The Fisherman (19 page)

Then came that day—the incredible, amazing, glorious day of Jesus' return to Jerusalem. Can you understand what it was like for those of us who were there? This was our ultimate victory. This was the fulfillment of all our hopes. Never had I known such unbounded exhilaration. Everything I wanted, everything I longed for, everything I knew I needed for happiness and success and total fulfillment seemed suddenly within my reach. Of course I knew those who held political power hated Jesus. But I knew, too, the power of the multitude surrounding us. And I certainly knew the power of the Master himself. Why, just a few days earlier, had we not all stood outside the tomb of Lazarus, a fellow disciple dead and buried four days earlier, and watched Jesus call his friend back to life? Who could contend with such power, such authority? Who would dare try?

But let me back up a step and walk with you through that day. The Passover Feast was now just six days away. People were pouring into the city by the thousands. It is impossible for me to adequately describe the sense of anticipation surrounding the Master at that point in his ministry. Our final extended sweep throughout the nation, combined with the rumors and testimonies of the thousands whose lives had been touched by Jesus during the past four years, made him the supreme topic of conversation throughout Israel. And the tension was only intensified by the public proclamation of the chief priest's warning to the people about Jesus, demanding that anyone who knew where he was should report it to him immediately. The entire nation waited, and watched, and wondered if he would come.

We spent the night in Bethany, a village about two miles outside of Jerusalem, at the house of Simon the Leper. We still called him “Simon the Leper” even though several years earlier Jesus' healing touch made the title untrue. Simon himself loved the title. Indeed, he refused to let it go because it provided him with an ever present reminder of the life he would have led had it not been for the Master.

Lazarus was with us, as were his sisters, Mary and Martha. Word of Jesus' arrival spread quickly, and a private supper soon turned into a grand public celebration. The house was packed with disciples and pilgrims and neighbors and friends. The food and laughter and festivities went on until late in the night.

The only blot on the evening came when Judas lashed out at Lazarus's sister, Mary, because she anointed Jesus with a costly, fragrant ointment partway through the evening. He wanted to know why this ointment had not been sold and the money given to the poor. At the time it sounded like a genuine expression of compassion. For the past three years, Judas had been our group treasurer. I don't know when he first began stealing from the donations entrusted into his care by the faithful followers who supported the Master's work. None of us were aware of it until after his death. Nor do I know to what degree his lust for money was intensified by his frustration over the Master's refusal to pursue Judas's personal program for success.

The awkwardness was soon put to rest, however, by Jesus' strong words of affirmation and appreciation to Mary for her expression of kindness and love. He did say her anointing was in preparation for his burial, but we all once again tactfully refused to respond to what at the time we saw as yet another reference to an event that could not and would not take place. Within a few minutes the festive atmosphere resumed and, apart from the unnoticed absence of an angry and humiliated Judas, continued for several more hours.

We all got to sleep late but rose with the sun a few hours later. This was the day! We all knew it. This was the day Jesus would enter Jerusalem. We didn't know what to expect. But we knew it had to be good. Even here in Bethany several hundred Passover pilgrims waited, refusing to complete their journey into the city until they could complete it with the Master.

Following our morning meal we gathered our belongings together and began walking the few remaining miles into Jerusalem. When we moved, so did those waiting for Jesus' departure. The road was packed with travelers, though, and it wasn't long before Jesus was lost to sight by all but those of us immediately surrounding him.

We walked for less than an hour, stopping just outside Bethphage, the last small community before entrance into the city. We could now feel the warmth of the morning sun on our faces. Jesus pulled us out of the stream of travelers and gave Andrew and James some private instructions. They left the group, and the rest of us sat down by the side of the road and waited.

Within a few minutes Andrew and James returned leading a donkey, followed by her colt. When I asked Andrew where they got the animals, he told me they were tied in the exact spot the Master told them to look. Jesus wanted no misunderstanding. There was no chance, no luck, no accident in what was about to take place. It had all been planned, prepared beforehand by the Father.

We placed our outer garments on the colt. Then Jesus mounted the makeshift saddle, and we resumed our journey into the city, leading the donkey so that the colt would follow.

