22
It was a week unlike any other, a week in which victory and defeat, heaven and hell, exhilaration and utter despair stood side by side and marched against me. It was a week in which the world I wanted seemed at last within my grasp, a week in which my flesh guzzled sweet, rich gulps of hope, staggering under its intoxication. It was a week in which blinding light turned to blackness and despair. It was a week in which everything I longed for, everything I sought, everything I trusted surged into my life in one great, glorious climax and failed me utterly. It was a week in which the Master plunged his hand deep within me, grabbed my heart of flesh, and crushed it in his almighty grip. It was a week I would not exchange for all the wealth in the world, nor choose to live again for the same compensation.
Jesus’ dramatic entrance into the city turned out to be an all-day affair. The entire city knew of our arrival long before we passed through the gates. Not since King David himself returned victorious from battle had such unbounded exhilaration filled these streets.
Jesus instructed us to lead his mount to the temple. By the time we finally arrived, however, it was late afternoon. None of us knew what the Master would do. In the end, however, he simply dismounted and did nothing. For a few minutes he stood in silence at the base of the temple steps and looked up at the structure before him. Then he turned and led us out of the city and back to Bethany for the night.
For my part it was enough. Of course I was hoping for some sort of glorious final coronation ceremony to culminate the day. But I was content. A great barrier had finally been breached. For the first time since his public ministry began, Jesus not only accepted but encouraged the people’s acknowledgment of his rightful kingship. He knew what they wanted. He heard their words, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, even the king of Israel!” He alone selected this time and staged this entrance into the city. Having acknowledged their nomination, could his coronation be far behind? It had been a good day. The Master was meeting my expectations. I would allow him the right to coordinate and finalize the remaining details in his great victory.
Conquering a nation, even without violence, is exhausting work. We closed the doors that night, ate our evening meal, and then dropped our weary bodies into bed for a few hours’ sleep.
The Master was up with the sunrise, and then so were we. Following our morning meal we once again reentered the city. This time we all traveled on foot, however, without the public procession and recognition. It was midmorning by the time we reached the temple courtyard. The grounds were once again packed with pilgrims busy about the business of exchanging their Roman currency for temple money, purchasing their “approved” sacrificial animals, and arranging for the sacrifices to be offered by the priests. As I inched my way through the crowd, trying to keep an eye on the Master ahead of me, I couldn’t help but recall the last time I’d been in this situation. Had it really been three years since the day I saw the Master explode in anger against these money changers? I was still fighting him then, terrified of his intrusion into my life. How could I have changed so much? And how could these people around me have changed so little? The money still clinked. The stalls still held the overpriced animals. The gleam of greed still glowed in the eyes of those who stole from their countrymen in the name of God.
Then, without warning, it happened again. A table upended, crashing to the floor. Money rolling everywhere, people screaming, pushing, crawling, grabbing, shoving little treasures into their pockets. A second table and a third came crashing down. Terrified money changers ran for cover. Excited pilgrims clutched and cheered. Animal cages flew open. Birds and bullocks and goats added to the chaos.
This time, however, as the circle widened around the Master, giving him room for his work, there was a difference. This time everyone knew who he was. I heard delighted comments buzzing around me. “Jesus is doing it to them again!” “He’s back! And look at the cowards run!”
There was no question whose side the crowd took. And there was no question about the terror in the eyes of the temple leadership. Three years earlier the wrath of a country nobody being poured out on their greed was a temporary, irritating inconvenience. Now, with his name and his praises flowing from the mouths of every pilgrim in the city, Jesus was a significant threat to their very existence.
When the confusion finally subsided enough for Jesus’ words to be heard, he looked directly at the cluster of the temple merchants cowering in one corner of the courtyard and said, “Isn’t it written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a robbers’ den.”
No delegation attempted to pacify him this time, however. No soothing voice tried to reason with him. They all knew this was open warfare, and the cheering multitude on the Master’s side gave him a temporary advantage. Business was over for the day. In fact, business was over for the week. Following his temple cleansing, Jesus claimed the courtyard for himself. He spent the rest of the day teaching the people until late in the evening.
