The Fisherman (8 page)

But the first words Jesus spoke to the man lying before him were not the words any of us anticipated. They were words I had never heard him speak before, words that sent a sudden shock through me and through every other person in that place. He said, “Take courage, my son; your sins are forgiven.”

Nothing could have created a more disastrous impact on the group gathered before him than those eight words. With one sentence Jesus set the movement back by months, if not years. No man had the authority to forgive sins. Only God himself could do that.

A little rumble of guarded comments rolled through the men. No one spoke openly, but the word “blasphemy” could be heard from several sections of the courtyard. Jesus knew what they were thinking, of course. When the rumble finally quieted down, he put it into words. “Why are you thinking evil in your hearts? For which is easier, to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven,' or to say, ‘Rise and walk'? But in order that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins,” he turned to the paralytic, “rise, take up your bed, and go home.”

And the man rose and went home!

The crowd on the roof went crazy, cheering and praising God for what they'd just seen.

Most of the men of power, however, reacted differently. It was obvious to all that something supernatural had just taken place. But it had happened in a way that made them feel as though they were being publicly reprimanded by this Galilean nobody. The meeting came to an abrupt conclusion. Jesus stood silent and alone at the front of the crowd, watching his guests cluster in little groups as they made their way outside. I did my best to patch things up, thanking each of them for coming, wishing them all a safe journey home, but my efforts did nothing to remove the suffocating tension throughout the crowd. The bits of conversation I heard as the men left made it clear the meeting had been a disaster. They saw Jesus as a blasphemer empowered by Satan. In their minds he needed to be silenced as soon as possible.

My hope, of course, was that the whole unfortunate incident would fade away in time and that Jesus would be given another chance to prove himself to our nation's leaders. Not only did the incident not fade away, the gulf between us and them widened rapidly. From then on there were always at least a few spies in the crowds, watching Jesus, challenging his teachings, seeking to discredit and undermine his authority. They infiltrated every group, every meeting, always on the alert for anything that might help erode his popularity.

I had no idea how closely we were being watched until a confrontation took place in the grain field a few days later. It was the Sabbath. A group of us were walking with Jesus along the edge of a grainfield just before the harvest. We were talking as we walked along. As usual, I was hungry. Without thinking I broke off a few heads of grain, rubbed them in my hands to separate the kernels from the chaff, and popped them into my mouth. Andrew saw me chewing and asked me what I was eating. I told him, and he along with several others in the group followed my lead.

Then from out of nowhere an authoritative figure suddenly charged up to Jesus and bellowed, “Look! Your disciples do what is not lawful to do on a Sabbath.” I recognized him as one of the Pharisees in attendance at the meeting in Jesus' home a few days earlier.

I felt like a fool. Without thinking I had led the whole group into a violation of the strict restrictions against harvesting on the Sabbath. I didn't really consider what we were doing to be “harvesting,” of course, but I hated to be the cause of yet another open conflict between the Master and the Pharisees. I moved to the front of the group and was about to offer a repentant apology for my thoughtlessness when Jesus spoke. “Haven't you read what David and his companions did when they became hungry, how he entered the house of God, and they ate the consecrated bread, which was not lawful for them to eat because it was for the priests alone? Or have you not read in the Law, that on the Sabbath the priests in the temple break the Sabbath and are innocent? But I tell you that something greater than the temple is here. If you had known what this means, ‘I desire compassion, and not a sacrifice,' you would not have condemned the innocent. The Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath. For the Son of Man is Lord of the Sabbath.”

It was a great response that left the accuser speechless and furious. I especially liked the part about the Sabbath being made for man and not man for the Sabbath. The problem, of course, was that rather than healing the rift between Jesus and the Pharisees, it intensified the battle. Within a matter of days he had publicly claimed for himself the authority to forgive sins, equated himself with King David, assumed rights given exclusively to the consecrated temple priests, announced that being in his presence was a greater honor than being in the temple of God, and declared himself to be “Lord of the Sabbath.” I loved the things he was saying, but I wondered if he fully appreciated how destructive these kinds of comments were to our plans for his move into national leadership.

The third incident—the one that finally prompted me to take action—took place one week later. Again it was the Sabbath. We were in the synagogue listening to Jesus teach. The place was packed, with a large number of Pharisees scattered throughout the crowd.

In the front row at Jesus' feet sat a man with a withered hand. Jesus saw him. A number of the Pharisees saw him too. As soon as Jesus finished his teaching, one of the Pharisees popped up and asked Jesus a question.

“Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?”

The Pharisee's intention was obvious. God himself had called our people to the sacred observance of the Sabbath when his finger etched the Ten Commandments into the stone tablets given to Moses. Our nation's allegiance to the careful observance of the Sabbath was impenetrable. If this Pharisee could get Jesus to openly defy the authority of God himself as revealed through Moses, it would be a powerful blow to the Master's credibility.