I'm still not sure why Jesus' appearance on that colt caused the people to respond the way they did. Part of it, of course, was simply the fact that he now sat elevated above his fellow travelers, and they could see him. Part of it, too, was the pent-up anticipation of his arrival. But it was more than that. For the first time since King David himself, our nation finally had the hope of a leader who came from our world, who understood our lives, a man who rode on a little donkey. He was not high and lofty and elevated in his royal carriage, surrounded by guards. He was right here with us, next to us, in the same dirt and dust and odors and heat in which we lived. Here at last was a man we could trust, a man we would follow. Here at last was a man worthy of our adoration. In a matter of minutes, people were flinging their clothing in front of the colt and ripping branches from the trees to pave his way. Cries of “Hosanna! Praise him who comes in the name of the Lord, the king of Israel!” ran through the crowd.

The road between us and the gates of the city was already one solid mass of humanity. But as the cries of Jesus' approach flew ahead of us, all travel stopped in anticipation of the coming king. What began as a caravan suddenly transformed into a parade. Thousands of Israelites moved to the sides of the road and waited for the arrival of the great man astride his tiny mount. Hands reached out to touch him from all directions as we passed. The shouts and cheers and affirmations of praise thundered around us: “Save us, Son of David!” “Praise him who comes in the name of the Lord!” “Hosanna in the highest!” “Praise to the coming kingdom of our father David!”

The procession came to an abrupt halt when several irate Pharisees blasted through the throng and blocked the pathway before us. For a few seconds they glared up at Jesus, waiting until they could be heard. When the crowd recognized that some sort of confrontation was taking place, silence quickly spread throughout the mob. When the leader of the delegation knew he could be heard, he spoke, rage and indignation oozing from his words. “Teacher, rebuke your disciples!”

The thought of Jesus receiving and accepting such proclamations was more than they could take. Jesus must be stopped. This mob must be silenced.

The crowd strained to hear Jesus' response. Would he submit? Would he dismount? Would he apologize? Even now, as I recall the Master's response, I can feel the thrill of it running through me. “I tell you,” he responded, “if these become silent, the stones will cry out!” Jesus' thinly veiled reference to Habakkuk's prophetic promise of what would happen if truth and righteousness were not affirmed within the nation of Israel brought a deafening explosion of jubilation from the multitude. In that same prophetic passage, Habakkuk went on to say, “For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.” These Pharisees knew their prophetic writings, as did many of the rest of us. We knew the passage, we knew the promises, and we felt the first mighty wave of that knowledge pouring over us, bathing us in hope while drowning these Pharisees in terror.

The Pharisees crept aside; the procession resumed once again. Andrew led the donkey; I marched by the Master's side drunk with the exhilaration of what was happening around us. Nothing would stop us now. How could I ever have doubted the Master's wisdom? How could I have doubted his flawless sense of timing? This was the perfect moment, the appointed time for Jesus' ultimate victory. It was all I could do to maintain the facade of reserved, dignified detachment I considered appropriate for the king's second in command. I longed to grab palm branches in both hands and lunge through the crowd, screaming, “WE WIN! WE WIN! WE WIN!”

The procession was slow, but what did it matter? We were crowning the new king of Israel. If it took all day to do it, what difference did it make? As long as the cheering continued, as long as I held my place by the Master's side, my flesh wallowed in it all.

At one point Jesus stopped the procession and stared for several minutes in silence at Jerusalem spread out before him. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he looked at the city in which he would soon be crucified. I knew the Master well enough to know he was not attempting to “stage” anything. The tears were real. The pain was real. He hurt for those he loved. At the time, however, I do remember thinking what a great added touch this was to Jesus' overall image. Here was royalty, humility, and now deep, rich compassion all combined in one perfect person. The words he spoke as he sat there, looking over the city of David, disturbed me, but I took comfort in knowing only a few of us were able to hear them. “If you had known this day the things which make for peace! But now they have been hidden from your eyes. For the days will come upon you when your enemies will throw up a barricade against you, and surround you and hem you in on every side, and they will level you to the ground and your children within you, and they will not leave in you one stone upon another, because you did not recognize the time of your visitation.”

