family’s hope of prosperity also died.  My grandfather continued to bring in enough to keep us fed; my aunt – unmarried, to her deep frustration – grudgingly kept the house; and I avoided being a complete burden by begging.  It was a humiliating occupation, but everyone has their proper place, and I knew mine.

Little changed in our life except the seasons.  That late summer morning, as I sat collecting alms, was much the same as any other day, until I heard the sound of a large group of people moving hurriedly down the street to my left.  Among the group, I could hear the shrill voice of my aunt, “There he is!  Caleb, get up and come with me; we’re going to the new market.”

While she often badgered me about doing my begging in the town center, this summons seemed unusually insistent.  I was also confused by the sounds of other people with her.  As her boney hand grasped my arm, I got up sliding the coins I had gathered into the small leather pouch at my waist.

“What’s happening, Aunt Zillah?  Why the hurry?  Where are we going?”

“That prophet people are talking about is down in the agora; we’re going to hear him."  

Itinerant preachers were fairly commonplace in our part of Galilee.  In general, they were merely tolerated, seen as one small step above beggars on the social pecking order.  Occasionally, they became well-known enough to merit broader attention, like the man they called John the Baptizer.  But – like the Baptizer – if they became too prominent, they generally fell afoul of some political leader and met a violent end.  Our scriptures were full of stories of prophets confronting political injustices and calling our people back to covenant faithfulness, but that vocation seemed a memory of a distant past.

For months now, we had heard stories of this new character – Jeshua, by name – and he was  starting to get enough noteriety that it seemed likely that his days were numbered as well.  All the same, anything new in a town like ours was worth a -- proverbial -- look.

Aunt Zillah propelled me in her iron clutch far faster than was comfortable.  I gave up trying to feel my way with my stick and held it aloft, trusting her to keep me from running into anything too large.  When we caught up to our group of neighbors, our pace slowed slightly, and Aunt Zillah fell into gossiping with a young mother as she dragged me along.  Eventually the group began to slow, and I could tell that we had joined a larger crowd.  Turning a corner, we all came to a halt and stood listening.  Some distance in front of me, I could hear the voice of the teacher.  

In my past experience, these street preachers have tended to be overly loud and dramatic, keeping the attention of their audience through the energy of their performance and the outrageousness of their words.  This man, however, spoke in a measured, self-assured way that seemed to simply assume that people would listen.  His message about the coming of the Kingdom of God wasn’t particularly unusual: this was common fodder for itinerant preachers.  But this Jeshua’s message was less politically pointed – less about God casting down the mighty (a perennially popular topic), and more about what God’s Kingdom demanded of people like us.  

As my neighbors nudged and mumbled to each other, I knew that this was not the kind of sermon that they had come to hear.  There were few words of accusation against the Romans, or even our own puppet rulers.  He told a story about a man who had been robbed, and whose broken body had been ignored by passing religious leaders, only to be helped by a Samaritan.  And while we all took pleasure at the implicit criticism of religious hypocrites, to have the hero of the story be a Samaritan -- a people whom we all despise -- seemed as though it was criticism of us as well.   

The man spoke like this for close to an hour, when he stopped abruptly.  I could hear the crowd dispersing and caught tattered pieces of discontented conversations.  Our neighbors had turned to return home, when suddenly, Aunt Zillah grabbed my arm again, and pushed me forward.

“Rabbi! Rabbi!  Heal my poor blind nephew!”

I was mortified.  Many of these preachers claimed to have healing powers from God, but few people took that seriously.  What was she doing?  I dragged my feet and turned to follow our neighbors home.  But her grip was like iron, and I stopped fighting for fear of making even more of a scene, letting her drag me forward.  I could hear our neighbors stopping and turning again to the drama unfolding.  

Aunt Zillah stopped her pulling, and we halted in front of the preacher.  I could feel the stares of the crowd all around us.  There was a long, uncomfortable silence, then the man asked, “Do you desire healing?”

The question was unexpected.  I had never actually thought about it, but who would choose to be blind?  Aunt Zillah stuck her elbow in my ribs.

“Yes, Rabbi,” I answered.  Another long silence.

