Emuna grimaced as she felt the pointed corner of an elbow dig deep into her ribs. No chance to even acknowledge the pain. Hands were flying in every direction grabbing at the air tearing at the open space of the azure sky hosting the sun’s blazing, punishing rays. Emuna was adrift in a violent, tossing dense sea of people moving along a path ringing with unbridled chaos. She felt arms pushing her forward and others yanking her to one side. One desperate set of fingers grabbed the edge of her long veil cascading down her back drawing her neck into an outstretched silent scream. It won’t have mattered if she screamed. The noise of the crowd was rising to a seething boil. The roar of voices punctuated by guttural spike exclamations in a stupefying flurry of pitches and tones in a countless number of tongues. Emuna lifted her eyes from the dust being kicked up forming a sand storm of blind fury. All of this was very familiar. Yet last time…
Ikkar gave a triumphant kick to the last pile of dirt covering his final flourish of seeds set to impregnate the earth. He smiled. Ikkar had come to the end of another planting season. He was the proud owner of a small treasure of prized fields coveted by farmers all over Cana. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Ikkar paused to thank the goddesses of fertility for his good fortunes. His back breaking wrenching work mattered but without the fertility goddesses he and his wife Astarte would have nothing. So with the recent birth of their daughter, Ikkar and Astarte agreed that their daughter would be given up as a permanent offering to the fertility temple. His wife was young. Ikkar was confident there would be many more children in their future but their first child Emuna belonged to the goddesses. Everything was arranged. When Emuna turned three she would be brought to the temple. Ikkar nodded to himself. This sacrifice would assure his family’s immediate and future prosperity. Ikkar winced from a sudden debilitating cramp. He bit down on his lip hard. The blood from his sun parched, cracked lips began dripping down his chin. He felt a surge of fiery spasms rock his chest. He reached up with his fist to pound his heart never finding his target. Ikkar dropped to the ground exhaling his final breath. The fingers of his left hand dug into the earth with one last thrust next to his last pile of dirt; the blood from his chin trickling onto the expectant soil watering his precious seeds.
Astarte managed to get by. The temple had taken possession of Ikkar’s fields and storehouse. The priests at the temple were offering some support but she knew it was temporary. Astarte’s older sister Batya, who was also a widow, came to live with them. Batya’s daily presence was a bright fixture in their otherwise grey lives. When Emuna turned three, Astarte was not sure what she would do. As a widow with no brothers and now no family possessions or wealth, she was undesirable and powerless. Astarte was experiencing a poignant hollowness growing in her spirit. Perhaps she could offer herself as a fertility slave at the temple when Emuna turned three. Astarte was doubtful they would accept her. Her beauty had faded. Days passed, one after another often not looking different than the previous ones. She became enslaved into a march of survival living on the scant and ever diminishing gifts from the temple.
Astarte could not understand how things could turn so quickly. Where had her days of prosperity gone? Her wealth had been swallowed by poverty. Astarte had gone from being a wife of a highly respected and successful farmer with social standing, to fading into the shadows as an untouchable. These changes were taking a brutal toil on her. The weight of Astarte’s nonexistent security was dragging her into a dark spiral of anxious, crippling fear.
As if all of this was not enough, Emuna began developing strange lesions all over her body. At first they were small; just pinholes of puss seething from cracks in her gentle young skin. Astarte and Batya had no idea what to make of these emerging ugly protrusions. Time proved that these lesions were not healing. The sores were growing in number and size. It pained Astarte to see her daughter suffering. Emuna was the last thing in the world Astarte had. The girl was being transformed into a bleeding corpse robbed of youth, vitality and any chance of joy. Astarte and Batya used all of their meager remaining resources to seek help and healing for Emuna but nothing seemed to work. They kept the girl’s sores covered as best as they could but, the hideous wounds had begun to spread to Emuna’s face.
Word traveled quickly. The priest at the fertility temple were not happy. It was determined that Emuna was no longer an acceptable offering. With no notice the temple cutoff their support to Astarte and Batya.
Astarte was a cursed woman. So Batya was not surprised to be woken one morning by the screeching sound of Emuna wailing. Emuna was draped over her mother’s lifeless body and inconsolable. Astarte hand was still touching the earthen vessel holding gall wine staining the ground and her tunic.
Days turned into weeks and years cruelly accumulated each offering less than the last. Batya and Emuna begged and did what they could to get by. Emuna observed that Batya was different than the other beggar women. Bitterness had no place in her heart and while life was a struggle she blamed no one for her station in life – least of all the Canaanite gods and goddesses. Batya was a secret worshipper of Elohim – the one God of Israel. Emuna took comfort in the stories of this mighty God. Batya spoke to any women she could who might tell her a story of the wondrous deeds of Elohim. Batya did not believe in the bloody, lustful pantheon of Caanite gods and goddeses. Baal had no place in Batya’s imagination.
Batya told Emuna daily that Elohim had given Emuna zara’at to protect her from being subjected to slavery in the fertility temple. It was a blessing she said. And Batya assured her that this Elohim one day would make Himself known to her. This was their shared hope. Batya and Emuna held onto this belief as the center of their pathetic existence. Not a day went by without them lifting their hushed voices in humble songs and prayers to Elohim under the protective cover of night.
