He showed them "a large upper room." It was probably reached, as in many oriental houses, by outside stairs. It was the choicest and most retired room. The goodman led the disciples into it. They found it "furnished" with a table, and couches around it on which Jesus and His company could recline. But this probably was not all. The table was "prepared" with some of the provisions required for the feast. These included the cakes of unleavened bread, the five kinds of bitter herbs, and the wine mixed with water for the four cups which it was the custom to use.

But there was something more which Peter and John must do to "make ready" for the feast. It was the most important thing of all. It was to prepare the "Paschal Lamb." With such a lamb they had been familiar from childhood. As their fathers brought it into their homes, and their mothers roasted it, and parents and children gathered about it in solemn worship, the Bethsaidan boys had no thought of the day when the Messiah would bid them prepare for the feast of which He Himself would be the host, at the only time apparently when He acted as such.

When John was pointed by the Baptist to Jesus, he had no thought that He would prepare the last Lamb for Him whom He was to see sacrificed as "the Lamb of God." No wonder that Jesus sent Peter and John to make ready, instead of Judas the usual provider, who in the same hour "sought opportunity to betray Him."

We follow them from the house of the goodman toward the Temple. Nearing it they listen with mournful solemnity to the chanting of the eighty-first Psalm, with its exhortation to praise,—"Sing aloud unto God our strength. Blow up the trumpet in the new moon, in the time appointed, on the solemn feast day." Then they listen for the threefold blast of the silver trumpets. By this they know that the hour has come for the slaying of the lambs. Peter and John enter the court of the priests, and slay their lamb whose blood is caught by a priest in a golden bowl, and carried to the Great Altar.

Of this they must have been reminded a few hours later when Christ spoke of His own blood shed for the remission of sins. John must have remembered it when he saw and wrote of the "blood and water" that flowed from the pierced side of his Lord. While the lamb is being slain the priests are chanting, and the people responding, "Hallelujah: Blessed is He that cometh in the Name of the Lord."

The lamb of sacrifice, slain and cleansed and roasted, is carried by the two disciples on staves to the upper room. After lighting the festive lamps, they have obeyed their Lord's command, "Make ready the Passover."

Meanwhile He and the remaining ten, as the sun is setting, descend the Mount of Olives, from which He takes His last view of the holy but fated city. The disciples follow Him, still awed by what He had told them of its fate, and with forebodings of what awaited Him and them. Among them was the traitor carrying his terrible secret, bent on its awful purpose which is unknown to the nine, but well known to the Master. Thus they go to the upper room where Peter and John are ready to receive them.

In Jesus' message to the goodman He said, "I will keep the Passover at thy house with My disciples." They were His family. He chose to be alone with them. Not even the mothers Mary and Salome, nor Nicodemus on this night, nor the family of Bethany, could be of His company. No Mary was here to anoint His feet with ointment; nor woman who had been a sinner to bathe them with her tears. Lazarus was not one of them that sat with them; nor did "Martha serve." It was the twelve whom He had chosen, and who had continued with Him. It was to His apostolic family that He said, "With desire I have desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer." And so "He sat down with the twelve" alone, the only time—as is supposed—that He ever ate the Passover meal with His disciples.

That room became of special interest to John. Sent by his Master to find it, he was mysteriously guided thither. There he was welcomed by the good owner of the house, who united with him in preparation for the most memorable feast ever held. It is there that we see him in closest companionship with his Lord. It was the place in Jesus' mind when He said, "Go and make ready for us the Passover." "Where shall we go?" asked John. He found answer when he entered that upper room. Because of his relation thereto it has been called "St. John's Room"—more sacred than any "Jerusalem Chamber," so named, or any "St. John's Cathedral!"



CHAPTER XXIII

John's Memories of the Upper Room

"When the hour was come, He sat down, and the apostles with him."—Luke xxii. 14.

"There was at the table reclining in Jesus' bosom one of His disciples, whom Jesus loved."—John xiii. 23.

Three Evangelists leave the door of the upper room standing ajar. Through it we can see much that is passing, and hear much that is said. John coming after them opens it wide, thus enlarging our view and increasing our knowledge.

