Just Get in the Room with Jesus
He had a lot to be thankful for, he knew.
As he lay on his threadbare mattress, sunlight spilling through the cracked window, he brooded again. Though he knew others had it worse, he felt that familiar heaviness that lately never left.He reminded himself again, counting his blessings, it could be much worse. He had the best parents — loving and kind, always thinking of him, doing over him, but that was kind of the problem.
He had the best friends too — loyal, faithful, fun. Ruefully smiling a little, he recalled the best mates he so loved, so resented. They had gotten up to so much trouble: mischief at market, havoc at the shores, playing David and Goliath with their makeshift slings and swords, playing Israelites and Egyptians, complete with plagues and parting seas.
But that was before. Before he was like this. Yet they remained his friends, coming over, hanging out, including him as much as they could. But their lives moved on. And he wanted them to be happy, really. He tried to — to rejoice in their brides and their babies, the inevitable trajectory of normalcy. But some days, that was too much to ask for. Some days he could barely force a smile, or hold a conversation, or keep the bitterness away from his ageing face.
As he mused miserably, his mother came into his room, snapping him out of his daze. There was always a smile on her homely face, never complaining, or cursing, or crying out to God — at least, not around him.
‘Morning, Joe!’ she beamed, opening his curtains to the harshness of a new day. Kissing him on the forehead and smiling, ‘Beautiful day. What do you fancy for breakfast?’
Not waiting for him to answer, she kept on talking, ignoring the indignity of a mother changing, washing and dressing her grown son. Stepping into his room, his dad smiled sympathetically, ready to hoist his son out of bed: understanding the humiliation of the daily deed, stumped for any alternative, neither of them acknowledging how this manoeuvre was gradually becoming harder and harder as his father daily grew older.
They deserved better than this. He’d heard people mutter at Synagogue, ‘who’d sin had caused this, his or theirs?’ It was cruel nonsense – theirs? You could hardly ask for better people. God-honouring, Sabbath-keeping, people-loving models of faith. And it broke his heart what his problem cost them.
When his siblings moved out, he saw the pain of their loss, of his mother’s loss, but mothers were meant to lose their children in that way. That was natural. Expected. Healthy. This — this was none of that.
This was the loss of a daily thousand absences — the absence of work: a trade, a sense of purpose, of that happy tired feeling at the end of the day. The absence of family: of that bride, those babies, a lineage and a legacy. His line would end here. He would not, could not, play his part in the initial mandate of mankind: to multiply. The absence of the joy he could not find anywhere; try as he might, joy eluded him, peace abandoned him, contentment smirked at him. He was left with this void, the enormity of absence threatening to daily devour him.
They’d seen everyone at the start, spoke to every professional they could, healers and Rabbi’s alike. But it was conclusive: there was nothing to be done. Paralysed for life. So off he went to beg again. His Abba took him to his usual spot, and he didn’t complain at the indignity of it, because this was the only way he could contribute. And when his parents were gone, it was all he’d have left.
He was mad at the world. Mad for his mother, jealous of his siblings, resentful of his friends — and especially, more than he’d admit even to himself, furious at God. Oh, he tried to hide these feelings, push them down, bury them deep, make them so small they were imperceivable to those who looked. But, with face down cast and etched with the shadow of years of frowns and scowls, he knew he probably wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all himself.
*
His friends loved Joe. They saw him. They’d seen him suffer, grieved his loss, felt his pain and watched his future flitter away. And through it all, they felt totally useless. They met with his mother, helped out where they could, even giving financially — without Joe knowing obviously – and they’d prayed and fasted, wrestled with Torah. They'd felt frustration and guilt, at what was and what could have been; that they couldn’t help him that day, and guiltier still that they were grateful their roles weren’t reversed. And so they lived their lives as best they could, but were never able to forget their childhood friend, sat begging and alone, whilst they ran with their children, danced with their wives, performed the simple daily act of walking to work.
But still, even after all these years, each in their own way cried out to Adonai, to Jehovah Jireh: the God who provides; Jehovah Rapha: the God who heals; Yahweh: the God who is theirs. They lamented and they longed. Couldn’t God do something more?And at long last, after years of silence, they believed — please God be right — they believed that their prayers were being answered. There was a new Rabbi — no, more than that — a prophet maybe, and he had come to their town. A local leper had already been healed and there were more reports from all over, all kinds of different sicknesses. Rumours had spread like wildfire, testimonies told in the temple — people delivered, restored, healed, and they knew, they believed, they prayed… please God, let Joe be next.
