The Fisherman (21 page)

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 the 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.

Tears flooded up from deep within me. Agonizing sobs broke through my lips. Through blurred vision I shoved my way past those who blocked my exit and fled into the darkened street. I ran until at last I found some ancient, deserted alleyway, a place reserved for the filth and refuse of the city. Several curious rats squeaked their concern at my intrusion. It seemed a fitting place in which to live out the remainder of my existence—just another piece of worthless garbage in among the rest.

I sobbed my anguish until I could sob no more. Then at last I slept and in that sleep entered the only world in which I knew I could ever again find some measure of peace.

I don't know what woke me. Perhaps it was the growing stench of the surrounding filth as it warmed in the morning sun. Perhaps it was the increasing noise from the street at the end of the alley. I do know, however, that the world to which I returned was unlike any I had ever known before. It wasn't the filth. It wasn't the odor. It wasn't the noise. It was something else altogether, something deep within me, at the very core of my being.

Simon was dead. My heart continued to beat. My lungs continued their endless expansion and contraction. My senses continued to relay information to my brain. But whereas once there had been hope and life and aspirations and desires and a purpose for being, now there was only pain and shame and emptiness and death.

It was far more than simply regret for my failures or anxiety over the fate of my Master. Regret I understood. Failure I understood. Anxiety I understood. This was none of these. There was simply no longer any life within me.

Each of us constructs our lives on beliefs we accept as unshakable. These beliefs form the great support pillars of our existence, pillars on which everything else is built. We rarely or perhaps never acknowledge their existence in our conscious minds. Yet every choice we make, every word we utter, every goal we hold for the future, assumes their certainty.

For me, the greatest of those pillars, the one upon which all the others depended, the one rooted in the deepest core of my being, was the understanding that Simon Barjona would always ultimately prevail. If I tried hard enough, if I worked long enough, if I learned from my mistakes, if I regrouped following my failures, I could and I would succeed. This was not simply something I hoped for; it was the foundation of my life.

When this man, this Jesus, entered my world almost four years earlier, he brought massive changes with him. When I finally submitted to his lordship, he became my reason for being. His goals became my goals. His successes became my successes. His techniques became my techniques. His affirmations became my greatest joys, and his reprimands pierced me deeply. In a word, he became the center of my world.

But even though I had forsaken all and followed him, the central pillar of my life was still undisturbed. My goals were different. My techniques were different. My hopes were different. My reason for living was changed. But the means by which I pursued all of these remained unaltered. Whereas once my determination, my strength, my wit, my charisma, indeed, all my fleshly attributes had been focused on becoming Simon the great fisherman, through Jesus all those fleshly attributes had been refocused on becoming Simon the great disciple. The goals were radically different, but the means were identical—
me
.

Then, in one terrifying instant, at the very moment when he knew all my weight rested upon it, Jesus reached his almighty arms around that pillar and wrenched it out from under me, and everything that rested upon it came crashing down. Now there was only the shattered ruins of my existence surrounding a cold, black, gaping chasm where once my pillar had been.

If you have ever been there, you will understand. It wasn't just that I had failed. Failure I understood. Failure was simply a call to try harder and reach higher. This was not failure; this was death. The foundation of my life had collapsed, and now my spirit wandered aimlessly through the piles of rubble, through the broken bricks and crumpled mortar, listening to the wind whistling through the ruins of my life.

The increasing turmoil from the street at the end of the alley finally broke through my pain. I stood and then wandered toward the commotion. There seemed to be some sort of a parade in progress. Both sides of the street were lined with people yelling and pointing at something passing by in front of them.

At first all I could see were the mounted Roman soldiers, swords drawn, pushing their way through the multitude, making a path for those following behind. Then I turned and saw the reason for this procession. Three men stumbled along behind, flanked on either side by armed guards. Each one carried a large wooden cross on his shoulders. It was another one of those hideous Roman executions in progress.

The first two men were keeping pace with the demands of the soldiers, but the third man was having trouble. Even from this distance I could see what appeared to be streams of blood running down his face and neck and onto his naked shoulders and chest. He was wearing something on his head. He was bent nearly double, so I could not see his face. Then, just as he approached the entrance to the alley, he collapsed under the weight of the cross and fell face first into the dirt. The cross fell to the ground at his side, and for the first time I saw his back, or what was left of it. The flesh hung in shredded strips of what had once been skin and muscle. The brutal beating must have taken place several hours ago, for much of the blood was now dried and caked, though numerous red streams still oozed from the deeper wounds. I could now see that the thing on his head was actually a kind of mock crown, woven from the branches of some sort of wicked thornbush. The long spikes pierced deep into his head, causing the blood to run freely down his forehead.

Never had I seen a man so brutalized prior to his execution. I could not imagine what his offense must have been to justify such treatment. For several seconds he did not move. Then he groaned and rolled onto his side, and I looked into the bruised and swollen face of my King.

