Fishers of Men

by Gerald N. Lund

  Simeon looked up. The moon was low now. He turned to Andrew. “They can’t start the trial before dawn. I’m guessing that’s in about an hour or so. What do you want to do?”

  James came forward. “We have to get in there,” he said, “to see what is going on.”

  Andrew slowly shook his head. “No, the risk is too great.” He motioned for the others to gather in more closely. “Simeon’s right. By law they cannot start the trial until daybreak. The more people we can have here with us at that time, the better it will be. This place here is good. We’re off the street and out of sight, yet we can see the front gate to Caiaphas’s compound from here.”

  He looked at Simeon. “Your family is coming here, right?”

  Simeon nodded. “They will come up here if they don’t find us on the Temple Mount. I suggest we just settle down and wait.” He looked around and when everyone seemed to agree with that, he leaned back. “At least we’ve found him.”

  Luke raised a hand. When Andrew nodded at him, he sighed. “Jesus’ mother will be with the women,” he murmured. “This is going to be very difficult for her.”

  Andrew lowered his head. “I fear this is going to be a very painful day for all of us.”

  IV

  Jerusalem, Upper City, Palace of Caiaphas

  John moved closer to Peter and nudged him with his elbow. The chief apostle was staring moodily into the fire, which was now mostly glowing coals. When Peter looked up, John motioned with his head toward the large building before them. “I think they’re getting ready to start,” he whispered.

  Peter half turned and immediately came to the same conclusion. For the last hour or so, not much had been happening inside. People sat talking quietly. The presidency of the council had moved to the middle level of the palace and were no longer in sight. But people began to find their chairs.

  “There he is!” Peter exclaimed.

  He was right. The four guards had reappeared with Jesus between them. Once again they placed him before the council table. A moment later, Caiaphas and the other leaders could be seen coming down the stairs. Everyone in the room stood as the leaders moved behind the table and took their seats.

  “Let’s get closer,” Peter suggested.

  John hesitated, glancing around at the crowd. This was a hostile and dangerous place for them. Then he started a little. The maidservant who had let him in at the gate was standing behind a guard at the door to the judicial chamber. John stood too. “Come on,” he said.

  The young woman seemed a little surprised to see John, as if she had forgotten she had let him in before, but then she smiled at him and whispered something to the guard. He stepped aside. Peter was close behind John and went to follow him in, but the guard immediately cut him off. The girl looked up at him, searching his weathered face.

  John came back quickly. “It’s all right,” he murmured.

  But her eyes didn’t look away. “Aren’t you a disciple of this man Jesus?” she asked.

  Peter looked like a goat suddenly confronted by a lion. “I am not!” he said, more loudly than he had intended.

  Others turned at the sound. The maid continued to question him, looking doubtful, then turned to John, who was holding his breath. Finally, she nodded and motioned for Peter to enter. “Thank you,” he said, greatly unnerved. As they moved through the crowd, however, looking for a place to stand, Peter’s nerves got the better of him, and he changed his mind. He reached out and touched John’s shoulder. “I’d better wait outside.” Before John could reply, he was gone.

  With his head down, Peter pushed his way back out into the night. The first brushes of light were softening the eastern sky. Keeping his head averted, he returned to the fire and turned his back to it. Part of the reason for his position was to allow him to see what was going on inside the palace—but he was also afraid someone had watched the little interchange at the door.

  He jumped as a hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned to see an older man peering at him. “You’re a Galilean too, aren’t you?” the man asked roughly.

  From the fineness of his dress, Peter wondered if the man might be one of the minor officers of the council.

  “Don’t deny it,” the man prodded. “Your speech betrays you. Are you a follower of this Jesus?”

  “Of a truth,” Peter said angrily, “I am not.”

  Cowed by the bigger man’s vehemence, the officer backed away, but it was clear that he wasn’t convinced. Peter turned back towards the house, feeling his stomach starting to churn.

