She left her water-pot at the well. Went to tell the neighbours about the amazing prophet in town. The One with the nice face.
He left his beggar’s cloak behind at the roadside. Foolish thing for a blind man to do. Discard his insignia for begging. But they had said that the Master wanted to see him. And He had healed others in such a dignified way.
He left his tax-collector’s table. And all that money. The stash going to the Romans. And that other portion going to…Oh well, forget about it.
The two brothers had left their father’s fishing boat and all the nets. Seemed as if that’s all they knew how to do well. Getting out on that water that they loved so. With all her moods, and bounty for the crafty.
She left her men. That little network of devilish play that she had coquettishly woven in the alleys. Rabbis had meant to stone her for the foolishness. And they had the Law behind them. But the Prophet had not allowed it. And she had never encountered One like Him.
He left his books of study. All of those rules and reg’s that had caused so many headaches, arguments and impossible situations. He went under cover of darkness to the Prophet hoping for some answers of substance; and certainly not expecting those answers. A child-like petition and a New Birth posed as the remedy of all remedies.
He had left the secret enclaves of resistance. Weapons and plots under cover. Just waiting for the right moment to set the Romans running. But this Master Strategist had spoken of another battle plan with the strangest of weapons. Peaceful ones. Forgiving ones.
She had left it. The doting Mother’s pre-disposition to worry about a daughter’s plight and to make extra provision. Hers had married the Big Fisherman, and now he seemed to have signed on for the strangest commission with that healing Story Teller. Traveling, inviting with nothing made certain in advance.
All of these people had abandoned something previously thought to be unquestionably theirs.
(“I that speak unto thee am he”)
(painting by james tissot)