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A lot of people said that he had the powers of the Gods. That he walked on water, that he healed the sick, that he split bread and fish until everyone had a full meal.
I did not believe such things. There was a new healer on the market square every week, selling dirt for gold and urine for silver. What could be different this time?
When I met the Prophet I kept my purse closed tightly. I expected him to sell me something, to explain some scheme. But all he did was tell me to join him for a free talk the next noon. Some promotion of a scam, to be sure.
But I had to see it for myself, even if it was thievery. I stood among a crowd of hundreds under the noonday sun while the Prophet spoke of lambs and needles and heaven. I nodded my head half-heartedly. Until the tax collector came.
“Get him out of here!” Said one of the old men in the crowd.
“He took my house from me!” Said a woman.
“He sold my farm to a man across the sea!” Said a younger man.
“He sold my mother into slavery!” Said a child.
There were shouts and tears and clenched fists all around. Then the Prophet said, “I forgive you.”
No, that can’t be right.
This was written in 15 minutes during a Joy of Writing meetup.