Luke says of Jesus, "He sat down and the apostles with Him." That is a very simple statement. We might suppose all was done in quietness and harmony. But he tells us of a sad incident which happened, probably in connection with it. "There arose also a contention among them which of them is accounted to be greatest." The question in dispute was possibly the order in which they should sit at the table. They still had the spirit of the Pharisees who claimed that such order should be according to rank.

We wonder how John felt. Did he have any part in that contention; or had he put away all such ambition since the Lord had reproved him and his brother James for it? Or was his near relation to the Lord so well understood that there was no question by anybody where John might sit—next to the Master?

Let us notice the manner of sitting at meals. The table was surrounded by a divan on which the guests reclined on their left side, with the head nearest the table, and the feet extending outward.

"There was at the table reclining in Jesus' bosom one of His disciples, whom Jesus loved." This is the first time John thus speaks of himself. He never uses his own name. His place was at the right of the Lord. There he reclined during the meal, once changing his position, as we shall see. Judas was probably next to Jesus on His left. This allowed them to talk together without others knowing what they said.

John begins his story of the upper room as a supplement to Luke's record of the contention. He first tells two things about Jesus,—His knowledge that His hour "was come that He should depart out of this world unto the Father," and His great and constant love for His disciples. With these two thoughts in mind, how grieved He must have been at the ambitious spirit of the Apostles. He had once given them a lesson of humility, using a little child for an object lesson. That lesson was not yet learned; or if learned was not yet put into practice. So He gave them another object lesson, having still more meaning than the first.

But before making record of it John, as at the supper in Bethany, points to Judas. We are reminded of the traitor's purpose formed while Mary anointed and wiped Jesus' feet. So awful was that purpose, so full of hatred and deceit, that John now tells us it was the devil himself who "put into the heart of Judas ... to betray Him." "Humanity had fallen, but not so low."

John seems to have well understood his Master's thoughts and interpreted His actions in giving the second object lesson. He noticed carefully, and remembered long and distinctly, every act. Was there ever drawn a more powerful picture in contrast than in these words,—"Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into His hands, and that He came forth from God, and goeth unto God, riseth from supper, and layeth aside His garments; and He took a towel, and girded Himself. Then He poureth water into the basin, and began to wash the disciples' feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith He was girded."

This was the service of a common slave. It is easy to imagine the silent astonishment of the disciples. The purpose of Jesus could not be mistaken. It was a reproof for their contention. The object lesson was ended. John continued to closely watch His movements, as he took the garments He had laid aside and resumed His seat at the table. The very towel with which the Lord had girded Himself, found a lasting place in John's memory, worthy of mention as the instrument of humble service. What a sacred relic, if preserved, it would have become—more worthy of a place in St. Peter's in Rome than the pretended handkerchief of Veronica.



Christ's treatment of one of the disciples at the feet-washing left a deep impression on John's mind. With sadness and indefiniteness the Lord said, "He that eateth My bread lifted up his heel against Me": one who accepts My hospitality and partakes of the proofs of My friendship is My enemy. For that one whoever it might be, known only to himself and to Jesus, it was a most solemn call to even yet turn from his evil purpose. But the faithless one betrayed no sign; nor did Jesus betray him even with a glance which would have been a revelation to John's observant eye.

It is John who tells us that as they sat at the table "Jesus ... was troubled in spirit." The apostle closest to Him in position and sympathy would be the first to detect that special trouble, and the greatness of it, even before the cause of it was known. But that was not long. "Jesus said, Verily, verily, I say unto you that one of you shall betray Me." Such is John's record of Christ's declaration. It is in His Gospel alone that we find the double "Verily" introducing Christ's words, thus giving a deeper emphasis and solemnity than appears in the other Evangelists. A comparison of this declaration of Christ as given by the four, illustrates this fact. John immediately follows this statement of the betrayal with another, peculiar to himself. Its shows his close observation at the time, and the permanence of his impression. What he noticed would furnish a grand subject for the most skilful artist, beneath whose picture might be written, "The disciples looked one on another, doubting of whom He spake." As John gazed upon them, raising themselves on their divans, looking first one way, then another, from one familiar face to another, exchanging glances of inquiry and doubt, each distrustful of himself and his fellow, he beheld what angels might have looked upon with even deeper interest. There has been no other occasion, nor can there be, for such facial expressions—a blending of surprise, consternation, fear and sorrow. Was John one of those who "began to question among themselves which of them it was that should do this thing"? Did he take his turn as "one by one" they "began to say, ... Is it I, Lord?" If so it must have been in the faintest whisper; and so the blessed answer, "No." But we must believe that Jesus and John understood each other too well for any such question and answer. The definite answer was not yet given to any one by the Master, yet with an awful warning, He repeated His prediction of the betrayal.

