One of the women cries, another screeches as if she’s looking at a monster from her nightmares. All three run back to the nearby town they’d wandered just a little too far from.

 

The looks on their faces are etched into my mind. This is how others see me. The worst part is, they’re right. I know I’ve become a terrifying man, if you can even call me that anymore. My face is unrecognizable, disfigured with growths of varying sizes. My nose is severely twisted and my eyebrows have fallen out. My eyes are clouded over, like a dreary overcast day, and my vision has become severely distorted over time.

 

I haven’t been able to watch my body grow disfigured, but I’ve felt it. The swelling lumps and painful growths, morphing and distorting every part of me with time. Every time I touch my face, I’m startled, remembering what I’ve become. But it’s impossible for me to forget. I watch the looks of wanderers who stray too close to my camp. Their reactions grow only more aghast and fearful with time.

 

But I know my own disease most painfully, most intimately, because it’s the same disfigurement I watched overtake the faces and bodies of those I loved most. My family. Leprosy took each one of them from me. First, my precious baby sister three years ago. After two more years had passed, so did my once-strong father. And only a few months after his death, my beautiful mother was gone too. I was left alone without community, with no sense of belonging. The worst part is, no one else saw, no one else mourned with me. No one even knew of my grave loss. I buried each of my family members, disfigured as they’d become, until it was just me.

​

My aching hands pull me back to the present from these fresh memories. I don’t know which reality is worse. My pain has grown almost constant as my hands and feet continue to become disfigured, bending farther and farther in ways they were never meant to bend. And yet, my mind can’t help but wander back to the once beautiful and familiar faces that became anything but their own. I’ve barely made it over a year without my family. The physical pain is nothing compared to complete isolation, this solitary confinement. I feel like a newborn baby, desperately in need of skin-to-skin contact, left alone in a cold, abandoned place. Crying, begging, yet unanswered. Little time passes before innocent life fails to thrive. I sincerely don’t know how I’ve made it this long without the touch of another human being.

 

How is it that life can feel so much like death?

 

The women are long out of sight now. I slowly walk in the direction they came from, hoping to catch a hidden glimpse of someone else. Anybody else. In my sickness I know I’ll never be in the company of another human being again, and that realization cuts deep. But I just want to be in the same vicinity as others, unseen. I just want to be close, I just want to feel like a human again.

 

My eyes burn warm with tears. I want to cry from the depths of my heart, “Someone, anyone, please come close!” But I can’t. I’m contagious, and filthy. Unlovable, unapproachable, untouchable. If I yell, it must be that anthem that has become my life’s story, “Unclean! Unclean!”

 

Because I’m a leper, and that’ll never change.

 

In my longing and wandering thoughts I quietly run up behind a familiar fig tree, hiding there. Its rough bark and large, fruitless trunk stand a stone's throw away from the path leading to town. I’ve hidden behind it before, in hopes that someone will walk by, in hopes to draw closer to another. And when they do, for the briefest of moments, I imagine what kind of friends we could be and what kind of life I could have if I weren’t this way. If I were clean.

 

From behind this dying fig tree they won’t see me, but I’ll see them. And that’s enough. After they pass by I’ll return to my isolation, holding tightly to this semblance of encounter. It’ll be my solace until, in desperation, I return to this place once again. I know it’s a risk every time I come this close because I could be killed if I’m seen. It’s only when I’m feeling particularly brave or when the weight of isolation is heavy to the point of almost breaking me that I come. But whether my reasoning for coming here is reckless or grounded, this tree has always been barren. I hide behind it because it reminds me of myself.

​

A dead man among the living.

 

A large group of men bound down the nearby hill.  One tells a joke that I can’t hear from behind the tree and the others laugh. I can’t help but smile. For a moment, I feel among them, I feel like I belong. Though I know it’ll never happen, I imagine telling them the joke my dad taught me. I wish it were me who’d made them laugh. I let myself pretend, just for a moment.