The occasional wedding celebration provided Emuna and Batya relief from their daily drudgery. The festivities were uplifting. What they liked most was how they could get closer to people when a wedding was underway. The constant ebb and flow of jovial people full of wine and food coming and going made it easier for them to hide in the crowds. If Emuna was well covered, she could remain in the shadows, beg for food, and soak up all kinds of news from the conversations of people from near and far.
There was going to be a big wedding sure to last for five days or more. Batya had learned people were coming from several nearby towns including Capernaum, Tiberias, Nain and Nazareth.
A crisp golden autumn day delivered the hope of a much needed respite from the perils of daily living. Batya had already found the perfect spot for them to be in the flow of people without being obtrusive. The servants for the wedding had staged a collection of large earthen vessel jugs full of wine that would be served throughout the festivities. Crouching behind the vessels Batya and Emuna would barely be visible. The servants were tolerant and usually generous if they kept quiet and did not make a nuisance of themselves begging. Any people who wandered into this area would be happy with wine and unperturbed by their presence. After three day the wedding was still in full swing. Batya was excited to hear the murmurs of people talking
about a great prophet by the name of John who was teaching about Elohim near the waters of Aenon. He was baptizing people. Stoking the Jewish people to return their hearts and lives to Elohim. Batya knew well how people were more wrapped up with bloody sacrifices to Molek and Baal and all the other countless gods and goddesses who never seemed to produce anything but more chaos and confusion.
Batya and Emuna were pining with all of their heart to be baptized and to be granted forgiveness of their sins. Emuna was certain she must have horribly offended Elohim for Him to have cursed her with this illness. She burned with the desire to be washed free of her sin and return her life to Elohim to experience wholeness, health and prosperity.
By the afternoon of the third day there was quite a commotion among the servants. It appeared that there had been more guests than had been expected and the wine was running out. This would be a huge embarrassment to the family sure to result in curses upon the new husband and wife. The servants were bickering among themselves as to what to do when a woman attending the wedding walked over to see what was going on.
Emuna was mesmerized by the woman’s simple but striking appearance. Her oval face with wide clear, sparkling eyes. Her demeanor was soft and gentle and yet she had a presence and authority radiating from her. It was if she was unblemished by life itself and inhabiting a space of her own making. Her voice was calm and soothing. Emuna wanted to rush from her hiding place and seek her arms – never before had she felt such an urge. What was it about this woman that made Emuna feel strong and more resolved in her hope?
The woman took notice of Emuna and Batya and smiled at them. The servants explained the problem. The woman listened calmly, her eyes full of immediate understanding and with barely a word she instructed the servants to remain there until she returned.
The woman returned a few minutes later with a man at her side. Pointing to the empty jugs she said,
“They have no more wine.”
4 “Woman, why do you involve me? My hour has not yet come.”
5 [The woman] said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.”
6 Nearby stood six stone water jars, the kind used by the Jews for ceremonial washing, each holding from twenty to thirty gallons.
7 [He] said to the servants, “Fill the jars with water”; so they filled them to the brim.
8 Then he told them, “Now draw some out and take it to the master of the banquet.” They did so, 9 and the master of the banquet tasted the water that had been turned into wine. He did not realize where it had come from, though the servants who had drawn the water knew. Then he called the bridegroom aside 10 and said, “Everyone brings out the choice wine first and then the cheaper wine after the guests have had too much to drink; but you have saved the best till now.” (John 2: 1-11, NIV)
Emuna and Batya were amazed. What just happened? Had they just been witnesses to a miracle? How could water be turned into wine? They could not help but wonder was this the work of Elohim?
Batya became convinced that Emuna must go and find this Prophet John baptizing people. She was sure there was some connection between the man who had turned the water into wine and this prophet. If Emuna could be washed in the baptismal waters and receive Elohim’s forgiveness, she could be free of this disease. Being fifteen she was of marriageable age. Perhaps Batya and Emuna might still have a chance of a different life. As they were discussing all of this in hushed earnest conversation, the woman who had summoned the man who turned the water into wine found them. She extended her arm to Emuna with her hand closed. Emuna instinctively jerked back. The woman nodded with a gentle imploring gaze tilting her head towards Emuna. She guided Emuna’s eyes to her closed hand. The woman slowly opened her hand revealing a coin. Emuna stared in disbelief. She felt her heart melting. The woman motioned to Emuna to take the coin. As Emuna touched the woman’s hand she experienced a moment of peace unlike anything she had ever felt in her life. The woman smiled and said, “”SheElohim yevarach otha” (May God bless you) and walked away. Batya eyes were filled with tears. Emuna was stunned. Elohim was real and cared about her.
It was decided. Emuna would build up her strength for the journey for a few months and leave as soon as she could in search of John the prophet. Batya insisted the coin was for Emuna’s trip. She would stay behind in Cana and wait for Emuna’s return cleaned of her disease. She would continue to pray as they had every day to Elohim to bless Emuna’s journey.
Emuna set off east for Aenon. She would head towards Tiberias and the Sea of Galilee and then walk south towards the River Jordan. Emuna took her time often traveling just a few miles at a time usually under the cover of night. She was an untouchable. She did not want to draw unnecessary attention to herself. When she reached Tiberias she encountered a man dancing on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Emuna found the shade of a tree and watched the man sing and dance from a distance. His energy was tireless. It seemed like he might never stop.
When he at last stopped and turned to walk away from the sea he spotted Emuna and walked towards her. Emuna was frightened and did not know what to do. He called after her. Woman, “Are you afraid?” She did not answer him.
