Yummy chicken soup

Well, it was pretty amazing, although I was quite cross in some ways at the time. It was his own hometown, yet apparently he couldn't be bothered to make the trip. 

      He was visiting Cana, while I was here in Capernaum, dangerously ill, and he didn’t lift a finger. Not all that far, you know. One day’s journey. Even quicker by donkey. Less than a morning by chariot or on a horse. That’s an easy trip. Not much trouble to come and see a sick boy.

       I really wasn’t well enough to get out of bed and make the journey myself. Mind you, I can’t complain, I got what I wanted. Oh well, let me begin at the beginning…

It all kicked off about five years ago. I’d felt great during my twelfth birthday party – we had a few friends round at lunchtime for a barbecue and to chill.

       But later that day, when I was innocently hanging out with my older sisters, I suddenly felt most peculiar, and (so they tell me) I fainted, collapsing rather spectacularly, apparently.

       It really freaked our Miriam and our Julia!

       They didn’t know what to do, they said. Miriam went to get Mum while Julia stayed with me.

       The three of them took me to my room and I rested for an hour. But I felt fine shortly afterwards.

       ‘It was just the heat, mum,’ I complained.

       ‘Bit of sun or heat and – bam! – you’re ill, is it?’ she asked, not expecting a reply, because I wasn’t listening and there wasn’t anybody else there to overhear. She made me stay indoors for several more days than was needed

       Anyway, it seemed like an isolated incident, but a couple of weeks later, I must have done the same thing. This time I was on my own, walking home from school. I don’t know what happened – all I know is that I was fine one minute, and then woke up an hour or two later, by the side of the road. (Well, that’s what I told mum and she didn’t seem to question it. Actually, I was in the middle of a corn field, taking a short cut I’m not allowed to take, which explains why no-one found me earlier.)

       It kept happening after that. I blacked out at school once, which wasn’t very smart, because Chalky Cohen got somewhat stressed and asked Mum to keep me at home, which she agreed to do. There was clearly something rather seriously wrong with me.

Dad’s a civil servant, stationed at the Royal Tax Office in Genneserat, shuffling papyruses and deciding important things, but every other month he has to go to the regional head office in Cana. He might be away for a couple of days at a time. But once he realised I was sick, he was frustrated that he was powerless to make me well again. So he reacted with an affectionate motivation, and with more finance than wisdom.

       He paid for all sorts of doctors to come and see me. I had my bones tested, my eyes examined, my head felt, my blood sucked by leeches (yuk!), and hot poultices slapped on various tender parts (ouch!). I was put on experimental diets, and had to learn a series of controlled sipping techniques. I was given untold numbers of potions to swallow.

       The quacks tried everything – sifting through rock badger entrails to find mystical revelations; making me inhale smoke from smouldering cedar twigs or quail feathers or salamander dung; and binding my hands and feet with fisherman’s twine (no-one explained why). I had my ears cleaned, knees minutely examined and nostrils purged with hyssop, but I knew that was just flim-flam. I am pretty sure they knew it, too. And so did Dad.

       But they kept his money alright. He must have parted with a fortune to try to get me well. But I was getting steadily worse.

       Eventually, I reached the state where I couldn’t get out of bed without my head swimming and everything going kind of blurry. Obviously, I was seriously unwell by now. Every time a doctor came in, he would purse his lips and suck his teeth and frown and look very grave.

       Even Uncle Mike and Aunt Maggie came to visit, which made me think I must be dying, because they live in a village several days’ journey away, and they hadn’t ever ‘just dropped in’ before…

       My eyes wouldn’t focus too brilliantly, so Miriam and Julia used to sit by my bed and read to me. They often had to stop because they were crying. I’d get cross and tell them to pull themselves together, but that just made them cry more. I didn’t understand all the fuss – frankly, I still don’t. The whole thing about the doctors had made Dad really frustrated. He was still willing to pay, but they were absolutely no use at all.

       ‘What we need is an act of God,’ he said, on several occasions. ‘An act of God is our last hope.’

I’d reached my lowest point. The whole house was deeply gloomy. And Dad was away. I thought he’d gone on another of his business trips, which cheered me up a bit, because he wouldn’t do that if I was about to die, would he? On the other hand, I missed him, so I laid it on a bit thick when Mum brought me a warm drink.

       ‘Couldn’t he even be here for me when I’m probably not going to last the night?’ I asked her, which was not very kind. I had no idea how close to the truth this was…

       ‘He’s not gone on a work trip, you know,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘We heard news of a man of God who has a great gift with folk who are sick – the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear, and a boy who had lots of fits was cured – all sorts of things. Well, this chap is in a town close by, so Dad’s gone to ask him if he will come to see us and do his thing with you. I pray God will bless you through him and make you well… This man is our best chance.’

       ‘Chance?’

       ‘Chance is the wrong word, then. We need an act of God, don’t we? That’s what your Dad says, and I agree.’

       ‘It’s that serious then, is it?’ I asked, quietly.

       She nodded, her eyes wet, and then she turned her back to me, and sniffled.

       ‘I thought so,’ I said, in a voice that sounded faraway. The seriousness was starting to get through to me.

We were all expecting Dad to come home with this Jesus of Nazareth bloke by the end of the week.

       But the day before he was expected, about the seventh hour, I was lying still, slightly shivery, slightly dizzy, slightly worried that I was not ever going to get better, attempting to wiggle my toes, clenching and unclenching my fists, trying to forget about the slimy potion I’d had to swallow, and concentrate on the dull story (or whatever it was) that Miriam was reading to me.