 

As they draw closer to the tree, I instinctively draw in a deep breath to yell out, “Unclean!” I know I should, but I don’t. I don’t want to be looked at in disgust anymore. I don’t want to see terror in the eyes that look back at me, especially not from these men.

 

Once they pass by, I’ll go back home, just like all of the other times I’ve come. No, “home” isn’t the right word because home implies belonging. I’ll go back to whatever you call the camp I’ve been living in for the past seven years. I’ll return clinging to this delightful moment, this brief encounter of laughter with my imaginary friends. They’ve nearly passed by me, so I begin to step away slowly. A hint of a smile dances across my mouth. This was better than I could’ve imagined it would be. 

 

Suddenly a sharp crack fills the air. I freeze.

 

My entire being tenses. My face grows warm and I feel a tingling spread throughout my entire body. I slowly look down to see the broken stick beneath my ever-deteriorating feet. And then I hear the words that I dread most, the ones that I’ve called out so many times before.

 

“Unclean! Unclean!”

 

They cut even deeper when they’re coming from someone else. 

 

My vision blurs with hot tears as I look into the face of the yelling man. My heart sinks. It’s the man who told the joke. He shouts to the others, “Look at that monster behind the tree. Stay back brothers, it might infect you. Get away, dirty leper!”

 

I’m a breathing wound, his words are coarse salt. It seems like a thousand pairs of eyes stare at me, all tinged with fear. I look from face to face and wince at the emotions I see. Panic, disgust, terror. One man retches. Shame and a dull ache are all I feel.

​

My tears fall as I stand before these men. For the first time in my leprosy, I wish my vision was clouded to the point of blindness so I didn’t have to watch them take in every disgusting part of me. All of my disfigurements, all of my wounds are on display. Nothing is hidden, I’m fully exposed.

​

I’m dirty, reeking of sweat and human waste. Nearly naked, I’m completely bare, my skin darkened by layers of dirt. My revolting body is actively deteriorating, covered in oozing sores that fester with flies. I’m no longer hidden. I’ve been completely exposed without any say, completely stripped of any humanity I may have had left.

 

Another man heaves, throwing up at the sight of me.

 

I feel a long-dormant anger rising within me. What was I thinking coming here? Was I really so naive to believe some imagined interaction would make things better? Did I really think I could experience human connection again? I’m so stupid! Almost as stupid as this useless fig tree. I kick it as hard as my limp leg will allow.

 

I’d always loved this tree, so like myself, until today. Today I begin to hate it.

 

This fig tree is supposed to be strong, life bearing. Its purpose is to produce sweet fruit to tide over the farmers until their work is finished, to provide shelter and protection to creatures in need. To creatures like me.

 

But it’s dead. A waste of soil. Just like me.

 

My anger rages, like a stoked flame. Looking up to the sky, I yell internally. Why are we even here, this fig tree and me? We’re both disfigured, we’ve been rejected, we’re unfairly suffering. Sympathizing with the fig in an unexpected way, my anger shifts to Someone else. The Gardener. He should be here, tending, cultivating, fertilizing. But He abandoned us.

 

Though He’s forgotten us, I yell at Him internally anyway. Where are You? Why aren’t You here?

 

You’ve allowed this desolation and pain for so many years. What possible good could come of this torture?

 

You’re so twisted and wicked to force this innocent tree to remain for another season. Can’t You see it’s miserable? Why don’t You just do what’s best, what everyone is hoping for. Just kill us already!

 

Just kill me, please…

 

My heart groans with these questions. These demands. These aching wounds. My tears freely spill as I finally tell this absent Gardener what I’ve always been too afraid to admit, even to myself.

​

I wish leprosy had taken me with the rest of my family. I wish I were dead.

 

My anger is gone now, dissipated. It’s replaced by a weighted blanket of depression and a steady flow of tears that feel too tiring to produce. I look at these strong men, taking them in. They stand ready to protect each other from me. As it sinks in, my heart is pierced. I’m done. If I lie down, I think I’ll die. I hope I do. I lean against the fig tree whispering affectionately, “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” and kiss it before lowering myself to the ground.