“Woman he continued you have nothing to fear. I once was a man possessed by demons that made me thrash about. These demons had stolen my life and taken away my hope but Jesus has cured me. I am free. My spirit is light and for the first time in years I can see, hear, touch, and taste again the goodness of life. This Jesus heals those who seek him. He has come to bring the Kingdom of Elohim. He can help you. What are you seeking?”
Emuna was amazed. She felt compelled to answer him, “I seek the prophet who will baptize me in the name of Elohim and forgive my sins. Is this Jesus that prophet?”
Beginning to dance again, “Yes, Jesus is the one you must seek. I have heard rumored that John the baptizer has been imprisoned. You will not find him but many of his disciples say that Jesus is the one the prophet John was speaking about. Do not delay. Head north along the sea towards Capernaum. I believe you will find him there.”
Emuna set out with great haste. She longed to be free. If this man who had been possessed – a condition that she could not even imagine and which was even worse than her own had been healed than wouldn’t this Jesus want to help her? She walked several days stopping only to rest and eat. As she neared Capernaum she had a heightened sense of her vulnerability. Thieves were known to be plentiful and vicious throughout this region and while she was not a likely target, if the thief were desperate enough even she could be a victim. Emuna rounded a corner with a large rock hanging over the passage. As she reached the middle of the path she heard the sound of someone moving. She turned around quickly to find a man had jumped from the rock above. He was on the ground laughing and rolling in the dirt.
“I scared you. And now I bet you think I am going to rob you,” he could not stop laughing.
Emuna did not know if she should be frightened or whether she should give into the strange impulse to start giggling. He got on his hands and knees and began to pretend he was a wild animal making manic circles around Emuna in the most lambasted but clearly not threatening manner. Without thinking she covered her mouth and started laughing uncontrollably. Soon she was on the ground right next to him. He stopped and stared at her, “Oh, you are not only a woman but an untouchable. You are just the person he loves helping.”
Emuna stopped laughing and pulled away from him realizing that he had seen her for who she was.
He caught her reaction and began to address her with a serious earnest expression, “Woman all of Israel has never known one like this man. Look at me… once I was a wretched thief. I was resigned to bringing misfortune to others and adding daily to the cup of bitterness I poured for myself. Now I cannot stop laughing. I am speaking about Jesus.”
“Jesus,” she said softly to herself.
“Yes, Jesus, he replied. “ Jesus looked deeply into my eyes. He has lit a fire of love in my heart for Elohim the one true God of us all.”
Drawing his knees to his chest he continued, “Woman, Jesus gazed into the center of my very being and then it was if he raised me before the Most High and washed made me clean of all my wrongs. I am free. And he told me I would met a woman on my journey home and that I should give her my bag of money that have stolen from innocent people. Jesus taught me that to enter the Kingdom of Elohim I must be prepared to help others in need. We are to help each other at all times in any ways that we can.”
The thief reached into his tunic and took out a large bag of coins and gently tossed them to Emuna. He got up dusted the dirt from his clothes and began to run away shouting praises to Elohim, “Praise be the name of Elohim! Seek Jesus… He has surely been sent by Elohim.”
Emuna watched the man until she could no longer see him. She stared at the bag of money and picked it up slowly. It was heavy and overflowing with coins. There was a fortune in the bag. It would be enough for Batya and her to live the rest of their lives in comfort. She held the bag feeling its weight and imagining all the things now that would be possible with her good fortune. For a moment she entertained going straight home. Maybe this was what Elohim wanted her to have. Was she really worthy of complete freedom? Why did she need Jesus if Elohim had already given her this gift? She should not press her luck. Then just as a breeze picked up a flurry of dust and threw into her eyes she felt an emerging divide in herself. A part of her was content with her new fortune – wishing to run away and be done with her journey and its search. Yet, there was a greater part of herself that was unsatisfied. The money was indeed an unbelievable blessing but it actually wasn’t enough. She had been experiencing this as guilt but now she understood this as something more powerful – something that was true. She had had never felt this sure of anything before in her life. She was going to find Jesus.
Emuna continued to make her way to Capernaum. She walked now during the day no longer afraid. She traveled on the edges of the road staying out of the way of others. Her gait was light. Even without a clear plan, she was aware of moving closer and closer to her true goals. One day she saw a man walking by himself. He was walking as if his entire body was breathing and absorbing the surroundings. His leisurely pace was one of a man with no purpose. He noticed her on the opposite side of the road. He glanced her way and then did a double take. He bowed his head and seemed to be having a conversation with himself and then he called out to her.
“Woman I recognize it is highly unusual for me to be addressing you but these days nothing is usual. May I draw nearer and speak with you?”
There was nothing threatening about the man. There was a quality of lightness in him. He had a happy and calming manner. At this point Emuna had grown accustomed to surprises. In a cautious voice she said, “Yes, thank you sir for addressing me. Why are you speaking to me an untouchable?”
He stopped and stepped closer to her, adjusting his voice he said, “I know what it means to be an untouchable?”
Confused but trying to remain respectful Emuna, retorted, “How do you know sir? Is there someone in your family with the disease?”
He lowered his head, and said, “Yes… yes there is someone in my family who has the disease.”
“Who?” asked Emuna
Pursing his lips and opening wide his eyes he responded, “You are looking at him.”
“But sir I see no sores on your body,” answered Emuna.
He nodded, “No, now my body is free of the disease but this was not always the case.”
