Thanks, Too Long Delayed
“Eleazar,” the old man called out, “are you refreshed after your journey through the wind-driven sand?”
“Yes, Rabboni, I am.”
“I have a heavy burden, and a long walk, and the high Sabbath is drawing near.”
“Of course, Rabboni, I will help.”
It is a heavy burden, indeed, but young Eleazar is strong. The sweet smell of myrrh and lignum aloes wafts out as he hoists the wrapped bundles onto his shoulders. Eleazar smiles a bit as he sees wizened old Nicodemus hoist a much smaller bundle of powdered herbs. The venerable teacher is tough, and surprisingly strong, but he’d invested most of the past several decades in sedentary study. Eleazar couldn’t help but think of him as one of those elders King David described as “still full of sap, still green,” in his old age. It was an honor to serve in his household.
“Where are we going, Rabboni?”
“Just outside the walls, Eleazar. My colleague Yousef’s messenger brought word that we need to bring burial spices.”
“So many, Rabboni?” Eleazar shifted the load slightly. “We have enough here for many burials, perhaps enough for three kings.”
“Indeed,” said Nicodemus.
It had been a strange day.
Eleazar had heard rumblings from the other servants, despite his best efforts to avoid listening to their gossip. There was, after all, a good deal of talk about the executions of the day. Apparently, the Roman governor released the murderer Barabbas after a vigorous argument over which of the condemned should be shown clemency in honor of the feast.
Nobody could ignore the clouds of dust arising from the ruaḥ qadīm, the east wind, which darkened the skies around Jerusalem for some three hours, turning the peak of daylight into the dim of twilight. Earlier in the day, Nicodemus sent Eleazar to deliver an extra portion of food to the sick in Bethany, since the Sabbath was coming. The storm made the return journey both long and difficult. Eleazar barely had the sand shaken from his clothing before the household was disturbed by the shaking of the earth. And now this strange request from Yousef.
It had, indeed, been a very strange day. It was hardly the strangest day of Eleazar’s life, however. That distinction belonged to a morning just a few days more than a week ago.
The crowds streamed by, a nearly constant flow of pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem for the upcoming Passover sacrifices. A few carried or led lambs, but most came with their trade goods and produce. They would make the most of their trip to the city, selling their wares, then using the profits to buy lambs for their families from the good shepherds of Migdal Eder.
The stream of pilgrims shifted as they approached Eleazar, however, thinning to a narrow rivulet of humanity as the travelers did their best to avoid Eleazar and his nine leperous companions, who were begging near the entrance to the village. None wanted to risk coming into accidental contact with these ten unclean men, especially right before the great feast. A few pilgrims tossed coins or scraps of food to the ten lepers in response to their pleas for mercy. Some threw their scraps vigorously, laughing as the lepers clambered up the embankment, struggling to recover the offerings before they rolled away down the rocky slope. One traveler threw his “gift” with great precision, his friends first cheering as the over-ripe vegetable burst on the skull of a leper, then retching slightly as an emaciated leper scooped up the vegetable’s guts and slurped them noisily from his rotting digits.
Another knot of pilgrims approached, then slowly untangled itself as the travelers saw the lepers, shifting to the opposite side of the road. All but one – a tall figure in a simple tunic. He was dressed like a poor man, but walked down the center of the road with the confidence of a king.
“It’s Yeshua, the miracle worker,” one of the lepers exclaimed, “It’s Yeshua!”
Propping himself up with his amputee’s pallet, Abaisha started the cry. “Yeshua, master, have pity on us!” Soon, Eleazar and his companions joined, echoing their footless companion’s plea for help.
Yeshua stopped.
A sudden silence settled over the area. The stillness was palpable.
Though far off, Eleazar knew Yeshua saw him clearly. Their eyes met across the intervening difference. Eleazar looked down, unable to sustain the gaze. How different it was to be gazed upon than it had been just a few months earlier, when Eleazar was the one well, and looking upon the lepers in and around Bethany with contempt. Suddenly ashamed, Eleazar pulled the sleeve of his tunic down, hiding his wrapped and withered arm.
“Go, show yourself to the priests,” Yeshua instructed. Then turning back towards Jerusalem, he pressed forward, the crowd of travellers once again wrapping itself around him like a mantle as he disappeared into the crowded marketplace.
The lepers looked at one another. Was that all? Could it be? Yeshua was known for healing even lepers. “Let us go up to Yohanan, he will tell us.” Together, they turned to hobble and shuffle towards the house where they knew they would find the priest, Yohanan. Eleazar and Eliakim each took a corner of Abaisha’s pallet, dragging the Samaritan behind them.
Abaisha was the first to realize what happened. “Stop!” he called out. Eleazar and Eliakim halted, and turned. Abaisha rolled to the ground. He pushed himself up to his hands and knees. He stood, shakily at first. “Blessed be He who has mercy on His creatures,” Abaisha exclaimed, then turned abruptly, and returned the way they had come.
Eleazar felt a fierce grip upon his withered arm. Dropping the pallet, though barely daring to hope, he pulled back his tunic sleeve. The rank and ropy rags were no longer loosely wrapped, but stretched tight around his upper arm. Eleazar untied the bindings. The rags fell away, revealing dark, curly hair over smooth olive skin where only moments ago they’d been covering a few tufts of white hair amidst scaly scabs, stinking sores, and oozing pustulence.
“Go, show yourself to the priests.”
The words rang in Eleazar’s ears as he hurried to Yohanan, growing stronger with every step.