 

“Dirty leper,” the same man from the crowd snarls, “you’ll wish you never came to this place when we’re done with you.” His words send a panic through my distorted spine. My very breath is a threat. The hatred in his eyes is palpable and I feel terror grow in mine. I clutch the rough bark tightly, cracking open the calloused skin on my trembling hands. Warm blood seeps into its crevices as my stark reality sinks in.

 

No one is for me. It’s just me and this fig tree I cower behind against all of them.

 

The angry man riles the others. Some join in the threats, yelling in detail the gruesome things they’ll do to me. Others bend down, searching the ground for the perfect rock to throw. One man spits at my face and if he’d been any closer, his saliva would’ve mingled with the sweat that stings my open wounds.

 

My body screams. Run! Don’t stop until you can’t run anymore!

 

Attempting to escape on these raw stubs that used to be my feet will be both excruciating and humiliating. But looking at the red-stained bark that I clench, I know I don’t have a choice. They’ll spill all of my blood if they’re given the chance.

 

Get out of here, now!

 

I lean into the fig tree one last time, ready to run, when Someone in the crowd catches my eye.

 

He’s ordinary enough in appearance, but there’s something different about Him. Coming forward through the crowd, He walks steadily amidst the degrading accusations and the stone-clenched hands. He seems calm, unafraid. Is He coming closer because He wants to throw the first stone? No. I can’t say why, but I get the sense that He would never intentionally hurt me. Something about His gaze is deeply gentle and I feel a momentary sense of peace. I hope He takes notice of me.

​

When He comes to the front of the crowd He stretches His arms out to His sides. This silent command calms the storm immediately. The mob of angry men falls quiet, rocks can be heard dropping to the ground, I can breathe again.

 

In the silence, He looks directly at me. He doesn’t gasp, He doesn't turn away. I have the sense that He’s someone to be revered, but at this moment He chooses to reverence me. I feel grateful to this Man for honoring my humanity. Under His gaze, for a single moment, I even forget that I’m a leper.

 

But when He takes a step toward me, I remember what I am and I panic. Heat rushes to my face and my eyes dart across my decaying body. In a single moment I see every flaw. Disfigured bumps, open pus-filled sores. They cover me and they smell. I almost retch. Even the thick layer of grime that covers me can’t hide how disgusting I am.

 

For so long I’ve wanted someone to draw near to me, to look at me in this way. But now that He’s here, I’m terrified that He’ll come closer. What if He sees me in everything that I am, in everything that I don’t want to be, and He rejects me? What if this is my one chance and I mess it up? I’ve been hurt so deeply by rejection for all of these years and I don’t know if I can handle it again.

 

He takes another step toward me and I stagger backwards. I’m afraid to let Him come close, but I’m even more afraid that He’ll stop coming closer.

 

The crowd becomes riled again, the waves of the storm quickly growing choppy. A gruff voice from the crowd yells, “Jesus, what’re You doing? If that thing touches You, You’ll be tainted forever. Dirty, stained, irredeemable. Just like him.”

 

Is that pain that tinges Jesus’ eyes when the other man degrades me?

 

“Come on, Jesus, let’s get out of here,” another one yells. “We’ll just pretend we never saw the thing.”

 

The Man they call Jesus doesn’t look away from me. Instead, He takes another step toward me. This time I remain in place. He’s made His decision and I’ve made mine.

 

I hear the men curse under their breath as another yells, “If these are the animals You associate Yourself with, we don’t want any part of it.” Murmurs of agreement fill the air. The man who told the joke adds, “We’ll be in town if You change Your mind, Jesus. But if You come anywhere close to touching that monster,” he spits in my direction, “You’ll regret it, too.”