Emboldened, Emuna took a step closer to the man. “Please share your secret sir. What doctor did you see? What medicine did you use? What actions did you take?”
Smiling broadly and lifting his head the man closed his eyes answering her in a voice clear and full of vigor. “Woman I have done nothing on my own accord. It was Jesus. Jesus healed me. He is a man and prophet unlike any other. I had heard about his healing. All my life I longed to be clean. I know you understand and that you intimately know the pain and shame of living with this disease. I was certain I was responsible for my illness. I was convinced I was a bad, horrible, unworthy person full of sin.
I found Jesus and got on my hands and knees and begged him to heal me…
And, “Jesus reached out his hand and touched [me]. ‘I am willing,’ he said. ‘Be clean!’” Now I go to find the priests and offer the gift as commanded by Moses as a testimony to them. (Matthew 8: 3-4)
Emuna reached out to touch him.
“Oh, no woman I have no power. Touching me will do nothing. You must find Jesus. It is Jesus’ touch that will make you clean and set you free. Just know this, you are not ugly… you are not an untouchable to him. Jesus’ healing is love. That is what I felt when the disease left me. Pure love… for the first time in my life I experienced being accepted. Make haste woman. I am confident Jesus will set you free as he has done for me. Every person deserves this dignity and freedom.”
Emuna felt hot tears pouring down her face. She began to run. She could hardly see through the thick blur of emotion clouding her vision. It didn’t matter. She knew now that she would find Jesus. She was receiving a burst of faith like a bolt streaking across her heart. It was not her will, not her desire nor any conviction she was harboring. It was as if there was a hand on the door knob of her very being whose handle was being turned opening a flood of purpose and meaning like none she had ever felt.
When she reached Capernaum she heard that Jesus had recently been there. It was believed he was heading towards Bethasida. Crowds were beginning to gather from town to town seeking him. Emuna had great difficulty moving through the mobs of people. By the time she reached Bethasida he had already left but she was close now. She joined the tail end of a large group traveling to Gennesaret to find Jesus. Not even a raging river had the power of people’s excitement she felt in the crowds. What amazed Emuna the most was the lack of singular purpose. Every person seemed to have an unspoken but clear personal purpose in looking for Jesus and yet in the swirl of diverse motivations there was a common thread that eluded Emuna.
The crowds grew as they approached the edge of Gennesaret. There was lots of noise. Emuna had to be close now. People began pressing in from all directions. Fingers were flying in the air each pointing in the direction believed to be where Jesus was. The electricity of the crowd’s energy was dizzying. Emuna made her way to a clump of people she felt were closest to Jesus. Then she heard what had to be Jesus’ voice. It rose like a pristine tail of smoke from a chimney above the clamor of all the burning, hopeful exclamations of people trying to reach him.
Her heart was pounding. Emuna got on her hands and knees and began weaving her way through the legs of people to make her way to Jesus…
44 [Emuna] came up behind him and touched the edge of his cloak, and immediately her bleeding stopped.
45 “Who touched me?” Jesus asked.
47 Then [Emuna], seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed.48 Then he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.” Luke 8: 44-48
Emuna jumped up. She was free. People were astonished and staring at her and praising Elohim. Emuna burst out in song and started dancing with abandonment. There was no time to lose. She must get back to Cana and Batya. She knew what she wanted to do more than anything and she was sure Batya would agree. They could use their new found wealth and move to Jerusalem to be next to Elohim’s temple built by the Jews. There they would spend the rest of their days praising, worshiping and learning as much as they could about Elohim. Before departing for home, Emuna bought a gift for herself and Batya; beautiful mitpahaths[1] made from the luxurious Bysuss[2] silk. They would wear these in Jerusalem as perpetual symbols of Jesus’ healing done in the name of Elohim.
Batya was indeed in complete agreement with Emuna’s plan. The two quickly blended into the vibrant temple community in Jerusalem and while they were not regarded as Jews due to their birthright, their devout worship and tithing earned the respect of the temple officials. Batay and Emuna would get as close they could to the Holy of Holies. Here was the place where Elohim made His dwelling place. A long veil separated the earthly temple from the sacred area of the sanctuary. Passover was approaching. Emuna and Batya began preparations to hold a simple gathering for some of the Jewish widows with no place to celebrate.
Emuna had heard that Jesus was in Jerusalem. A crowd of people had hailed him as their King. She wished she could have seen Jesus enter Jerusalem. Emuna’s heart burned to encounter him again. She was confused by some of the talk she heard in the temple. Many of the elders and priests were accusing Jesus of blaspheming Elohim and not honoring the Jewish laws and customs. Of course she could not engage in these discussion. Emuna did not dare to tell them Jesus had healed her. It seemed like this talk of blasphemy was growing in volume and intensity. Emuna was afraid for Jesus. It simply did not make sense. How could someone who had healed so many people, driven out demons, and changed lives of people be working against Elohim. What would they do to Jesus if they found him guilty? Blasphemy was an offense punishable by death.
Emuna grimaced as she felt the pointed corner of an elbow dig deep into her ribs. No chance to even acknowledge the pain. Hands were flying in every direction grabbing at the air tearing at the open space of the azure sky hosting the sun’s blazing, punishing rays. Emuna was adrift in a violent, tossing dense sea of people moving along a path ringing with unbridled chaos. She felt arms pushing her forward and others yanking her to one side. One desperate set of fingers grabbed the edge of her long veil cascading down her back drawing her neck into an outstretched silent scream. It won’t have mattered if she screamed. The noise of the crowd was rising to a seething boil. The roar of voices punctuated by guttural spike exclamations in a stupefying flurry of pitches and tones in a countless number of tongues. Emuna lifted her eyes from the dust being kicked up forming a sand storm of blind fury.
