By Sean Covington

Contributing Writer

It had been like a whirlwind, and we were standing at the center. It seems like people always knew we were coming -- like they were waiting for us.

 

The last place we were we could see people crowding at the head of the road before we’d even arrived within shouting distance. Sometimes they looked anxious -- unsure of who, or what, might come with us. Would soldiers follow? Would more of the uncleans come? But mostly they looked eager and curious. Someone would ask a question, hiding in a small mob. He would answer and then, as though given permission, a flood of questions would ramble across the heads of the men standing there, waiting.

 

And it wouldn’t end until after the first watch. Many nights there wasn’t any real food to eat. We’d tug at his robe sleeve or tap him on the elbow… “Teacher… it’s late. Come…” and he’d look at me, or whoever, and nod and then keep right on talking. Or listening. I suppose he listened a lot more than people gave thought to. People would talk and talk and talk. A constant stream of sorrows. And Jesus just listened. Sometimes he would nod, or cluck his tongue.

 

Occasionally he would get red around his neck. I don’t know if everybody noticed that, or if it was just me. I think he was getting mad. At first I would notice his eyes start to track a little more, like he couldn’t focus on the person who was talking to him. Then the skin of his chest, right between his collar bones, would start to bloom and it would go up his neck, and like a rash, run up around his hairline. I usually sat right behind him, to his left. I’d see it sometimes, but then I’d wonder if I actually saw it -- the sun burned long days on our necks, on all of our necks. And of course, in a lamplit room, shadows were more prominent than light. It was more like pools of light in a sea of wavering shadows.

 

I tried not to say a lot. Simon said a lot. The other brothers, James and John, they said a lot. Sometimes it worked out for them, but mostly it seemed like they invited opportunities for embarrassment, so I just kept my questions between me and God, Elohim. But Jesus, he would look at me occasionally. I never knew what to do in those moments. So I usually just held his gaze for a moment and then lightly dropped it. 

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The times were uncertain, at best. Not long ago, the Gentile soldiers had killed many, many men. There had been an uprising, the Maccabeans, and we paid dearly as a people. The highways were lined with the Roman crosses -- the despicable and God-forsaken crosses, and the bodies of those despised boys and men. Most of those the Romans crucified lived on and on, until they finally baked to death. They would be there, for three or four days sometimes, crying. It was dreadful.

 

But that was behind us. For now. We were near the Sea now. We were out of the open country, away from the highways. And just a short distance from here was a town where we would be with other Jews. With kindred folk. The people were clamoring. Jesus walked a short ways up a hill, and we followed him. He signaled that we should sit. The people saw us sitting and the clamor dimmed to a murmur. Branches snapped on the ground as people milled around and a few of the older men groaned and muttered as they tried to sit on the ground.

 

He spoke: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.” He took a few steps toward a small clique of women in black: “Blessed are those who mourn! For they shall be comforted!”

 

✣ ✣ ✣ ✣

 

I thought back to my years following my Bar Mitzvah as I watched the teachers and the scribes walking about. I’d always imagined myself as an expert in the law, but none of them seemed to notice me -- no one had ever invited me to come and follow -- not until Jesus. I went of course, seeing my last and only chance to understand God, seeing my last and only chance to learn the Word, the Law, the Torah, and come to blessedness through their careful obedience.

 

✣ ✣ ✣ ✣

 

Suddenly, I snapped back to the moment. A familiar phrase tickled my ears.

 

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth!” The words were familiar, but the emphasis was… different. He was so confident. They shall. As though we’d begun to doubt it. Perhaps we had.

 

Flashes of my schoolboy days again, my recitations -- I wasn’t going to be a great scholar, that was no secret. But every word of the Psalms stirred my heart. They were like a hot stone from around the fire under my feet on a cool night, and like bracing sea water on a torrid afternoon working over fraying nets. The soothing words of the Psalmist rolled through my mind:

 

 

 

Could this be what he was talking about? Really?! At every turn, my eyes fell upon the insignia of the Emperor. The money in my purse? Roman. The pavers on the road beneath my feet? Roman.  Wooden crosses haunted my waking hours, and cruel sophist men with their satchels full of idols. The land was cursed! The meek hung from crosses, and the mourners -- the mourners hid for fear of hanging. But here it was! Jesus was telling me, as though he looked into my spirit and found the post that I latched onto when the wind was fierce:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sean Covington is a Des Moines transplant from the stony beaches of Bellingham bay in northwest Washington State. He is well-kept with one wife, three small children (boy age 5, boy age 3, and girl age 1), and they all seem to tolerate him. He is a worship leader at a small local church in Waukee, a former cabinet maker, and is currently self-employed as “stay-at-home” dad, specializing in mediations, dispute-resolutions, and anger management seminars. He also writes for www.dad-blogs.com (the largest online dad’s community) and has a (currently undermanned) personal blog at www.storiesandfingerprints.com. If you would like to correspond with him, he’d gladly receive your e-mails at sean.covington@gmail.com