Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  Peter scrambled to his feet. “Yes, Master?”

  “What?” Jesus said sadly. “Could you not watch with me for one hour?”

  Peter hung his head. He didn’t need to see if his two brethren were doing the same.

  “Watch and pray,” Jesus said, peering into his disciple’s face, “that you enter not into temptation.” Then his eyes softened in the moonlight. “The spirit is indeed willing, but the flesh is weak.”

  “Yes, Lord,” mumbled the fisherman. “I’m sorry, Master.”

  Jesus turned and walked slowly back to the rock. Only then did it register with Peter that Jesus’ face had been wet with perspiration and that his hands had trembled slightly as he spoke.

  The shame rose up like bile in his mouth. He sat back down again and dropped his head into his hands. When would he learn?

  VI

  Outside Jerusalem, in the Kidron Valley

  Caleb waited in the shadows until he was certain it was Judas. Then, with a wash of relief, he stepped out and waved. “Over here!” he quietly called.

  Judas made a sharp turn and trotted over to join them.

  “Well?” Malchus, Caiaphas’s servant, asked. He was with the group as a representative of the high priest and spoke with authority of his master.

  “They’re there,” Judas said, grinning wolfishly in the moonlight.

  “Jesus, too?”

  “I assume so.”

  Caleb drew in a sharp breath. “You assume so?” he asked incredulously.

  “There are eight or ten of them asleep just a few rods into the grove,” he explained. He enjoyed making these men squirm. They were so condescending, so contemptuous of him. “I thought I could make out a few others a little deeper in, but I didn’t want to risk waking anyone.”

  “And you’re sure it’s them?”

  “Of course,” he said diffidently. “I told you it was a favorite place for Jesus to stop.”

  Malchus snapped his fingers, and the captain of the guard lumbered to his feet. “Get the men ready,” Malchus commanded. “And tell them to keep their hands on their swords. I don’t want any rattling or clinking.” He turned to Caleb. “All right, let’s go.”

  “Remember,” Judas warned. “Don’t act until you see my signal.”

  VII

  The Garden of Gethsemane

  From somewhere far, far away, Peter thought he heard someone speaking to him. He fought to climb out of the deep, black pit he was in, fought to claw his way upward towards the light. But he kept slipping back. He was so tired. It felt like great millstones were tied to his ankles.

  He mumbled something, forcing his eyes open for a moment. Someone was standing in front of him. Someone important. He fought harder. But then his feet lost their hold, and he plummeted down again. It felt good to be down again, off the slippery wall. So good.

  Jesus stood motionless, looking down at his sleeping apostles. For a moment, he almost spoke again, but then he just shook his head and turned and went slowly back to his place by the rock.

  VIII

  For the third time in less than an hour, Jesus stood in front of the three sleeping figures. He looked down on them with a mixture of disappointment and understanding. “Sleep on now,” he said quietly. “Behold, the hour is at hand, and the Son of man is betrayed into the hands of sinners.”

  He reached up and wiped at his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic. Even in the moonlight, it was clear that his body was visibly trembling, as if he had taken a severe chill. His face was pale, drawn, and lined with pain.

  He bent down, reached out, and shook Peter’s arm. “Peter!”

  The fisherman jerked up, arms thrashing wildly. “What! What is it?”

  Jesus laid a hand on his shoulder. “Peter! It’s me. Wake up.”

  It took several seconds before comprehension dawned; then the apostle got quickly to his feet. His face was dark with embarrassment. “Oh, not again, Master. I’m sorry. I—”

  Jesus brushed it aside. “Come! The hour is at hand.”

  John and James were up, and a short distance away the others were sleepily getting to their feet too, having been awakened by the sound of voices.

  Peter stiffened, then shot John a look. Jesus had turned to watch the others start to assemble. His face was fully illuminated by the moonlight. What Peter saw were dark streaks running horizontally across the Master’s forehead. It was if someone had smeared . . . He peered more closely. It was as if someone had smeared blood there.

