By Bethany Riehl
The more they dug, the more my heart began to pound, and my thoughts ran circles while I lay there limp and helpless.
Were the owners of this house, Simon and Andrew, home? I heard that they had stopped fishing — abruptly left their nets, even — to follow Jesus of Nazareth. Simon was a well-known hothead; what would he do when he saw what they had done to his roof?
Then a different kind of excitement rushed through my veins — if the reports were true, I would soon be healed. Then I could help to repatch the roof.
I imagined it, standing on my own two feet, climbing, carrying supplies up the stone steps I’d just been carried up; straightening to stretch my sore back muscles and pausing to wipe my brow with the back of my arm to clear the sweat from my eyes.
The sweat of hard work and effort. Of a man that would no longer be called lame. Worthless. Hopeless.
Then suddenly, I realized the sound around me had shifted. I couldn’t hear the shink of their shovels sinking into hard clay or the thump of dirt being piled at my feet. Instead of the steady drone of Jesus’ teaching in the room below, I heard a rush of gasping and shouts of surprise as dirt rained down below.
Jesus was no longer talking.
My friends gathered the ropes that they had brought into their hands, wrapping it around their strong arms, leaving a tail behind them, then arranged themselves, two at my head, two at my feet, and lifted me up and over the crude hole. My heart hammered to a stop before it began to race.
And then I was lowered — slowly — down into the house.
Faces appeared, one, then another, then five more. Simon indeed looked annoyed, Andrew confused. I looked around for Jesus, realizing I’d heard everything about Him except what He looked like. It took a moment to pick Him out among the crowd, but as I reached everyone’s knees, my friends must have slipped a little and I landed on the floor with a thud; wincing from my inability to do more than put my hands out for stability, I saw one expression of compassion among the mixtures of annoyance, pity, and confusion.
I was surprised at how average He appeared. I could have passed Him every day in the street and not looked twice. There was authority in His stance and eyes, yes, but not arrogance. Care but not worry. Peace paired with action. I desired to fix my eyes on His but also felt too ashamed to look upon His face.
The ends of the ropes dropped, landing with a thud on either side of me.
He laughed a little, and, shaking the dirt from his hair with one hand, looked up at my friends, all kneeling now, watching expectantly, smiles on their faces.
I swallowed. How could they look so confident? They must not be as big of sinners as I was. I couldn’t look at Him. If He knew how I’d sinned, would He —
“Son, your sins are forgiven.”
I blinked. Looked up into His face, into the firm assurance in His eyes. My sins were forgiven? To my shame, even now, I felt the heavy weight of disappointment settle on my chest. So not even this miracle worker could make me walk again. The soaring height of my hope crashed down around me, landing with a dull thud, just as the ropes had.
But then I thought of those long nights thinking, those reports that had come back. He’d made the leper clean. Who but God could do something like that? If He declared my sins were forgiven then, maybe —
Before I could finish my thought, Jesus turned suddenly to look at the group of men I recognized as scribes. They were sitting together, brows drawn, faces set in hard lines.
He said to them, “Why are you questioning these things in your hearts?”
The men glanced at one another, and although they shrugged as if they didn’t know what He was talking about, their eyes betrayed them.
“Which is easier to say to the paralytic?” Jesus continued, “‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Rise, take up your bed and walk’?”
A small stream of dust showered down from above and I glanced up. My friends had shifted, leaned close, eyes expectant. My heart began to pound and I licked my lips.
“But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins,” again Jesus fixed His eyes on mine, “I say to you, rise, pick up your bed and go home.”
Over the years I’ve been asked about that moment more than anything else: Did I feel something like lightening course through my body? Did I test one foot, then another? Was I afraid to try and stand? Did I doubt?
I never know quite how to answer. Because all I did was stand. I don’t know how; I just obeyed. And when I stood up, it was with the fluidity and confidence of a man that had never been lame. My feeble legs were immediately strong, corded with muscle, just like the men who had carried me to the roof. My core moved with ease as I bent to retrieve my bed, as if I hadn’t spent my life unable to use it.
But while gasps of astonishment and amazement filled the room, as I straightened, lifting my now rolled bed to my shoulder, all I could think of were His words:
“…that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins…”
From that day forward, I’ve walked with the peace of one who has been made well, not only in flesh, but in spirit. Those around me then had cried out and glorified God, shouting, “We never saw anything like this!”
Jesus came back to Simon and Andrew’s house often in the three years of His ministry and I always went to listen. I stood in the back, never tired of the amazement I felt in being able to lean against a wall and look over the heads of those around me. Not until after Jesus was resurrected did I completely understand how He had forgiven my sins.
The weight of that truth still stops my breath.
He traded His perfect life for mine. He didn’t make my sins disappear; He took the wrath that I deserved. He died the death that I deserved to die.
And because He rose from the grave, I know that someday I’ll walk with Him in paradise when He calls me home at last.
Bethany Riehl lives in the Treasure Valley with her husband, three kids, and a dog. She writes articles and fictional novels when she can, and her one desire is to point others to the love and sufficiency of Jesus Christ.
