“Thomas, get away from the window!”
The disciple dropped the curtain abruptly but didn’t move. “They’re coming for us. I know they are. And I’d just like us to have a chance to get outta here.”
“They know all of our faces,” Matthew continued. “We just need to lay low.”
Thomas sighed and his shoulders slumped. He walked defeatedly toward the group and plopped down next to John, who patted his shoulder comfortingly.
“Peter?”
The formerly outspoken leader huddled silently in the corner, his face buried in his knees that were drawn up to his chest. He didn’t move.
“Is he asleep?” Bartholomew asked in a hushed tone.
John shook his head sadly. He knew his friend was hanging by a thread, in the depths of misery and shame.
“Peter,” John tried again. “Peter, come have something to eat. It’s been two days.”
“I don’t deserve to eat,” came the muffled reply. He raised his head and stared straight ahead at nothing in particular. “I deserve to died a traitor’s death.”
His eyes were swollen from weeping and bleary from lack of sleep, as were everyone else’s.
James made a move toward him, but was stopped by his brother. John shook his head again, indicating he was to be left alone. His grief held the added ingredient of betrayal, a sting the others didn’t share.
John looked around the room at his ten friends. The food on the table in the middle of the room went largely untouched. He remembered just days before when the inseparable group of thirteen reclined there together.
He clenched his eyes shut to stop the burning tears. Jesus was still with them then, right next to him. And now the world was an entirely different place, devoid of all hope and light. No one saw any way forward.
“What are we gonna do?” demanded Andrew. “Just hide out here forever?”
“I don’t know,” said John quietly. “I don’t know.”
“Somebody’s got to think of something,” Philip insisted, swiping at a lone tear that had escaped down his cheek. “We need a plan.”
“I can’t think,” said The Other James. “My brain isn’t working. Nothing makes sense anymore.”
Another dark silence hung in the air in unanimous agreement. The distraught group had cycled many times through panic, terror, grief, silence and grasping for ideas. But the lack of food, sleep and hope left their minds foggy and useless.
Thaddaeus took a deep breath, sat up straight and spoke up, “Let’s try again.”
A collective groan erupted from the men.
“Give it a rest, Thaddaeus,” Thomas begged.
“No,” he countered, with gentle determination. “We have to figure this out. He wouldn’t just leave us – “ his voice caught and choked as he referred to his dead Friend. He cleared his throat and began again, “He wouldn’t just leave us with no answers. That’s not…” he trailed off and dissolved in tears.
John nodded resolutely. “That’s not who He was,” he finished for him. “You’re right. Come on, guys. Let’s go through it again. Everything we can remember Him ever saying. There’s got to be something we’re missing.”
There was a thoughtful pause as each man wracked his wounded brain for answers.
“There was that whole bit about the vine and the branches,” Matthew offered. “And the sheep and the gate.”
“The parables and metaphors won’t help us now,” Philip retorted.
“Well, that’s pretty much all He gave us to work with,” Matthew snapped.
“Okay, okay.” John put his hands up. “We’re all on the same team here.”
Peter’s head snapped up and he released the hold on his legs. “Are we?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm and bitterness. “We thought that once before, you know. And we were wrong.” His face fell and slowly he opened his hands and stared at them in disgust.
John knew he had moved past Judas and thinking of himself, and he headed it off quickly. “Okay, what else?”
Simon broke his silence. “He said He was leaving and we couldn’t come, remember? Something about preparing a place. Does anybody else remember that? What did that mean?”
Bartholomew shrugged. “Who knows? I loved Him and believed in Him with all my heart, but I was just nodding along most of the time. I hardly ever knew what He was talking about.”
A few others mumbled in agreement.
“He said He would die, didn’t He?” James asked. “That He would die and then be raised again. Did I make that up?”
No one spoke for a moment. He continued, “I mean, He could do it, right? He brought Lazarus back.”
“Yeah, but who’s going to raise HIM from the dead?” Peter barked. “You? Wait, was it you who got his butt kicked by that possessed kid?”
John cringed at his friend’s tone toward his brother, whose face was turning red in anger. They had earned their nickname “sons of thunder.” But the last thing they needed was another storm. “Peter…” he interjected quietly.
“A dead Man can’t bring HIMSELF back to life,” Peter snarled. “He was the only One who could do it and now HE’S dead. You can forget that idea.”
