Mark's Story (5 page)

W
hen Mark and Mary reached the awful plateau, a crowd had gathered, and Mark knew he could mingle without being detected. But they came to the edge of the scene, his mother turned to him. “No farther.”

He nodded and watched her proceed directly to John and to Jesus’ mother and the other women—including John’s mother. They huddled a distance from where three crosses lay in the dust. The women embraced and consoled one another. Mark was so proud of John and his courage.

It was about nine in the morning when two other condemned men were nailed to their crosses and raised to where they would die. Jesus cried out when the spikes pierced His flesh and His cross was raised and then sunk with a thud into the earth between the two. Horrified and repulsed, Mark did not know where he found the fortitude to watch, and yet he could not turn away.

As the Teacher hung there, gasping, chest heaving, shoulders straining to pull Himself high enough for each breath, one of the guards leaned a crude ladder against the cross and mounted it, nailing above His head the accusation against Him:
THIS IS JESUS THE KING OF THE JEWS
.

Jesus peered down at His mother. “Woman,” He said, “behold your son!” He turned to John. “Behold your mother!”

Many who watched blasphemed Him, wagging their heads and saying, “You who destroy the temple and build it in three days, save Yourself! If You are the Son of God, come down from the cross!”

Even the rulers in the crowd called out, “He saved others; let Him save Himself if He is the Christ, the chosen of God.”

The soldiers also mocked Him, saying, “If You are the King of the Jews, save Yourself.”

Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do.”

Mark, fists clenched, jaw set, trembled with rage as the chief priests mocked Jesus right with the scribes and elders, “He saved others; Himself He cannot save. If He is the King of Israel, let Him now come down from the cross, and we will believe Him. He trusted in God; let God deliver Him now if He will have Him; for He said, ‘I am the Son of God.’”

Even the robber hanging on one side of Him reviled Him. “If You are the Christ, save Yourself and us.”

The other said, “Do you not even fear God, seeing you are under the same condemnation? And we indeed justly, for we receive the due reward of our deeds; but this Man has done nothing wrong.” He said to Jesus, “Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.”

Jesus said, “Assuredly, I say to you, today you will be with Me in Paradise.”

As Mark stood sobbing, desperate to do something, imagining sacrificing himself to charge the soldiers and try to lead others to pull Jesus from the death tree, darkness as of the night settled over all the land. He had promised his mother, and he could not leave her without a loved one. Mark pulled his cloak tight around his neck and shivered, straining to see, somehow compelled to know when Jesus breathed his last. This was all beyond his comprehension, more than he could fathom. He remained there three hours, which seemed like twelve, and at about noon Jesus cried out with a loud voice, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”

And all Mark could think was that it was not His Father who had forsaken Jesus, but His friends. One had betrayed Him, one had denied Him, nine more had abandoned Him, and one faithful friend remained.

“I thirst!” Jesus cried.

Someone ran and found a sponge, soaked it with something, and put it on a reed, offering it up to Him. But Jesus turned away and cried out again with a loud voice, “It is finished! Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit.” And He fell silent and still.

Mark dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands. What was he to make of this horror? What had Jesus done but heal the sick and raise the dead? He had taught and thrilled people with news of the coming kingdom and of heaven. Were the skeptics right? If He was truly the Son of God, could He not have defeated all these who would destroy Him and avoided this gruesome death?

Just as Mark was pleading with God to show Himself, the ground shook and threw him flat, legs and arms spread wide, trying to hold on as the earth rolled and roiled. Massive rocks and boulders split, resounding like thunder.

Mark struggled to his feet and peered over the crowd to the crosses, where a centurion and his men fought to stay mounted on horses that stamped and reared. The centurion cried out, “Truly this was the Son of God!”

The entire crowd now appeared terrified and began beating their chests and streaming away. John and Mary and all Jesus’ acquaintances remained at a distance, watching, but they covered their eyes when soldiers came and broke the legs of the criminals on either side of Him. When the soldiers came to Jesus they seemed to determine that He was already dead, so they did not break His legs. But one of the soldiers pierced His side with a spear, and blood and water poured out.