“Come with me,” he finally said.  

A new hand, large and course, but gentle, extracted me from my aunt’s grasp and led me slowly ahead.  I could tell that the crowd had been purposefully left behind, but could also hear the sound of following footsteps – perhaps two or three others – behind us. We walked in silence for some minutes, and seemed to be walking north from the agora, towards the outskirts of the town.  The sun was still hot, and a gust of wind blew the summer dust sharply against my face, stinging my skin. 

When we stopped, I could hear no one around us.  Not sure what to expect, I was surprised to hear the man spit.  Without preamble or warning, I felt his wet fingers against my eyes.  It was jarring and unsettling.  Why spit?  It seemed so pointless, and at the same time, so uncomfortably intimate.

“Open your eyes and tell me if you can see anything.”

What had I expected?  In all honesty, nothing.  Like those old prophets who could speak truth to power, actual miracles felt like a thing of the past.  So I was not surprised to see nothing as I opened my eyes.  Gradually, however, the darkness that had been my constant companion for so many years began to lighten.  

At first, the change was so minimal that I could hardly distinguish the difference..  But in moments, I could tell that there was light.  Light!  I had forgotten what it was like.  It felt like I was issuing again from the womb and gazing on a world fresh and new.  But the light was diffuse, blurry.  I could make out the Rabbi right in front of me, and some moving figures beyond him, who I assumed were the other followers that the teacher had allowed to accompany us.  

“I can see people moving,” I volunteered, “but they look like…” – I had to search my distant memory to come up with what I was seeing – “…like trees walking around.”

There was a moment’s pause, and again his fingers gently closed my eyelids and remained pressed against my eyes.  When he released them and I opened my eyes a second time, everything seemed to slide into focus, and became as crystal clear as my memory.  

Before me stood a man, much younger than I had expected; perhaps no more than a few years older than me.  Behind him were three men whom I assumed were his followers.  Two of the three seemed a good bit older than him, which surprised me.

He was dressed in a worn and patched robe, from the sleeves of which extended two strong and calloused hands.  Here was no scholar, but a man who had known manual labor for his whole life.  Two sparkling eyes looked into mine from a weathered face, and seemed to dance with a gentle amusement at a joke unheard by the rest of us.

Placing his hands against his hips, he arched backwards and exhaled a long sigh, as though finally released from a heavy burden.  

“Well, that’s done,” he said to no one in particular.  Then looking at me he added, “It may take a little while to get used to the changes in your life going forward.  My suggestion is that you go home and settle a bit.”

And then, as an afterthought, he added, “I would avoid going into town.”

I dropped to my knees and took hold of his ankles, bending over to kiss the tops of his feet.

“I can never thank you enough, Rabbi, for giving me my life back.”

He smiled lightly, responding, “All thanks belong to God.  But keep in mind that most blessings have a double edge to them.  They must be wielded carefully.”

With that, he motioned to his companions, and the four of them strode purposefully back towards the town center.  I knelt in the dust for some time breathing deeply and soaking in every sight.  The world was so bright, so magical.  After twenty years of blindness, my memories of sight had become so vague that I was overwhelmed by the flood of images pouring into my mind.

Gingerly, I arose and walked slowly back towards my home, missing the turns a number of times as my old sense of direction was confused by the new information from my eyes.  As I approached our home, I passed a neighbor hanging clothes out to dry and smiled at her.  She smiled back momentarily, before dropping the linen to the ground and rushing at me.

“Caleb!” she nearly screamed, “you see me.  You can see!” She threw her arms around me and dragged me down to my house.  "Zillah, Zillah, a miracle!”

Oddly, that was the first time that the word “miracle” occurred to me for what had happened.  But it was a word that I heard a great deal over the course of the following days.  Everyone we knew – and anyone they knew – came trooping through our house.  I was patted, hugged, and prodded like a prize animal.  Talked about, although rarely spoken to.

There was much joy and celebration, as well as talk about the prophet who had healed me.  However, when the son of one of our neighbors ran off to follow the itinerant preacher, some of the grumbling and discontent seemed to indicate that I was to blame.

