This is the oldest of the stories in this collection, begun in a flurry of inspiration more than forty years ago and revised many times over the years. I always loved this spunky young man who stood up to the ruling council and called them on their refusal to accept the Messiah they had always claimed to believe in. Although paintings often show him as gray and bearded, his parents pointing out that he was of age to speak for himself suggests that he may not have been much beyond legal age.
Seen
One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see!
John 9:25b
i
I felt for the worn step and settled against the cool stone wall near the Temple. Someone tossed a coin into my lap. A bronze lepton by the feel of it, the smallest coin made.
“Peace be upon you,” I muttered. Work was forbidden by law on the Sabbath, but sitting with my face upturned so passers-by could see my sightless eyes could hardly be called work.
I’d work if they’d let me. I polished the pottery my mother made to sell in the market until it was smooth as silk. I could count the coins she earned from feel and always knew when someone had slipped her a counterfeit or one that had been shaved for the metal.
But my father laughed when I suggested hiring myself out. “No one will hire a boy born blind, Shmuel.”
“I’m not a boy,” I insisted. “I’m a man.” Two years ago I’d been proclaimed a “son of the law” in the synagogue, reciting long passages of Scripture from memory since I couldn’t read them from the scrolls like the other boys. I went with the men now every morning to hear the Scriptures read…although I wasn’t allowed to participate in temple worship.
Because I was blind.
Imperfect.
Impure.