  V

  It was probably just as well that Menachem hadn’t returned. He was still out seeing to the final task Mordechai had given him. If he had been in the judicial chamber, he might have become the focus for Mordechai’s disgust. Under the Law, especially in crimes serious enough to warrant possible capital punishment, testimony from at least two witnesses was required for a conviction. Three was better, but two was the absolute minimum.

  Mordechai sat back fuming, ready to leap up and throttle Azariah’s prosecutor. There was no shortage of witnesses. That was hardly the problem. In that regard, Menachem had done well. More than one coin had crossed palms this night. But to get two of them to agree, even on the broadest of the accusations, seemed beyond the man who was taking their testimony. One had heard Jesus say a certain thing, and the witness swore to it on the temple, or on his grandmother’s grave, or whatever else might convince the court that he was telling the truth. The very next witness would disagree, saying no, that wasn’t exactly what Jesus had said, and then give another version that was just different enough to render the previous testimony unacceptable.

  Azariah had vouched for the prosecutor, saying he was one of his most skilled questioners, but the man didn’t seem capable of even noticing the contradictions, let alone steering his witnesses around them.

  And this was what Menachem had paid for? And yet, even as Mordechai asked the question, he knew that wasn’t the problem. These people were so patently eager for the reward that had been offered, they were trying to anticipate what the prosecutor wanted before he could even ask them a question. If he asked any follow-up question, their story would instantly change as they tried to guess what he was looking for and altered their testimony to fit it. It was an embarrassment, and Mordechai felt like standing up and screaming. Jesus, who said nothing through the procedure, from time to time would look at the bench where they sat, as if to say, “And this is how you hope to condemn me?”

  “Did you hear this Jesus preach anything contrary to the Law of Moses?”

  This was the eighth or ninth or twentieth man who had been brought forward, and Mordechai barely paid him mind. His mind was racing, searching for some other alternative.

  “I certainly did.” The man was middle-aged, with crooked teeth and a complexion scarred by the pox. He tried to look indignant. “I heard him say that he would destroy the temple which was made with hands, and then in three days he would raise up another one made without hands.”

  Immediately something happened in the room. This was something new to the council. Mordechai, who had heard Jesus make this statement some time before, had forgotten it. He pulled himself up. “Say again,” he called.

  The man looked triumphant. He knew he had struck something with his words. “He said he was going to destroy our temple and then in three days he would raise one up that was built without hands.”

  “Only a god could do such a thing,” the prosecutor exclaimed.

  “Well, that’s what he said.”

  “When you say ‘he,’ you mean Jesus of Nazareth?” That was from Azariah.

  “I do. Him right there. I heard it with my own ears.”

  Caiaphas leaned forward, his attention directed at Mordechai, one eyebrow raising. Could this be what they had been looking for?

  Mordechai raised from his chair. “I would ask the witness a question.”

  “Of course.” The prosecutor bowed obsequiously.

  “Was there an
yone else with you when you heard him say this?” he asked.

  “Of course, sire. There were a lot of people. But a friend of mine, Saul the Candlemaker, was there with me. He can tell you as well, if you like.”

  Before Mordechai could ask him if Saul the Candlemaker might be present, a man in the back started waving his hand.

  “That’s him,” the witness said. “That’s Saul right there.”

  “Come forward.”

  The hush in the room deepened as another man of about the same age as the witness made his way to the front. Outside, the people pressed in closer, sensing that something important was happening.

  When the man stood beside his companion, the prosecutor stepped in front of the two of them. “Your name is Saul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know the penalty for bearing false witness, Saul?” the prosecutor asked unctuously. It was the first time he had brought it up.

  “Aye, it is punishable by death.”

  “Well and good then. You have heard the testimony of this man.” He motioned toward the witness. “Were you there on the day of which he speaks?”

  “I was.”

  “And you heard this man teaching?” He pointed at Jesus.

  “I did.”

  “Tell us what you heard. Put it in your own words. Don’t try to say it as your friend here has said it.”