​

Most of the men turn and sprint toward town, toward safety. Many look back with fear-tinged eyes before disappearing out of sight. Even though they weren’t close enough to touch me, I bet they’re running to the well to wash themselves just in case.

 

My eyes come back to Jesus and the small group of men that remain. Realizing how near He is, close enough to touch the tree, my mind suddenly flashes with images of my family. My mom’s embrace, my dad ruffling my hair, my baby sister snuggling into my chest. They were the last human beings I thought I’d ever see this close, the last people I thought I’d ever touch. My heart is heavy with this reality.

 

I stand naked, wounded, completely raw and completely vulnerable before Him. Jesus’ closeness makes me both unsettled and surprisingly at ease.

 

Who’s this Man, and can I trust Him?

 

Jesus slowly reaches out His arm toward me and out of habit I fall to the ground, cowering. I yell at the top of my lungs, “Unclean, Unclean!” Overwhelmed by the pain of yelling this phrase in every human encounter for the past seven years, I weep. At first I hadn’t really believed the words I spoke, but after screaming them in accusation over myself for so many years, they soon became my identity.

 

Laying face down in the dirt I pound the hardened ground in anger, in defeat. My inmost being groans.

 

“It must be so difficult to live in isolation. How are you doing, My brother?”

 

His gentle voice and sincere concern feel like a soothing balm to my wounded heart. In my leprosy, I’ve always made others feel unsafe. No one has ever asked how it has affected me. His words mean everything.

 

Looking up, I see Jesus on one knee. Genuflecting, He leans down to encounter me on my level. He looks at me sincerely and I can tell He truly desires to hear what I have to say. Sitting up, I share my story with Him. As I lay years of frustration, pain, rejection, and fear before Him, He doesn’t rush me. He listens intently.

 

I tell Jesus about my isolation, my bitter grief, the death of my family, the loss of my face and my identity. I tell Him of the physical pain and mental anguish of my leprosy. I tell Him about the rejection I feel every time I have to shout “unclean.” I tell Him about the dying, beloved fig tree, the only family I have left. I tell Him that I feel abandoned by everyone who was supposed to take care of me. As I share my wounded heart with Jesus, He receives all of it. With each word I speak, I feel a deepening relief. I didn’t know how badly I needed to mourn with another.

 

When I finish, I look down at my distorted hands, unsure if any of my words even made sense. But when I look back at Jesus, He hasn’t turned away. His gaze is Love. I look into His face, really look, and I see the details of Another being for the first time since I buried my family. I look at Jesus’ laugh lines, His subtle freckles, the brightness in His eyes. All of the corners of His tanned face show hints of joy. The stench of sheep lingers on Him, intermingling with my own scent. With each detail that I notice about Jesus, my anxiety diminishes and I feel more grounded.

 

I’m so glad He came this close.

 

I wonder what details He notices about me. My head falls as I think it’s probably my open sores and rotten smell. But no, He’s already seen those parts of me and He hasn’t turned away. Lifting my head again I see Jesus looking at me. It’s as if He sees past my leprosy to the core of who I am in all of my needs and fears and desires. He looks through my dying flesh and distorted limbs and He sees me.

 

“Thank you for sharing your story with Me.”

 

His words are so meaningful to me that He doesn’t need to say anything more. But in His generosity, He continues to speak. “You have been through so much, My son. I hear your pain and I know every one of your tears. You are not alone and you never will be. Receive the Love I have in store for you.”

 

A deep smile spreads across my face and a new sort of tears fill my eyes. I haven’t been someone’s son for a long time.

 

Jesus reaches His hand out to me again, and this time I grasp it. He helps me to my mangled feet and pulls me into a deep embrace. For all these years I thought I’d jump at the touch of another human being, but I instinctually sink in and it feels like home. It feels like I never left. For the first time in my life, even before I became unclean, I feel at rest.

 

I hear His strong and gentle voice in my ear. “I am so proud of you, My boy. In everything you have been through and in everything that you are, you are stunning to Me and I love you.”