In a stunning turn of events, Jesus went from King to vilified enemy of the Jews and threat to the Roman Empire. Jesus had been condemned to die by crucifixion. Roman soldiers or not, despite Batya’s protestations, Emuna was going to find a way to reach Jesus. When she did reach him she had no idea what she would say or do but she felt compelled to see him. It was that same kind of inner compulsion she had felt when she knew money and security were not the things she was seeking or that would satisfy her when she was on her journey to be healed. Something more than her own thoughts, ideas and will were drawing her to Jesus. With one, final, wild push she broke free of the crowd.
Emuna gasped in horror, paralyzed as she stood in an open space between herself, the soldiers, and Jesus carrying his cross. The disfigured, writhing body of Jesus was covered in lacerations, purplish black bruises caked in dried blood, and open oozing wounds. His head pierced by thorns digging into his skull. And his face, oh his face wracked with sweat, blood, and his mouth stuck in a cry of pain. His lips moving in slow motions as he appeared to be saying something to himself, his beard ripped and his cheeks completely exposed as flies darted about his face. Jesus’ eye dark and blood shot with the reflection of agonizing pain that had no end in sight. Emuna could feel herself ripping inside. She knew something small of his pain. Her body had once been covered in wounds and blood. He had freed her from her pain. Wasn’t there anything she could do? Without thinking she ran up to Jesus yanking off her Bysuss neck veil. She clasped the veil in her hand and wiped the face of Jesus. Before she could say anything or Jesus could respond the Roman guard shoved her to the ground. Another solider kicked her and Batya ran out to save her from being harmed any further.
Emuna crumpled up the veil in her hand and gripped it tightly. Batya and Emuna moved along with the sea of people to the site of Jesus’ crucifixion. Emuna recognized the women who had given her the coin at the wedding. She was standing beneath the cross shaking and wailing. Emuna and Batya could not take their eyes off the gruesome sight of Jesus suffering on the cross.
[1] a kind of veil or shawl (Ruth 3:15). This was ordinarily just a woman’s neckcloth. Other than the use by a bride or bride to be (Genesis 24:65), prostitutes (Genesis 38:14) and possibly others (Ruth 3:3), a woman did not go veiled (Genesis 12:14, Genesis 24:15). The present custom in the Middle East to veil the face originates with Islam. According to ancient laws, it reached from the forehead, over the back of the head to the hips or lower, and was like the neckerchief of the Palestinian woman in Palestine and Israel today.[5] Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biblical_clothing#Israelite_women
[2] byssus is an ancient textile woven from the beard of various clams, and which appears dark brown until placed under direct light, when it glitters like gold. Source: http://mentalfloss.com/article/69654/untangling-secrets-sea-silk-ancient-mediterraneans-elusive-luxury-textile
They took each agonizing breath with Jesus. When the soldiers lifted a hyssop with gall wine to Jesus’ lips in a loud voice he cried, “Eli, Eli, Lemana Shabakthani!” (My god, My God why have you forsaken me).
Emuna had spent every ounce of energy praying to Elohim begging for a miracle for Jesus to be saved. Now she could not understand how such cruelty and evil could be on the shoulders of a man who had loved and served Elohim bringing hope, forgiveness, and healing to so many people. Emuna released her clenched hands, opened wide the veil she had used to wipe the face of Jesus and buried her face into the veil sobbing uncontrollable. Darkness came over the whole land:
51 At that moment the [veil] of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split 52 and the tombs broke open. The bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. 53 They came out of the tombs after Jesus’ resurrection and went into the holy city and appeared to many people.
54 When the centurion and those with him who were guarding Jesus saw the earthquake and all that had happened, they were terrified, and exclaimed, “Surely he was the Son of God!”
Matthew 27: 51-54
Emuna lifted her face and stared down at the veil. Jesus was with her.
APPENDIX 1: MEANING OF NAMES
IKKAR
plowman, husbandman, farmer
Source: https://www.biblestudytools.com/lexicons/hebrew/nas/ikkar.html
ASTARTE/ATHTART
Athtart is a Canaanite name for girls meaning Goddess of fertility
Source: http://babynames.merschat.com/name-meaning.cgi?bn_key=92738
For more information
https://frauen-1500-bc.jimdo.com/the-goddes-in-the-middle-east/astarte/
BATYA
Batya means “daughter of God.” Batya was the daughter of Pharaoh, who rescued baby Moses from the Nile River (Exodus 2:5). (variations: Batia, Basya)
Source: http://www.aish.com/jl/l/b/48966261.html
VERONICA
Of debated origin and meaning, some believe it to be derived from the Late Latin veraiconica, the word given to a piece of cloth or garment with a representation of the face of Christ on it. Veraiconica is composed of the elements verus (true) and iconicus (of or belonging to an image). Alternatively, Veronica is thought to be a variant form of Berenice (bringer of victory), a derivative of the Greek Berenikē, which is a variant of the older name Pherenikē, a compound name composed from the elements pherein (to bring) and nikē (victory).