As the crowd disappeared, all who were left were the soldiers and the women with John, who remained until evening. Mark stayed behind them, out of his mother’s sight, for fear she would insist he return home. They seemed to be talking among themselves about what to do next when a horse and wagon arrived, bearing a man John greeted warmly. It was Joseph of Arimathea. He had surreptitiously met with Jesus and the disciples at Mark’s home more than once. Word was that he was a member of the Jewish council but a secret follower of Jesus—secretly for fear of the Jews.

“I asked the governor to be entrusted with the body,” he said, and produced a document he showed to the guards. A centurion confirmed it bore the seal of Pilate, and Joseph was allowed to lower the body of Jesus. As the women wailed, Joseph carefully wrapped Him in a clean linen cloth and bore Him slowly to a nearby garden cemetery. Mary Magdalene and another Mary—not John’s mother—followed, with Mark far behind.

Soon another man arrived, Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews, bearing about a hundred pounds of myrrh and aloes. He and Joseph packed the spices around the body and rewrapped Jesus with strips of cloth. They then dressed him in a white burial robe and laid the body in a tomb Joseph said had recently been hewn out of the rock for his own family.

The two Marys asked Joseph if they could observe the tomb and how His body was laid, then said they were going to prepare spices and fragrant oils with which they would anoint Him following the Sabbath.

Joseph and Nicodemus squatted at the base of a colossal stone that lay in a slanted trough just above the opening of the tomb. A wood chock kept it from rolling down. They pressed their full weight against it and were able to budge it an inch or so off the chock so Nicodemus could kick the wood out of the way. They quickly stepped away from the stone, and it rolled in front of the door.

The two men grimly departed.

T
HE WALK BACK TO
his home was the longest of Mark’s life. He had not eaten all day, and yet he felt not a pang of hunger. Upon his arrival his mother had a servant wash his feet. She embraced him, weeping, but he was uncertain whether he would ever shed tears again.

He nodded toward the upper room. “Are they there?”

“Yes,” she said, “but please don’t go up. As you can imagine, they are heartbroken.”

“Guilty is what they are.”

“They feel it too, Mark. Your reproach will accomplish nothing.”

He went to his room, eager to confront Jesus’ so-called friends—especially Peter. But he also grieved with them and for them. For whatever mistakes they had made, Mark could not doubt their bereavement. These men had committed their very lives to the Teacher, at least up until He needed them most.

Restless, Mark finally mounted the steps, not knowing what he would say or do. As he reached the top, rather than show himself, he sat just outside the door where he had sat just the night before. All he heard was weeping and groaning and the sobbing of full-grown men. Their despair reached his heart in spite of everything, and he could no longer corral his own tears.

So much for the Messiah and the coming kingdom. All was lost.

T
HE NEXT DAY,
the Sabbath, was the worst Mark could imagine. Even the servants seemed subdued as they cooked and delivered meals to him and his mother and the disciples. Mark felt sick to his very bones, and yet his mother persuaded him to eat so as not to make things worse. When finally he forced down some olives and then grapes, his appetite—and his imagination—was stirred. As he ate, something drew him to the tomb.

About an hour after sundown, Mark asked his mother if she wanted to go with him. “It’s truly quite a beautiful spot,” he said.

“Maybe in time,” she said. “Just now I cannot bring myself to go. The pain is too fresh.”

Mark recalled that it had taken some time for her to visit even his father’s grave. “Do you mind if I go? I will not tarry long.”

“Please don’t. I will worry after you.”

“Don’t go, or don’t tarry?”

“You may go. But please, return swiftly.”

M
ARK TOOK HIS HEAVIEST
cloak and ventured out. While it felt good to be away from the morose atmosphere at home, every step through the city brought back memories of the horrifying events that filled the last several hours.

