The Fisherman (20 page)

His answer didn't satisfy me, and I drew back my feet as I bellowed, “You will never wash my feet!”

The words he spoke in response, however, caused me to recant instantly. “If I don't wash you, you have no part with me.”

There it was, the central message of his life in a single statement: “If I don't wash you, you have no part with me.”

I didn't understand it at the time, of course, as my response made abundantly clear. “Lord, don't just wash my feet, but also my hands and my head.”

His face broke into a grin, and he said, “He who has had a bath only needs to wash his feet to be completely clean; and you are clean.” He paused for a moment, then went on to say, “But not all of you.”

I know now his final statement was a reference to Judas. I really believe the unmistakable message Jesus communicated to us through his washing our feet before that meal proved to be the final factor in the poisoning of Judas's heart against the Master. When Judas saw Jesus shuffling along the floor, calling each of us to an attitude of submissive servanthood, Judas gave up altogether. It was partly an excuse, of course. His greed was also a major factor. But Jesus' words and actions that evening made it clear to all of us that he had no intention of conquering our nation in the way we felt it needed to be conquered. This was not the Messiah Judas was hoping for, and it was certainly not the Messiah he was willing to accept.

In the years since Jesus' departure, the words he spoke to us at our final meal together prior to his crucifixion have become the foundation upon which the Holy Spirit has rebuilt my life. You may have read his words as they are preserved for us in the accounts circulating among us and wondered at how we could have been there and heard Jesus speaking and not understood at the time exactly what was about to happen and why. In clear, simple terms Jesus handed us his entire life, message, and purpose. He offered us a powerful visual illustration of his own approaching death through a small loaf of bread “broken for us” and a cup of wine poured out for us, the New Covenant in his blood. To accompany the New Covenant, he then offered us his New Commandment that we love one another just as he loved us.

He told us plainly he was about to die. He told us what we had already come to know in our hearts, that he and the Father are one. “He who has seen me has seen the Father.” He promised us peace and told us that in the future we would share with him the same type of relationship that a branch shares with a vine. He himself would be our source of life and nourishment. All we had to do was abide in him. He called us his friends.

He warned us, too, of what was ahead. They hated him; they would hate us as well. But he was not going to leave us as orphans. He was going to send us the helper who would testify of him, convicting the world of the truth about himself. He told us we were about to enter intense grief but promised that our grief would be turned to joy. He was going to the Father. At the proper time we would join him. He then ended by telling us he shared these things with us so that in him we might have peace. He said that in the world we would have tribulation but that we were to take courage because he had overcome the world.

Then he prayed for us and for all those who would come to believe in him through us. It was a prayer unlike any other I had ever heard, a prayer that poured out from the very heart of God. He talked about the Father “glorifying” him through his approaching death. He affirmed his absolute authority over all men and his right to give eternal life to all those who came to him. He prayed for our unity in him and for our love for one another. He prayed that we would not be destroyed by evil and that the glory which he had known would now rest upon us.

When the Master finished praying, for a few minutes we all just sat in silence. No one spoke because there was nothing more to say. As I sat there with the Master, surrounded by my fellow disciples, I was filled with such intense, conflicting emotions. I felt honored as never before in my life, honored as only God himself can honor a man. But at the same time I felt a deep loneliness and apprehension. Though I did not yet understand the Master's words, it was impossible to hear them without anticipating the arrival of some great darkness over the earth. I did not know what was coming. I only knew I would do whatever I could, at whatever cost to myself, to guard and protect my Master. As he had loved me, so I would love him. This I could do. This I would do, no matter what.

You, of course, now read the account of that evening knowing of the events that came upon us immediately following our final meal together. You know of the betrayal and of the hideous midnight mockery of a trial. You know of Jesus' crucifixion and death. You know, too, of his resurrection, his departure, and his gift of the Holy Spirit to each of his own. But can you imagine what it would have been like for me, without that knowledge, knowing nothing of God's great plan and purpose for his people, believing all I had and could ever hope for was Jesus with me in the flesh? Are you his child? If so, then it may help you to understand me at that point in my life by recalling yourself as you listened to the Master's words in the days of your flesh, before his Spirit opened your heart to his truth. Do you remember the way in which his words had no power to touch your soul, to change your life? At the time I simply could not hear what he was saying. Only in retrospect did it take on life and power. I certainly do not offer this as an excuse but only as an explanation. My supreme confidence that night still rested solely on my flesh. I knew nothing else. My love for the Master was unquestioned, but my ability to express that love was chained to the limited and wholly inadequate resources of my flesh—my personality, my strength of will, my fluctuating emotions of the moment. At the time I was certain it was an adequate basis for service. It was all I had ever known. How could I think otherwise?