Peter was impatient to ask Jesus another question. At other times he was bold to speak, but now he was awed into silence. Yet he felt that he must know. The great secret must be revealed. There was one through whom it might possibly be done. So while the disciples looked one on another, Peter gazed on John with an earnest, inquiring look, feeling that the beloved disciple might relieve the awful suspense. "Peter therefore beckoneth to him, and saith unto him, Tell us who it is of whom He speaketh." So "He, leaning back, as he was, on Jesus' breast, saith unto Him, Lord, who is it? Jesus therefore answereth, He it is for whom I shall dip the sop and give it him." Did John on one side of Jesus hear the whispered question of Judas on the other, "Is it I, Rabbi?" He watched for the sign which Jesus said He would give. The morsel was given to Judas. That was more than a sign, more than kindness to an unworthy guest; it was the last of thousands of loving acts to one whom Jesus had chosen, taught and warned—yet was a traitor. Of that moment John makes special note. Having told us that at the beginning of the supper "the devil ... put into the heart of Judas ... to betray," he says, "After the sop, Satan entered into him." As he saw Judas, with a heart of stone and without a trembling hand, coolly take the morsel from that hand of love, he realized that the evil one had indeed taken possession of him whose heart he had stirred at the feast of Bethany.

It must have been a relief to John when he heard the Lord bid Judas depart, though "no man at the table knew for what intent."

"He then having received the sop went out straightway,"—out from that most consecrated room; out from the companionship of the Apostles in which he had proved himself unfit to share; out from the most hallowed associations of earth; out from the most inspiring influences with which man was ever blessed; out from the teachings, warnings, invitations and loving care of his only Saviour. "When Satan entered into him, he went out from the presence of Christ, as Cain went out from the presence of the Lord." As John spoke of the departure, no wonder he added, "It was night." His words mean to us more than the darkness outside that room illumined by the lamp which Peter and John had lighted. They are suggestive of the darkness of the traitor's soul, contrasted with the "Light of the World" in that room, to whose blessed beams he then closed his eyes forever. Night—the darkest night—was the most fitting symbol for the deeds to follow. Possessed by Satan, Judas went out to be "guide to them that took Jesus." To them, two hours later, He who was the Light of the World said, "This is your hour and the power of darkness."

It was when "he was gone out" that Christ called the disciples by a new name, and gave them a new commandment. In both of them John took a special interest which he showed long after. That name was "Little Children." The word which Christ used had a peculiar meaning. This is the only time we know of His ever using it. It was an expression of the tenderest affection for His family, so soon to be orphaned by His death. When John wrote his Epistles, he often used the same word, whose special meaning he had learned from his Lord, to show his own love for his fellow-Christians.

The new commandment was this—"That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another." The command itself was not new, for it had been given through Moses, and repeated by Christ, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." But Christ gave the disciples a new reason or motive for obeying it. They were to love one another because of His love for them. As John grew older he became a beautiful example of one who obeyed the command. In his old age he urged such obedience, saying, "If God so loved us, we ought also to love one another."

Through the door of the Upper Room left ajar by three Evangelists, we catch glimpses of the group around the table of the Last Supper. Through it as opened wide by John we hear the voice of Jesus as He utters His farewell words. He comforts His disciples and tells of heavenly mansions. He gives His peace in their tribulations. He promises the Holy Spirit as a Comforter. He closes His address, even in this hour of sadness and apparent defeat, with these wonderful words, "Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world."