*
Four grown men came bounding round the corner of the bustling street, calling excitedly for Joe. For a moment, it was like nothing had changed since they were children — just some friends calling for her son to come out and play. With a quick peck on her cheek as a way of greeting, Joe's mother smiled at these men, these boys, these surrogate sons.
‘It’s going to happen, Deborah. Today’s the day. Joe’s getting healed!’ Benjamin blurted out.
She studied these familiar faces, and, one hand on her hip, a dish towel still in the other, she squarely looked them in the eyes, noting their enthusiasm, their joy, their expectancy. ‘What’s this all about, boys?’ she asked, her smile wavering. ‘Another healer?’
‘We know, we know. You’ve seen them all. But this one is different. The whole town’s abuzz with it. If we can just get Joe to Jesus, he’s going to be healed!’A whole range of emotion flooded her heart, and no doubt made an appearance on her face. Excitement, hope — fear.
‘But,’ she quietly began, doubt tempering her words, ‘I don’t want to raise his hopes again for nothing. With sympathy in their eyes they looked at her, and Simeon replied softly, ‘But we have to try. Faith, it... it takes risk. It costs. But we have to trust. We have to try.’
‘Could Moses cross the sea still stuck in Egypt?’ Benjamin added, fired up and ready with his argument, ‘Or did David conquer Goliath from the sheep pen? Didn’t Namaan have to get into the water, or Elijah stretch out on the dead — we’ve got to act, get close, move, have a faith that walks!’
Deborah took in their sincerity, their excitement, the belief in their eyes, and, choosing a faith she didn’t feel and choking down her doubt, she softly replied, ‘He’s out begging.’
‘Next time you see him, he’ll be running home!’ They called, already running off without looking back. Had they, they would have seen a mother’s concern as her face crumpled as she prayed a silent prayer, and though not quite daring to voice it, for a split second she allowed herself to imagine her son running home.
*
It had been a quiet morning. Slow. Boring. Lonely. And Joe spotted his friends running toward him. ‘Hey,’ he called to them, the smile not quite meeting his eyes. ‘Last one here is a rotten fish.’ He jested, but the phrase caught him off-guard as childhood words, long un-uttered, tumbled out of his mouth before he could silence them.
‘What is it?’ He said, clearing his throat.
And somewhat tentatively, they revealed their hand, 'You… you’ve heard about Jesus?’ ‘Heard the name,’ Joe muttered, looking away, all hint of smiles vanished. He didn’t need to meet their eyes to know what was coming next, where this was going. The joy he’d felt at seeing them quickly dissipated to something more like resentment. Hope was a fool’s errand, and he’d had enough of being a fool.
‘What’s it to me?’ he shrugged.
‘What’s it to you?' Benjamin blurted out incredulously, 'It’s hope. It’s freedom. It’s healing, Joe. We just need to get you in the room with Jesus,’ he declared, and added resolutely, ‘So, you’re coming!’
A flicker of hope, uninvited, tried to rise. He squashed it as quickly as he could, as if hoping would mean admitting he'd been wrong about everything: God, life, suffering. It was better to cling to the bitterness, safer somehow. So scepticism saturated his words as he tried to gently let them down: ‘Boys, thanks. But no thanks — I’m just fine. Living the life!’ he petulantly added, gesturing to his locale, complete with tattered mat, begging bowl and a packed lunch from his mother.
Of course he wished life was different, but he was resigned to the fact that it wasn’t. This was his lot. God didn't care.
‘Listen, I’m not sure I even believe all the stories, and anyway, it won’t work for me.’ These miracles seemed to require faith and he was all out of that. And to hope for something else... hope was too expensive and he was finally debt free. Except the boys, they didn’t agree. They looked at each other in silent camaraderie and knowingly smiled. They knew, the wretches, that he wouldn’t come willingly, and they had a plan.
