Healing at the Gate

From Acts 3

I know the crippled beggar who sits by the Temple gate. He had once reached out and grabbed my ankle.

It was months ago, on a day so hot that it could scorch a sapling dry to the trunk. I had walked by the man a thousand times before, but this time he had thought to hold me fast as I passed him by. I was so startled by his sudden gesture, I dropped the small burlap bag of incense I had been carrying. The powder escaped from the top like a puff of smoke from a fire, scented sweet and spicy with orange and clove.

“Please, a penny, a dime or anything.” The beggar pleaded with me. “Anything. What do you have? I will take it.” The beggar’s hair was matted to the sweat on his sun beaten face. His feet and ankles lay twisted at odd angles like knotted branches. He had been there for years. Sometimes my mother gave him a small coin. My father usually steered a clear path around him. I had forgotten to do the same that day.

“I have nothing for you.” I answered, trying to shake his hand from my ankle. I looked in his eyes. Never had I seen eyes as dark as pitch and as empty as a barrel. And yet, I recognized something in his gaze.

At the moment he grabbed my ankle, I had been plotting against my sister. She was hoarding a scroll that had been given to us both by our great aunt who lived East. It held a fairytale, the kind with magic and distant lands. It was my turn with the scroll, but my sister told me I was too young with fingers too greasy to even graze the edges of the papyrus. I was so angry that I sought revenge, congratulating myself on the clever plan I was hatching.

“You’ve mistaken.” I said to the man. “I am but a child.”

“I am not mistaken.” He said. My skin felt cold despite the heat. The man’s clammy hand like ice against my ankle. He spoke to me as if he knew what I was thinking as if we were kin sharing the same fate.

That night, I planned to steal the knife from my father’s belt while he was asleep, slip over to my sister’s bedroll and gently slice off her braid, one thick dark strand of hair at a time. I had been enjoying the picture of the braid coming loose from her head, when I was stopped by the beggar’s hand.

“Let go, filthy dog.” A Temple guard called out, and the man released my ankle. I had thought the guard was speaking to me, I was the filthy dog. The guard strode over, his sandaled foot struck the man’s back, and I scurried away in case he were to kick me too.

After that, I had gone home and apologized to my sister. She had given me a turn with the scroll.

I see this man, now, in the middle of the Temple courtyard, standing strong on stable legs and sure feet.

My arms are full of the stems of white lilies for the meeting room. I am running late, and again, angry with my sister. I am wearing her old sandals. They are stained with grape juice and smell like her feet. I never get new ones like she does. I glance at them with disgust as I walk, dusk settling in around me, but the sudden sight of this man stops me. He is moving his legs as if he has been walking on them all his life. He is practically dancing.

Like a minnow in a pond, I slice through the crowd with speed, cutting between shoulders and hips. The delicate petals of the lilies are crumpled by swinging elbows, but I take no heed, I need to see what is happening.

“Fellow Israelites, why does this surprise you?” A man says to the crowd. He stands next to the beggar, a frayed rope belts his robe, his fingers bear no rings. “Why do you stare at us as if in our own power we made this man walk?” He says.

I turn to the woman next to me and tug on her sleeve. “What happened?” I ask her. She ignores me.

I turn to a man on my other side. “Did you see this cripple healed?” I say.

The elderly man crouches down to whisper close, his breath warm against my ear. “I did.” He says. “I’ve known this man, Bethuel, for forty years. He’s been crippled since birth. These two men came in while I was carrying him to the gate as I do each day.” He points to the men standing with the cripple. “They spoke the name of Jesus to him, that prophet that’s rumored to be God himself. Then he was healed.” He shakes his head in disbelief, too busy staring to say more.

The other man with this Bethuel is speaking, “By faith in the name of Jesus, this man whom you see and know was made strong. It is Jesus’ name and the faith that comes through him that has completely healed him, as you can all see.”

I could see. He was clearly healed. He moved his legs with the agility of a boy. But it’s not his feet that have me stunned, it’s something in his face. It is changed. I move closer like a fish reeled on a line. The man looks down at me, smiling as if we are kin. His eyes are different. They have light and life.

“Tell us more of this Jesus!” The words are through my lips before I even realize them, but my tiny voice is drowned out by the noise of the crowd. The people around me sway as the Temple guards usher people away from the men. “Move along!” They yell. “There is nothing to see here.” They sound like fools. The cripple is standing. It’s as if they cannot see what is in front of their eyes.

“Tell us more!” I say it again and the elderly man yells the same, his voice carrying, louder than mine. “Tell us more!” Comes up from the crowd.

Whatever this beggar has, I need. If his darkness is healed, maybe mine can be too. I drop stems from the bouquet I am holding, forgetting I am holding them. We are rocking like a boat on the sea and yet no one leaves. The voices of the guards grow louder and people shriek as they get pushed and pulled off kilter but the crowd stays all the same.

“When God raised up his servant, Jesus,” The man next to Bethuel is saying as loudly as possible over the chaos. “He sent him, first to you to bless you by turning each of you from your wicked ways.” A guard grabs his arm and pushes him toward the gate. “You are heirs of God’s promise.” He says over his shoulder. “You must listen to everything Jesus tells you.” He is shoved away from the spot where he was standing, practically dragged to the gate, Bethuel and the other man with him.

I see what I am, and I see what I could be, held together in tandem as if I am two halves of a whole orange, sliced down the middle, one side rotten, the other ripe. I can choose to stay rotten, becoming kin to the darkness that shackled the beggar, or I can choose to take whatever this Jesus is offering and be made light.

I make my choice.

I follow the crowd as it follows the men, the last of the stems I am holding fall to the ground. Wherever they’re going, I’m going, too.

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Jesus did miraculous signs and wonders. The disciples are given the authority to do the same throughout the Gospels and on into Acts. I wanted to write a conversion as a result of witnessing a miracle.

Jesus’ power over sin and death is evident in healing the physical state of our bodies and the state of our hearts and minds. It is an entire transformation. His authority overcomes the authority of darkness that rules in this world.

I am still working this out myself, thank you for your grace as I give it a try and as always, thanks for reading.