She wasn’t much to look at, but then, neither was he.
She’d been scooped up from her home in a raid by the river as she played, and although she was old enough to scrub floors, wash laundry, prepare basic victuals, and feed the chickens, she was bony and plain enough not to tempt the most desperate of warriors. She bent her back to the tasks the general’s wife assigned, but did so with wide open eyes. There was no way she could miss the obvious.
He, weather-worn by sun and wind, hardened by battle and travel, respected by warrior and king alike, fought a battle he couldn’t win. The raised edges of patchy skin, discolored, red, thick and swollen, mingled with angry purple nodules and lumps. Ulcerous sores ate into the soles of his feet. He stumbled into the house some days, exhausted, weary, and confused. Now, his eyes had become a source of irritation.
“If only he would see the prophet,” the little one confided to the wife. “His leprosy could be gone.” With whispered anecdotes of wonderous works witnessed, the dream of hope pressed light through despair.
Whispers have a current of their own, and the turbulent rapids of emotion cascaded into the ears of the king who penned a letter flowing with praise for his general. A chariot full of silver, gold, and clothing accompanied the struggling warrior as a gift. The recipient king of Israel, previously a victim of the king of Aram’s raiders, shredded his robes in terror at the impossibility of the request. “Am I God?” he groaned. “Can I kill and bring back to life? Why does this fellow send someone to me to be cured of his leprosy? See how he is trying to pick a quarrel with me!”
The prophet, the man of God, Elisha, sent a message. “Send the man to me!”
A messenger stepped out of the prophet’s home. “The prophet says, ‘go wash in the river, dip under the surface, seven times and you’ll have the skin of a newborn.”
The warrior eyed the earthy ribbon of liquid crawling through the landscape. A snaking funnel of soil-bearing sludge. Was this a joke? An attempt to humiliate and further his sense of despair? The clear blue streams of life flowing through Damascus were far superior to dip in if all he had to do was to get wet. Volcanic rage bubbled from his soul; ego and pride fought to harbor pride in his heart; fury grasped the reins and pushed the horses toward home.
A stream of servants now made the difference. At the headwaters, the little girl served to provide a spring of hope that trickled into the heart of a desperate man. The stream broadened when the prophet’s servant stepped out to provide clear direction and specific action. And now, as Namaan turned away from life, his own servants reined in his impulsive fury and urged him to reconsider the simplicity of the demand on him. “If the prophet had told you to do some great thing, would you not have done it? How much more, then, when he tells you, ‘Wash and be cleaned’!”
Was he a pig to wallow in the mud? Was he a common man to wrestle for success in the filth of a foreign land? Was he a man devoid of decency, decorum, and dignity? Seven times?
With trepidation, he doffed his signs of nobility; he cast aside his warrior’s armor and protection; he stripped to his undergarments and waded into the silty river. Humbled, humiliated, empty of alternative hope. Who was this god who demanded the humbling of the mighty?
Suppressing the thoughts that bridled his will, he stepped into the deepest part and bowed under the surface. He raised his arms, there had been no change. What was the point? A servant pointed down and he ducked again. Twice. Nothing. His undergarments were soiled. Thrice. No change. The head of the prophet would be his trophy if this didn’t work. Four times. Nothing. Five times. What other options did he have? Six times. Was it the river or the God of the river that mattered? Seven times.
He wiped the gritty liquid from his face and eyes and stared. The spots on his hands were gone. His arms were clear. Ripping off his undergarments, he roared. Flesh like a baby. “Now I know there is a God in Israel.” A God whose river cleans us whole.