 

I’m completely overwhelmed as Love Himself holds me. He isn’t ashamed or scandalized by my filth. He sees me in my deepest wounds and, drawing close, He loves me still. An audacious prayer stirs within my heart and I can’t help but speak it aloud.

​

“Lord, if You wish, You can make me clean.”

 

His embrace deepens as I receive His answer, “It is My great joy to heal you. Be made clean.”

 

Jesus places His hands firmly on my heart and His healing power rushes over me. I feel warmth in the depths of my flesh, my skin and bones pulse with life. Healing seeps into every tendon, every vessel. No part of me is left untouched. In my innermost being, I’m restored.

 

I can feel my muscles straightening, my hands slowly untwisting. My feet, once-decaying, return in full. I wiggle my toes in their full range of motion and I laugh. I look down at my hands in deep gratitude. They’re now strong and smooth, like the trunk of a flourishing fig tree. I run my fingers up and down my newly strengthened arms, which are covered with hair once again. Raising my hands to my face, they’re met with unblemished skin.

 

The Gardener has come and He has restored my soul!

 

My vision, now fully restored, blurs with tears. I can feel my whole face beaming as I look into the eyes that never stopped gazing at me. His look of Love hasn’t changed. He still looks at me the same way He did before my healing. He looks at me as though I was never unclean.

 

At this moment a new truth is gently planted in my heart, like deep roots slowly sinking into rich soil. Jesus is for me. There’s no condemnation here. There never was and there never will be. He is Love.

 

I laugh again, I can’t help it! I’m so full of gratitude, so full of joy. Jesus joins in, His laugh is deep and resounding. I look at Him in awe, wondering if my healing is an even greater joy for Him than it is for me.

 

Jesus puts His arm around my shoulder and says, “I have some friends I want to introduce you to. They will love you.”

 

He calls over the twelve men from the crowd who never left. As the ragtag group makes their way toward us, I’m struck by the drastic diversity among them. Some look like they’ve come from fishing boats. Another looks much wealthier than the rest, like an officer or a tax collector. Some are fairer skinned, others darker. Two of them even look like they could be brothers. But by the way they tease one another, I can tell they’re all family. They belong.

 

Because they saw me at my worst and remained, I know that I belong among them too.

​

One man, built firmly like a rock, introduces himself and the others. We sit under the lifeless fig tree I used to hide behind and they share their stories with me. Each one has his own unique struggles, wounds, and strengths. Each one was personally pursued by Jesus Himself. Their gifts and life stories vary widely, and together they form something stunning and impactful. Each one is needed here.

 

As they speak, I realized that my personal joys, hurts, fears, and experiences are welcome here. My life is irreplaceable, unrepeatable. In all that I am and in all that I’ve been through, I’m needed here too.

 

Suddenly something small drops to the ground at my feet. It makes such a light sound that I probably would’ve missed it had I not seen it fall. It’s dark in appearance, its smooth texture reminds me of my new skin. In curiosity I pick it up.

 

It’s a fig.

 

I look up to see a patch of green leaves at the top of the fig tree I used to hide behind, the one that I thought was barren. A little blue bird sits among the small groupings of greenery and fruit, chirping a sweet melody. My eyes travel down the branches, which are covered in little sprouts of greens and yellows. When I was nearly blind, I never looked up. I hadn’t seen them.

 

This fig tree that I thought was incapable of producing life is now blooming.

 

Tears fill my eyes and I see them in the eyes of my new family, too. Without saying anything, without needing to communicate, I can see that the others understand. They pat me on the back, welcoming me in. In the comfort of my new skin, I tell the joke my dad taught me and everyone laughs.

 

“I am so glad you are here,” says Jesus

 

“Me too,” I say, smiling.

 

I affectionately pat the beloved tree one last time before popping the fig into my mouth. Heart and taste buds bursting with sweetness, I make my way to town with my new brothers.

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