These were not the words of a king riding to his coronation. Indeed, they sounded very much like a prophetic curse placed upon a city that had rejected him. But where was the rejection? Certainly not here, not now. I dismissed his words as misguided pessimism, just as I had dismissed his persistent proclamations of his own approaching death. It was time Jesus faced the truth. Couldn't he hear the cries of those around him? Didn't he understand? This crowd was his. This city was his. This nation was his. And soon this Roman Empire would be his as well. Speak what he would, there could be no denying the obvious reality of what was taking place around us. Stand back, world! Here comes your king!

It was a week unlike any other, a week in which victory and defeat, heaven and hell, exhilaration and utter despair stood side by side and marched against me. It was a week in which the world I wanted seemed at last within my grasp, a week in which my flesh guzzled sweet, rich gulps of hope, staggering under its intoxication. It was a week in which blinding light turned to blackness and despair. It was a week in which everything I longed for, everything I sought, everything I trusted surged into my life in one great, glorious climax and failed me utterly. It was a week in which the Master plunged his hand deep within me, grabbed my heart of flesh, and crushed it in his almighty grip. It was a week I would not exchange for all the wealth in the world, nor choose to live again for the same compensation.

Jesus' dramatic entrance into the city turned out to be an all-day affair. The entire city knew of our arrival long before we passed through the gates. Not since King David himself returned victorious from battle had such unbounded exhilaration filled these streets.

Jesus instructed us to lead his mount to the temple. By the time we finally arrived, however, it was late afternoon. None of us knew what the Master would do. In the end, however, he simply dismounted and did nothing. For a few minutes he stood in silence at the base of the temple steps and looked up at the structure before him. Then he turned and led us out of the city and back to Bethany for the night.

For my part it was enough. Of course I was hoping for some sort of glorious final coronation ceremony to culminate the day. But I was content. A great barrier had finally been breached. For the first time since his public ministry began, Jesus not only accepted but encouraged the people's acknowledgment of his rightful kingship. He knew what they wanted. He heard their words, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, even the king of Israel!” He alone selected this time and staged this entrance into the city. Having acknowledged their nomination, could his coronation be far behind? It had been a good day. The Master was meeting my expectations. I would allow him the right to coordinate and finalize the remaining details in his great victory.

Conquering a nation, even without violence, is exhausting work. We closed the doors that night, ate our evening meal, and then dropped our weary bodies into bed for a few hours' sleep.

The Master was up with the sunrise, and then so were we. Following our morning meal we once again reentered the city. This time we all traveled on foot, however, without the public procession and recognition. It was midmorning by the time we reached the temple courtyard. The grounds were once again packed with pilgrims busy about the business of exchanging their Roman currency for temple money, purchasing their “approved” sacrificial animals, and arranging for the sacrifices to be offered by the priests. As I inched my way through the crowd, trying to keep an eye on the Master ahead of me, I couldn't help but recall the last time I'd been in this situation. Had it really been three years since the day I saw the Master explode in anger against these money changers? I was still fighting him then, terrified of his intrusion into my life. How could I have changed so much? And how could these people around me have changed so little? The money still clinked. The stalls still held the overpriced animals. The gleam of greed still glowed in the eyes of those who stole from their countrymen in the name of God.

Then, without warning, it happened again. A table upended, crashing to the floor. Money rolling everywhere, people screaming, pushing, crawling, grabbing, shoving little treasures into their pockets. A second table and a third came crashing down. Terrified money changers ran for cover. Excited pilgrims clutched and cheered. Animal cages flew open. Birds and bullocks and goats added to the chaos.

This time, however, as the circle widened around the Master, giving him room for his work, there was a difference. This time everyone knew who he was. I heard delighted comments buzzing around me. “Jesus is doing it to them again!” “He's back! And look at the cowards run!”

There was no question whose side the crowd took. And there was no question about the terror in the eyes of the temple leadership. Three years earlier the wrath of a country nobody being poured out on their greed was a temporary, irritating inconvenience. Now, with his name and his praises flowing from the mouths of every pilgrim in the city, Jesus was a significant threat to their very existence.

When the confusion finally subsided enough for Jesus' words to be heard, he looked directly at the cluster of the temple merchants cowering in one corner of the courtyard and said, “Isn't it written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations'? But you have made it a robbers' den.”