And now as John still holds open the door, we hear the voice of prayer, such as nowhere else has been offered. It is ended. There are moments of silence, followed by a song of praise. Then John closes the door of the Upper Room, which we believe was opened again as the earliest home of the Christian Church. There we shall see him again with those who, because of his experience with his Lord in that consecrated place, gave him the name of "The Bosom Disciple."



CHAPTER XXIV

With Jesus in Gethsemane

"He went forth with His disciples over the brook Kidron, where was a garden."—John xviii. 1.

"Then cometh Jesus with them unto a place called Gethsemane, and saith unto His disciples, Sit ye here while I go yonder and pray."—Matt. xxvi. 36.

"And He taketh with Him Peter and James and John, ... and He saith unto them, ... abide ye here, and watch."—Mark xiv. 33, 34.

"And He went forward a little, and fell on the ground, and prayed." v. 35.

John was our leader to the Upper Room. And now he guides us from it, saying, "Jesus ... went forth with His disciples." That phrase "went forth" may suggest to us much more than mere departure. The banquet of love was over. The Lord's cup of blessing and remembrance had been drunk by His "little children," as He affectionately called them. He was now to drink the cup the Father was giving His Son—a mysterious cup of sorrow. It was probably at the midnight hour that Jesus "went forth" the last time from Jerusalem, which He had crowned with His goodness, but which had crowned Him with many crowns of sorrow.

Other Evangelists tell us that He went "to the Mount of Olives," "to a place called Gethsemane." John shows us the way thither, and what kind of a place it was. Jesus went "over the ravine of the Kidron," in the valley of Jehoshaphat. At this season of the year it was not, as at other times, a dry water-bed, but a swollen, rushing torrent, fitting emblem of the waters of sorrow through which He was passing. Whether the name Kidron refers to the dark color of its waters, or the gloom of the ravine through which they flow, or the sombre green of its overshadowing cedars, it will ever be a reminder of the darker gloom that overshadowed John and His Master, as they crossed that stream together to meet the powers of darkness in the hour which Jesus called their own.

The garden of Gethsemane was an enclosed piece of ground. We are not to think of it as a garden of flowers, or of vegetables, but as having a variety of flowering shrubs, and of fruit-trees, especially olive. It might properly be called an orchard. On the spot now claimed to be the garden, there are several very old gnarled olive-trees. Having stood beneath them, I would be glad to believe that they had sheltered my Lord. But I remember that when the prophecy concerning Jerusalem was fulfilled, the most sacred trees of our world were destroyed.



Who was the owner of that sacred garden? He must have known what happened there "ofttimes." Perhaps, like the "goodman of the house" in Jerusalem, he was a disciple of Jesus, and provided this quiet retreat for the living Christ, in the same spirit with which Joseph of Arimathaea provided a garden for Him when He was dead. To these two gardens John is our only guide. From the one he fled with Peter in fear and sadness: to the other he hastened with Peter in anxiety followed by gladness.

When at the foot of Hermon, Jesus left nine of His disciples to await His return. Now one was no longer "numbered among" them, as Peter afterward said of him "who was guide to them that took Jesus." At the entrance to the garden Jesus paused and said to eight, "Sit ye here while I go yonder and pray." So had Abraham nineteen hundred years before, pointing to Mount Moriah, visible from Olivet in the moonlight, said "unto his young men, Abide ye here ... and I and the lad will go yonder and worship."

That very night Jesus was to ascend that very Mount on His way as a sacrifice, without any angel to stay the sacrificial hand.

At the garden gate there was no formal farewell, but a solemn final charge, "Pray that ye enter not into temptation." Jesus knew that the hour had come in which should be fulfilled Zechariah's prophecy. Sadly He had declared in the Upper Room, "All ye shall be offended because of Me this night; for it is written, I will smite the Shepherd, and the sheep of the flock shall be scattered abroad."

He dreads to be entirely alone. He longs for companionship. He craves sympathy. In whose heart is it the tenderest and deepest? There is no guessing here. The names are already on our lips. Answer is found in the home of Jairus and on Hermon. Those whom He had led into the one, and "apart" onto the other, He would have alone with Him in the garden. So "He taketh with Him Peter and James and John." These companions of His glory shall also be of His sorrow.