The soldier nearest him walked over and gave him a sharp kick in the side, demanding that he pick up his cross and continue on. Jesus brought himself to his hands and knees and then tried to hoist the wooden cross beam back onto his shoulders, but the loss of blood and the damage inflicted on his back and shoulder muscles made it impossible for him to support the weight. He dropped once again to his knees, allowing the rough wooden surface to scrape across the raw flesh of his back as the cross fell to the ground.

The frustrated guard looked at the spectators along the side of the street opposite me, then laid his hand on a man nearly my size, pointed at the cross, and told him to pick it up. The man stepped into the street, hoisted the cross beam onto his shoulders, then reached down and helped Jesus back onto his feet. With the weight of the wood off his back, Jesus was able to continue on, and the gruesome procession once again moved forward.

When the last guard passed by me, I stepped out into the street and fell in line. I suppose I should have feared recognition, but I was far beyond fear. The depth of unrelenting, inescapable anguish within me eclipsed every other emotion throughout the remainder of that day. It no longer mattered whether or not I was recognized. It no longer mattered whether or not I too was executed. Nothing mattered anymore. The source of all life would soon be dead. How could it possibly matter whether or not my body continued to live?

I saw a number of familiar faces around me as we moved through the streets. Jesus' mother followed as close as the guards would permit. John walked beside her, his left arm around her, holding her close. Lazarus, Martha, and Mary were there together. A short distance away I saw my brother, Andrew. Our eyes met, but neither of us spoke. What was there to say? His eyes too were dark, swirling pools of pain.

When the procession finally reached Golgotha, the designated place of execution, the crowd fanned out at the base of the hill, watching the final steps in the execution process. The holes in which the crosses would be dropped had already been dug. The three crosses were laid on the ground, the three prisoners were laid on the crosses, and large metal spikes were driven through each hand and each foot. The soldiers then lifted each cross in turn and dropped them into the holes. Jesus' cross was in the center.

Of all the images I retain from that day, it is the memory of the Master's hands I recall most of all. I knew the touch of those hands as well as I knew the sound of his voice. I remembered the first time he placed his hand on my shoulder. I remembered the strength and the acceptance and the comradeship it communicated. I remembered the relief of feeling his hand gripping my arm as I sank below the waves that night I attempted to walk on the water. I recalled the countless times I was privileged to stand beside him, watching as he reached out and touched blind eyes, deaf ears, broken and deformed bodies, bringing sight, and sound, and wholeness with each touch. I remembered fixing my eyes on those fingers the day he took that little boy's lunch and kept breaking and breaking and breaking the bread and fish. I kept trying to see how he was performing the wonder taking place before me. In my mind I saw him once again as he stretched out those hands from the bow of our boat the night I knew we were all going to perish on the sea. I remembered the instant calm that followed, the peace, the rest.

And now I stood at a distance and looked up at those hands, crushed and bruised, blood flowing freely down his palms from the jagged wounds surrounding the spikes driven through them. And these drunken fools gambling below him had no idea what they were destroying.

For nearly three hours I stood in silence and watched. No one spoke to me; I spoke to no one. There were many in the crowd who were mocking him. The priests and other religious leaders obviously considered this a cause for great celebration. Others, like myself, clothed themselves in their private shrouds of grief. At one point I saw Mary and John approach the cross together. Words passed between them and Jesus, but I could not hear what was said.

Then, when the sun was at its highest point, beating down directly above our heads, a sudden eerie darkness crept across the land. Those who came to celebrate his execution were disturbed. They tried hard to pretend it was just a coincidence, but it made them all uneasy. Boisterous laughter and ugly jests were replaced by subdued conversations. Those who viewed this as their victory seemed more reticent to look directly at the dying figure before them. If there was any possibility this man's death was bringing darkness on the earth, was it possible he might bring even worse on those who were responsible?

For the next three hours, the darkness remained. Then, just as the darkness began to lessen a bit, I heard him speak his final words.

“My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?”

His cry pierced the silence that now surrounded the cross.

And then, “I thirst!”

And then, finally, “It is finished!” followed by one great sigh and then nothing more.

He was gone.

His body now hung unmoving on the cross, and the only world in which I wanted to live instantly ceased to exist. My future was gone. My great hopes and plans were no more. But in the end it was not the loss of my future, it was not the death of my hopes and my plans that brought me this endless pain. It was knowing that tomorrow morning I would wake to a world in which he no longer existed. I missed him more than I had known it was possible to miss anything or anyone. How strange! As long as he still breathed upon that cross, I continued to draw some comfort from his presence in our world. But now a great sea of loneliness flooded into my soul and mingled with my pain, bringing new poignancy, new dimension to my agony.

As I stood there in that strange half darkness, I suddenly felt the ground beneath my feet rumble and churn. It was as if the earth itself shuddered uncontrollably in its grief. There was nothing more for me here. There was nothing more for me anywhere. I turned and walked away into a night that would never end.