Source: http://www.babynamewizard.com/baby-name/girl/veronica
Note Hebrew equivalent of Veronica is Emuna/EmunahEMUNA
Strong’s Concordance
emunah: firmness, steadfastness, fidelity
Original Word: אֱמוּנָה,
Part of Speech: Noun Feminine
Transliteration: emunah
Phonetic Spelling: (em-oo-naw’)
Short Definition: faithfulness
NAS Exhaustive Concordance
Word Origin
from aman
Definition
firmness, steadfastness, fidelity
NASB Translation
faith (1), faithful (3), faithfully (8), faithfulness (25), honestly (1), responsibility (1), stability (1), steady (1), trust (2), truth (5).
APPENDIX 2: Veil of Veronica History
Veronica’s Veil Found?
by Paul Badde
DESCRIPTION
In a follow-up to its 1999 article on the same subject, Inside the Vatican presents text and photos by Paul Badde documenting the mysterious cloth in a Capuchin church in Manoppello, Italy, which may be the famous veil of Veronica. The process by which the image was impressed on the ancient fabric is unknown to modern science, and the image appears the same on both sides. It is on a finely woven cloth called byssus, which cannot be painted on, and the image matches not only the exact dimensions of a human face but the exact characteristics of the face on the Shroud of Turin, in every particular.
LARGER WORK
Inside the Vatican
PAGES
25 – 40
PUBLISHER & DATE
Urbi et Orbi Communications, New Hope, KY, October 2004
Nestled in the Abruzzi mountains, just three hours from Rome by car, is the little town of Manoppello. Here is preserved a mysterious image of a wounded man. (See image) Now, our good friend Paul Badde, Vaticanist for Die Welt of Germany, has made a startling discovery: the fabric is almost certainly byssus, a rare ancient cloth which, among its other properties, cannot be painted on.
If the image in Manoppello was not painted — and it seems it was not — we cannot explain how it was made. Badde argues that it is, in fact, “Veronica’s Veil,” lost for centuries and thus is . . . the true face of Jesus Christ. — The Editor
What did Jesus look like? A bit like Jim Caviezel in the film The Passion of the Christ? Or like the portraits of Christ by Durer and El Greco and other artists, which hang in the Vatican Museum?
But none of these artists ever saw Jesus. What did he really look like?
To these questions, there is an old, old answer: Jesus looked like the image of a man’s face preserved on a cloth kept in a little village not far from Rome — an image even the Pope has never seen. And this is a matter which can hardly be mentioned in the Vatican.
Up until the year 1600 A.D., the cloth, known as “Veronica’s Veil,” was kept inside the old St. Peter’s Basilica built by the Emperor Constantine. Millions saw it there.
Since the early 1600s, however, this “true icon” (the literal meaning of “vera icona” which initially formed the name “Veronica”) has been seen by almost no one.
In the new St. Peter’s Basilica, designed by Michelangelo, a cloth said to be Veronica’s veil has been kept locked up for centuries. And, “over the course of time, the image has become very faint,” Cardinal Francesco Marchisano, the archpriest of the basilica, told me in a letter on May 31, 2004. But in fact, the image in the Vatican has not only grown faint; most probably it is also a fake.
It hasn’t only become virtually invisible to us: not a single photograph of the image exists.
Devotees of icons of Christ were for this reason in recent times often directed to another image in the sacristy of the Popes, the so-called Abgar portrait from Edessa, which is said to be the oldest painting of Jesus in the world — and it looks it. This image has, over the centuries, become almost completely black, like many ancient paintings executed in tempera on linen.
The “true image” of Christ, however, was made with no colors at all. Before it came to Rome, it was in Constantinople, and before that in the Middle East. A Syrian text from Kamulia in Cappadocia from the 500s tells us that the image was on a material “drawn out of the water” and was “not painted by human hand.”
When this image came to Rome, curious pilgrims were drawn to it as to a magnet. As pilgrims to Jerusalem decorated themselves with branches of palm-trees on their return in the first half of the second millennium, and as the sign of the pilgrims on the route to Santiago de Compostela is even today a shell, so pilgrims to Rome stitched miniature images of Christ onto their capes on their way home: little pictures of the “Sancta Veronica Ierosolymitana“: the holy Veronica from Jerusalem.
Thus, the new St. Peter’s Basilica ordered by Pope Julius II contained a great treasure chamber to hold and protect this unique treasure. But, during the construction of the new basilica — which was hotly contested and controversial in those times — the veil of Veronica mysteriously disappeared from Rome. The only vestige of the veil that remains today in Rome is a Venetian frame with a pane of old, crackled glass, still on display in St. Peter’s treasury.
But the veil was not lost.
For 400 years the most important relic of Christendom, before which the Emperor of Byzantium knelt once a year, preserved between two panes of glass, has been on display in a tiny Capuchin church which is completely empty for many hours each day, in the town of Manoppello, in Italy’s Abruzzi region.
It is the missing image of Jesus Christ for which all of Western civilization senses the need. Today, finally, it must be regarded as rediscovered.
The image fades away against light, it darkens in shadow, yet it endures through the centuries, unchanging.
It shows the bearded face of a man with Jewish side-curls at the temples (peyes), a man whose nose has been smashed like one of the hostages of today’s “jihadists” (“God’s warriors”) — or of one of the detainees in the Abu Ghreib prison.
The right cheek is swollen, the beard partly ripped off. The forehead and lips have on them hints of pink, suggesting freshly healed wounds.
Inexplicable peace fills the gaze out of the wide open eyes. Amazement, astonishment, surprise. Gentle compassion. No despair, no pain, no wrath.