As Jesus advanced into the garden, the three discovered a change in Him—a contrast to the calmness of the Upper Room and the assurances of victory with which He had left it. He "began to be sore amazed and sorrowful and troubled," and "to be very heavy." We have seen John apparently quicker than others to detect his Lord's thoughts and emotions. We imagine him walking closest to His side, and watching as closely every change of His countenance and every motion that revealed the inward struggle. And so when Jesus broke the silence, he was somewhat prepared to hear Him say to the three, "My soul is exceeding sorrowful even unto death."



The moment had come when He must deny Himself even the little comfort and strength of the immediate presence of the three. So saying, "Tarry ye here and watch with Me," He turned away. They must not follow Him to the spot of His greatest conflict. There He must be alone, beyond the reach of human help, however strong or loving. Even that which He had found in the few moments since leaving the garden entrance must end. Their eyes followed Him where they might not follow in His steps. It was not far. "He went forward a little." "He was parted from them about a stone's cast"—probably forty or fifty yards. This separation implies sorrow. They were near enough to watch His every movement as He "kneeled down" and "fell on His face to the ground" They were near enough to hear the passionate cry of love and agony, "O, My Father." This is the only time we know of His using this personal pronoun in prayer to His Father. He thus showed the intensity of His feeling, and longing for that sympathy and help which the Father alone could give.

On Hermon the glories of the Transfiguration were almost hidden from the three disciples by their closing eyes. And now weariness overcame them in the garden. They too fell to the ground, but not in prayer. They tarried indeed, but could no longer watch.

They had seen Moses and Elijah with their Lord on the Holy Mount, but probably did not see the blessed watcher in the garden when "there appeared unto Him an angel from heaven strengthening Him" in body and soul. So had angels come and ministered unto the Lord of angels and men in the temptation in the wilderness.

"Being in agony He prayed more earnestly" until mingled blood and sweat fell upon the ground. The heavenly visitants on Mount Hermon in glory had talked with Him of His decease now at hand. The cup of sorrow was fuller now than then. He prayed the Father that if possible it might pass from Him. Then the angel must have told Him that this could not be if He would become the Saviour of men. He uttered the words whose meaning we cannot fully know, "Not My will, but Thine, be done."

The angelic presence did not make Him unmindful of the three. "He rose up from His prayer," and turned from the spot moistened by the drops of His agony. With the traces of them upon His brow, "He came unto the disciples." How much of pathos in the simple record, "He found them sleeping." Without heavenly or earthly companionship, His loneliness is complete.

"'Tis midnight; and from all around, The Saviour wrestles 'lone with fears; E'en that disciple whom He loved, Heeds not His Master's griefs and tears."

The head that reclined so lovingly on the bosom of the Lord in the Upper Room now wearily rests on the dewy grass of Gethsemane. The eyes that looked so tenderly into His, and the ear that listened so anxiously for His whisper, are closed.

As Jesus stood by the three recumbent forms held by deep sleep, and gazed by the pale moonlight into their faces which showed a troubled slumber, He knew they "were sleeping for sorrow." In silence He looked upon them until His eye fastened—not on the beloved John—but on him who an hour ago had boasted of faithfulness to His Lord. The last utterance they had heard before being lost in slumber was that of agonizing prayer to the Father. The first that awakened them was sad and tender reproof—"Simon, sleepest thou? Couldest thou not watch one hour?" In the Master's words and tones were mingled reproach and sympathy. In tenderness He added, "The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak." Because of the spirit He pardoned the flesh. The question, "Why sleep ye?" was to the three, as well as the charge, "Rise and pray, that ye enter not into temptation."

Let imagination fill out the outline drawn by the Evangelists:—"He went away again the second time and prayed; He came and found them asleep again; He left them and went away again and prayed the third time; and He cometh a third time and saith unto them, 'Sleep on now and take your rest.'" If we may suppose any period of rest, it was soon broken by the cry, "Arise, let us be going; behold he that betrayeth Me is at hand." They need "watch" no longer. Their Lord's threefold struggle was over. He was victor in Gethsemane, even as John beheld Him three years before, just after His threefold conflict in the wilderness.

