by Tim LaHaye
As Jesus and the remaining eleven made their way down the steps, Mark followed unnoticed and instructed the servants to finish tending to the upper room. He tiptoed past his mother’s quiet bedroom and crept into the night, after the group. A cold breeze was blowing, but Mark didn’t dare return home for his cloak, as he did not want to rouse his mother, nor did he want to lose sight of the men.
Jesus, clearly having announced Himself as Messiah, would be betrayed? Mark could not have been deterred from following the men even if his mother has risen and forbidden it. The frigid wind be cursed. The Mount of Olives was not far.
THREE
Mark wondered whether Jesus and His men would break up into small groups again so as to not draw attention to themselves. But as they made their way through the city toward the gate, it became plain that no one took notice of them. Jerusalem was as crowded as Mark had ever seen it, with people dancing and singing and conversing around makeshift fires.
From several paces behind, Mark could not tell for sure, but it appeared Jesus and His disciples did not speak until they had exited the city to the east, heading toward the hillside that bore countless groves of olive trees. Mark followed them across a brook—little more than a stream this time of year—which ran through the Kidron Valley, the valley that separated the Mount of Olives and the Temple Mount.
Mark took advantage of the sound of the water to draw closer to the group without being noticed and was able to hear Jesus say, “All of you will be made to stumble because of Me this night, for it is written: ‘I will strike the Shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered.’ But after I have been raised, I will go before you to Galilee.”
After He has been raised? Again Mark wondered if he had heard correctly. Was Jesus to die and then rise? Were it not for the goose bumps on his skin, Mark would have wondered if this was a dream. Had he and his mother entertained deity? Could it be true? Could a Man he knew personally be the Chosen One of God?
Peter said, “Master, even if all are made to stumble, I will not be.”
Mark wanted to be just like Peter, resolute and true.
But the comment made Jesus stop and face Peter. Mark hung back in the shadows, worried one of them might see him.
Jesus spoke quietly, sadness in his tone. “Assuredly, I say to you that even this night, before the rooster crows twice, you will deny Me three times.”
Deny his mentor, his master? Mark couldn’t imagine that of Peter, let alone how it must have made the man feel to hear that from Jesus.
Peter raised his voice. “If I have to die with You, I will not deny You!”
That was the Peter that Mark knew. And the rest of the disciples crowded around Jesus, all saying likewise. “Not me! I will stand with you!”
Mark followed them to an expansive area filled with gardens, and Jesus led them to a beautiful and fragrant section called Gethsemane, enclosed by a low stone wall. As they entered the gate, He said, “Peter, James, John, come with me. The rest of you sit here while I pray.”
The other eight sat chatting among themselves, but Mark was drawn to Jesus. He wanted to hear anything He might say to His closest confidants, and he also wanted to hear the Teacher pray.
Mark crouched low behind the wall, keeping out of sight of the other disciples, as he scurried along, trying to follow Jesus and His men. When they moved farther east into the garden, he scaled the wall and angled close enough to hear them and see their silhouettes in the moonlight. Hiding behind a large poplar, Mark tried to control his shuddering. He rubbed his arms while otherwise trying to remain as still as possible.
Peter and John and John’s brother James had fallen silent and appeared embarrassed. It was as if they didn’t know what to say or do as Jesus began to fret. There was no other way to describe it. The Teacher covered His face with His hands, then stared into the heavens. Mark heard Him sigh and then groan. He sat on a large outcropping of rock, then stood and paced.
Jesus turned to His friends. “My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even to death. Stay here and watch.”
The three looked at one another as He moved away, and Mark pressed his hand over his mouth to muffle his own gasp as Jesus fell to the ground. “If it is possible,” He said, weeping, “allow this hour to pass from Me.”
What did the Man so fear? Mark could not imagine. Jesus had three friends only a few feet away, at least one of them armed, and not a stone’s throw away sat eight more. And yet He lay prostrate, forehead resting on his hands in the dirt. “Abba, Father, all things are possible for You. Take this cup away from Me; nevertheless, not what I will, but what You will.”