       All of a sudden, I felt this lovely warmth go right through my whole body and spin around inside my head. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before – not like the waves of fainting or nausea or anything.

       Actually, come to think of it, I’ve never experienced anything like it since, either. It was like being in a bath of pleasantly warm, soapy water, except (if you can imagine it) from the inside out. It began in my tummy, my neck and my knees all at same time, and spread quickly to the rest of me, as if my bones and skin were soaking up liquid like a sponge. Yes, I know that sounds weird, but it was a very strange sensation. It lasted for about two minutes, and when it faded away, I realised I’d been lying there enjoying it, while Miriam had dropped the book or newspaper or whatever and was staring at me as if she could tell something really odd was happening.

       And for once, she was right. There’s a first time for everything!

       I started to feel better almost as soon as this warmth had gone away. For the first time in two months, I felt hungry, which was brilliant! I’d been living on chicken soup (my Mum makes the best chicken soup in Capernaum) but not out of hunger.

       Now I thought I could eat a horse! Well, you know, a kosher horse (if there is such a thing), with matzo dumplings and firm vegetables and an oozing, thick, rich gravy, followed by seconds. Something substantial that I could really get my teeth into!

       I felt healthy enough to throw back the bedclothes and sit up on the edge of the bed. No dizziness; no sweating. I stood up. I fell down immediately, but that was because my legs were weak from lack of use for the last four months or so. But I stood up again, leaning on the bedside table and on a shocked and confused Miriam for support, and we called out to Mum.

       ‘Wha…? How? But I don’t…’ she said as she came into the room, maintaining her role as monosyllabic conversationalist extraordinaire.

       ‘I feel great. Is there any stew on the boiler?’ I asked.

       She burst into laughter and tears and rushed over to hug me. I wasn’t ready for that and she sent me flying and I fell to the ground again.

       We hugged and she kissed me and so did Miriam and they called for Julia.

       ‘Come and see what the Lord has done!’ Mum cried. Julia was all soppy about it, too.

       ‘What’s the time, mum?’ I asked, trying to change the subject, and hoping she’d say ‘time for lunch’.

       ‘Ten past one,’ she said. ‘That’s when you were made well! Praise the Lord! Thank you God, thank you!’

       I’d never heard anyone shouting prayers before, but I could see why she was so excited. I was happy, too, but I was just about to become seriously unwell again, dying of malnutrition. Can anyone hear? Feed me! It was lunchtime, wasn’t it? Let’s go, people! Where’s that stew?

       The prayers I would have preferred to hear were the ones that start ‘Thank you, O Lord, for this food’ – although that can have a tendency to continue with one of those endless lists of family and friends and acquaintances past and present. Even worse are the dreadful ones that develop into full-blown round-the-world tours asking God’s ‘hand of blessing’ on the various people-groups and tribes and tongues and nations and go on and on until the soup’s gone fossilised but at least we’ve called upon God for revival in the far-flung reaches of the world and possibly beyond). Far superior, in my view, is the really short one: ‘Bless this bunch as they munch their lunch.’

       ‘What about Dad?’ Miriam asked.

       ‘Oh, of course!’ Laughing, Mum sent off two of the servants. ‘Please point out that it was at ten past one when he sat up and got out of bed. I don’t know why, but I think it is one of those things that is not by chance. Just be sure to tell him he was made well at ten past one, right?’

       The servants bowed and rushed off to fetch my Dad. 

       It took another little while of hugging and prayers of thanksgiving before I could persuade Mum to let me find my way to the stove to help myself to some stew. Miriam got me some of the crusty bread I particularly like, and Julia just sat and watched me eating, her face all soggy. Such a girl.

So Dad wasn’t on a business trip – he had gone to see Jesus of Nazareth to ask him to come and heal me. ‘Please come to pray for my son, since you can make him well,’ he said.

       Jesus answered (Dad told me about this when he got back) something about miracles being the only thing this generation would believe.

       ‘Come and heal my son and he will live,’ Dad pleaded, being Mr Monosyllable.

       Jesus saw my Dad’s faith and healed me long-distance, telling Dad to go and see; the boy will live. And it had all happened at just after one o’clock. I got better exactly when Jesus was saying ‘The boy will live.’ Can you believe it? Didn’t ask what my name was, or what was wrong with me, either. This healer didn’t seem to care about details. He just got on with the main event.

       As you can imagine, when Dad got home, there was more soppiness.

       Fortunately, this was followed by roast lamb with unleavened bread, followed by cake. The next week at synagogue, Dad told everyone in Capernaum about this amazing miracle.

       I’m totally well, and had to go back to school and get used to Chalky Cohen again (boo!). My pals had given me up for dead, so they’ve taken a little while to come to terms with the prospect that I’m going to be around, large as life, for some time to come.

       I totally played down the part of my story about all that female sogginess when I stood up at the front of my class and explained what had happened. I thought it wouldn’t do my street cred any good at all. But the girls in my class got soggy all the same. Daft!

       I thought it was most fitting to honour Jesus of Nazareth, because he’s certainly some kind of miracle man.

       But I’m still a bit narked that he never bothered to come and visit me. I’m glad I got healed, and grateful and all that, but it wouldn’t have been that much effort to come and see the sick boy, surely?

The official’s son, healed from a distance

Why didn’t Jesus make the journey?

What effect did ancient medical practice have on the boy?

What effect did the words of Jesus have on the boy?

Why was it significant to the writer of the gospel

that the boy had a strange sensation at exactly

the same time as Jesus was sending the father home?