Of course, there was that other matter—the Lord's prophetic announcement of my denials. “This very night, before a rooster crows, you will deny me three times.” At the time, however, the Master's prophecy only caused my flesh to surge more intensely within me. I would remain true! I have made my choice! My resolve is absolute! Bring on the world! I will stand firm or perish in the process!

Jesus knew I would respond that way, of course. He knew my flesh perfectly. And he knew, too, that I knew my flesh not at all. That prophecy was his final gift to me prior to the crucifixion. It was the perfect mirror in which I would at last be able to see the reflection of myself.

One final touch was needed before our meeting ended. The flesh always needs an alternative to the reality of God. It needs a tool, a resource, a means by which it believes it can fulfill the work of God. My flesh was about to protect the Son of God from his approaching death. Very well, then my flesh would need a resource, a point of security. He knew I had it—my sword, my alternative to the reality of God. I'd been carrying it secretly all week, just in case. Now he wanted me to bring it out in the open, to wave it about boldly so that everyone could see the true source of my security. Just prior to our departure, he forced my hand by saying, “Whoever has no sword is to sell his coat and buy one.”

It was the moment my flesh had been waiting for. Immediately I reached under my cloak and drew out my weapon. Now at last they all could see the depth of my resolve. To my surprise, Simon the Zealot also produced a sword. As I stood there, brandishing the blade above my head, everyone within reach of my flailing arm jumped out of the way. It was obvious to all that my zeal vastly exceeded my skill with the thing. I looked at the Master; he looked at me and said simply, “It is enough.”

We sang a hymn and then followed Jesus into the darkened streets, then out of the city to Gethsemane, a grove of olive trees at the base of the Mount of Olives just outside Jerusalem. The grove was quiet, secluded, and carefully manicured. We all knew it as one of Jesus' favorite places of retreat from the noise and chaos of the city.

The few lanterns we carried with us guided our way through the darkness. When we reached the garden, Jesus asked James, John, and me to walk with him a little farther into the grove. He wanted to pray, but he did not want to be alone. Even in the dim light it was impossible to miss the anguish in his eyes. He was not afraid, but he was clearly in the grips of some deep inner turmoil. He left the three of us with the lantern and walked a few more paces into the darkness, then dropped first to his knees, and then to his face as he prayed. We could hear him easily, praying sometimes with words, sometimes only with deep, agonizing groans. “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet not as I will, but as you will.”

For some fifteen or twenty minutes, the three of us stood in silence within our little bubble of light that valiantly held back the sea of darkness around us. It was so quiet, so black beyond the lantern's reach. At first I kept a firm grip on my sword. I had no apparent reason for fear, and yet I was afraid. The center of our world lay in deep distress a few feet from where we stood. Something was terribly wrong. I would stand guard. I would protect. I would be a strong tower . . . a mighty wall . . . a valiant warrior. But perhaps if I just sat down it would be okay. Ah yes! The others were following my lead. We could guard as easily from a sitting position. It seemed rather warm for this time of night. If only I hadn't eaten quite so much. The sword made sitting difficult. Maybe if I just stretched out a bit. Yes, that was better. The stars were so bright tonight. No moon at all. I couldn't see anything around us anyway; perhaps if I just closed my eyes, I could concentrate on listening more carefully for the arrival of any intruders . . .

“Simon, are you sleeping? Couldn't you keep watch for even one hour?”

The Master's voice jolted me awake. I sat bolt upright, groped for my sword, and mumbled something about having just closed my eyes so that I could listen more carefully.