Mark was startled when Jesus suddenly rose and turned. Had he been found out? The lad held his breath as Jesus returned to His friends. “Simon,” he said, calling Peter by his formal name, “are you sleeping? Could you not watch one hour?”
Peter stood quickly. “Lord, I am here.” James and John sat up.
“Watch and pray,” Jesus said, “lest you enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
As Jesus moved away again, the three disciples whispered among themselves. “James,” Peter said, “nudge me if I doze again, please. And John, be sure James stays alert.”
Mark was riveted by this mysterious Man the disciples seemed to so love. He fell to the ground again and repeated the same prayer, panting, groaning, crying. Whatever it was He felt compelled to accomplish, He wished He didn’t have to, and yet time and again He told God He was willing.
Having seemed to gain no peace about it, He slowly rose and returned to Peter and James and John. Mark was astonished to see that they had all dozed off again, and he considered tossing a pebble into their midst to alert them before they were found out.
“My friends,” Jesus said sadly, making the three rouse awkwardly, but none had an excuse.
Yet a third time Jesus stepped away from them and collapsed into prayer, this time sweating so heavily that Mark saw the moisture cascading from His beard and onto His hands. Suddenly He rose and rushed back to the three. His tone had changed from sadness to anger.
“Are you still sleeping? It is enough! The hour has come; behold, the Son of Man is being betrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise, let us be going. See, My betrayer is at hand.”
And there stood Judas Iscariot, trailed by a great multitude with swords and clubs! He approached Jesus with arms outstretched saying, “Rabbi, Rabbi!” and kissed Him.
“Friend,” Jesus said with great sorrow, “why have you come? You would betray the Son of Man with a kiss?”
In the flickering light of many torches, Mark could see fear in Judas’s eyes as he backed away. Jesus stepped forward to the crowd. “Whom are you seeking?” He said.
“Jesus of Nazareth.”
“I am He.”
With His admission, the first line of the throng fell backward onto the ground. Then He said again, “Whom are you seeking?”
They warily staggered to their feet and one said, “Jesus of Nazareth.”
“I have told you that I am He. Therefore, if you seek Me, let these go their way.”
Surely, Mark thought, Jesus’ friends would not desert Him, not leave Him to this mob of soldiers and religious leaders! He thrilled to see his hero, Peter, draw his sword, lunge forward, and flail at a servant who stood next to a high priest. The blade sliced off the man’s ear, and he dropped to his knees, screaming.
“Malchus!” the priest cried out, and others moved to aid him.
Jesus said, “Peter, put your sword into the sheath. Shall I not drink the cup which My Father has given Me?” He put His hands on the injured man’s head, and immediately his ear was restored.
Malchus stood, staring at his bloody hand. Mark was astonished. This must be a dream!
Jesus spoke to the mob. “Have you come out, as against a robber, with swords and clubs to take Me? I was daily with you in the temple teaching, and you did not seize Me. But the Scriptures must be fulfilled.”
Th
e detachment of troops and the captain and the officers of the Jews arrested Jesus and bound Him. Mark watched intently to see what Peter would do, and his mouth fell open when the fisherman backed away and fled with James and John. The three raced to their compatriots, and all the disciples ran off into the darkness. Surely Peter would plot with them and return to again defend his Master.
Jesus was left utterly devoid of friends, His only acquaintance the one who had betrayed Him with a kiss. Mark’s heart seemed to burst for this Man of whom Peter had spoken so highly. How could Peter defend Him with the sword one minute and run in the next?
Mark didn’t know what had gotten into him, but as the throng surrounded Jesus and led Him back toward the city, he moved out of hiding and followed them, his thin linen garment his only shield against the night. What he hoped to accomplish he had no idea, but it certainly seemed wrong to abandon one’s friend.
