The Fisherman

by Larry Huntsperger

  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.

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  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 darknes
s 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.

  As soon as the procession surrounding Jesus entered the courtyard, the Jewish officials quickly grouped themselves together into what appeared to be a makeshift courtroom setting. John and I quietly crossed the street and hovered closer to the entrance to the courtyard so that we could see and hear the proceedings a little better. As we approached the gate, John suddenly whispered, “Hey! I think I can get us inside. I have some friends inside there, and I think that servant girl at the gate knows me and will let me pass. Wait here.”

  And with that he walked casually up to the entrance, smiled and nodded to the servant, who nodded in return, and then walked on in. A few minutes later I saw him once again at the gate, talking with the servant girl and pointing in my direction. She nodded, and he motioned for me to come.

  My heart was pounding so loud, I felt sure the whole neighborhood could hear it, but there was such a crowd inside, I hoped I could keep to the shadows and not be noticed. I could see John a few paces ahead of me, walking into the courtyard. As I approached the gate, I attempted a casual nod to the servant girl, who nodded in return as I passed. Then, just as I passed by her, she raised her head in apparent recognition and said, “You too were with Jesus the Galilean! You are not also one of this man’s disciples, are you?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, woman. I don’t know him!”

  The words were out of my mouth in an instant. I tried hard to look incensed at her accusation, but I could feel the little beads of sweat forming on my forehead. A puzzled expression crept across her face, but she said no more. I kept my eyes fixed on her until she dropped her gaze to the ground, and I slipped past her and into the courtyard.

  “I don’t know him . . . I don’t know him . . . I don’t know him.” Had I really just spoken those words? I told myself it was simply a necessary deception so that I could keep close to the Master and watch for another opportunity to free him. That’s the way of the flesh, of course. The flesh always has a reason, an explanation for its failure. But no explanation could free me from the anguish I felt in the pit of my stomach.

  From a distance I could see the high priest and the other officials gathered around Jesus, asking him questions and discussing among themselves. John had positioned himself so that he could hear what was being said. The night was growing cold, and a number of the guards and household slaves were standing around a fire kindled in the center of the courtyard. My clothes were soaked with sweat, and I stood shivering alone in the shadows for a few minutes. Then I moved up closer to the fire, hoping for some warmth. One of the maids brushed by me, bringing another load of wood for the fire. She looked up to excuse herself, then suddenly went silent when she saw my face. She dropped her wood on the fire, then turned and spoke to one of the guards. He in turn looked at me and spoke first to those gathered around the fire and then to me. “This man was with Jesus of Nazareth! You are one of them too!”

  “Man, I am not!” This time it was obvious my denial did not convince my accusers. But since they had apparently received no specific orders concerning Jesus’ disciples, they said no more. As soon as they turned their attention once again to the fire in front of them, I slipped back into the shadows and edged my way cautiously closer to those gathered around Jesus.

  I located John in the crowd and stood at his side. We could hear everything being said, and my height gave me a clear view of Jesus and his accusers. For some considerable time we stood there, watching, listening, discussing quietly between ourselves, as witness after witness brought lies against the Master. It was obvious what they wanted. Somehow, somewhere they would find “legal” grounds for executing their prisoner.

  After more than an hour, as we stood there in helpless agony, I suddenly felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to face a man who appeared to be wrestling with some intense emotion.

  “Did I not see you in t
he garden with him?” His accusation caused all those in our immediate area to turn and look at me.

  At first I tried to make my denial sound casual and disarming. “No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “No, you’re lying! That was my brother’s ear you cut off. Your Galilean speech gives you away.” Then he turned to those around us and said, “Certainly this man was with him, for he too is a Galilean.”

  The explosion that erupted from within me burst forth with such violence that it caused even the high priest himself to stop midsentence and look in my direction. “Listen, you little fool! I don’t know that man, and I never have!” As I spoke, I stretched out my arm in Jesus’ direction and punctuated my words with a jabbing index finger. “I have nothing to do with him, do you understand? I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him. I couldn’t care less what happens to him. He’s no friend of mine, and I assure you that I’m no friend of his!” And then, just so there could be no misunderstanding, I finished my tirade with a string of profanity intended to make it clear to all that I shared nothing in common with this Galilean rabbi on trial for his life a few feet from where we stood.

  I did not realize I had been screaming until I heard the silence in the courtyard that followed. No one spoke. No one moved. I became aware of my arm, still suspended in midair, aimed at Jesus. The sound that finally shattered the oppressive stillness in which I stood was the sound that also marked the end of my life as I had known it. Somewhere in the distance a lone rooster crowed his declaration of an approaching dawn and at the same time announced my entrance into the darkest night of my life.

  “This very night, before a rooster crows, you will deny me three times.” Jesus’ words surged into my consciousness.

  I turned toward Jesus. Our eyes met, and in that meeting at last I saw myself. There was no hiding place left for me. So this was the great Simon Peter. This was the great leader of men. This was the great defender and guardian of the king.