The Twelve

A dynamic look at what and who the Twelve disciples really were.

The Twelve:



1

Peter ran.


He fought his way through the Jerusalem night. There were no stars, no reflection of the moon, only darkness. With nothing but the light of scattered torches to show him the way, Peter ran.


Voices scream at him, some real, some only in his head. Some are the voices of men, drunk in the late evening, screaming at the lone figure pushing furiously through the crowded street. Some seem to have no form at all, no shape, only anger. This anger burned with such intensity that it seemed to eclipse the very limits of human rage. It was if it had been building up since the beginning of time and had now broken loose, with its sole intent being to rain down on Peter. These voices terrified Peter, but that was not why Peter ran.


The questioning of the young slave girl echoes through his mind. There in the courtyard, the pre-dawn chill causing his teeth to chatter, the fear of the unknown turning knots in his stomach, she stands, determined. The faint orange glow of a small fire illuminates her soot-stricken face as she asks for the third time, “I’m sure of it, you’re one of His followers, aren’t you?” His voice nearly cracks in terror as self-preservation takes over. He fires his response back at her, “No, woman! I do not know him!” As the final words leave his mouth, the morning bird crows and he remembers the final conversation with his Master. There by the table, what had the Teacher warned him about? “Before the rooster crows, you will have denied me three times.” Shame washes over him as he tries to clear his mind. He has denied the one he has sworn his life to, and because of it, he would never see himself the same way again. But this was not why Peter ran.


Unable to hold it back any longer, the dam within his mind shatters and he is faced with an image he can never un-see. There in the courtyard as the morning bird crowed, the face of the one He had just denied three times, once for every year that the man had spent by his side, turns to look at him. The blue eyes of his Master pierce through his soul like a dagger. Unable to weep, unable to speak, unable to even breathe beneath the weight of that stare, Peter did the only thing Peter knew how to do �"Peter ran.

*....*....*

With the clamor of Jerusalem behind him, Peters pace begins to subside, but the images in his mind do not. Slowing to a gradual, yet frantic jog, he begins to notice thorns protruding from the vines that he is only now noticing. Red streaks run down his arm where the sharp edges have broken the skin. He can feel three thorns residing in the back of his left hand, where they have broken off of their vines and splintered between his now-bloody knuckles. He will have to remove them later, but right now, the pain brings a small sense of relief to the blaze of anguish within his soul.

Finally regaining some sense of composure, Peter begins to carefully weave his way through the thick vines and into a clearing. There is a sense of familiarity here that he cannot place. In the thick, ankle-deep grass surrounding him, he can see tell-tale signs that a large band of men has passed through here. Scattered clubs and other blunt objects litter the ground. “Undoubtedly rogues, murderers and the like,” he thinks.”they’ll string me up like a fish if they catch me. But I..” He begins to think “I deserve it,” but he bats away the thought, focusing on the situation at hand. There would be time for self-hatred later. All that mattered now was survival. He lowers himself into a crouch and exchanges his frantic jog for a careful sneak. “If I’m not alone, I need to know before they do.”

He follows the trail further into the clearing. Up ahead is an area where the grass has been greatly disturbed. As he approaches, he sees that the trail dies there also. He cautiously closes in on the area of disturbance, trying his best to calculate what might have happened here. He sees three larger indentions in the grass where it looks as if three were.. sitting? Laying? Kneeling, or perhaps…. kneeling. They were kneeling.

Peter falls to his face in despair. “MY GOD!!” HE cries out, no longer afraid of an imaginary band of killers, because he remembers the faces of the real ones. “MY LORD AND MY GOD!!” He cries again. Realization has dawned on him, and once again, he feels that he would rather be anywhere but here.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Peter is in Gethsemane.


*....*....*


“As we forgive our debtors,” Peter opened his eyes and tried shake the dizziness from his head. Beside him, James and John lay sprawled out on the ground, the guttural sounds coming from their diaphragms sounded like two lions making claim to the same piece of meat. They had been left to pray after a large meal and their fair share of wine. Unsure of what to pray, they repeated the prayer the Master had taught them. “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from eee-…” Peter fought valiantly, but the gentle winds of sleep lifted him from the Garden and carried him far, far away, setting him down on the loose sands of the Galilean sea. The suffocating aroma of dirt and fish wrapped around him like a mother’s arms. To foreigners, it was enough to make ones’ knees weak and one’s stomach empty. To Peter ,who had spent a lifetime here, this was the smell of home.

The day was hot, the burning sun beat down on his tan skin as he pulled his boat to shore, the sky promised no relief, no hope of shade. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. Today should have been one of triumph and celebration. They had hauled in such an overwhelming catch of fish that they had begun to take on water. The Zebedee brothers had taken notice and come to their aid. While some of Peter’s co-workers argued about the best way to unload the armada of bouncing, flopping, silver merchandise, and others made preparations for the killing and cleaning of this same merchandise, Peter had only one thing on his mind. “Where is that man?”