He wasn't angry with me, nor was he disappointed. His perfect knowledge of me made disappointment impossible. He knew I was running in the flesh. He knew my flesh would fail. But there was a deep sorrow in his voice, a sorrow that grew out of his knowledge of what lay ahead. Our time to die was at last upon us both. This cup would not pass from him, nor would he lay it down of his own accord. The knowledge of what would soon come upon him could not help but create great sorrow within him. But there was more. I saw it in his eyes as I sat there fumbling for an explanation that did not exist. He felt sorrow for
me
as well. He took no joy in watching the foundations of my life disintegrate, yet he loved me far too much to deprive me of what lay ahead. My confidence in the flesh would have to die, and it would be an agonizing, pain-filled death. But even now he shared that pain with me.

He then offered my flesh a second chance. “Keep watching and praying that you may not come into temptation; the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

Perhaps you know already what happened next. He retreated into the darkness. I determined to remain faithful. And then, once again, I slept. The second time I felt his hand upon my shoulder was even worse than the first. Neither of us spoke. What was there to say? I reached over and woke James and John. We didn't dare look into his eyes. In silence he once again departed into the night.

When I awoke the third time, it was not only the voice of the Master that drew me back to the land of the living. This time there were other noises as well. And there were torches and clanking and confusion. I heard Jesus talking to me.

“Are you still sleeping? It is enough; the hour has come; the Son of Man is being betrayed into the hands of sinners. Get up, let's be going; the one who betrays me is here!”

I grabbed my sword, sprang to my feet, and frantically tried to understand the scene around me. Members of the temple guard were everywhere, swords drawn and clubs held high. The high priest was there too, surrounded by his slaves and other temple officials. And there, at the head of the mob, was Judas. He approached Jesus and kissed him on the cheek, calling him “Master.”

Jesus turned to him, and for just an instant their eyes met. Then Jesus spoke. “Judas, are you betraying the Son of Man with a kiss?” Those were the final words ever to pass between the two of them. Judas dropped his eyes to the ground and stepped into the darkness. I never saw the man alive again.

For a few seconds following Judas's exit, no one spoke, no one moved. Two armies faced each other on this tiny battlefield, both sizing up their enemy, both obviously fighting fear. We, of course, saw the glint of the swords and spear tips in the torchlight and feared for our lives. These who came in darkness to capture the King had every reason to fear as well. They knew the Master's reputation. They knew the reports of his power. They knew, too, their actions this night were driven by the forces of evil within them. Their hatred drove them on, but their hatred could not completely mask their terror of what this man might do to them if he chose to use his powers in his own defense. And between the two groups stood the object of this great confrontation, the only one apparently unaffected by what was happening, Jesus.

After several agonizing moments Jesus himself broke the silence. “Whom do you seek?”

One of the officials responded, “Jesus of Nazareth.”

What happened next will seem strange to any who were not there that night, watching this ultimate conflict between good and evil unfold. On one side, empowered with the spirit of Satan himself, armed with their weapons of warfare, driven by their hatred and fear, bolstered by their sheer numbers, protected by the darkness of the hour and their evil intent, were all those who came to destroy the one whom they despised above all others. On the other side was Jesus and, cowering behind him, a group of helpless, pathetic disciples. And yet, when Jesus answered the official by taking a step forward and saying simply, “I AM!” his response pierced his enemies with terror. In that single, brief statement Jesus confronted his attackers with everything they needed to know about the person standing before them. The authority with which he proclaimed his identity shook the very ground upon which they stood. In that instant I knew what Moses had known so many years ago when he stood before the burning bush and heard the voice of God proclaim, “I AM WHO I AM!” They had come in their arrogance seeking Jesus of Nazareth. They found, instead, the great I AM, the absolute and supreme authority of life.

You think perhaps I recall this inaccurately? You think perhaps I see it now through the eyes of one who loves his Lord more than life itself, and who therefore embellishes a bit? I will tell you only that Jesus' single affirmation, “I AM!” so terrorized the mob before him that the entire force surged backwards, tripping and stumbling over one another until they lay in a pathetic heap of humanity upon the ground. I remember at the time thinking they looked as if they were all cringing under the anticipation of some mighty blow from on high.

But the blow did not come.

Jesus then spoke again. “Whom do you seek?”