Mark was stunned to enter the area of the garden tomb and see through the branches of the olive trees flames from torches in front of the grave. As he drew nearer, he heard men talking. Peering into the clearing he discovered Roman soldiers arrayed before the heavy stone Joseph and Nicodemus had rolled in front of the opening.

Some of the men stood at the ready, but most milled about, looking bored. Something about how they carried themselves made Mark approach them without fear. He stepped into the clear and pretended to be younger than his sixteen years. He idly found a pebble, which he threw far above the trees.

“Hey, there!” he called to the soldiers, pitching his voice higher than normal and waving.

Some smiled at him. Most ignored him. He moved closer. “What are you doing?”

“Just following orders,” one said. “Guarding the tomb.”

Mark scowled as if deeply puzzled. “Why guard a tomb? Keeping people out, or keeping someone in?”

The guard laughed. “We wondered the same. Truth is, somebody reminded the governor that this character predicted he would rise from the dead after three days. Pilate wants to make sure his friends don’t come and steal his body, then claim he arose. We even sealed the stone with heavy wax and the governor’s mark. We’ll know if anyone tries to budge it. It would take several men to move it from that decline.”

Mark found a spot to sit where he could dangle his legs.

“You want to be a soldier when you grow up?” the guard said.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Sure, that’s exactly what a Jewish boy wanted to become. A Roman soldier.

M
ARK COULDN
’
T BRING HIMSELF
to tell his mother what he had seen. No doubt she would see this as a desecration of the grave. Fortunately, the soldier had made it clear that this duty was to last only three days, so by the time his mother did feel up to visiting, the men guarding the tomb would be gone.

The lad did not know what to make of the governor’s fear that someone would claim Jesus had risen from the dead. He lay back on his cot that night, as miserable as he had ever been. This was worse than the death of his father, which, while tragic and unfair, had plainly been an accident. Mark covered his eyes with the heels of his hands and pleaded with God to somehow comfort his heart and help him understand all that had come to pass. Had Jesus really been the Son of God? And if so, how was it that God had allowed Him to be slain by mere men?

Above him Mark heard the slow plodding of the disciples. Voices were muffled, and there was not one sound of a psalm or hymn. What was to become of these men? Would they all return to their homes in Galilee and their former occupations?

They seemed paralyzed with grief, but even worse, fear. That still angered Mark, but he could hardly blame them. Most were recognizable. They all could be identified by someone as a follower of Jesus, who was now seen as a rabble-rouser, a rebel, a troublemaker for both the Jews and the Romans. If He had been deemed worthy of execution, what about them?

The disciples themselves had made no claims of deity, but Jesus had told both the high priest and the governor himself that they had correctly deduced that He was a king.

And what would become of John Mark? Just a few days before, he had allowed himself to imagine growing older, maturing, becoming an adult friend of Peter and the disciples and, yes, even Jesus Himself. Now his future seemed bleak and foreboding.

Very late that night Mark roused at the sound of John returning. John asked a servant to awaken Mark’s mother, and apologized profusely.

“Not at all, sir,” she said, appearing pale and shaken. “What is it, John?”

He reported that the other women were attending Jesus’ mother, “allowing me to return to the disciples. But Mary of Magdala wants to visit the tomb in the morning. I wondered if you would care to join her. I cannot bear the idea of going.”

“Nor can I,” Mark’s mother said. “Unless she would otherwise be alone.”

“No, others have agreed to go and help anoint the body.”

“Then I would beg your pardon and prefer not to.”

“I understand.”

And with that, John bade her leave and mounted the stairs to the upper room. Mark could tell that the rest were gathering to hear the latest from John. Mark thought about the Roman guards at the tomb. Surely the women would be troubled to discover them there. He set out his sandals and tunic and cloak, planning to go along and help talk the guards into breaking the seal on the stone and allowing the women in. Would the guard he had talked to recognize him and suspect him of having been sympathetic to the condemned?