Why do you call me good?

“I’d like to speak to the rabbi,” I say, with only a slight tremor in my voice.

By all accounts, this rabbi’s teachings are wise and his miracles, spectacular. Some even say he is our long-awaited Messiah. Perhaps Rabbi Jesus holds the answers to the questions of my heart.

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Do you truly love me?

I thought it would help to be out on the water.  I was wrong. A whole night of futile fishing has left me feeling more frustrated than sitting at home waiting for Jesus to appear. Hadn’t he told us to wait for him in Galilee? We did that. We waited. Then we waited some more. Last night I couldn’t bear it any longer. “I’m going fishing,” I announced, and wasn’t particularly pleased when everyone wanted to come along.

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Why do you call me, ‘Lord, Lord’, and do not do what I say?

Trouble-maker. That was my impression when I first heard of Rabbi Jesus. He swept into Capernaum as if he owned it. His presence drew the sick and downtrodden from as far as Tyre and Sidon into our once peaceful town. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the fervent Pharisees came too, their somber, superior presence sowing nothing but disquiet.

I’m an upright and reserved woman and I tell you honestly that I didn’t like the sound of this rabbi and the rabble following him. Had Simon brought him home on any other day, I would have given my son-in-law a good tongue-lashing and suggested the rabbi finds another town to disrupt.

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