No delegation attempted to pacify him this time, however. No soothing voice tried to reason with him. They all knew this was open warfare, and the cheering multitude on the Master's side gave him a temporary advantage. Business was over for the day. In fact, business was over for the week. Following his temple cleansing, Jesus claimed the courtyard for himself. He spent the rest of the day teaching the people until late in the evening.

It was dark when we finally made it back to Bethany for the night. Once again I gave the Master acceptable marks for the day. I did feel as though he was not using the power of the people to his greatest advantage, and he had yet to level a decisive blow against those who held political power. But there was still time. The city would be filled with Passover pilgrims for another week. Perhaps he was planning his final attack for the feast day itself.

If I had the time, I would walk with you through every detail of those final few days. I would let you listen with me to the helpless frustration of those who attempted to engage the Master in open debate as he taught in the temple throughout the week. I would share with you his public proclamations warning all who listened to beware of the scribes and Pharisees, calling them hypocrites, serpents, the offspring of vipers. I would share with you the remarkable prophecies he shared with us concerning the future of Jerusalem and the signs surrounding his own return. If I had the time . . . but the time allotted to me is now nearly at an end. Besides, my dear brother Matthew, the meticulous Dr. Luke with all his notes and interviews and research, and my frequent traveling companion, Mark, have already written excellent accounts of those final days.

It is better for me to limit myself to the events that bear directly upon the Master's work within me. It is a tiny part of the whole, I know, but it is the part assigned to me, the part I know the best.

My frustration with the Master continued to increase throughout the remainder of the week. Rather than capitalizing on the surge of popular support surrounding our entrance into the city, Jesus spent much of his time publicly humiliating and attacking his enemies. At the time it appeared to me to be the worst possible strategy. By the end of the week Jesus had successfully driven them into a terrified, blinding rage, while at the same time doing nothing to remove them from their positions of power. By the time we gathered together for that final Passover meal, I urgently hoped the Master would allow us to use this private meeting to develop an effective strategy for defeating our foes.

I was not the only concerned member of the group. The truth is, all twelve of us went into that supper bickering over the merits and difficulties of a dozen different possible schemes for moving the Master into power. The debates degenerated into heated arguments over who had the greater claim to leadership within the group. By the time we all sat down to eat, we were a gathering of grumpy, stubborn men using surface irritation with one another to mask our much deeper frustration with Jesus for his refusal to use his powers and charisma to catapult us into victory.

I was sitting between James and John, still arguing with them about my obvious, rightful role as Jesus' second in command, when it happened. I was completely unaware of the growing silence in the room until I suddenly realized my voice was the only one left still blasting forth. Even then, in my arrogance, I at first assumed my fellow disciples were finally submitting to my leadership, heeding my words. Then I turned and saw him, a towel tied around his waist, his hands resting on a bowl of water, as he knelt before Andrew at the end of the row of his disciples.

We all watched, dumbfounded, as Jesus removed Andrew's sandals and gently placed each foot into the water, washed it thoroughly, then dried it in turn. He then moved to the next man in line, and the next, and the next.

No one spoke a word. Here was our Master, our King, scooting along on his hands and knees, fulfilling the role in our society reserved for the most lowly household servant. For several minutes the only sound in the room was the gentle lapping of the water in the bowl as foot after foot was placed in, cleaned, removed, and carefully dried, followed then by the sound of Jesus shuffling along the floor to his next disciple.

When he finally came to me, I could stand it no longer. As he knelt before me, I reached out, placed my hands on his forearms, and said, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”

He knew it was not a question so much as it was a challenge. This was terrible. The thought of him serving me in this way went against everything I thought I wanted him to be. I wanted my King to go forth in his almighty power, conquering his enemies, with me by his side. I wanted lightning bolts flashing around him, with the multitudes kneeling before him in submissive adoration. To see him now, kneeling before me, a bowl of muddied water in his hands, a soiled towel around his waist, struck at the cornerstones of my existence. I had no way of knowing that in less than twenty-four hours, he would be offering himself not just to me and to a handful of other disciples but to the entire human race, presenting not just a bowl of water but his own blood, seeking to cleanse not just the dust from our feet but all the accumulated moral filth and sewage of the ages from our lives.

He looked up at me and said simply, “You do not realize what I am doing now, but the time will come when you will understand.”