As they rose from the ground the inner circle that had separated them, not only from the other Apostles but from all other men, was erased. We do not find them alone with their Lord again. They rose and joined the eight at the garden gate.

Recalling Gethsemane we sing to Jesus,

"Thyself the path of prayer hast trod."

The most sacred path of prayer in all the world was in Gethsemane. It was only "a stone's cast" in length. The Lord trod it six times in passing between the place where He said to the three, "tarry ye here," and that where He "kneeled down and prayed." One angel knows the spot. Would that he could reveal it unto us.



When Jesus was praying and the three were sleeping, Judas reported himself at the High-Priestly Palace, ready to be the guide of the band to arrest his Master. There were the Temple-guard with their staves, and soldiers with their swords, and members of the Sanhedrin, ready to aid in carrying out the plot arranged with the betrayer. It was midnight—fit hour for their deed of darkness. The full moon shone brightly in the clear atmosphere; yet they bore torches and lamps upon poles, to light up any dark ravine or shaded nook in which they imagined Jesus might be hiding. If any cord of love had ever bound Judas to his Master, it was broken. That very night he had fled from the Upper Room, which became especially radiant with love after his departure. To that room we believe he returned with his murdering band. But the closing hymn had been sung, and the Passover lamps extinguished two or three hours before. The consecrated place was not to be profaned with murderous intent. Another place must be sought for the victim of hate and destruction.

John in his old age recalled precious memories of it, because Jesus ofttimes resorted thither with His disciples. But he had a remembrance of another kind. It is when speaking of this midnight hour that he says, "Judas also which betrayed Him knew the place." Thither he led his band—to Gethsemane.

"Lo, he that betrayeth Me is at hand," said

Jesus to the three, as He saw the gleams of the torches of the coming multitude. His captors were many, but His thought was especially on one—His betrayer. Again John reads for us the mind of Jesus, as he did when the "Lord and Master washed the disciples' feet." He would have us understand the calmness of the fixed purpose of Jesus to meet without shrinking the terrible trial before Him, and to do this voluntarily—not because of any power of His approaching captors. "Knowing all things that were coming upon Him," He "went forth" to meet them—especially him who at that moment was uppermost in His thought. John now understood that last, mysterious bidding of the Lord to Judas, with which He dismissed him from the table—"That thou doest, do quickly." He now "knew for what intent He spake this unto him." It was not to buy things needed for the feast, nor to give to the poor. It was to betray Him.

What a scene was that—Jesus "going forth," the three following Him; and Judas in advance, yet in sight of his band, coming to meet Him.

"Hail, Rabbi," was the traitor's salute. And then on this solemn Passover night, in this consecrated place, just hallowed by angelic presence, interrupting the Lord's devotions, rushing upon holiness and infinite goodness, with pretended fellowship and reverence, profaning and repeating—as if with gush of emotion—the symbol of affection, Judas covered the face of Jesus with kisses.

How deep the sting on this "human face divine," already defaced by the bloody sweat, and to be yet more by the mocking reed, and smiting hand and piercing thorn. The vision of the prophet seven hundred years before becomes a reality—"His visage was so marred more than any man." "But nothing went so close to His heart as the profanation of this kiss."

According to John's account, Judas' kiss was an unnecessary signal. Jesus Himself leaving the traitor, advanced toward the band, with a question which must have startled the Apostles, as well as the traitor and his company—"Whom seek ye?" The contemptuous reply, "Jesus of Nazareth," did not disturb His calmness as He said, "I am He," and repeated His question, "Whom seek ye?" Nor was that infinite calmness disturbed by the deeper contempt in the repeated answer, "Jesus of Nazareth." They had come with weapons of defence, but they were as useless as the betrayal kiss, especially when some of them, awed by His presence and words, "went backward and fell to the ground."

We have seen Jesus going forward from His company and meeting Judas going forward from his. We must now think of Judas joining his band, and the eleven disciples surrounding their Lord. John has preserved the only request made of the captors by the Master. It was not for Himself, but for His disciples;—"If therefore ye seek Me, let these go their way."

