I never met Jesus before the day he healed me. I want to be very clear about that. I had never heard his voice. I had never seen his face. And yet, when I fell on the ground before him and begged him to make me clean, I already believed he could do it. My miracle began before the miracle.
Let me tell you how.
Leprosy does not announce itself politely. One morning, your skin is yours. And then, slowly, terribly, it is not. By the time this story begins, they had declared me unclean — the priests, the law, the whole of the region soon knew my name. My name, ending with the words the leper. Not a man with leprosy. Not a man touched by it. A man of it, as if I had moved into this life of filth and infection by decision.
I lived outside the city. I kept my distance. I called out my own shame when others approached, as the law required. There is a particular kind of grief that comes with being required to announce your own uncleanliness to every passing stranger. You become the town crier of your own ruin.
The first visitor came on the road that runs west of the Sea of Galilee to the east, from the towns of Cana and Nazareth.
As the law compelled me, at his appearance, I shouted: “Unclean! I am unclean! Go!”
He did not throw rocks, as some have done. He did not cover his mouth with the edge of his robe and flee. He slowed. He looked at me — not with the shock most carry in their eyes, but with something else. Urgency, maybe. As though he had been waiting to tell someone something and was glad to see I had not died from my affliction.
He called out, “Friend, there is a man. Jesus, from Nazareth. I heard him speak in the synagogue there. He stood up and read from the scroll of Isaiah. He said the Spirit of the Lord was upon him — that he had been anointed to preach the gospel to the poor. He said God himself had sent this man to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those that are bruised. And then he rolled up the scroll, and he said, ‘This day is this scripture fulfilled in your ears.’ And then — and I will never forget this — he reminded us that in the time of Elisha the prophet, there were many lepers in Israel. Many. And not one of them was cleansed. Except Naaman. A Syrian. A foreigner. An outsider. He was telling us — I am certain of it now — that he mentioned this last part for you. So there. I have told you. Watch for this man.”
Then my visitor was gone.
I sat with those words for many hours. Days, in fact. Sat and waited, and watched.
The one who would not leave me was brokenhearted. I know the old tongue well enough to feel the weight of what that word carries. It means to shatter. To crush. To grind to powder — the way you smash a clay pot against stone, the way a millstone reduces grain. It is not a soft cracking. It is a complete reduction. That had been my heart for years. Not cracked. Powdered.
And apparently, this man Jesus had been sent by God for people like that. For me.
The second man arrived a few days later. He, too, was passing through along the same road, though from the east. The first man had carried a claim. This man carried a report.
He had been to Capernaum. He had seen it himself — how this man, Jesus, had healed people. He had watched sickness depart. Bodies were restored. He could not explain how. Only that so many came to be healed that the home where this Jesus stayed became crowded with those wishing to be made well.
Two strangers. Two separate journeys. Both pausing at the edge of my isolation to tell me the same name. I am not a man given to superstition, but I recognized in this the fingerprints of something deliberate.
Then, today, without warning, a group of men came down the road. Something about one of them caused me to look at him a second time. And when I did, his expression changed, softened. I was watching his eyes — because that is how you know what a man is about to do. His eyes found mine, locked upon my soul, and refused to let go. I knew in that moment it was he. The Healer. The man Jesus.
“Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean.”
He did not step back.
He walked toward me. To where I stood. Came so close that I could smell the dust of the road on his robe.
I need you to understand what that meant. No one had touched me in years. Not a handshake, not a greeting, not even the brushing of garments in passing. He knew what touching me meant under the law. And he reached out anyway, without hesitation, without ceremony.
“I am willing.”
He put forth his hand and touched me.
“Be clean.”
Immediately, the leprosy departed from me — fled, as though it had been cast out.
I have thought about those two men in the hours since. I do not know their names. I will likely never see them again. I am on the move now, on my way to Jerusalem to make the appropriate sacrifices before the priest to attest to my cleansing.
Those two men owed me nothing. They were under no obligation to slow their steps for an outcast shouting at them from the roadside. But they did. And because they did, a word reached me before Jesus did. A claim, and then a confirmation. Together they were enough to prepare my heart, birth hope, and leave me expectant.
That is the only way I know how to say it: someone’s words carried Jesus to me before Jesus carried healing to me.
Now I make it my aim to tell everyone who will listen. I cannot stop. He saved me. He healed me. He restored me. I would give my life for him if I could.
But instead, he gave his life to me.
And because he has, I live in the fullness of it.
I leave you with words I now hold as my own:
“Whoever is united with the Lord is one with him in spirit. The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God. We triumph over all sickness and every enemy by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony.”
There, now. Go tell someone.
A first-person account from the man full of leprosy — Luke 5:12–13, Luke 4:18–19, 27
Eddie is an award-winning author known for crafting suspenseful mysteries and humorous adventures that captivate readers, young and old. His books are read by countless inmates and used to introduce others to Christ.
Eddie is the author of The Caribbean Chronicles, a time-travel pirate fantasy adventure series, and The Caden Chronicles, a mystery series based on supernatural myths that he believes have their roots in the Bible. In each case, Nick Caden seeks to debunk the supernatural “myth” and uncover the truth.
Eddie helped launch Christian Devotions Ministries and is its president. He is the former CEO of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, a Christian book publishing company. He is Executive Editor of Inspireafire.com and Devokids.com. (If you want to write for IAF, hail this pirate!) He’s also a Writers’ Coach.
Indeed, go tell someone.