Somehow Mark had missed that a few soldiers had been dispatched to track the disciples, and having failed, now returned. “You there!” one said, as they closed on him. Mark, young and fast, panicked and ran, knowing he could elude them if only he could avoid their grasp.
One grabbed the edge of his garment just as Mark was gaining speed, and the man’s yank turned the boy in a circle. Another clutched his tunic at the neck. Mark imagined himself dragged before the magistrates, and while he was not one of Jesus’ disciples, nor could he fathom any fault being brought against him, he would then have to face his own mother. How would he explain where he had been and what he had been doing?
He thrashed and spun and kept running, his garment ripped entirely from his body. And as he leapt the stone wall naked, he heard the soldiers laugh and one say, “Let him go! He’s just a child!”
Mark stayed in the shadows, trembling and frantic that no one see him. He had never been naked outside his own home, and with all the tourists and pilgrims milling about the city gates, he had no idea where to go. Cowering in a shallow ditch not a hundred yards from the eastern gate, he watched as the procession of soldiers and Jewish leaders led Jesus toward the city. He squinted in the darkness at familiar forms, wondering if it was possible that Peter and John followed at a distance.
Mark didn’t know where James or the other eight were, but he thrilled to the possibility that Peter and John had not abandoned Jesus after all. Oh, that they would defend their Teacher! He crept toward the city wall, madly searching for something, anything with which to cover himself. Just as he heard a group of laughing men and women approach, Mark came upon a pile of refuse with dogs yammering about. He pulled a huge expanse of scratchy wool from a mound of rags and quickly wrapped himself.
Immediately the uncomfortable material at least blocked the cold wind, and while the covering was twice as large as he needed, Mark was grateful to finally be dressed. He tied the excess in a bulky knot behind him and hurried to follow the soldiers and Jesus. Sure enough, trailing at a distance crept Peter and John, keeping out of sight of those accompanying Jesus. The procession attracted the attention of many crowding the gate.
As the soldiers and leaders arrived at the courtyard of the high priest, they were allowed in one at a time by a young woman who guarded the door. She turned away many she apparently did not recognize. Peter stayed back when she greeted John by name and held the door open for him.
It appeared to Mark that John was at first unaware that Peter had been left outside. He returned and spoke to the girl, pointing at Peter. “He is with me.”
As she allowed Peter in, the servant girl said, “You are not also one of this Man’s disciples, are you?”
Mark was crestfallen when Peter said, “I am not.” It was all he could do to choke back tears as the fisherman he so admired showed such cowardice.
Mark elbowed his way through the crowd and peered through the gate as the servants and officers built a fire of coals. How he wished he could join them and warm himself. Peter stood among them, rubbing his hands over the fire.
The curious crowd pressed Mark up against the bars of the gate as the high priest asked Jesus about His disciples and His doctrine. Jesus said, “I spoke openly to the world. I always taught in synagogues and in the temple, where the Jews always meet. I have said nothing in secret, so why do you ask Me? Ask those who have heard Me. They know what I said.”
One of the officers slapped Jesus hard. “Do You answer the high priest like that?”
Jesus said, “If I have spoken evil, tell me; but if I have spoken the truth, why do you strike Me?”
Mark’s attention was turned back to Peter when someone said, “Say, you are not also one of His disciples, are you?”
“I am not!” he said, cursing. Mark covered his mouth as sobs invaded his throat. How could such a brave, robust, honorable man so coarsely and blatantly lie?
A servant of the high priest leaned close and studied Peter’s face. “That was my cousin whose ear you cut off! Did I not see you in the garden with Him?”
“I know nothing of what you speak,” Peter said, again swearing. “You are mistaken.”
And immediately a rooster crowed.
Mark could take no more. He dared not be out any later, for if his mother awakened to find him gone, she would be terribly vexed. Bitterly disappointed, he set off toward home, running the whole way with tears coursing down his face.