As the furor died down and the days passed and life settled into its normal rhythm, my Grandfather began to take me out in his boat to teach me how to fish.  He took great delight in this project, and seemed more vigorous and energetic than he had in some time.  I, too, felt more vigorous and energetic, using muscles that had not been used in decades.  Every night I collapsed in my bed exhausted and happy.

One day, as we put out from shore, and began to row out to drop our nets, I saw what seemed to be a great deal of activity in the water off to my left.  "Sabba, why don’t we try fishing over there today,” I suggested, pointing.

“I’ve never found that area to be good fishing grounds, Caleb,” he noted, and then added, by way of encouragement, “but we can give it a try, if you’d like.”

Rowing out to the area that I had indicated, we cast our nets, and almost immediately felt the tug of a catch.  In a short two hours, we caught more fish than we had in entire days before.  Sabba was laughing and waving to his friends to come join us.

Arriving home early, Sabba shared excitedly, “It looks as though Caleb has his father’s eye for fishing, Zillah."  She smiled, but her eyes were dark behind it, and I wondered why she would not be happy at our success.  Did it not make her life easier?  

The following days followed a similar pattern.  I would identify a spot where the fish were active, we would make a successful catch, and Aunt Zillah’s mood would darken.  At times her response to me boarded on open hostility.  It was almost as though she preferred to have me dependent and enfeebled than to benefit economically from my new ability to work.  I also wondered that my Grandfather seemed so unaware of his daughter’s discontent.

I began to notice other things that Sabba didn’t.  The light of each day seemed to reflect off each of our fishing companions slightly differently.  Eliezer always had a joyous yellow glow about him, which reflected his mood and his outlook on life.  Asa seemed wrapped in a brown cloak of heavy responsibility.  Ruben had a deep greyness about him that could become black at the least setback.

This light could also vary somewhat from day to day.  When one of the men had a fight with his wife the night before, he might arrive at the boats with a reddish tinge to him.  If someone’s child was sick, he might have an anxious ochre tone.

I discovered that this was helpful information, allowing me to engage each of our companions differently depending on their mood.  This was useful, because my companions were disquieted by my ability to know exactly where the fish were every day.  Oh, they were happy to defer to my suggestions and benefit from the larger catches, but they were also nervous and uncomfortable with the strangeness of this gift.

This discomfort became more pronounced one day as we were taking in our catch.  I looked up into the bright summer sky and saw a fierce squall approaching.  There were none of the regular signs of a storm, but there was a heavy foreboding sense that was somehow visible on the edges of my perception.  

When I suggested that we had caught enough for the day and should get in before the storm, they all laughed and continued fishing.  I rowed Sabba and myself to shore and unloaded our catch.  Shortly afterwards, a strong wind storm sprung up, followed by storm clouds.  Before our friends could make it back to shore, they were caught in a powerful tempest: so powerful that one of the small boats was swamped.  The other fishermen were able to haul the boat’s owner to safety, but the boat and its catch was lost to the waves.

Sabba and I waited on the shore in the rain while the rest of the small fleet toiled to shore.  Although we helped them unload their boats, there was none of the usual light banter between us.  There was a brooding silence, with dark stares cast my way, as though I had somehow been responsible for the catastrophe.  Even Sabba was silent as we made our way home.

In the days following, our neighbors seemed to go out of their way to avoid me, and I could feel their stares and whispers follow me as I walked the roads.  I swore that I would keep my insights to myself from now on.  Maybe I would even point to the wrong area for fishing a few times, until the discomfort passed.

My best intentions were undone, however, later that week as I carried some of our fish to the market in the agora.  The bright Judean sun was beating down on my head and back as I passed two neighbor girls carrying baskets of fish to the market as well.  This early in the afternoon, there would still be plenty of buyers for all our fish, but they were walking slowly, chatting with each other, and I wanted to arrive before them.

As we got closer to the market, the buildings came closer together, so that visibility was limited.  As I approached the end of the block, I saw a darkness issuing from the side street.  It was less an observable darkness than a felt darkness; but I knew that it meant danger.  Without waiting to see what it was, I turned immediately around, walking briskly back up the street.  Shifting my basket to one arm and balancing it on my hip, I grabbed the arm of one of the girls with my free hand.  