Eleazar leaned his burden of herbs and ointments against the wall as a column of Roman soldiers marched by, briefly obstructing the intersection as they pushed the crowd aside. He rubbed the sweat from his forehead and the days’-old stubble on his head. It was good to again walk about without being swathed in filthy cloth, even if being shaved for the purification ritual left him looking a bit like a Roman. It was good to be clean again. It was good to be back in Jerusalem. It was good to have the strength to again carry burdens for Nicodemus.
“Let’s hurry Eleazar,” Nicodemus said, as the crush of traffic resumed in the soldier’s wake, “we only have a short time.”
As they mounted the hill, Eleazar realized where their path led. “Rabboni, this is no place for a righteous man. These are the wicked dead. Shall we go by another way, lest we become unclean?”
“No, Eleazar, this is the way.”
Nicodemus and Eleazar reached the brow of the hill. There they saw three crosses. Yousef and his servant Shimon were prostrate before the central cross and the huddled mound of a grieving woman, wracked with silent sobs. A ladder lay on the ground nearby. Perplexed, Eleazar’s gaze traveled from Yousef, to his servant, to the woman, then to a young man and a centurion, sitting quietly beside the woman, was at their side. “What…” he began to ask, then stopped, his eyes arrested by the sight of the men hanging on the crosses before him. Two of them hung limply, legs shattered, the flesh of their wrists and hands tearing away as the spikes and ropes bore the full weight of their bodies. The third, however… the third.
This one’s legs were not shattered, but his body was otherwise incomprehensibly marred. He must have been flogged and beaten brutally before he was hanged. Eleazar felt a pang of sympathy, mingled with horror. Who was this man, and what had he done to be so grotesquely disfigured? Eleazar looked up. Familiar eyes looked back, lifeless, beneath a crown of thorns. Eleazar gasped, then fell to his knees.
“Oh, Rabboni,” he whispered hoarsely, “it is the miracle worker. It is Yeshua.”
“Yes, Eleazar. I had hoped to have him to our home tonight, so we could thank him for your wellness. Will you use your strength to help me bring him down? Will you help me anoint him, then wrap him with our herbs and Yousef’s linen, and carry him to Yousef’s new tomb?”
“Of course, Rabboni, it is the smallest thanks I can offer, even if it is too long delayed.”
From September to November of 2015 the major relics of St. Maria Goretti made a pilgrimage to the United States. Named the “Pilgrimage of Mercy,” it was the first time that her body traveled to the USA. At the time, I did not have any particular devotion to St. Maria Goretti, nor any real appreciation for the tradition of venerating relics. Treasures of the Church was coordinating the tour of her relics, and Bishop Strickland of the Diocese of Tyler planned to welcome the tour to the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception on Monday, November 2, 2015. My grandfather lives in Lufkin, in the Diocese of Tyler, so our family (i.e. my wife) decided we’d drive out to see PoPo for the weekend, then visit St. Maria’s relics as a sort of All Saints Day pilgrimage before we headed back home to the Lubbock area.
As we drove from Lubbock to Lufkin, I spent a good deal of time meditating upon St. Maria Goretti, and wondering how this saint might be relevant to me, and what favor I might request when I encountered her relics. I’d always thought of St. Maria as a paragon of purity, but, for some reason, I was particularly struck as we travelled by the heroic forgiveness she offered her attacker, and the beautiful result of that forgiveness.
I also spent a good deal of time grumbling to myself.
For the past 18 months, I’d been having increasing difficulty with pain in my back, with numbness in my upper thighs that sometimes caused me to stumble, and nearly constant numbness and tingling in my hands. I was unable to carry anything of significant weight. A milk jug, for example, required that I use both hands. I had frequent shooting pain and numbness throughout the day, despite various attempts to adjust computer keyboards, posture, etc. Like an idiot, I’d put off going to the doctor, partially due to a general distrust of quackery, and partially for fear they’d find something serious.
Fr. Carlos Martins gave an illuminating talk on relics in general, and shared the story of St. Maria, in particular. I found myself moved, but not overwhelmed by emotion. I was profoundly aware of my own need to forgive always, and to accept forgiveness, particularly as I considered St. Maria’s mother’s willingness to forgive the man who had brutally assaulted her daughter, and the effect of forgiveness upon Alessandro Serenelli. As we went forward for veneration, I still had no idea what favor I should request, nor even if I should request one at all. As I drew very near, I decided to make a request on behalf of someone else – for their spiritual and emotional healing, and that they would give and receive forgiveness. I did so in the slightly hurried procession, then we headed for home.
I was several hundred miles down the road before I realized my back didn’t hurt, and I hadn’t had any pain, tingling, or numbness in my arms. It is now almost exactly four years later, and I have not had a recurrence of any of the symptoms that were plaguing me incessantly prior to my visit to the relics. I am able to do hard physical work that would have been not only painful, but impossible prior to my healing. I absolutely credit this healing to the work of the Holy Spirit through the intercession of St. Maria, or of her mother Assunta, or perhaps even Alessandro.
I wrote this short story, because, as I mentioned to Fr. Martins when Treasures of the Church came to Lubbock, I identify very much with the nine lepers who were healed, but did not return to give thanks. While I’ve had a thankful heart, I’ve not expressed that thankfulness as I should. The past several years, I enjoyed a comfortable life, but I never lived up to the promise I made myself on the drive home in 2015. I never made a substantial thanksgiving gift to Treasures of the Church. Now, I have no income from which to make such an offering. Would you, from the kindness of your heart, consider making an offering of thanks on my behalf?
Treasures of the Church has an online offering tool at
https://give.cornerstone.cc/Treasures+Of+The+Church-MariaGoretti
“Thanks, Too Long Delayed” is a teaser for an in-progress historical fiction novel tentatively titled The Ninth. You can follow and support that effort at https://www.patreon.com/euphemos.