Outcast

I am a self-made outcast, isolated from my own culture. No, I’m not a leper, though I might as well be. I often feel like a leper, anyway. And I wasn’t born blind, either. My infirmity is private, hidden from view. I look normal and healthy on the outside, but I am anything but that on the inside.

It wasn’t always this way for me. I grew up in our first century Jewish village, just like the other boys. But as I entered my teenaged years, I began to feel different from the others. It was confusing for a long time, until I realized that something about me was, in the eyes of our orthodox faith, terribly wrong with me. Sinfully wrong, according to the rules of our faith. That’s when I began to pull back, to isolate myself. Just like the blind men who begged at the village gate, and just like the lepers who had to live in seclusion, apart from their families.

And then, I heard about Jesus.

Jesus, you might remember, heals people like lepers and the blind, the deaf and the mute. And in public, I might add, so that all can see the power of God. And when he does, those whom he heals are welcomed back into our Jewish society. They’re made whole, and not only in a physical sense. Because, you see, Jesus also gives them the opportunity to be restored into the mainstream of our culture. The social stigma of their problem has been removed by Jesus.

Christ cleansing a leper by Jean-Marie Melchior Doze, 1864

All of that is great news for them, but I must ask: could Jesus heal me? I wonder. I carry on in our first century day-to-day life, pretending that I’m just like everyone else, that I don’t need healing. No one suspects that my condition is every bit as painful as those who are blind or lame.

So, I carry it with me, a burden that weighs on me every minute of every day. Some days it seems too heavy to bear. So heavy, so very heavy. Some days, to be honest, I think of ending my life.

You have probably guessed my problem. The social stigma that it carries is ironclad, no excuses and no exceptions. Like leprosy and blindness, it touches every aspect of my life; nothing is exempt. And the pressure to keep it hidden makes the burden even heavier. I simply can’t afford to drop my mask of normalcy, which I constantly work so very hard to maintain.

Sometimes, I even wish that everyone could see through the mask, just like we can see a blind man or a leper and instantly know their affliction. But I don’t dare reveal my true nature.

You see, those with the more obvious infirmities suffer just as I do. And they are considered to be sinners as a result. And in our culture, they are literally defined by their condition: the blind beggar seemingly has no other qualities other than his blindness; likewise, the leper, no matter how intelligent and capable, is known only by his disease.

But for me, it would be even worse: you see, in our culture, my condition is considered a perversion and so it keeps me alone, locked away from anything that would reveal it to others. I even hide it from my family and from my closest friends. I have no community of support. It’s all hidden beneath a cloak of false normalcy. I could literally be stoned for being nothing more than who I am.

So, I ask again: could Jesus heal me?

Perhaps there’s an even more basic question. You see, I have followed Jesus, albeit from a safe distance. I have heard him teach. I know his words and I fervently believe that he speaks the truth. In fact, due to my shame, I have become an even more careful and intense student of his teaching, seeking to find even a single word of judgment and condemnation in them. And also seeking to find a word of healing, of mercy and grace. Not just for others, but also for me.

Why? Because, you see, judgment and condemnation are what I fear the most. And there is good cause for that fear. Our sacred scriptures speak to my “problem” and they condemn it as a mortal sin. Our Levitical priesthood does as well. In fact, the rejection of souls like me is so embedded in our culture that I see no possibility for someone like me to live openly. Thus, I live a life in the shadows, unwilling to come out into the light.

So, here is the more basic question: Would Jesus judge and condemn me as a sinner? If he knew me, and knew me completely, what would he say? Was I born to live this life with no escape? Would Jesus condone my choice to hide my condition? What advice would he give me?

And there are more questions. The most challenging is this: where can I find love in this world, when I am not like everyone else? Yes, in this world where my condition is rejected and shamed? Even though they are considered to be sinners, the blind can find love, and so can lepers, from others who suffer the same infirmities; also from their families. But for me, any open display of love with another like me would incur swift rejection and condemnation. For me, a loving relationship can only be in the shadows, subject to the utmost care, risking everything for even the slightest taste of love.

I do have friends, you must know. “Normal” friends. But revealing my secret life to them would, I fear, leave me abandoned. And in our culture, marriage is expected, as is starting a family. So, I am prepared to follow through with these expectations, even though they feel unnatural to me. If I do, will I be living a mortal sin? A lie? Will I be subjecting a wife to complicity in my sin?

Jesus gives me hope. Yes, he does call out sins, mostly hypocrisy, and the use of power to oppress the weak. He calls us to love, first God the Father, and second, our neighbor. He cares for the “least of these” and he tells stories, parables you call them, about mercy and forgiveness. I have not heard him utter a single word of judgment about what some consider the sin of blindness, leprosy, demonic possession, deafness, a withered hand, paralyzed legs, and more. And no, he hasn’t mentioned the sin that I am undoubtedly guilty of, that of being who and what I am.

But the message of Jesus is popular with only a few. And the power structure of our politics and our faith disagrees with much of what Jesus says and stands for. As a result, he has gotten in trouble for his views. Yes, Jesus has enemies who insist on exercising power that judges and condemns. Even when he heals, Jesus is criticized by those in power. Somehow, he is expected to join our religious leaders and condemn anyone who doesn’t measure up. But Jesus, thankfully, refuses. He eats with prostitutes and tax collectors, and he heals on the Sabbath. I hope he would eat with me. I believe he would.

It's so important to me that Jesus doesn’t condemn. And his life demonstrates what he says. He says that he came to save, not condemn. And what’s more, he talks about forgiveness and repentance and mercy. He says that showing mercy to others opens us to receiving mercy from God. And when he tells us to love our neighbors, amazingly, he places no conditions on who they are. We are to love them all, regardless! And he tells us that God loves us no matter what!

Like all young Jews, I learned the Psalms. You might guess my favorite: Psalm 139. Of course, it’s the Psalm that seems to say that I am all right, just as I am:

“For it was you who formed my inward parts;
    you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
    Wonderful are your works;
that I know very well.”

Can I believe these words? Can there be some higher purpose in how God “knit me together?” Perhaps my infirmity isn’t my internal condition at all. Perhaps, instead, it’s the shame that I have accepted for being nothing more than who and what I am.

Here’s a quote from Jesus that I wrote down:

“Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”

Those words give me great comfort.

Jesus calls me to “come” to him. I would love to come to Jesus. Yes, I would. My burden is so very heavy, you see. I believe him when he offers rest, and I would love to be yoked to him. I dream about the day when he takes my burden from me, and gives me a new life, a life without the weight of my fear and shame.

In a way, I have already come to Jesus, though I admit, only part way. I follow him, listen to him and faithfully capture his words and actions. But a distance still separates us, and it’s a distance that I am afraid to cross. To do so would expose me for who I am. So far, I have been afraid to cross that distance and come openly and completely to Jesus.

What would you advise? Can you even relate to my situation? Have you crossed that distance in your own life? What keeps you from it? In your own way, I am certain that you share that same feeling of separation from God. Why? Because, you see, each of us has some cause for fear and shame. None of us is exempt, none perfect. Jesus wants to take our fear and shame away, but we have to come to him so that he can.

I’d love to hear from you, especially any words of encouragement.