Mark's Story Read online

  To Mark, John was the only disciple not worthy of reproof, and indeed he heard from a servant that John was still in the city. More than once Mark had heard John referred to as the disciple Jesus loved, and now he could see why.

  Soon Mark’s curiosity got the better of him and he made his way to the great room, where James, the son of Zebedee and brother of John, was telling his mother more of the story. The four who had accompanied him looked pale and stunned, as if still afraid and uncertain about their future.

  “In the early morning they bound the Teacher and led Him from the high priest Caiaphas’s to the Praetorium to face Governor Pilate. It seemed all the chief priests and elders of the people were plotting to put Jesus to death.”

  “To death?” Mark’s mother said, covering her mouth. “Whatever for?”

  “They claim all kinds of charges, from blasphemy to insurrection—crimes against the Jews and the Romans. The chief priests and all the council sought testimony against Jesus to put Him to death, but found none, because while many bore false witness against Him, their testimonies did not agree. But some rose up and said, ‘We heard Him say, “I will destroy this temple made with hands, and within three days I will build another made without hands.’” But not even then did their testimony agree.

  “The high priest himself asked Jesus, ‘Do You answer nothing? What is it these men testify against You?’ But Jesus kept silent. Again the high priest asked Him, ‘Are You the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?’

  “Jesus said, ‘I am. And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the Power, and coming with the clouds of heaven.’”

  “He said that?” Mark’s mother said, eyes wide.

  “He did. And the high priest tore his own clothes and said, ‘What further need do we have of witnesses? You have heard the blasphemy! What do you think?’ And they all condemned Him to be deserving of death. Some spat on Him and others blindfolded Him and beat Him, saying, ‘Prophesy!’”

  Mark’s mother stared at the floor and shook her head. “And what has become of Judas?”

  The disciples looked at one another, and Bartholomew spoke. “Word is that he tried to return to the chief priests and elders his payment, saying, ‘I have sinned by betraying innocent blood.’ They would have none of it and said, ‘What is that to us? You see to it!’ Some say he threw the coins in the temple and went and hanged himself.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Madam,” Thomas said, “the man betrayed our Lord for thirty pieces of silver.”

  Mary spied her son in the corner. “Mark, I’d rather you not hear all this.”

  “I could have seen it all last night!” he said. “Nothing could shock me now! To have seen Peter deny Jesus with curses…”

  James held up a hand. “Mark, my brother assures me that Peter is abject with sorrow and remorse. We must be sympathetic and—”

  “Sympathetic! He should be abject!”

  “Son, like all of us, he fears for his life.”

  “John doesn’t!”

  “But John and I know the high priest, Mark. That is the only reason he and I were able to move about freely in that company.”

  “So John was there the whole night?”

  “He is still there, son.”

  “And?”

  “He reports that as the Master stood before the governor, Pilate asked Him directly, ‘Are You the King of the Jews?’”

  “Did Jesus deny it?” Mark said. “I would wager He is not afraid for His life.”

  “You are correct. Jesus said, ‘It is as you say.’”

  “That’s courage!” Mark said.

  “Indeed. And it is why we put our trust in the Lord, and not in mere men. While Jesus was being accused of all manner of sin by the chief priests and elders, He answered nothing more. Pilate said, ‘Do You not hear how many things they testify against You?’ But He answered him not one word, so that the governor marveled greatly.”

  “What does Pilate care about this discord among the Jews?” Mark’s mother said. “Why does he not just return to Caesarea and leave us to our own troubles?”

  “I’m sure he would prefer nothing more. But the people cried out for Jesus’ execution. Then Pilate entered the Praetorium again, called Jesus, and said to Him, ‘Are You the King of the Jews?’

  “Jesus said, ‘Are you speaking for yourself about this, or did others tell you this?’

  “Pilate said, ‘Am I a Jew? Your own nation and the chief priests have delivered You to me. What have You done?’

  “Jesus said, ‘My kingdom is not of this world. If My kingdom were of this world, My servants would fight so that I should not be delivered to the Jews; but now My kingdom is not from here.’”

  Mark was stunned to remember that Jesus had predicted His friends would not defend Him. “Tell me the rest.”

  “Pilate said, ‘Are You a king then?’

  “Jesus said, ‘You say rightly that I am a king. For this cause I was born, and for this cause I have come into the world, that I should bear witness to the truth. Everyone who is of the truth hears My voice.’