The place instantly went silent. We all waited for Jesus' response to the question. He looked first at the Pharisee, then at the rest of us sitting in front of him, and finally at the man with the withered hand. Then he asked the man with the deformity to come forward.

When the man joined him, Jesus rested his hand on the frightened man's shoulder, then asked his own question of the Pharisee. “Is it lawful to do good or to do harm on the Sabbath, to save a life or to kill?”

The Pharisee saw the trap coming and didn't say a word. What could he say? With one remarkable question Jesus had once again placed morality above legalism, the heart's intent above external appearance.

When the Pharisee refused to respond, Jesus turned to the man beside him and said, “Stretch out your hand.” As he stretched it out, we watched as the shriveled deformity was suddenly transformed into health and strength.

A silent rage came over the humiliated Pharisee. He and his companions exited immediately. If they could have found some way of turning the crowd against him, they would have attempted to execute Jesus that day for blasphemy. They were wise enough, though, to know the time was not yet right. They would be patient. They would wait and plot and watch for their opportunity.

At that point in my relationship with the Master, however, I was still optimistically hoping for some way to redeem what I saw as simply an unfortunate beginning in Jesus' relationship with Israel's political and religious leadership. Following what appeared to me to be three major public blunders in as many weeks, I finally felt compelled to speak to Jesus. Several days later, after carefully working out what I wanted to say, I found an opportunity to talk with him privately. I tried to impress upon him how crucial the endorsement of our national religious leadership was to the success of our program. I reminded him of the recent incidents that had generated so much tension between himself and the Pharisees. I suggested that if he would use a greater measure of tact and discretion in his future dealings with them, we might yet be able to redeem the situation.

He listened patiently to my little speech until I got to the part about “tact and discretion,” at which point he began to chuckle. This was not the response I was hoping for. When I asked him what he found so amusing, he said something about how enjoyable it was to hear me share my insights on tact and discretion and how he wouldn't trade me for anything in the world. He didn't come right out and say it, but I couldn't help but think he didn't consider me to be the most reliable authority on the proper application of tact and discretion in human relationships. I found the whole conversation intensely frustrating, and I remember feeling as though he had failed to grasp the wisdom of what I was attempting to say.

It is strange to look back on those days now, to remember how blind I was to him and to myself. That is the way of the flesh, of course, and I was always, only
flesh
at that time in my life. I saw only through the eyes of the flesh. I understood only the ways of the flesh. Jesus was a great prophet, empowered by God, destined to lead our nation to greatness. Our task was to move him into prominence and then a position of power. I knew Jesus would not use his powers to destroy his enemies, so our path to victory would be found in winning them over. Even now I can feel my face burning with embarrassment when I recall how I wanted to protect my Lord from failure, how I wanted to educate him in the ways of success. Such arrogance! Such blindness! Such pride!

And through it all he loved me, encouraged me, and fed me just as much truth as he knew I was able to swallow. My ignorance didn't bother him; he expected nothing else. My blindness didn't discourage him; he knew that only the Spirit could give me eyes to see. And my flesh-based approach to life didn't defeat him in the least, because he knew the only solution to the flesh was death—both his death, and the death of my confidence in the flesh. But those deaths were still several years away, and there was a great deal to be accomplished by him and in me before either of us was ready for that.

Though I could not see it at the time, the beginning of that second year brought with it the initiation of a radical new direction in the Master's strategy. I continued to cling to the hope that he would seek to build bridges of reconciliation with our nation's leadership. He and they, on the other hand, knew all too well that no such bridges could ever be built. They feared him as they had never feared anything or anyone else in their lives. He was truth clothed in power and compassion, and it terrified them. They had worked hard to build their power structure, dancing their intricate dance of corruption and compromise. They knew it was a dance he would not share. There was no place for him in their world. One way or another he would have to be removed.

And so began phase two of the Master's plan. Though he continued his public teaching and healing work among the multitudes in the rural areas, his primary point of focus was quickly redirected to those whom he once referred to affectionately as his “little flock.” I think even then each of us knew who we were. Certainly he knew. We were the ones who had given ourselves to him. That doesn't say it well, but I don't know how else to put it. We were the ones who were drawn to him not because of what he said or because of what we got from him but simply because of who he was. We did not understand him, but we knew, too, that we could not live without him.

The Master's new strategy became evident to us all the day he designated the Twelve. I wonder if I can help you understand what that day was like.

It began, as most days did, with a group of us congregating at the house where Jesus was staying early in the morning. He was not there when we arrived, but we had grown accustomed to him slipping out before the sun was up to find a secluded place to talk with his heavenly Father. I found out later that this particular time he had been out all night.

