The house was already packed when we rounded the corner of Simon’s lane. Dust stuck to my lips and sweat stung my eyes, but I wouldn’t let go of the mat. Neither would the others. We had carried Levi—our dearest friend—through streets choked with merchants and Romans, past temple guards who sneered at his withered legs. In this town, illness was sin’s badge. To be paralyzed meant God had turned His back. But we hadn’t. We wouldn’t.
We had heard of the rabbi. Yeshua. They said He healed with words, not ointments. That He touched lepers. Touched them.
“There's no room,” Tobiah muttered, as we stood at the edge of the crowd funneling through the front of the house. Children perched on fathers’ shoulders. Women leaned through windows. Still, not one person dared make space for a man like Levi.
“Then we go up,” I said.
We wrestled the mat around the back, maneuvering between walls and rooftop ladders until we were panting on the upper level. The sun blistered above, and below, the voice of the teacher rumbled low. My heart raced. This was madness. Someone could report us. Damaging property under Roman law brought fines—or worse. But Levi’s eyes met mine, full of silent pain—and faith.
Without words, we began pulling away the roof.
Dust belched in clouds. Clay tiles gave under our hands, revealing wood and thatch. We kept going, arms aching, hearts pounding—until we saw Him.
Yeshua stood in the center of the room. He looked up, dust on His cloak, eyes meeting mine—not with anger, but anticipation.
We lowered Levi slowly. Ropes burned in our palms as we guided his mat through the hole. The room was silent, a held breath. Some stared in horror. Others reached to catch him. He landed gently at Yeshua’s feet.
Then the Teacher spoke. “Son, your sins are forgiven.”
The words felt...off. We had come for legs healed, not sins forgiven. Beside me, a Pharisee hissed disapproval. Levi didn’t move. I clenched the edge of the roof. Had we come all this way for disappointment?
But then, Yeshua turned, calm as a sunrise. “Why do you question?” He gestured toward Levi. “Which is easier—to say ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or, ‘Get up, take your mat, and walk’?”
No one answered.
“So that you may know the Son of Man has authority…” He turned to Levi again. “I say to you, rise. Take up your mat, and go home.”
Stillness. Then—Levi’s fingers twitched. His arms pushed. His legs—frail, forgotten limbs—straightened under him. He stood. He stood.
Shouts erupted below. Praise. Awe. We three on the roof collapsed into each other, laughing, weeping. I watched Levi hoist the mat above his head like a torch. But his eyes weren’t on the crowd. They were on Yeshua.
And in that gaze, I saw something deeper than healed legs. Levi wasn’t just standing. He was free.
As we clambered down from the roof, I knew we would never carry him again.
He would carry all of us.
The house was already packed when we rounded the corner of Simon’s lane. Dust stuck to my lips and sweat stung my eyes, but I wouldn’t let go of the mat. Neither would the others. We had carried Levi—our dearest friend—through streets choked with merchants and Romans, past temple guards who sneered at his withered legs. In this town, illness was sin’s badge. To be paralyzed meant God had turned His back. But we hadn’t. We wouldn’t.
We had heard of the rabbi. Yeshua. They said He healed with words, not ointments. That He touched lepers. Touched them.
“There's no room,” Tobiah muttered, as we stood at the edge of the crowd funneling through the front of the house. Children perched on fathers’ shoulders. Women leaned through windows. Still, not one person dared make space for a man like Levi.
“Then we go up,” I said.
We wrestled the mat around the back, maneuvering between walls and rooftop ladders until we were panting on the upper level. The sun blistered above, and below, the voice of the teacher rumbled low. My heart raced. This was madness. Someone could report us. Damaging property under Roman law brought fines—or worse. But Levi’s eyes met mine, full of silent pain—and faith.
Without words, we began pulling away the roof.
Dust belched in clouds. Clay tiles gave under our hands, revealing wood and thatch. We kept going, arms aching, hearts pounding—until we saw Him.
Yeshua stood in the center of the room. He looked up, dust on His cloak, eyes meeting mine—not with anger, but anticipation.
We lowered Levi slowly. Ropes burned in our palms as we guided his mat through the hole. The room was silent, a held breath. Some stared in horror. Others reached to catch him. He landed gently at Yeshua’s feet.
Then the Teacher spoke. “Son, your sins are forgiven.”
The words felt...off. We had come for legs healed, not sins forgiven. Beside me, a Pharisee hissed disapproval. Levi didn’t move. I clenched the edge of the roof. Had we come all this way for disappointment?
But then, Yeshua turned, calm as a sunrise. “Why do you question?” He gestured toward Levi. “Which is easier—to say ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or, ‘Get up, take your mat, and walk’?”
No one answered.
“So that you may know the Son of Man has authority…” He turned to Levi again. “I say to you, rise. Take up your mat, and go home.”
Stillness. Then—Levi’s fingers twitched. His arms pushed. His legs—frail, forgotten limbs—straightened under him. He stood. He stood.
Shouts erupted below. Praise. Awe. We three on the roof collapsed into each other, laughing, weeping. I watched Levi hoist the mat above his head like a torch. But his eyes weren’t on the crowd. They were on Yeshua.
And in that gaze, I saw something deeper than healed legs. Levi wasn’t just standing. He was free.
As we clambered down from the roof, I knew we would never carry him again.
He would carry all of us.