They had labored tirelessly, but in vain, all through the night hours �" wrestling with their monstrous nets in the light of the half moon, forcing these woven beasts to mind them as they cast them into the Sea of Galilee, knowing that another night without a catch would mean the end of their business. The Sons of Zebedee had already made an offer on the boat, but Peter would not sell, not unless he had to, and especially not if his Mother was still alive to see it. As the dawn approached and the yellow egg-yolk of the morning sun began to rise, Peter gave what he knew would be his final order, “Let’s pack it in, head for shore.” He would never again lead this crew of men out to sea, but not for lack of profits. Everything Peter thought he knew about life was about to be shattered into a million pieces, and put back together in a different order completely.

The traveler stood on the shore, solitary and with a strange air of authority about him. The waves lapped at his his nearly worn-out sandals, carrying the dust that his feet had acquired out to sea. He called to the men of the boat, “Hail, fishermen!” They were silent a moment, making bitter comments that only those within reach could discern: “Lord another tourist.. why do they bother us?” There were murmurs of agreement until Peter spoke up, “Hail, Traveler! We have worked all through the night and caught only the weeds of the sea! What have you to say to us?” The man did not hesitate but fired back with vibrato “Fisherman, if you and your company will throw your nets on the other side of the boat, you will catch more than you can contain!”

This time there was a stunned silence from those within the boat. Then laughter erupted. This was not laughter from good humor, but laughter born of hysteria that carried well across the water. Unhealthy laughter. After a few moments of this, Peter stood up once more and said, “Very well men, do as he says!” The mocking laughter did not cease as the men obeyed. Nets were cast over the side of the boat indicated by the traveler. A few token minutes were given for the catch to be made and then they were drawn up. All laughter ceased. “My God!” Peter exclaimed, “The nets! They’re too full! They’ll sink us!” While the words were still in his mouth, the edge of their small wooden vessel tipped dangerously toward the surface of the sea as water began to lap quickly into the floor of their boat, soaking the ropes and tunics of the men working. “James! James, to me!” Peter called out across the water. The Sons of Zebedee were nearly into shore, but James and John, along with their three additional crews, heard the cry and quickly turned around to lend aid.

It had been a miracle, and it had nearly killed him.

Now, standing upon the the shore as his men killed and cleaned this miracle and sang the kinds of songs only a sailor could get away with, Peter searched for his Miracle Worker. Scanning the beach, Peter found the man and quickly approached him. He sat quietly, knees drawn to his chest, drawing absentmindedly in the dirt. He had drawn a fish made of two crossing lines and had written 12 names beside it. One of those names was Peter.

“He must be a prophet,” Peter whispered to himself. As reverently as he knew how, Peter lowered himself onto his knees before the man. Unsure of how to begin the conversation, the man, who he now recognized as Jesus from his baptism at the Jordan river, saved him the trouble. “You, Peter.. you catch fish. But follow me, Peter, and I will make you a fisher of men.” These words hung silent in the air, heavy but enticing. The blue eyes of Jesus looked at him, into him, and through him all at once. He felt as if he would never have to explain himself to this man, because he was already understood. “Jesus I.. well Jesus. I don’t know why you’d want to catch a man with a net, but I’d sure like to come with you.”

Jesus smiled.

His eyes flashed a special warmth that disarmed Peter entirely. The authenticity of that smile was like bright red in a world devoid of color. It was real. It was eternal. “I don’t even know what I mean by that,” Peter thought to himself. Everything around him was suddenly no more than a cheap substitute for this.. this love �" for that’s what Peter saw in that smile, an all-encompassing, fatherly sort of love �" that shined through Jesus.

But then Jesus’s face changed. It became sorrowful, the look of a man who has come to face-to-face with the reaper and refused to blink. There were tears streaming down His face. His voice cracked as He spoke but Peter couldn’t make out what He was saying: “..one hour? Can you not pray one hour?”

Peters eyes shot open. He was no longer on the warm beach, but wide-awake, staring in the tear-streamed face of his Master. He looked thirty years older since he had last seen Him, less than an hour ago. James and John quickly stirred also, immediately alert at the sight of their Master appearing to be in such distress. He could smell the salt from the sweat on his skin. He smelled copper as well, as if.. as if Jesus had been sweating blood.

“Alas, the time is here. It doesn't matter anymore.” Jesus looked past Peter. Turning to follow His gaze, Peter saw men approaching, still a hundred yards away. There were 30, perhaps 40, armed with torches, clubs, and the occasional sword from what he could tell. Jesus spoke again, now with His usual presence of mind and authority “Hide yourselves.”

James and John quickly did, although James had to drag His younger brother nearly by the ear to do so. Peter is faced with the familiar urge to flee as fear courses through his veins, but the memory of Jesus foretelling his own betrayal at dinner is enough to anchor both feet to the ground.

As the armed men approach, one figure emerges from the crowd.

Peter was struck with feelings of both familiarity and confusion as Judas the Iscariot marched towards the Son of God and the last of the twelve.

Peter turned to the Master and spoke in a hushed tone, “Jesus, they must have caught him on the road alone and forced him to lead them here.. Do they mean to kill us all?” A look of deep sadness, and an emotion that Peter did not quite understand, flashed across the face of Jesus.
Had not his Lord sent Judas on an errand earlier that very evening? If they were to die this night, would it not be at least some comfort to die among friends? Peter intended to ask Judas about this “errand” if he was able, but the next conversation between the Apostate and the Apostle would be held at knife's edge, as both men tried to make sense of the shattered pieces that remained of their lives.