Luke 22 - 23

I almost cannot bear to read it too closely, to linger over the words, for they will break my heart. I resist the urge to "flip to the back of the book" to see if it all turns out all right. I know how it ends, but that isn't the part that matters today. Any lover of story knows that the ending does not erase the pain of the journey.

It's hard, still to watch this story unfold. Jesus' pain is made the more stark by the contrast of his disciples: over and over, they got it wrong, so wrong.

The night begins with the ultimate betrayal: Judas, one of his own, hand-selected men, who had spent the last three years side by side with him, decides to sell Jesus out. Jesus indeed felt that bitter betrayal when someone who is close deals you a fatal blow. Then, after symbolically giving over his body and blood to these men, the disciples respond by squabbling over their power positions, each wanting the most prestigious position. Jesus has to set them right. Peter, in a more subtle power play, boasts that he will be loyal to Jesus to the end, but Jesus warns him that this too will not happen. When Jesus then tries to prepare his men for the tests and trials they are about to face, they take his suggestion literally and brandish their weapons. You can hear the weariness in Jesus's voice when he says, "That is enough."

This is Jesus's hour of reckoning, the most intense hours of his life, when he surrenders himself to God's will on the Mount of Olives. Battling in prayer, he asks his disciples to pray too - and they fall asleep in exhaustion and sorrow. I see it now: they are bewildered by it all. They knew that coming to Jerusalem for Passover was a bold and dangerous move. They put this together with Jesus's strange remarks at dinner, and the tension in the temple courts earlier that week. They are poised to do battle - but with what? Jesus keeps sending them mixed messages about using their swords. Anxious, frightened and tired, they fall asleep. Jesus comes to them, only to find that he has been alone.

Then, Judas betrays him with the kiss of a brother.

His men leap forward, swords in hand, and strike one servant.

Jesus heals the servant.

Then Jesus tells his disciples: "No more of this." This is the last instruction that Jesus gives them before being led to the cross. And then they scatter.

While Jesus is questioned by the high pries, Peter denies him three times, and Jesus turns to look at him. I can't imagine bearing Jesus's eyes then. The other disciples are not lurking in the shadows, denying that they knew Jesus. They have simply vanished. They are are not there while Jesus is transferred to Pilate, to Herod, then back to Pilate. They are not there when he is mocked, beaten and scorned. When the crowds call out, "Crucify him! Crucify him!" where are they? Are they mingled in with the crowd, faces shadowed? Do they mouth the words, so that no one identifies them as his followers? And when Jesus stumbles under the weight of the cross, his disciples are no where to be seen. Instead, they pull a stranger off of the street to help him carry his cross up to Golgotha.

And so, the Son of God, the King of the Jews, the Messiah is brutally executed. "But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galillee, stood at a distance, watching these things" (Luke 24:49).

Stood at a distance. Watching these things.

I do not condemn his followers. I am one of them, a follower of Christ. I, like them, am wretchedly unworthy to be counted as one of his own. I've heard many pastors preach on the fickleness of the crowds of Jerusalem - those who welcomed him as king on Sunday called for his death on Friday. But I am more like one of his disciples. I love him and serve him, but then, somehow, I always get it wrong.