They stooped down and began to gather Joe, physically picking him up, begging mattress and all, and hoisted him up like a beggar king on a parade no one wanted to see. But this was anything but regal and dignified. He didn’t exactly look poised when he began to attack them. He probably should have been grateful to have friends that fought for him, when he had long given up the fight. Friends that were prepared to carry him when he couldn’t carry himself. Friends who would lend their faith when he was bankrupt.
But right there and then, he really couldn’t rally the gratitude. More like rage. Pent up and pouring out, he had plenty of that. So he swung his arms, yelled some choice words, protested loudly and flailed atop his charlatan's chariot. Cursing the day they were born, cursing the day he was born. Ignoring the fact that it was drawing even more attention to himself, giving them Hades for as long as he could.
Finally, his energy spent, he resigned himself to his fate, and sat sulking, giving them the silent treatment instead, glad he hadn’t fallen off at least, and reluctantly let himself be carried. After what felt like miles of moping – and miles of mustering every ounce of strength the boys had probably – they got near the house where the Rabbi was teaching. They picked up the pace when they saw it, exhausted but elated. They really believed it, Joe thought, that something was going to happen here, with this teacher, this healer. But upon seeing the house, disappointment struck them harder than Joe's fists had managed. Feeling pretty smug, Joe uttered somewhat petulantly, ‘I told you so.’
The crowds that had gathered were unbelievable. It looked like the whole village had gathered, and more besides. Others obviously had the same idea and there was no way they were getting near the house. Even the wealthy and powerful were there: Pharisees and Sadducees, listening to this Rabbi’s teaching, likely annoyed at this new teacher’s numbers. It looked hopeless, a wasted journey.
Until Levi, that is, pointed to the external stairs: ‘Hey, boys — look!’ Disappointment rose like bile as he realised it was still possible. They weren't giving up. Recklessly, stupidly, dangerously: they could still get Joe to Jesus.‘What’s a roofing bill in the face of a miracle?’ Levi joked. They went around the crowds to the staircase and, jostling Joe somewhat, navigated the stairs and as they hoisted him up; his heart lurched — not just from the awkward sway of his body, but from the raw care these fools still had for him.
They were idiots, reckless and relentless, but for the first time in years, he didn’t feel so alone. Up and up they went until they laid him on the flat roof; his closest friends, his brothers, sweating in the heat, dusty from the day and still so faith-filled. He hoped, for their sake, today wouldn’t entirely rob them of that.And now that they were close to Jesus, at least geographically if not actually in the room with him, Joe was a cornucopia of feeling. Mad, embarrassed, frustrated, and against his better inclination... something resembling hope began to rear its ugly head. But there was another obstacle that still prevented his friends from getting him in the room with Jesus. Joe guffawed at the boys, 'You can't be serious?'
But they were. Serious and smiling.
They weren't up here just to see more or hear better. They meant business. Laughing a little at their own audacity, Joe watched helplessly, flabbergasted, as his closest and oldest friends did something... criminal for him. They began to make a hole in the roof. A hole. Big enough for a fully grown man and his mattress. Everyone was looking up, wondering what on earth was going on. He kept expecting to be told off, but below him, this Jesus... he silenced complaints. Waited patiently amidst the destruction. And in the whispered excitement and expectancy of a thoroughly disturbed-and-dusty room, Simeon pushed his face in the hole, dirty with sweat and grime, gleaming with eager joy, ‘Err, sorry about this,' he began nervously as Joe listened, mortified, 'but we just had to get Joe in the room with you. We’ll ah, we’ll lower him down now?’ Asked more as a question, perhaps with some overdue politeness, but they were a way past polite by now: here they were, ready or not.
So they tied Joe to his mattress, using belts and ties as makeshift ropes, and began to clumsily lower him down through their makeshift hole. Joe, as red as the wine he wished he was drinking, was horrified. He looked down at himself, wrapped in ropes, on his filthy begging mattress, with all eyes, all eyes, on him. With a final thud, he landed on the debris-filled-floor, and thought what a pathetic figure he must have made. Useless, withered, filthy: an impotent intruder in an important man's day.