After a moment the high priest stood to his feet and spat out the words, “Jesus of Nazareth!”

The others rallied to their feet behind him. It was obvious now that no divine protector would be coming to Jesus' aid. Their worst fears could be put to rest.

Jesus responded once again by saying, “I told you that I am he; if therefore you seek me, let these go their way.” He turned and pointed to those of us standing behind him.

The high priest motioned to two guards standing next to him. They stepped forward, carrying ropes with which to bind the Master. If I was ever to act, I knew it had to be now. All the energy of my flesh suddenly surged within me. This at last was my ultimate test. The others could do what they wanted. Let them cower here in the darkness behind the Master. I at least would show myself strong. If I could reach the high priest and cleave his skull in two, perhaps it would cause enough confusion to enable Jesus and the others to slip away into the darkness. With a mighty bellow I heaved my sword above my head and charged out from behind Jesus straight into the enemy forces. Unfortunately, my speed and dexterity were not nearly as great as my resolve. The high priest saw and heard me blundering across the clearing in plenty of time to anticipate my actions. Long before I reached my target, he stepped behind one of his slaves, and when I finally brought my blade crashing down, rather than skillfully eliminating the head of the enemy forces, my sword twisted in my grip, cracked the poor slave a mighty rap on the skull, and then slid down the side of his head, slicing off his ear in the process.

The slave let out an agonizing wail and clapped his hand over the side of his head. I stood before him, still clutching my weapon, staring at the results of my mighty offensive—one little ear lying upon the ground at my feet. Half a dozen temple guards dropped their spears level with my chest and waited for the command to run me through.

The command that came, however, did not come from the enemy; it came from Jesus. And it was not directed at the soldiers; it was directed at me. “Stop! No more of this.”

Jesus stooped down, cradled the severed ear in his hand, then stood and touched the trembling slave's wound. When he drew back his hand, the wound was healed.

I just stood there beside him, watching as Jesus used his final act of healing on this earth to undo the results of the best my flesh could produce. Then, after restoring the servant's ear, he turned once again to me and said, “Put your sword back into its sheath; for all who take the sword will die by the sword. Or do you think that I can't now call to my Father, and he will send more than twelve legions of angels? But then how would the Scripture be fulfilled, that it must be so? Shall I not drink the cup which the Father has given me?”

It was awful. In one mighty blast of energy, I gave my Master the best I had to offer and discovered that not only was my best not good enough, it wasn't even wanted. I dropped my sword to the ground, hung my head in shame, and slipped back into the shadows.

I could hear Jesus exchanging a few more words with his captors as the guards circled around him. Seized with terror, my fellow disciples now fled for their lives. From my hiding place in the shadows behind a nearby olive tree, I watched as they grabbed his wrists and lashed them together. I could still see him in the glow of the torchlight, standing there so utterly alone, silent, bound like a common thief.

The next few hours of my life are forever imbedded in my memory in vivid, agonizing detail. From my hiding place I watched as the hideous procession moved away into the night, leaving me in my silence and darkness and pain. For several minutes I didn't dare move. Then, just when I felt it might be safe to step out from behind the tree, I heard something moving in the darkness to my left. The sound sent a new jolt of terror through me, freezing me once again in place.

“Simon! Simon, are you there?” Even though it was a forced whisper I knew that voice.

“John! Is that you? I'm over here. Are you alone?”

“Yeah, everyone else took off running.”

Together we made our way out of the garden and onto the main road. We could see the bobbing torches and hear the clank of the armor some distance ahead of us, moving away. We crept along in the darkness behind Jesus' captors, being careful not to be seen.

The procession wound through the darkened streets of the city until it reached a large, well-lighted courtyard outside the home of Annas, the father-in-law of Caiaphas, the high priest. There were servants posted at the entrance of the courtyard to keep unwanted visitors out. From deep within the shadows across the street, I could see inside the courtyard. A large gathering of priests, scribes, and other prominent leaders were bunched together in little groups, apparently waiting for some major event to take place. This was no spontaneous late-night festival gathering. Servants were coming and going, catering to the needs of those present, in the midst of what appeared to be an excited, almost festive atmosphere.