  “Well,” he began, scratching at his beard, “some of the people round about where this Jesus was preaching had been talking about the temple, about how beautiful it was and all of that. Someone suggested that the stones were so great and so expertly placed that the temple might stand forever. Then this man—” he turned and pointed at Jesus—“he said that he could destroy the temple in one day, but if he did, he could build another without hands in three days.”

  The room began to buzz. Here, at last, was something they could get their teeth into, something that reeked of real blasphemy.

  Mordechai was exultant. The first man had said he would rebuild the temple in three days. This man had said he could do so. But that was splitting hairs. Either statement implied that Jesus wanted to suggest he was divine. It was enough.

  The chamber was in an uproar. Caiaphas banged the table with a heavy gavel. “Order!” he shouted. “Order.”

  VI

  Peter edged as close to the open doorway as he dared, trying to hear over the shouts. “What’s happening?” he called to the man nearest him.

  “They’ve just had their two witnesses,” the man shouted back. “I think they’ve got the madman finally.”

  Peter was about to say something more when he felt someone tugging on his arm. He turned and felt his stomach drop. The man yanking on his sleeve was the same one who had confronted him a few minutes before about being Galilean. He had another man with him, one dressed in uniform. It was one of the soldiers.

  “This is the man,” the first one said.

  The soldier peered at Peter. “My name is Balthar. I am one of the captains of the guard.”

  “Yes,” Peter said, his voice barely audible, even though the people inside the chambers were quieting again under the pounding of the gavel.

  “Malchus, servant of the high priest, is my kinsman.”

  Peter went completely cold.

  “I was there last night when they arrested the Galilean.” He squinted a little. Fortunately they were not directly under a torch, and Peter’s face was partially in shadow. “You look familiar to me.” Then his eyes widened perceptibly. “Didn’t I see you there in the garden with him?”

  Peter swore at him. “Fool!” he hissed. “Of course I wasn’t there. I am not one of them!”

  He had spoken sharply enough that people around them, both inside and outside the room, turned to look. Peter started to fall back. The silence was absolute. At that very moment, not far away, a cock crowed, joyfully greeting the growing light in the east.

  Peter jerked as if he had been hit by a javelin. He turned his head, looking past the people all around him. Inside the council room, Jesus stood in front of the table where his accusers sat. But his head was turned, and he was looking directly at Peter.

  Before the cock shall crow this day, Peter, you shall deny me thrice. The words flashed across his mind as if written in white hot flames.

  With a strangled cry, Peter whirled and plunged past the two men who had come to accuse him, plunged past the staring crowd in the courtyard, plunged through the gate into the street. Weeping bitterly, the fisherman and chief apostle stumbled away into the gloom.

  VII

  Caiaphas got to his feet. His eyes were cold, and his lips pressed together into a hard line. He leaned forward, hands on the table, glaring at Jesus. “Well?” he said.

  Jesus watched him steadily, but his lips never parted.

  “Do you answer nothing!” the high priest roared. “What do you have to say about what these men witness against you?”

  The eyes never flickered, and Jesus still stood speechless.

  Caiaphas was livid. He stalked around the table and walked right up to Jesus. He was two or three inches shorter than the Galilean and so had to look up into his face. His hands were clenched into balls, and his lower lip was trembling with rage. “I command you in the name of the living God, tell us under oath whether or not you are the Christ, the Son of God.”

  There was a sharp gasp from the watching crowd. Even those who had sat on the council for many years had never heard the high priest, the presiding officer of the body, demand something in the name of the living God.

  A man beside John turned to him. “He can’t do that,” he whispered. “A man cannot be forced to testify against himself. And if he does, that testimony cannot be used in a conviction.”

  Before John could respond, several others turned and shushed the man. It was clear that they didn’t want to hear about legal technicalities. The noise that had burst out with the shocking demand of Caiaphas went as quickly as it came. Every eye was on Jesus and the man who confronted him.