  “Pilate said, ‘What is truth?’ And he went out again to the Jews and said, ‘I find no fault in Him at all.’”

  “So why didn’t he let Jesus go?”

  James glanced at the others. “As you know, at the feast the governor is accustomed to releasing to the multitude one prisoner whom they wish.”

  “Had you all been there,” Mark said, “you could have insisted it be Jesus.”

  “Did anyone call for His release?” his mother said.

  James looked away. “You are familiar with Barabbas?”

  “Of course,” she said. “The notorious prisoner. Surely the people did not—”

  “They did, ma’am. Pilate said, ‘Whom do you want me to release to you? Barabbas, or Jesus, who is called Christ?’ I believe he knew they had handed Him over because of envy. But somehow the chief priests and elders persuaded the multitudes that they should ask for Barabbas and destroy Jesus. They cried out, ‘Release Barabbas!’

  “Pilate said, ‘What then shall I do with Jesus?’

  “They all said, ‘Let Him be crucified!’

  “The governor said, ‘Why, what evil has He done?’

  “But they cried out all the more, saying, ‘Let Him be crucified!’

  “Finally Pilate shrugged and took water and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, ‘I am innocent of the blood of this just Person. You see to it.’

  “The people responded, ‘His blood be on us and on our children!’”

  Thomas and Bartholomew leaned to peer out the window as others arrived. “The other James and Peter,” Thomas said, and Mark stood and rushed from the room before they were welcomed. But he could not force himself far enough away to be unable to hear their account. Indeed, Peter sounded like a defeated man.

  “Tell us,” John’s brother said.

  Peter recited the latest news in a flat tone, and Mark found himself angrier with the man than before.

  “After Pilate released Barabbas to the crowd—and to much cheering, I might add—he scourged Jesus and delivered Him to be crucified.”

  “And what did you do about that?” Mark demanded, reentering.

  Peter looked up, stricken. “What could I do?” he said, voice thick with emotion. “The soldiers took Jesus into the Praetorium and gathered the whole garrison around Him. They stripped Him and put a scarlet robe on Him.”

  “Peter, please,” Mark’s mother said. “Not in front of the boy.”

  “He denied his friend in front of me, Mother! Do you think this could be worse? I want to hear it all!”

  Peter hung his head. “It’s true. I denied my Lord three times, just as He said I would. I am ashamed unto death.”

  “And yet it is not you who are to die, is it?” Mark said.

  Peter shook his head miserably. John’s brother put a hand on his shoulder. “We must hear the rest, Simon.”

  Peter cleare
d his throat, his voice now weak and raspy. “They twisted a crown from thorns and pressed it on His head, putting a reed in His right hand. And they bowed before Him and mocked Him, saying, ‘Hail, King of the Jews!’ They spat on Him and took the reed and struck Him on the head. And when they had mocked Him, they took the robe off Him, put His own clothes on Him, and led Him away.”

  “To be crucified?” Mark said.

  Peter nodded, still averting his eyes. “As they dragged him out, they found a man of Cyrene—some said his name was also Simon—and compelled him to bear Jesus’ cross. They were on their way to Golgotha, the Place of a Skull, when we fled.”

  “You fled yet again,” Mark said, tears streaming. “You might as well have been the one carrying His cross! Who is with Him now? Anyone who cares for Him?”

  Peter rubbed his face. “John is there, with Jesus’ mother and Mary of Magdala. And several women from Galilee.”

  “I must go!” Mark’s mother said, standing. “Someone take me!”

  But the disciples sat unmoving.

  “Is my son right? Are you all cowards? I shall go myself then!” She grabbed a shawl and ran from the house.

  “None of you?” Mark said, glaring at them. “Hide in the upper room then! Learn from John, the youngest among you, and from the women, what has become of your Teacher, your Master, your Lord.”

  And he ran to escort his mother to the place of death, less than half a mile to the north of their home.

  When he caught her just past Herod’s Palace, she stopped and turned to face him. “Only you,” she said, seeming to grasp what he had been trying to tell her about the disciples and their weakness.

  “Only me, and I will not be turned away.”

  “You are a man today, Mark, but I will allow you to come only on your solemn promise that you keep your distance. The authorities do not care about me, but men who go there will be subject to arrest.”

  “I am not afraid.”

  She looked at him with such earnestness that he could not look away or deny her. “Your solemn promise, John Mark.”

  “I promise.”

  FIVE

  When 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.

  THE 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.