By the time he arrived home, a sizable crowd was waiting for him. Many of the faces in the group were well known to me. Andrew, James, and John were there, of course, as were Philip and Nathanael, who preferred to be called by his family name, Bartholomew. There were a number of recent additions in the crowd as well, like Matthew. Until just a few days earlier he had been the collector of Roman taxes in the region. It seemed strange to see him there, standing off to the side by himself. I had spent most of my adult life hating the man for his shameless sellout to the Roman Empire for the sake of increasing the bulge in his wallet. But I was also standing next to the Master the week before, when Jesus stepped inside Matthew's office, looked into his eyes, and asked Matthew to follow him. I saw first the fear, then the shame, then the amazement and hope that passed over Matthew's face in his encounter with the Master. I had experienced this inner pilgrimage myself and had to admit Matthew might now be one of us.

As Andrew, James, John, Philip, Nathanael, and I stood there in our little group, waiting, watching for the Master's arrival, we had no way of knowing the significance of what was about to take place. The words spoken by the Master this day would alter the course of our lives, our nation, and eventually our world forever.

Jesus' appearance brought the same response it always brought; the crowd surged forward in excitement and anticipation. As always, everyone there brought with them their own private agendas for the Master. Some wanted healing, some had questions they wanted to ask, some came to attack or discredit him, and the rest of us just wanted to be where he was.

This day, however, the healing-teaching-discussion pattern with which we were so familiar did not occur. When Jesus saw the crowd moving toward him, he stopped, motioned for us to follow, and then led the curious procession to a grassy hillside outside of town. He asked us to sit, waited until the commotion quieted down, and then began to speak.

“This day I have chosen twelve men from among you to be with me as my disciples. When I call your name, I would like you to join me here at the front.”

I had never seen a group of people become so quiet so quickly as did that crowd who heard Jesus speak those words. None of us knew what was involved in being designated as one of Jesus' disciples. We did know, however, that the designation carried with it an honor unlike anything we had ever known before. It was one thing for
us
to have chosen
him
as our leader—to follow him where he went, to listen to his teachings, to talk and learn and laugh with him each day. It was altogether different for
him
to choose
us
. As I stood there in the silence, waiting for him to speak again, I recalled my foolish antics on that first journey with the Master to the wedding in Cana more than a year ago. I remembered my frantic efforts to impress this man. I remembered thinking what a great addition I would make to his team. I remembered thinking how much he needed someone like me. The memory made me feel foolish. So many things had still not yet changed in my life at that point. But one thing certainly had. I knew Jesus didn't need me; I needed him.

To my credit, Jesus' announcement of his intention to name twelve disciples did not fill me with anxiety. I knew already he would call my name. How could it be otherwise? “You are Simon the son of John; you shall be called Peter.” My future, my life, was bound up in this man.

The first six names he called came as no surprise to me. “Simon, Andrew, James, John, Nathanael, and Philip, will you join me up here?” We'd all been with the Master from the beginning. Our commitment to him and his to us was certain. The seventh name he spoke, however, took the crowd by surprise. “I would also like you, Matthew, to join me.” No one was more surprised to hear his name than Matthew himself. He was sitting at the very back of the crowd, his eyes fixed not on Jesus but on the ground in front of him. When he heard his name spoken, he looked up, then looked around him, apparently curious to see the man who shared his name—the faithful, obedient, devout Matthew who had just been selected for this great honor. But when no one else stirred, Matthew looked at the Master. To his amazement, Matthew saw that Jesus, and indeed most of the rest of the crowd, was looking at him. For a moment he just sat there, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

As I watched Matthew stand and then work his way to the front, I wondered at how such different paths could have led us both to this same spot. I had spent much of the past year dancing around in front of the Lord, frantically waving banners and carrying signs declaring, “Peter is your man!” My boastful flesh assured me that Jesus had indeed chosen wisely when he selected me, and he could certainly not do better than to choose others like me. Matthew, on the other hand, came forward in utter disbelief, still unable to accept what was taking place. His fearful flesh, combined with his sense of shame and failure over his union with the hated Roman Empire, made him feel as though Jesus was making a mistake. Even when he finally reached the six of us standing next to Jesus, he stood a few feet away. I looked over at him, saw the amazement and insecurity in his eyes, and in a rare moment of selfless compassion reached out and placed my hand on his shoulder. That was the first time I ever saw him smile. He took a step closer to the group and said, “I can't believe this! I can't believe he chose
me
.” Silent tears were streaming down his cheeks.