  And then Jesus stirred. His chin lifted a little. John held his breath. The regal dignity in his Master’s bearing was striking. He stood there, hands bound together, in a room of men who hated his very name, and yet the feeling was that it was not Jesus who was on trial, but his accusers. Then his lips parted, and he spoke in a clear ringing voice. “I am,” he declared.

  Once again the chambers exploded. Men shouted and stamped their feet on the floor in protest. Some shook their fists at Jesus. Others stood with their mouths open in shocked disbelief. Caleb, who had moved over to stand behind Azariah, shouted hoarsely, “He makes himself a God.”

  Jesus’ voice rose sharply, echoing off the stone walls and drowning out the cries and exclamations. “And henceforth,” he cried, “you shall see the Son of man sitting at the right hand of power and coming with the clouds of heaven.”

  Caiaphas fell back, throwing up one hand across his face, as if to ward off an evil spirit. And then, in a night of shocking happenings, he did the most shocking thing of all. He reached up with both hands, grabbed the edge of his robes—the robes that were worn only by the high priest and revered almost as much the Torah scroll—and yanked downward. There was a sharp tearing sound as the fabric split from his neck to his chest. The bedlam in the room was snuffed out like a candle pinched between wet fingers. The high priest had rent his garments. There was in Judaism no sign of greater horror, deeper shock, or more piercing grief than to rend one’s garments. But for it to be done by the high priest, and for the tear to be made in the sacred garments . . . Even Mordechai gaped in astonishment.

  In an instant, the bony old man straightened to his full height. “You have heard it for yourselves,” he shrieked at the crowded room. “Does not the man blaspheme? What further need do we have of witnesses?”

  His head jerked and bobbed as he stared wildly at the men in the room. John had the fleeting image of a stork or heron, searching the beach for dead fish. “What say ye?” Caiaphas thunde
red.

  Mordechai shot to his feet. “He is worthy of death!”

  “Yes!” came the answering roar.

  Azariah was up, shaking his fist toward the man who stood there so quietly. “Death to the blasphemer!” he screamed.

  Jesus gave no further response. He was done. He said nothing more. He just continued to look forward, calmly and with quiet dignity. He was like a mountain in the midst of a raging thunderstorm: quiet, majestic, barely aware of the puny forces raging around it.

  “Kill him!” Caleb shouted.

  John, son of Zebedee, the one whom Jesus had called his beloved, dropped his head and stared at the floor. Now he understood. Jesus was not going to save himself. He wasn’t going to use his limitless powers to stop this travesty. This is what he had meant by what he had said earlier that night. This is what he had tried to tell them the night before. His hour had truly come. The Son of man had been delivered up to the Prince of Darkness.

  Chapter Notes

  A word about Peter’s denial is in order. Almost universally, commentators attribute Peter’s denial to cowardice. Some have even referred to it as a shameful lapse of character. They grudgingly note that he later repented and went on to become a strong and effective leader, but only when he overcame this “flaw” in his character.

  It is true that on the surface, the record of Peter’s thrice-repeated denial might suggest that. However, depicting Peter as a panic-stricken, trembling coward who slinks away at the first threat of danger doesn’t square with the rest of the picture. Did he simply buckle under the tremendous pressure of that night? Is it simply that when the chips were down, he couldn’t take it and scrambled away in an effort to save himself?

  Think for a moment of what had happened just hours before in the Garden of Gethsemane. When Judas led the soldiers to the Savior, he didn’t go alone. Both Matthew and Mark tell us that he brought a “great multitude” and that they were armed with “swords and staves” (Matthew 26:47; Mark 14:43). What did Peter do when he saw this very real and dangerous threat—a much more direct threat than was presented to him in the courtyard? Did he bolt and run? Did he slither away into the darkness? No. Of all the apostles, he alone sprang into action. He whipped out his sword and waded in swinging. Malchus lost his ear that night. To a craven coward? The idea is ridiculous. Peter stopped only when the Lord himself told him to put away his sword. Yet these commentators would have us believe that just hours later, he is paralyzed with fear. It just doesn’t add up.