They were both startled, though not frightened – we knew each other after all – and I steered them into a narrow opening between two buildings.  Moments later, a squad of Roman soldiers walked into the intersection.  They were obviously off-duty, had been drinking, and were clearly in the mood for mischief.  They looked up our street, but seeing no one, kept walking down the side street.

We all breathed deeply and continued on our way.  But while the girls were grateful, I saw in their eyes the same unease that I saw in the eyes of my fishing companions.

The crisis finally came to a head in a most unexpected manner.  One of my Grandfather’s goats escaped from the pen behind our house and was mauled by a wild dog.  We needed a goat to continue our breeding, so Sabba started asking neighbors about who might be willing to sell us one.  Two days later, a Levite came by our house with a goat in tow.

Since Levites generally lived in different areas than the rest of us, we didn’t know this man – Joash, by name –although his family apparently had land in the countryside outside of Bethsaida proper.  As I saw him walking through our gate, there was something about him that struck me as not right.  Sabba met him at the door, and I caught enough bits and pieces of their conversation to figure out that Joash was trying to sell us his goat.

I joined my grandfather at the door to listen to them haggle.  As they spoke, I got a better look at the animal itself.  The phrase that immediately came to mind as I gazed in the goat’s eye was “withered prune."  And before I even thought about my words, they had left my lips: “This goat hasn’t fathered a kid in over three years.”

In the flash of a moment after I had spoken, Joash’s face confirmed what I had seen.  Fortunately, Sabba had been looking right at him at that moment and saw his expression.  The Levite’s face regained its composure almost immediately, but he knew that the damage had been done.  

“Oh, I didn’t realize that you wanted the goat for breeding,” he said hastily, as though there would be any other reason for us to purchase a goat.  Glaring at me as he retreated from our door, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that this matter was not over.  Sabba, too, looked at me shaking his head.  

“I am grateful for your warning, Caleb, but there will be a price.”

That afternoon, the price came due when a servant from the house of one of our village elders knocked at our door.  Was it my imagination, or did a repressed smile play at the edges of Aunt Zillah’s lips as she called me.  The servant was clearly embarrassed as he spoke:

“Rabbi Simeon would like you to pay him a visit this afternoon,” he said quietly.  "Please bring your Grandfather as well.”

It felt like an unusually long walk to the elder’s home, my Grandfather an uncomfortable participant.  It was a large formal house, just off the village’s old market area, the one we had used before the town’s now construction had begun.  Pushing open the wooden gate, I was struck by a feeling of brittleness, fragility, as though the whole edifice was in danger of breaking apart.  

As soon as we were ushered into the main room, I could see that the source of the brittle feeling was Rabbi Simeon himself.  He was not quite as old as my Grandfather, but his hard, friable expression made him seem older and more frail, as though an unexpected push would cause him to splinter.  The room itself had benches built into each of the walls, benches that were currently populated by a number of the other village elders.  Rabbi Simeon sat against the far wall, with a low bench in front of him.

I was not surprised to see the Levite also sitting against a side wall.  I was, however, puzzled to see a couple of my fishing companions.  Judging from their downcast eyes, and the oppressed atmosphere of the room, it seemed unlikely that they were here to provide me with moral support.

“Caleb,” Rabbi Simeon began, “Levite Joash approached me today with a very serious charge: accusing you of unnatural sight – or practicing divination of some sort.”

Jumping up, the Levite broke in, “He does practice witchcraft!  I have never met him before, and he looked at my goat and told me that it had sired no kid for three years, which is exactly the case!”

The elders looked uncomfortable as I responded with the obvious question: “Why does it feel as though I am the one on trial, when this Levite is the one guilty of fraud, by his own admission.”

“I committed no fraud,” Joash fired back.  "you did not say that you were looking for a breeder.”

As I opened my mouth to respond, Rabbi Simeon cut me off.  "We are not here to debate whether the Levite intended fraud.  Although…” he added, looking darkly at the Levite, “…it is clear that there is a case there to be made.”