  John had seen it too. He cocked his head slightly, motioning toward Jesus’ robe. Peter’s dismay only deepened when he saw what his younger associate was seeing. There was a dark stain along one sleeve. It was what would happen if one wiped sweat away with his sleeve. But this was not just sweat. It looked very much like blood.

  Jesus turned and saw them staring at him. He met their gaze for a moment, then reached up with his other sleeve and wiped his forehead again. When his arm dropped, the smears across the skin were mostly gone.

  “The Son of man is betrayed into the hands of sinners,” Jesus said, loudly enough that all of them would hear. “Rise up. Let us be going. He who shall betray me is at hand.”

  IX

  Judas held up his hand and put a finger to his lips. “Shhh!” he said in a sharp whisper. “I think I just heard the Master’s voice.”

  Malchus and Caleb moved up beside him. “Then go!”

  Judas nodded. “Wait until I give you the sign.”

  “Go!” Caleb hissed, giving him a shove. “Get on with it, man!”

  The western half of the sky was now completely clear of clouds, and the moon hung like a great silver orb above them. Pushing aside the misgivings he had been fighting for the last hour, Judas strode forward. “Ho!” he called.

  He saw the figures ahead of him stiffen and spin around, dropping into a half crouch. “It’s me,” he said. “Judas.”

  “Oh,” Philip exclaimed, straightening in relief. The others did the same. “We were wondering if you had gotten lost.”

  “Hardly,” Judas laughed. “But I’ve been looking all over for you.” He turned, searching their faces. “Where’s the Mas—” But then he saw him. Jesus was coming toward them with Peter and two others.

  Judas moved forward, smiling broadly. “Hail, Master!” He ran to him, took him by both shoulders, and kissed his cheek in greeting.

  Jesus looked at him for a long, searching moment. “Judas,” he said slowly, “would you betray the Son of man with a kiss?”

  Judas turned away, his face hot with shame, but there was no time to do more than that. He heard a shout from behind him and the sound of pounding feet. He turned. Malchus and Caleb were coming towards them, with the double column of soldiers right behind them. The disciples gaped at them in astonished bewilderment.

  Jesus looked at Judas, his face calm and unruffled. “Friend,” he asked quietly, “is this why you have come?”

  The double columns had reached Jesus. On both sides, the apostles were edging back, stunned to be awakened to this development. Malchus ran up, jabbing his finger at Jesus’ chest. “This is the man!” he bawled. “Seize him!”

  Two soldiers darted forward and grabbed Jesus roughly by the arms, pinning them back.

  Whatever kind of day Peter had experienced thus far—tiresome, depressing, discouraging, bewildering, exhausting—it did not slow his reaction. When Jesus had said that the one who was to betray him was at hand, it had sent the hairs on the back of his neck prickling and put him on full alert. Then suddenly, there was Judas, coming out of the night. Judas, who had left the supper early. Judas, to whom Jesus had handed the sop of bread as a sign of his betrayer.

  The chief apostle had started to shout a warning but had been momentarily put off when Judas came forward and kissed the Master in greeting. Then his blood froze as the night erupted.

  “John! Andrew!” he shouted, pulling out his sword. “Get the Master!” He raced forward, but he was already too late. The so
ldiers who had grabbed Jesus were starting to march him away. Another man was shouting commands at them, screaming hysterically at them to bind him tight.

  With a mighty shout, Peter lunged forward. There was a flash of steel in the moonlight, followed by a shriek of pain. Malchus stumbled back, grasping at the side of his head. Caleb fell back as blood spurted from between the man’s fingers. Malchus swayed back and forth, moaning horribly, then dropped to his knees. His face was white with shock. He removed his bloodied hand and stared at it. The soldiers uttered loud gasps. Malchus’s ear dangled loosely on a thin strip of flesh.

  “Peter!”

  The fisherman jerked around at the sharp command.

  Jesus jerked one arm free from the soldiers. He motioned vigorously to Peter. “Put your sword away.”

  Peter swung around, not sure he had heard right.

  “Put your sword back into its sheath,” Jesus said again, speaking more slowly so there would be no misunderstanding. “All they who take the sword shall perish by the sword.” Then he gave a wan smile. “Think you not that I could pray to my Father and that he would presently send me twelve legions of angels? But how then shall the scriptures be fulfilled?” He shook his head slowly. “The cup that my Father has given me—shall I not drink it?”