It is like the face of a man who has just awakened to a new morning. His mouth is half open. Even his teeth are visible. If one had to give a precise phrase to the vowel and word the lips are forming, it would be just a soft “ah.”
All proportions of the image show, 1-to-1, the life-size measurements of a human face, filling the center of a 17 by 24 centimeter cloth.
The veil is transparent, like a silk stocking. The image is less like a painting than a large photographic slide. Held up to the light, it is transparent. In the shadow, without light, it becomes almost slate grey.
A tiny, broken piece of crystal rests in the lower right corner of the frame.
In the light of electric bulbs, the delicate cloth is gold and honey-colored, just as the face of Christ was described by Gertrud of Helfta in the 13th century. For only in the light and contrast, does the fine cloth show the countenance in three-dimensional, almost holographic clarity — and from both sides!
The fabric is finely woven, so fine it seems it would fit into a walnut shell if it were folded tightly.
Professor Donato Vittori of the University of Bari and Professor Giulio Fanti of the University of Padua have discovered, through microscopic examinations, that there is no trace of color or paint at all on the entire cloth. Only in the black pupils of both eyes does there appear to be a slight scorching of the threads, as if they had been heated.
All of this cannot be considered a completely new discovery. The farmers and fishermen of the Adriatic from Ancona to Tarentum have revered this veil for centuries as the “Holy Face” (“Il Volto Santo“). It is said in Manoppello that “angels” brought the cloth to them 400 years ago (citing in this regard an old report).
That may be. But it is more likely that some rascals, too, slipped in beneath the angels’ wings, rascals who simply swiped the relic during the reconstruction of St. Peter’s Basilica, in perhaps the most impudent piece of knavery in the entire Baroque era (which was not poor in rogues and villains). The broken crystal in the old frame of Veronica’s Veil in St. Peter’s Basilica treasury seems to sing one verse of this larger song even today.
The story has elements of a farce, of a detective story, of a drama — and of a fifth Gospel for our image-obsessed age.
But when Professor Heinrich Pfeiffer of Rome’s Gregorian University for the first time brought to the attention of the scholarly world that the Manoppello Countenance most likely had to be considered the ultimate point of reference for the oldest pictures of Christ, both in the East and in the West, the sensational news appeared in the back pages of the world press under the category “miscellaneous.” This happened about a decade ago.
And no matter how precisely Pfeiffer, a German scholar of early Christian art, investigated to prove that the image in Manoppello must be acknowledged as the “mother of images” for all Christian iconography, his colleagues also, along with many prelates and cardinals in the Vatican, shook their heads over the exuberant professor’s fertile “imagination.”
Sister Blandina Paschalis Schlomer, a German Trappist nun, pharmacist and icon painter, was the one who initiated Pfeiffer’s research and conclusions. She had discovered, years before, after painstaking comparisons of the image on the Manoppello cloth and the face of the man depicted on the Shroud of Turin, that the two images were identical: that they were both displaying the very same person.
Every detail of both faces is exactly congruent: the same size and shape, the same wounds. The one difference: on the Shroud, the wounds are still open. On the cloth of Manoppello, the wounds have closed.
These results, also, did not persuade or convince other scholars of the authenticity of the image of Manoppello. Quite the opposite.
The chief objection was simple and categorical: that the Manoppello image had been painted. The image was just too clear and fine for it not to have been painted, scholars argued. The eyes, the eyelashes (not visible until photo enlargements were made), the tear ducts in the eyes, the whiskers, the teeth (!), all that simply could not have appeared without the delicate hand of a master artist. In short, the Manoppello image was not an original, a model for all later works, but a careful copy of an unknown original — or even of the original on the Turin Shroud.
A question seldom posed up to now, but a crucial one, concerns the fabric itself. By its consistency, it seems like colored nylon — though nylon was not invented 400 years ago. What is it, then? Cotton, wool, linen?
No, all are much too thick to allow this immaterial transparency. Even silk does not permit this.
Meanwhile, the Capuchins of Manoppello have decided to wait before subjecting the cloth to any scientific or chemical tests, or even to take it out of the glass where it has been held for 400 years. “Not necessary!” Father Germano, the last guardian of the cloth, said to me a few weeks ago. “Science will progress to meet us. It develops so fast that we only need to wait.” (He is probably correct. Many photos which I took in recent months with my digital camera show the fabric in a way I have never seen in other photos.)
What could this cloth be? In the Gospel of John, John speaks of two cloths found in the empty tomb of Christ in Jerusalem. According to that source, Peter and “the other young man” (probably John himself) ran toward the tomb in the early dawn of Easter Sunday. John ran faster and reached the tomb first. John writes: “They both ran, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first; and stooping to look in, he saw the linen cloths lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb; he saw the linen cloths lying, and the cloth, which had been on his head, not lying with the linen cloths but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed.”
It is this second cloth, the small one which had been on Christ’s head, which the inhabitants of Manoppello have always regarded as the one they have in their town. This cloth is sometimes known as the “sweat cloth.” The Manoppello cloth, however, has not a drop of sweat detectable on it. But then, the cloth is so fine, it cannot hold even a single drop of blood or sweat.
Rome, September 1, 2004, Fiumincino Airport.
