Chapter 7

Simon edged gradually into the rim of the crowd. By listening intently he could hear snatches of the Carpenter’s talk. But it was difficult. What with the confusion of the people pushing in from the rear, the moans of the sick, and the crying of the babies, Simon had to be content with broken phrases. But it was a haunting voice, a magic voice that stilled and soothed and comforted you even though you couldn’t hear all the words.

From what Simon could make of it, a man could have a secret life with God. Once he determined to find happiness within himself, he reached out for a strength greater than his own…Like a babe, creeping, he longed to rise and walk…lifts his small hand…is gripped by a stronger hand…having learned to walk with God…he wants to talk with God. Too often, men try to talk with God…only in the temple…Talk with Him alone…His voice more clear when you are alone with Him…a private league with God…a secret life with God…an understanding with Him…you and God alone… in your closet…closed door…He will listen…He will bless you.

Some short-statured person was digging a sharp elbow into Simon’s back. He turned about and looked down into the contorted face of a woman with a little girl of five in her arms. The child was blind.

‘Please!’ entreated the woman in a whisper. ‘Help me to get closer! You are big and strong. You must help me!’

‘Stay where you are—behind me,’ said Simon. ‘When the time comes, I’ll do what I can.’

The Carpenter was talking about doing things for others. That, too, was better done in secret…When you make gifts…no trumpet…A secret…so secret your own left hand does not know. Only God will see…only God will know…but He will bless you.

There was a general stirring in the great congregation when the Carpenter had stopped speaking. Now, according to his custom, he would receive the sick ones. The crowd pushed and shoved for a better view. The people were not very considerate of one another. The weak and timid were elbowed out of the way. Even among the very ill ones on their beds, the rivalry of the bearers was rude beyond belief. Simon wished he was up there in front to improve their manners. He expected and hoped that Jesus would rebuke the importunate. But, after all, they couldn’t be much blamed, he thought. People couldn’t be polite when it was a matter of life or death for a loved one.

The little woman behind him was growing desperate. She was crying hysterically. Bidding her follow him closely, Simon began edging his way forward, but it was quite impossible for her to make any use of his intervention. Other people crowded in behind the big man and pushed her roughly aside. There seemed only one practical thing to do now. Simon would have to carry the child himself. Turning, he held out his long arms, and the woman, tearfully grateful, relinquished her burden.

It was an arduous journey forward through the solid mass of seemingly immovable people. Simon entreated, pushed, scolded, shouldered, begged, shouted, as he pressed on.

‘This child is blind!’ he announced, in his big, booming voice. ‘Let me through! Please let me pass!’