“We are here because the Torah clearly states that ‘No one shall be found among you who practices divination, or is a soothsayer, or an augur, or a sorcerer.’  And I should add that this Levite’s accusation is not the first time that this concern about you has been raised since your healing."  He glanced over at the fishermen sitting against the side wall.

“I am no soothsayer or sorcerer,” I began, interrupted by a snort from the Levite.  "You know that I have been blind since childhood, and was healed by the traveling prophet.  Since then, I seem to see more than most and have simply spoken about what I see, nothing more.”

“Ah, yes,” Simeon said, breathing a heavy sigh.  He looked, if possible, even more brittle.  "I have heard many unsettling things about the vagabond preacher.  He is a busy-body and a trouble-maker, stirring up dissention and discontent.  I do not doubt that he is the cause of this problem.”

While I was relieved to have the focus shifted from me, I was uncomfortable with the blame falling on the agent of my own healing.  

“I am not a scholar, Rabbi, but the teacher seemed like a good and thoughtful man, and his healing was a blessing to me – as well as our community,” I added, looking directly at my fishing companions.  “I have not engaged in any forbidden practices, or hurt anyone; I have merely spoken about what I have seen.  Is it not possible that this is a blessing from the Lord?”

Rabbi Simeon seemed to snap and arose with fire in his eyes.  "Do not presume,” he began in a cold fury, “to lecture me on the Torah or God’s will.  You – who were cursed by God with blindness, who have never been able to read the holy words yourself, who have been a drain on the resources of our community for twenty years – you now have the effrontery to lecture us about God’s will?  

“You have engaged in unnatural and forbidden practices, and you have polluted our community.  You have tainted all of us through your abominations!"  On the edges of my sight, I could see those against the walls – those I had known for years – nod their heads in agreement.

I knew that my anger was irrational: he was right, I was no scholar; and yet I had always prided myself on my knowledge of the Torah, perhaps because my very blindness had forced me to remember what I could not read.  The anger churning in my stomach welled up inside, spilling out before I had much chance to consider.  

“So according to you, the accident that caused my blindness was God’s will, but the miracle that restored my sight is an ‘abomination’?  Is that what you’re saying?  If that is what your wisdom teaches you, then I am just as happy remaining ignorant or learning from itinerant preachers!"  I heard the murmurs around me.

“I’ve done nothing but see and speak the truth, how can that be an abomination before God?  And at least the prophet seemed to understand what it means to have friends,” I continued, rounding on my fellow fisherman.

“It is exactly this kind of arrogance that keeps you from understanding God’s will!” Rabbi Simeon shouted over the growing uproar.  Do you even care that the punishment for practicing divination is stoning?”

As I stood there, amazed among the furor, Sabba stood up and walked quickly across to me.  Placing his hand against my lips, he whispered, “You are lost.  I can buy you a few minutes, but you must flee immediately.  Do not go back home.  Go north and keep walking until you are far from here.

Turning quickly back to face the rabbi, Sabba said, “Please, revered elders, allow me to speak to you without my grandson present."  My grandfather’s long presence in the community had at least earned him this right.  Men began to sit again to listen.  Looking at me meaningfully and nodding to the door, Sabba began to speak.

I did not hear what he said, and understood that the words were unimportant in any case.  He was giving me time; he was giving me my life.  

I hurried up the road towards the north end of our village, away from the Sea of Galilee, and into the northern wilds of the province.  As I left the village where I had spent my life, the only place that I had ever known, I wondered if the strange prophet knew that this was going to happen.  I wondered if my healing had come at too high a price.  Or perhaps there was always a price to be paid for true sight.  Looking down the desolate road before me, I remembered Moses’ words:

“When Aaron has finished making atonement for the Most Holy Place, the tent of meeting and the altar, he shall bring forward the live goat. He is to lay both hands on the head of the live goat and confess over it all the wickedness and rebellion of the Israelites—all their sins—and put them on the goat’s head. He shall send the goat away into the wilderness in the care of someone appointed for the task. The goat will carry on itself all their sins to a remote place; and the man shall release it in the wilderness.”