A fresh breeze from the nearby Mediterranean cools the late summer morning. The clock in Hall A reads 7:35 a.m., as the Alitalia flight 1570 from Cagliari touches down outside on the runway. Minutes before, terrorists had stormed a school in far-off Beslan, in Northern Ossetia, the most heinous crime since 9/11. Apocalyptic events have become the daily bread of many reporters on earth. But I heard no news reports that morning. Also later, on the Autostrada heading for Pescara, I did not switch on the radio.
Reporters have it easy, it came to my mind instead at the airport. They do not have to prove anything. They are not judges, lawyers or teachers. They just report things, things they observe each day, from every angle.
When Chiara Vigo crosses the barrier, I recognize her immediately, although I had never seen her before. Her fingernails are spindles, long and pointed. Pier Paolo Pasolini might have cast her as the star in any of his films.
She comes from the small island of Sant’ Antioco off the coast of Sardinia, where she is the last living byssus weaver on earth, heir to an unbroken tradition dating to ancient times.
“To our people, byssus is a holy fabric,” she says in the car. What does she mean, “Our people?” Isn’t her island simply part of Sardinia? No, she laughs roughly. On her island, Sardinian and Italian are spoken, but they also know many Aramaic songs, for the population is descended from Chaldaeans and Phoenicians. They trace their art of byssus production to the Princess Berenike, one of Herod’s daughters, the lover (mistress?) of the Emperor Titus, after Titus destroyed Jerusalem.
Then she held out to me a bundle of unspun, raw byssus. In the morning light, it shone more finely than angel hair. The gold of the seas! In her hand, it shown like bronze in the sun. The material is produced from threads a certain kind of sea mussel (“pinna nobilis“) generates to cling to the ground. Every May Chiara Vigo dives under full moonlight five meters deep in the sea to collect and harvest them. Then they are combed and spun and woven into a most precious fabric.
Byssus was the most costly fabric in the ancient world. It has been found in the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs, and it is mentioned often in the Bible, where it is said to be obligatory for the carpets of the Holy of Holies and for the “Ephod,” the vestment of the high priest.
Steeped in lemon, it becomes golden. In former times, soaked in cow’s urine, it became paler and brighter.
We fly down the highway toward Manoppello. Sister Blandina awaits us on the hill just above the church, where she lives.
As we walk up the central aisle, the “Holy Face” appears to be a milky, rectangular communion host above the altar. In the window, a cross shimmers from the back of the choir right through the veil.
After we climb the steps behind the altar and draw close to the image, Chiara Vigo falls to her knees. She has never seen a veil so finely woven. “It has the eyes of a lamb,” she says and crosses herself. “And a lion.” And then: “That is Byssus!”
Chiara Vigo says it once, twice, thrice.
Byssus can be dyed with purple, she had explained to me in the car.
“Yet byssus cannot be painted on. It is simply not possible. O Dio! O Dio mio!” (“Oh my God! Oh my God!”)
“That is byssus!” What she meant was: it cannot be any sort of painted picture.
Thus, the image on the veil is something else. Something that transcends any picture.
— Paul Badde, September 29, 2004
(Feast of the Archangels Michael, Gabriel & Raphael)
This article first appeared in the German daily Die Welt on September 29. It is reprinted here with permission.
This item 6346 digitally provided courtesy of CatholicCulture.org
Source: https://www.catholicculture.org/culture/library/view.cfm?recnum=6346
APPENDIX 3: Jesus Healing Woman Who Touches His Tunic
Jesus healing the bleeding woman (or “woman with an issue of blood” and other variants) is one of the miracles of Jesus and appears in 3 Gospels (Matthew 9:20–22, Mark 5:25–34, Luke 8:43–48).
She said to herself, “If I only touch his cloak, I will be healed.”
22 Jesus turned and saw her. “Take heart, daughter,” he said, “your faith has healed you.” And the woman was healed at that moment. Matthew 9: 21-22
A large crowd followed and pressed around him. 25 And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years. 26 She had suffered a great deal under the care of many doctors and had spent all she had, yet instead of getting better she grew worse. 27 When she heard about Jesus, she came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, 28 because she thought, “If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed.” 29 Immediately her bleeding stopped and she felt in her body that she was freed from her suffering.
30 At once Jesus realized that power had gone out from him. He turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who touched my clothes?”
31 “You see the people crowding against you,” his disciples answered, “and yet you can ask, ‘Who touched me?’ ”
32 But Jesus kept looking around to see who had done it. 33 Then the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came and fell at his feet and, trembling with fear, told him the whole truth. 34 He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.”
Mark 5: 25-34
As Jesus was on his way, the crowds almost crushed him. 43 And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years,[c]but no one could heal her. 44 She came up behind him and touched the edge of his cloak, and immediately her bleeding stopped.
45 “Who touched me?” Jesus asked.
When they all denied it, Peter said, “Master, the people are crowding and pressing against you.”
46 But Jesus said, “Someone touched me; I know that power has gone out from me.”
47 Then the woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed.48 Then he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.”
Luke 8: 42-48
The name Cana in the Bible
Kanah (קנה) is the name of a stream between the territories of Ephraim and Manasseh (Joshua 16:8) and of a town of Asher near Sidon (Joshua 19:28).
The latter became known in the New Testament as Cana (Κανα), and is most celebrated as the town where Jesus performed his first miracle of turning water into wine (John 2:1).
Cana is also the home of Nathanael who Jesus found under the fig tree (John 21:2, 1:48). It’s mentioned by name 4 times in the New Testament; SEE FULL NEW TESTAMENT CONCORDANCE.
