Makros v. Jesus of Nazareth

Makros v. Jesus of Nazareth

Gerasene District Court

Case No. LK 0826-39

Filed: 22nd June, 33 AD

Makros son of Philetos

filed his grievance

at the dusty hall

they call the court,

though it’s more like

a place where noise

gets recorded

and power wears robes.

Pig farmer, third generation,

cliffside land east of the lake.

Enough pork to keep Rome fed

and my family clothed.

I stood before the judges—

three of them, robes too clean.

Scribes scratching on scrolls,

bored guards fidgeting

like boys in synagogue.

“I’ve come,” I said,

“to make a claim against Jesus.

Jesus of Nazareth.”

Murmurs.

Eye-roll from the back.

One judge sighed through his nose.

“State your loss,” said the one in the middle.

“Two thousand pigs,” I said.

“Dead.

Ran off the cliff after he said a word—

to the madman.”

They waited.

“He looked the madman in the eye,

and said—‘Name it.’

And what came back

wasn’t a name

but a number:

Legion.”

The whole place went still,

like a wind stopped at the door.

“Legion,” I repeated,

“same word the Romans use

for their marching machines.”

The judge frowned.

“Are you suggesting—?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” I said,

“But it looked like a protest.

Like a parable with teeth.”

He tapped his stylus.

Slow. Measured.

“And then?” asked the judge.

“Then… the pigs went mad.

Like the spirits moved—

from man to swine to sea.

And I stood there—

half of me weeping,

half of me wondering if I’d just seen

something break.”

After legal advice the Judge spoke,

“We’ve looked into the man,” he said.

“Jesus of Nazareth.

Penniless.

No land.

No livestock.

No purse.

You won’t see a copper from him.”

I didn’t speak.

What was there to say?

Another judge leaned forward.

Older. Quiet voice.

“But word is—

he’s heading to Jerusalem.”

He glanced at the scribe.

Then back at me.

“And they don’t like men

who cast out demons,

or turn dinners into riots,

or say things that sound like

Rome’s days are numbered.”

“If he keeps it up—”

he paused.

“They’ll have him hung.

By rope or by nail.

Doesn’t much matter to them

how you silence a threat.”

The gavel dropped.

My name scratched off the docket.

No pigs.

No payout.

Just silence

& questions.

Later, outside,

some local scribe with ink on his fingers

caught me by the well.

“Got a quote?” he asked.

“I’m from the Decapolis Evening Post”

I looked at him,

then over at the shoreline.

The place where the pigs had screamed.

Where that man—

the one who used to howl in the tombs—

was now laughing with kids,

telling stories like he’s an entertainer.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said.

“Lost my herd,

yeah.

But I keep thinking—

he said ‘Legion.’

And then they drowned.”

“You mean the demons?”

I shrugged.

“Maybe.

Maybe he meant more.

Maybe he was telling the empire

its time was almost up.

“And this Jesus—changes lives?”

“Aye,” I said.

“Ruins them too.

Sometimes both at once.”

Then I walked home,

feet dusty,

mind louder than ever.

Because nothing’s safe anymore—

not pigs,

not power,

not even me.

Not since mercy

showed up without asking.

- Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025