It was dark when we finally made it back to Bethany for the night. Once again I gave the Master acceptable marks for the day. I did feel as though he was not using the power of the people to his greatest advantage, and he had yet to level a decisive blow against those who held political power. But there was still time. The city would be filled with Passover pilgrims for another week. Perhaps he was planning his final attack for the feast day itself.
If I had the time, I would walk with you through every detail of those final few days. I would let you listen with me to the helpless frustration of those who attempted to engage the Master in open debate as he taught in the temple throughout the week. I would share with you his public proclamations warning all who listened to beware of the scribes and Pharisees, calling them hypocrites, serpents, the offspring of vipers. I would share with you the remarkable prophecies he shared with us concerning the future of Jerusalem and the signs surrounding his own return. If I had the time . . . but the time allotted to me is now nearly at an end. Besides, my dear brother Matthew, the meticulous Dr. Luke with all his notes and interviews and research, and my frequent traveling companion, Mark, have already written excellent accounts of those final days.
It is better for me to limit myself to the events that bear directly upon the Master’s work within me. It is a tiny part of the whole, I know, but it is the part assigned to me, the part I know the best.
My frustration with the Master continued to increase throughout the remainder of the week. Rather than capitalizing on the surge of popular support surrounding our entrance into the city, Jesus spent much of his time publicly humiliating and attacking his enemies. At the time it appeared to me to be the worst possible strategy. By the end of the week Jesus had successfully driven them into a terrified, blinding rage, while at the same time doing nothing to remove them from their positions of power. By the time we gathered together for that final Passover meal, I urgently hoped the Master would allow us to use this private meeting to develop an effective strategy for defeating our foes.
I was not the only concerned member of the group. The truth is, all twelve of us went into that supper bickering over the merits and difficulties of a dozen different possible schemes for moving the Master into power. The debates degenerated into heated arguments over who had the greater claim to leadership within the group. By the time we all sat down to eat, we were a gathering of grumpy, stubborn men using surface irritation with one another to mask our much deeper frustration with Jesus for his refusal to use his powers and charisma to catapult us into victory.
I was sitting between James and John, still arguing with them about my obvious, rightful role as Jesus’ second in command, when it happened. I was completely unaware of the growing silence in the room until I suddenly realized my voice was the only one left still blasting forth. Even then, in my arrogance, I at first assumed my fellow disciples were finally submitting to my leadership, heeding my words. Then I turned and saw him, a towel tied around hi
s waist, his hands resting on a bowl of water, as he knelt before Andrew at the end of the row of his disciples.
We all watched, dumbfounded, as Jesus removed Andrew’s sandals and gently placed each foot into the water, washed it thoroughly, then dried it in turn. He then moved to the next man in line, and the next, and the next.
No one spoke a word. Here was our Master, our King, scooting along on his hands and knees, fulfilling the role in our society reserved for the most lowly household servant. For several minutes the only sound in the room was the gentle lapping of the water in the bowl as foot after foot was placed in, cleaned, removed, and carefully dried, followed then by the sound of Jesus shuffling along the floor to his next disciple.
When he finally came to me, I could stand it no longer. As he knelt before me, I reached out, placed my hands on his forearms, and said, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”
He knew it was not a question so much as it was a challenge. This was terrible. The thought of him serving me in this way went against everything I thought I wanted him to be. I wanted my King to go forth in his almighty power, conquering his enemies, with me by his side. I wanted lightning bolts flashing around him, with the multitudes kneeling before him in submissive adoration. To see him now, kneeling before me, a bowl of muddied water in his hands, a soiled towel around his waist, struck at the cornerstones of my existence. I had no way of knowing that in less than twenty-four hours, he would be offering himself not just to me and to a handful of other disciples but to the entire human race, presenting not just a bowl of water but his own blood, seeking to cleanse not just the dust from our feet but all the accumulated moral filth and sewage of the ages from our lives.
He looked up at me and said simply, “You do not realize what I am doing now, but the time will come when you will understand.”
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 kne
w, 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.”
The Fisherman Page 18