*
Jesus watched the whole process with a twinkle in his eye. This moment, right here, unbeknownst to them, was the highlight of his day. He looked up at the boys; four dirty, hopeful faces peering down, nervously grinning at him. Exhausted from carrying dead weight in the Eastern heat, but brimming with an energy that came from expectation. Because behind the dirty, sweaty façade, were hearts full of faith for their friend. He looked at these four friends, and he saw the beauty of their friendship, the determination of their faith. Then he looked down at Joe, who still wouldn’t quite meet his eye, and got straight to the heart of it.
‘Friend,’ he began, the one word thick with unspoken truth.
Jesus knew that Joe had been mad at God, this relationship had been one way for a while now, but he imbued this one word with tenderness, affection and truth – because not for a moment had he not loved Joe, not for a moment had he not been his friend, not for a moment had he been absent amidst his suffering. Joe just needed some... reminding. ‘Friend…’ he began, ‘your sins are forgiven.’
*
Joe sat and processed what this encounter all meant and he felt the shock reverberate through the room. The boys above him looked at each other in shock. The Pharisees and the Sadducees, they got... mad. More like furious. Blustering and blowing up, they each shouted, straining to be heard over each other as they vehemently protested this impudence. ‘Only God can do that!’ They exclaimed, ‘Only the High Priest can pronounce that!’ The people muttered and whispered, not sure where to look, what to say, or who was right.
And Joe. He just sat there, a little lost for words.
Embarrassed to be the reason for this uproar, wishing for a sinkhole to swallow him whole. But no surprises there, he was out of luck. So he sat, stuck, because he sure as Hades still couldn't move.Yet, he couldn’t deny that there was something about this man. Something about the way he commanded the room, the way he carried himself, the way he saw him, called him friend. And this business about his sin… despite himself, not even understanding how or why or what that even meant theologically, he felt better. Lighter somehow. Relieved.
But then he looked down again at his still lifeless limbs and quietly sighed. Unsure about much, but convinced that he'd been right not to hope. Jesus was still rebuking the religious leaders, and Joe, lost in thought, vaguely heard him say, ‘So that you know I have the authority to forgive sins...’ and pause.
Jesus again looked at Joe.
With feeling, intensity, empathy and something like... glee. He looked up at his friends, at four filthy faces in the wreckage of the roof, and their faces shone with expectation. Jesus saw it too. He saw their faith. Their hope. Their belief. And so he looked back at Joe, eyes dancing, mouth turned upward in a soft smile, and commanded, ‘take up your mat, Joe, and go home.’
Joe looked down again at is impotent legs, and back up to Jesus’s outstretched arm. Had he just misheard?
Joe ran his fingers over the rough mat beneath him, the fibres tangled and frayed like his hope—damaged, broken, ruined. But, despite it all, he felt it.
Time seemed to stop as he bent over his feet, disbelief mingling with a sudden thrill. A twitch. His toes.
It was so faint at first he almost missed it. He stared down in disbelief, not daring to move. Another twitch, then a surge of heat—life—rushing up his legs, filling every deadened nerve with sensation. He gasped, the breath catching in his throat as the world tipped sideways. Was this real? Could it be?
Jesus grinned, wider now, and watched the emotion play out on Joe’s face, watched the realisation dawn on him, saw hope at last bursting through the dam of doubt he'd so diligently built. Jesus reached out his hand a little further, this silent invitation to stand.
‘Walk home, son,' he said. 'Run home.’ Joe felt hope flood his heart as a wall of hurt and anger and doubt all at once come crumbling down.
He let go of his fear and his fury and reached up in faith instead. He reached to grab this stranger-friend's hand — Jesus's hand, and he looked up at the four faces stunned above, barely moving, hardly breathing: waiting. And with a sure heave, he propelled himself upward. He felt the strength as it returned to his legs: power in his thighs — what was withered restored; what was atrophied regained. His feet bore his weight, his stature once more at its fullness. He had never before stood as a man, never been so tall, hadn’t ever had this vantage point before. He couldn’t believe it – he felt his legs. He stood upright, healed and whole.Tears began rolling down his cheeks as he looked at Jesus, looked around, looked levelly in people’s eyes: an equal for the first time. He looked at his legs and his mind struggled to comprehend the reality of the miraculous.
He was kidnapped here, carried on his filthy begging mat, the embodiment of his pain, and in a beautiful, mind-blowing twist of fate, he picked up his mat. That which had carried him for so long, he would now carry home: the carrier, not the carried.
