Number 501

There were always crowds around him. It was hard for me to get close. There, in the backmost tier of the crowd among the murmurers, the distracted and the flighty, I scurried for a gap between the immovable shoulders. I craned and peered over five hundred faithful who were taking in his words like the gasping, snatching breaths of the dying.

I saw as his teachings diffused through the crowd – the first row, the second and beyond. I saw as each one inhaled deeply, colour returning to their souls and light to their eyes. I felt increasingly faint as each one ahead of me revived, for I was too far to hear a word. Desperately, jealously my soul demanded in a harsh and feeble whisper: “for them? For them only? Or is there still enough for me?” As though in answer, he turned to Peter and pushed out from the shore in his boat and his voice rose higher and clearer than before until even the distracted were pierced and the murmuring subsided. With my whole heart I took it in. This man. These words. Were made to fill my soul.

I never stopped following him after that day. Him and the crowds that were always there. Surrounded. At times by the twelve or by a ring of children clambering for his knee or by a group of women who sat listening or bustled about, attending to his needs. Sometimes, as he taught, his eyes would lock on mine and I would fight to hold his gaze until it became too much. My eyes collapsed to the ground before me and once they found their strength and turned to him again, he was staring intently at another, but with a small smile that I knew was meant for me.

Another time, I followed the multitude to a lonely place. There must have been four or five thousand, plus women and children. None here murmured; few even moved. We were crowded round him as he healed and taught, his love and grace echoing over the hillside where we stood. We listened until our souls were filled and our bodies failed. Failed, that is, for lack of bread.

I watched then, as he gathered up a few small loaves and even fewer fish. He gave thanks to Heaven, like a host at a great banquet. I craned and peered (there must have been five hundred ahead of me in line) as his followers divided up the small meal amongst them. I watched as fragments diffused throughout the crowd. The first row, the second and beyond. I watched as each one took it in, colour returning to their faces and light to their eyes. I felt increasingly faint as each one ahead of me revived. Surely, I was too far away for the small supper to reach me. Desperately, jealously, my soul demanded in a harsh and feeble whisper: “For them? For them only? Or is there still enough for me?” As though in answer, one of his disciples, Nathaniel by name, reached out to me with food, “sir, please. Take and eat.” And with my whole heart I took it in.

That was many months ago now and once again I know myself to be faint and weak for that which only he can provide. For first he died, as the Scriptures foretold. Then he was buried and that was bad enough. But what has been worse for me is the crowd, five hundred or so, who stand between him and I, insisting that he is risen. Risen, indeed but not only that. Also that he has moved among the whole group of them, showing himself alive. The first row – the women at the tomb. The second row – the twelve. And beyond – five hundred at one time. Colour, light and revival for them, until I cried out, but this time with the expectation that had been trained in me by experience: “For them? For them only? Or is there still enough for me?”

I sat and waited hopefully, the five hundred and first in the crowd which clambered around the risen Jesus.

I heard nothing, saw nothing. Not the blazing eyes or the reassuring smile. Only the joyful and convicted insistence of those who had seen. Only the joyful and convicted insistence of the one just ahead of me in line, who has seen the risen Jesus.

For I am the first of those to which the Lord did not appear after his resurrection.

They say he will be a friend who sticks closer than a brother. They say that his heart is to be forever where I am. They say that he came to the doubter and that the doubter pressed his fingers into his crucified hands. They say he answered questions, that he restored and commissioned. They say. It’s just, I wish he’d tell me himself.

But now, they say, he has gone.

And so, I lift up my eyes from the ground before me. Lift them to the heavens. They say he’ll come back in the same way he went, and I expect he will speak to me then. They say he’s gone to prepare a place for me. They say he will send his Spirit to comfort me, and I think I’d like that. I expect that when he does then I will truly believe what I already know to be true:

That I am not just the first of those to which the Lord did not appear but I am the first to which it has been given to believe it without seeing.