He had heard Jesus speak of Himself as the Son of God, finger His own betrayer before the betrayal, pray to His Father, and restore a man’s destroyed ear. Surely He had to be who His disciples and Mark’s mother believed He was. How then could His friends desert Him? And what would become of Him? Mark had so admired Peter. And now he didn’t ever want to see the man again.
FOUR
Breathless and still weeping, Mark quieted himself as he slipped into his room and quickly shed the woolen covering. He replaced it with a nightshirt and curled up on his mat. But the lad did not even try to close his eyes. He should have been drowsy, exhausted even. But he was able to comprehend nothing of what he had seen this fateful night, and his mind whirled.
Mark’s knew his mother would sense that something deeply troubled him. What would he tell her at daybreak? Dare he tell about Peter? Was it fair to influence his mother’s thinking about a friend? And yet it was the truth! Peter had proven a coward and a liar.
Mark was not aware of finally having drifted off, but at the crack of dawn he roused, still sick in his soul. He smelled breakfast cooking and knew his mother would be up. She never slept while her servants were working. He could not imagine eating, but knew he should and that his mother would likely insist on it.
When he returned from relieving himself, Mark found her in his room. She looked worse than he felt. “I have bad news for you,” she said. “Jesus has been arrested and faces sentencing today.”
Mark fought to hold his tongue but failed. “Where did you hear this?”
“A messenger arrived this morning. Jesus’ disciples are asking if they may hide out in our upper room.”
“Hide out? What are they afraid of?”
“The Romans and the Pharisees, of course.”
The young man sank onto his cot and sighed. “Why are they not standing with Him, testifying for Him, defending Him?”
“And how do you know they are not?”
“You said yourself they seek a hiding place.”
His mother’s gaze had fallen upon his woolen covering, bunched up in the corner. She raised it and spread it wide. “What is this?” she said. “And where is your tunic from yesterday?”
“Oh, mother!” Mark said, dissolving into tears. He held his head in his hands as he recounted the events from the night before. “I know you must punish me for being away without your knowledge. But I felt I just had to.”
His mother turned ashen, her lips quivering as she sat next to him. “You were foolhardy,” she said in a monotone, her eyes far away. “But I am grateful you are safe.”
Had she heard a word he’d said? And when she returned to hersel
f, would he still be punished? His transgression seemed to inconsequential compared with what he had reported.
“I confess I would have been hard-pressed to keep from following them myself,” she said.
“Verily?” he said.
His mother nodded. “And Jesus foretold all that happened?”
“Yes! Mother, I would not have believed it had I not seen and heard it for myself! And Peter! I hate him!”
His mother’s gaze returned to him. She laid a shaky hand on his. “You mustn’t be so hard on him. Put yourself in his place.”
“I wish I could! If I believed in Jesus the way he claims to, I would never have forsaken Him!”
She seemed to study him until he had to look away. “May you forever retain such passion. I would like to believe I too would have stood by my Lord.”
“Mother, when Peter denied knowing Jesus, he was so angry he cursed. I hope he—”
She held up a hand and shook her head. “I cannot imagine his fear.”
“Fear is right. I have lost all respect for him.”
Mark stood and gathered the scratchy covering, bundling it to discard it. “I don’t care to ever see him again, let alone speak to him.”
“Jesus must be our concern now, son. But remember, Peter is your elder, due your respect.”
“Respect for what? Cowardice? Disloyalty?”
“You maintain he should not have deserted his friend.”
“Of course!”
“And yet you are doing the same to him.”
“But Jesus did not deserve what Peter did to him!”
She stood and embraced the boy and he was struck that her frail frame seemed to shudder uncontrollably. “And if I were you,” she said, “I would take care not to put myself in a position to say who deserves your wrath.”
Mark’s mother was called away by a servant with news that some of the disciples had arrived. Mark was hardly in a mood to see them, for fear that Peter might be among them and he would be unable to hide his disgust. He busied himself with chores, only to learn that Peter was not among the few who soon sat retelling his mother everything of the night before.