The next two men named by the Master brought with them a greater history with Jesus than that of all the rest of us put together. They were Jesus' cousins, James, whom we called James the Less because he was a full head shorter than anyone else in the group, and his younger brother, Judas, or Thaddaeus as he preferred to be called to avoid confusion with the other Judas in the group. These two men had grown up with the Master, knowing him more as their older brother than as their cousin. With the exception of his mother, Mary, of course, James and Thaddaeus were the first and only members of Jesus' immediate family to follow him prior to his resurrection from the dead.

They were a great addition to the group. James was the most energetic, impish little fellow I'd ever known. His practical jokes and quick wit kept the rest of us forever on guard.

And his brother, Thaddaeus, brought with him a remarkable spirit of trust and obedient submission to Jesus. He was the youngest in the group, not yet out of his teens, having known the Master his entire life as his oldest and certainly most significant cousin. I don't know when he first began to view Jesus as more than just a good man, but I have often thought they must have shared experiences throughout his childhood that made it easier for him to follow now.

The tenth name Jesus called will affect you differently than it affected those of us who were there that day. “Judas Iscariot, I would also like you to join me.”

Perhaps it is impossible for you to hear his name now without feeling a sense of revulsion. You know he is the one who would one day sell out the Master for a handful of coins. In your mind you might even picture the crowd sitting on that grassy hillside, wincing in disgust when his name was called. You could not be further from the truth.

Judas was the one disciple chosen by the Master who seemed “right” to all of us there that day. He was a likable, congenial young man, well known in our community and highly respected. He brought to the group a sharp mind, initiative, and an uncanny business sense. In the weeks ahead, as friends and followers of Jesus contributed money to help meet our needs, Judas was the unanimous choice for group treasurer. He had listened closely to the Master's teachings during the previous several months and brought with him an unshakable confidence in both the right and the ability of Jesus to lead the nation of Israel to greatness. He seemed to possess no reservations about linking his own personal future to the future of this miracle worker from Galilee.

The selection process was completed with Jesus' call for Thomas and Simon the Zealot to join the group.

It is difficult to imagine a more diverse collection of personalities than the ones standing next to Jesus that day. Whereas James the Less was a bouncing, bubbly, enthusiastic explosion of life, Thomas was serious and introspective, almost to the point of being morbid. He was a quiet, logical, brooding thinker who seldom spoke except to point out why some idea was impractical or why some scheme was destined to fail. His loyalty to the Master was undeniable, but his obsession with the negative in every situation made him a difficult comrade for me to relate to.

The Master's mosaic of contrasts was completed with Matthew's opposite in Simon the Zealot. While Matthew spent his former life in cahoots with the Roman enemy, Simon had invested his efforts in a frantic fight to free our nation from all Gentile oppression. Prior to his union with and submission to the Master, his determination to restore the sovereignty of the nation of Israel by any means, at any cost, made him one of the most outspoken and contentious members of our community. We never ceased to enjoy baiting Matthew and Simon into political debates that always ended with Simon being reduced to an irrational, frustrated, screaming rage.

Following the designation of the twelve of us, Jesus had us follow him up the mountain, away from the rest of the crowd. Once we were alone, he sat down with us and talked of his plans for us and for the future. Much of what he said that morning we did not understand until years later. One thing, however, was clear to me even then. From this time on training and equipping us would become his primary focus. For twelve months he offered his messianic credentials to the nation by teaching, touching, healing, discussing, debating, and almost constantly traveling throughout his beloved Israel. Those who held the political power had examined these credentials closely, understood all too well what they meant, and rejected them outright. From this time forward, though the offer of himself as the promised Messiah was never withdrawn, the focus of his work now turned away from the nation as a whole and toward equipping and educating the few who accepted him as their Master. He let us know that though he would continue to permit the masses to follow him and would continue to minister to their needs, from now on his example and his words were primarily for us.

As I look back now on the task our Lord was seeking to accomplish in us, I stand in awe at both what he did and how he did it. The task he sought to accomplish in the three remaining years he spent with us was challenging to say the least. Here we were, a group of mostly uneducated, selfish, stubborn, self-centered, strong-willed men with no idea who he was or what he was seeking to accomplish for the human race. Before his departure he would make certain he had equipped us with all the knowledge and tools we would need to continue the movement that would ultimately impact the entire world.

The Master knew how limited his time with us was. He knew, too, the great areas of ignorance and confusion that clouded our thinking. With his perfect, eternal understanding of all the sacred writings, I find it amazing that he seemed to put such a low priority on communicating specific content to us. Why didn't he sit us down for several hours each morning and instruct us in the Holy Scriptures? Why didn't he design a curriculum that would have led us systematically through the writings of Moses and the prophets and the history and poetry of our people? Why didn't he establish some sort of intense formal education process that would allow him to pass on to us massive quantities of knowledge?