He looked to the door, and like a game of Israelites and Egyptians, the crowd parted before him as he began to walk out – on his own two feet. His friends sprinted down the stairs to meet him; they jumped and clapped shoulders and cheered and embraced and cried and laughed and praised God. Everyone began to praise God. The whole atmosphere changed and charged; people singing, clapping, crying. Jesus and his friends laughing and embracing — everyone was sharing in his joy. This joy from Yahweh that really did bring strength.
So they praised God, because a friend had been healed, because hope and joy and faith had been restored. Because here in their midst was a Rabbi, a prophet, a healer — an answer from Yahweh to his people and their prayers. And in this instant, whilst celebrating on solid legs in the aftermath of encountering Jesus, the absences absconded and faith marched in.
He looked at them, his oldest friends, with such love and gratitude for their faith which carried him, and without the words to express everything in his once-fractured heart, he croakily said, ‘Last one home is a rotten fish.’
And Joe began to run.
Stretching his legs, experimenting with their strength, feeling their power again — Joe ran, his mat over his shoulder, his lungs bursting with elated effort. This feeling he had long mourned, revived and returned. People stopped and stared, some pointed and whispered, struggling to reconcile the face of the local beggar with this happy runner. But Joe barely noticed as he dashed towards home, laughter spilling from his lips, the wind whipping against his face, each step a defiance of the years that he had lost. The village blurred around him, but all he saw was home — bright, welcoming, and warm.
As they finally rounded on Joe's house, the boys slowed to a stop. Wordlessly they hugged again and stepped back, allowing Joe this special moment with his parents. And they watched as Joe began walking away, their minds fighting to comprehend what their eyes were seeing. Faith was walking.
*
All morning, Deborah had been waiting.
All afternoon, she had been waiting.
Busying herself with worry, praying and panicking in equal measure. So Deborah looked out the window again, unable to stop herself from anxiously checking, as she washed a dish already thoroughly clean. The house was spotless and her heart was hammering.
And suddenly, the sound of a plate smashing reverberated around the room because before her, like a mirage in the desert, she looked at a scene that her eyes desperately longed for, but her heart wasn't sure that it trusted.
For the first time in decades she saw her son: standing — no, walking — home. Not since a boy had she seen her son walk, never has she seen him walk as a man.
He looked so tall, strong, handsome — and that smile. She hadn’t seen that in so long. And as the crockery smashed to pieces around her, it felt like her heart was being put back together. She left all the mess behind her and all that was broken within her and moved towards something beautiful, something true — she moved to welcome her son home.
‘Joe,’ she whispered as she began to weep, ‘you got in the room with Jesus.’
THE END
What could change, in an instant, if you got in the room with Jesus?
We all too easily underestimate the potential of just a moment in his presence. The boys fight to get their friend to have a single encounter with Jesus. This is a sort of holy pilgrimage into his presence. For us, we don't need to walk miles in dusty heat, we don't need to exert ourselves, derail all other plans or take such extreme measures: we just need to find a moment to pray, to kneel, to open his word. Our pilgrimage can take seconds, and yet I think its ease sometimes causes us to take it for granted. Today, fight to make time to get in the room with Jesus. Pilgrimage to Presence. I don't think we ever leave the same.
Could your faith carry another to Him?
For Joe, it is not his faith that healed him. Luke's account tells us that when Jesus saw 'their faith' (Luke 5:20), he was moved to act. Are there people in our world who desperately need a breakthrough: healing, salvation, restoration, provision. I wonder if we would be willing to fight more for our friends? These four boys, they are great friends. They are great examples of friendship. And in a world that is so often self-seeking, I wonder if we could make the time, commit to the effort, find a way to just get our friends in the metaphoric room with Jesus. Maybe literally, we need to get them to church. Offer lifts, extend invitations. Maybe we need to lift them up in prayer and fight on their behalf. Maybe we need to be encouraging, offer the hope that they have long-lost. I don't know how this lands with you, but I pray that as you consider this story afresh, you would be drawn to get in the room with Jesus again: for your own breakthrough, or for others'. Because everything can change if we would just be found in the room with Jesus.