“All right!” John raised his voice, feeling his own blood beginning to boil. “Peter, you’re not helping.” He redirected. “What about this Counselor He talked about? Who was that? Whoever He is, He’s supposed to come after Jesus is gone, right?”
“Well, He’s not here either,” Peter grumbled.
“He said Judas would betray Him,” Thomas whispered. “He knew. He knew all along.”
A fresh waved of pain washed over the group as they thought about their former friend, turned traitor, killing himself in regret. Every mention of his name brought renewed mourning from some and blind rage from others. Their memories were failing as quickly as their faith.
There was a quiet tap on the door and eleven heads jerked up in fear. The door creaked open slowly and Jesus’ mother, Mary entered the room. John’s heart swelled with emotion. She was now HIS mother. And he was her son.
He jumped to his feet and embraced her while the others exhaled a sigh of relief. Mary hugged him tightly and silently. He felt her tremble and begin to go limp in his arms. He steadied her and quickly looked over his shoulder at his brother for help.
James scrambled to his side wrapping another strong arm around the woman’s weak body. She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob. She quickly recovered and stood firmly on her feet. She pulled back from her protectors. She looked first to James and squeezed his arm in gratitude and then she looked to her newest son.
The only man strong enough to stand with her while her Son was dying. She raised her hand to his cheek and brushed away a tear, her hollow eyes suddenly beaming with love. He would care for her. And she would care for him back.
She collected herself and moved toward the table. She eyed the uneaten food in disapproval. “You all need to eat,” she quietly scolded.
John looked at her frail figure. “Have you eaten, Mother?” he asked in concern.
She looked up at him and smiled weakly. “No, my son.” She walked toward the door and squeezed his arm as she passed him. “I cannot.”
He started to press, but she turned at the doorway and looked at him tenderly. He nodded and she quietly left the room.
John and James rejoined the others on the floor. A couple of hands reached for small bits of bread. John attempted to pick up a piece for himself, but his stomach lurched and he dropped it back on the plate.
The Other James spoke with wide, desperate eyes spilling unnoticed tears, “John, tell us what He said again. His last words, right before He died. What did He say?”
John’s eyes glazed over as he replayed the whole thing in his mind.
The flogging.
The crushing weight of the cross on the long walk up the hill.
The nails.
The screams.
The wails of His mother.
The scoffing of the soldiers.
The arguing of the thieves on the crosses next to Him.
Him crying out to His Father with no response.
The gasping, wheezing breaths growing shorter every minute.
And then…
“‘It is finished,’” John whispered, his voice as dead as his King. “He said, ‘It is finished.’”
Sobs broke out around the room and heads hung in crushing despair.
“Well,” said Peter, his face in his hands. “I think that answers our question.”
Another stretch of silence reigned, interrupted only by grunts and sniffles.
After a few moments, John took a deep breath, stood to his feet and walked over to Peter who still cowered in the corner like a scared animal. He knelt down beside his friend and put his hand on the shaking shoulder. Peter reached up and squeezed it, but kept his head down.
John turned toward the room. “It is late, my friends,” he murmured, bluffing calm. “We are weary. Let’s call it a night.”
After a moment, half of the group slowly stood up and shuffled out of the room to other rooms in the house. It was cramped quarters, but no one wanted to leave the safety of the group. The last time they had scattered, they lost everything. They weren’t ready to go their separate ways again. Not yet.
Peter finally made eye contact with his best friend. “Let’s sleep, Peter,” John suggested. “Maybe tomorrow…” his voice and his gaze trailed off.
“Yes?” Peter pressed, looking desperately at his friend for any shred of hope he may be able to offer. “Tomorrow?”
John looked back at him. The rock on which Jesus said He would build His church lay in ruins. He forced a tiny smile. “Maybe tomorrow something new will come to light.” He patted Peter’s arm with feigned confidence.
Peter knew he was faking, but decided to believe him anyway. “Okay,” he nodded. He stretched out on a palate and John covered him with blanket. Peter looked up at him like a child afraid of the dark. “Tomorrow?” he asked, as if he was unsure if the day would come at all.
“Tomorrow,” John said again, then retreated to his own bed. He stared at the ceiling, throwing up a silent prayer to a silent God. “Maybe tomorrow.”