  The words Peter had heard the Master cry out in the garden earlier flashed into his mind with searing clarity. “If it be possible, let this cup pass from me.” Feeling sick, he slowly returned his sword to its sheath.

  Jesus nodded his approval. “Thus it must be.”

  Jesus pulled free from the dazed soldiers and stepped in front of the moaning, wailing figure of Malchus. The man’s hand was clapped over his ear again, and he rocked back and forth, wailing and moaning and writhing.

  Without a word, Jesus bent down. Malchus saw him and shrank back. But Jesus reached out with one hand and grabbed his shoulder, holding him in place. Then with the other, he reached for the mangled ear.

  “No!” Malchus screamed.

  But Jesus wouldn’t let him draw away. Holding him firmly with one hand, he placed the other over the cupped and bloody hand of Malchus. Another scream started deep in Malchus’s throat, but it was cut off as his eyes flew open and his jaw went slack. Slowly his head came up until he was looking straight into Jesus’ eyes. And then, dazed to the point of being almost incoherent, he pulled his hand from beneath Jesus’ hand. It left a bloody smear on his cheek. No one noticed. Every eye was on the hand of Jesus, still cupped over the horrible wound.

  And then Jesus straightened, withdrawing his hand from Malchus’s face.

  Astonishment exploded from every side. One soldier dropped his spear, clapping a hand over his mouth. “O Lord God of Heaven!” the soldier nearest to Malchus exclaimed, “Praises be to thy name.”

  “It’s healed,” cried another, his voice hoarse with shock. “Look! The ear is healed.”

  Caleb, trembling with amazement, stared dumbly, his mouth open and slack. His eyes were telling him something that his mind would not accept. As Malchus got shakily to his feet, Caleb leaned toward him, peering at the ear with wide, frightened eyes. It was perfectly normal—no bleeding, nothing hanging grotesquely by a shred of flesh. The Pharisee turned slowly back to Jesus, his eyes bulging, his mouth working but nothing coming out.

  “Whom do you seek?” Jesus asked, speaking to Caleb, who had taken charge now that Malchus was no longer functioning.

  “Uh . . .” Caleb was finding it hard to bring himself back to the situation at hand. “We seek Jesus of Nazareth,” he finally mumbled.

  “I am he,” Jesus said calmly.

  Caleb glanced at Malchus for help, but it was clear he was on his own. He looked as if he had just realized it was his task to do something about this man.

  Jesus asked again. “Whom seek ye?”

  “I told you,” he stammered. “We seek Jesus of Nazareth.”

  “And I told you that I am he.” His eyes swept the soldiers as well as their two leaders. “Are you come out as against a thief with swords and staves to take me? I sat with you daily in the temple, but you laid no hold on me there.”

  “You are under arrest by the order of the Great Council,” Caleb finally blurted, getting back a little of his courage now it was obvious that Jesus was not preparing to fight.

  “If it is me you seek, then let these go their way.” He motioned with his head toward Peter and the others.

  For the first time, Caleb turned to look at Judas. Judas’s face was pale, and his eyes were deep in their sockets. “Well?” Caleb asked him. “What about that?”

  Judas wasn’t sure why he was suddenly being consulted. “The council asked only for Jesus,” he suggested.

  “Of course,” Caleb said with relief. He wasn’t sure that either he or the soldiers were up to taking the others, not in light of what had just happened. “Agreed,” he said to Jesus.

  Jesus turned to look at his followers, but they had already heard. For all their earlier protestations of courage, events were happening too quickly. They reacted from shock and fear and started moving away.

  Caleb, regaining his confidence quickly, jerked his head at the two men who still stood beside Jesus. “Take him to the house of Annas.”

  Chapter Notes

  Luke, who interestingly enough was a physician, is the only one who records what has come to be called “the bloody sweat.” He, like Matthew and Mark, records Jesus’ pleading with the Father to let the “cup” pass from him, but adds this: “And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him. And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly: and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground” (Luke 22:43–44).

  Because of the words, “as it were,” some commentators have tried to explain this away as a mere simile, saying that the agony he was enduring caused him to perspire copiously, and in the moonlight the drops of sweat appeared to be drops of blood. Many others, including the author, strongly disagree with this suggestion, seeing it as an attempt to dilute and weaken the significance of the atoning sacrifice. In the first place, “bloody sweat,” or perspiration mingled with blood, is not an unknown phenomenon. There are recorded cases where, under severe stress, the vessels inside the body rupture and blood oozes from the body like beads of sweat (for examples, see Clarke, 3:257; Edersheim, Life and Times, pp. 846–47; Farrar, p. 577).

  More to the point, the Greek word which Luke uses and which is translated as “drops” is thrombos. It was an ancient medical term and means “a large, thick drop of clotted blood” (Vine, p. 341). It was not used to describe normal perspiration. Even today, thrombosis is the condition where there are blood clots within the veins.

  Accepting it as blood raises questions of another sort. After the experience, surely Christ would have been at least partially covered with blood. Did he wipe it off somehow? Were his clothes bloodstained? Were the apostles that night aware in any way that something remarkable and terrible had just happened? To all of this, Luke is silent.

  Here again the author used a device (Peter and John seeing remnants of blood on the Savior’s forehead and stains on his robe), not to propose that this is what actually happened, but only to call attention to Luke’s important addition to the record of this night.

  Though we do not have a full understanding of what happened that night, it is clear the sweating of blood was highly significant. James E. Talmage summed it up this way: “Christ’s agony in the garden is unfathomable by the finite mind, both as to intensity and cause. . . . It was not physical pain, nor mental anguish alone, that caused Him to suffer such torture as to produce an extrusion of blood from every pore; but a spiritual agony of soul such as only God was capable of experiencing. No other man, however great his powers of physical or mental endurance, could have suffered so; for his human organism would have succumbed. . . . In that hour of anguish Christ met and overcame all the horrors that Satan, ‘the prince of this world’ (John 14:30), could inflict. . . .

&
nbsp; “In some manner, actual and terribly real though to man incomprehensible, the Savior took upon Himself the burden of the sins of mankind from Adam to the end of the world. . . . The further tragedy of the night, and the cruel inflictions that awaited Him on the morrow, to culminate in the frightful tortures of the cross, could not exceed the bitter anguish through which He had successfully passed [in the Garden]” (Talmage, pp. 613–14).

  It is of interest to note that the place where Jesus was pressed down by the sins of the world to the point that he bled from every pore was Gethsemane, a place where the olives were pressed until the oil was squeezed from the flesh of the fruit.

  Chapter 30

  If I have spoken . . . well, why smitest thou me?

  —John 18:23

  I

  Jerusalem, Upper City, the Praetorium 3 April, a.d. 33

  Marcus Quadratus Didius, tribune of the tenth legion, senior tribune in the province of Judea, second only to the procurator, Pontius Pilatus, in the line of command, groaned softly and rolled over. He cracked one eye open enough to see that the only illumination in the room was slivers of moonlight coming through the shutters and not dawn’s first light. He shifted his weight until his body found the right position, then settled back again.

  “Marcus?”

  He turned his head. Diana had come up on one elbow. He could see only the shadow of her head in the faint light.

  “Someone’s knocking,” she said sleepily, then fell back again on her pillow.

  On cue, the sharp rapping sound that had first awakened him sounded again. “Tribune Didius,” came a muffled voice.

  Marcus groaned aloud and hauled himself up into a sitting position. Why wasn’t there a guard outside his door? “One moment,” he called. Swinging his feet over the side of the bed, he reached for his night robe, slipped his feet into woolen slippers, and stood up. He felt the chill in the room and quickly pulled the robe around him, then padded softly to the door. He opened it a finger’s width, squinting at the sudden brightness from the flickering light of the torches in the hall. Then he understood. Centurion Sextus Rubrius was standing there, his helmet under one arm. The guard had moved back out of the way. “Yes.” Marcus said, stifling a yawn.