Three Evangelists tell that one of the disciples struck a servant of the high priest and cut off an ear. Luke the physician says it was the right ear, and that Christ touched it and healed it. John gives the disciple's name, which it was not prudent for the other Evangelists to do when Peter, who struck the blow, was still living. He also preserves the name of the servant, Malchus—the last one on whom he saw the Great Physician perform a healing act, showing divine power and compassion. John records the Lord's reproof to Peter, "Put up thy sword into the sheath; the cup which My Father hath given Me, shall I not drink it?" Can this firm voice be the same which an hour ago, a stone's cast from these two disciples, said beseechingly, "O My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me." Yea, verily, for He had added to the prayer, "Not as I will, but as Thou wilt."

Thus does John's record concerning Peter testify to the triumph of his Lord. But he also notes the immediate effect of Peter's mistaken zeal. The captain and officers "bound Him." That was a strange, humiliating sight, especially in connection with the Lord's words to Peter while returning the sword to its sheath, "Thinkest thou that I cannot beseech My Father, and He shall even now send Me more than twelve legions of angels?" Wonderful words! fitting to be the last of the Lord's utterances to a disciple in Gethsemane. With burning and just indignation at His being bound, Jesus turned to His captors, saying, "Are ye come out as against a robber, to seize Me?" As they closed around Him His disciples were terrified with the fear of a like fate. "And they all left Him and fled." Prophecy was fulfilled; the Shepherd was smitten; the sheep were scattered.

Without the voice of friend or foe, the garden of Olivet was silent. One had left it who, outliving his companions, gives us hints of his lone meditations. The beloved disciple cherished memories of joyous yet sad Gethsemane. He it was who longest remembered, and who alone preserved the prophecy in the Upper Room, so soon fulfilled—"Ye shall be scattered every man to his own, and shall leave Me alone."

In George Herbert's words we hear the Master cry,

"All My disciples fly! fear put a bar Betwixt My friends and Me; they leave the star Which brought the Wise Men from the East from far. Was ever grief like Mine!"



CHAPTER XXV

John in the High Priest's Palace

"And they that had taken Jesus led Him away to the house of Caiaphas the high priest, where the scribes and the elders were gathered together."—Matt. xxvi. 57.

"Simon Peter followed Jesus, and so did another disciple. That disciple ... entered in with Jesus into the court of the high priest; but Peter was standing at the door without. So the other disciple ... went out ... and brought in Peter."—John xviii. 15, 16.

"Everywhere we find these two Apostles, Peter and John, in great harmony together."—Chrysostom.

"Bow down before thy King, My soul! Earth's kings, before Him bow ye down; Before Him monarchs humbly roll,— Height, might, and splendor, throne and crown. He in the mystic Land divine The sceptre wields with valiant hand. In vain dark, evil powers combine,— He, victor, rules the better Land." —Ingleman.—Trans. Hymns of Denmark.

"It is probable that St. John attended Christ through all the weary stages of His double trial—before the ecclesiastical and the civil authorities—and that, after a night thus spent, he accompanied the procession in the forenoon to the place of execution, and witnessed everything that followed."—Stalker.

We know not what became of nine of the disciples fleeing from Gethsemane; whether they first hid among the bushes and olive-trees, and escaped into the country; or took refuge in the neighboring tombs; or stole their way to some secret room where the goodman of the house furnished them protection; or scattered in terror each in his lonely way.

The captive Lord was dragged along the highway where Peter and John had been for a single hour the Heralds of the King. Over the Kidron, up the slope of Moriah, through the gate near the sacred Temple, along the streets of the Holy City, He was led as a robber to the high-priestly palace.

Three Evangelists tell us, "Peter followed afar off." But love soon overcame his fears. He was not long alone. John says, "Simon Peter followed Jesus and so did another disciple." We cannot doubt who was Peter's companion as he turned from his flight. They "went both together," as two days later they ran on another errand. In the shadows of the olive-trees along the roadside, or of the houses of the city, they followed the hurrying band which they overtook by the time it reached the palace gate. John did not "outrun Peter," who was probably the leader. But at the gate they were separated.

We must not think that this palace was like an American house. The entrance to it was through a great arched gateway. This was closed with a large door or gate, in which there was a small entrance called a wicket gate, through which people passed. These gates opened into a broad passage or square court. Around it on three sides the house was built. All rooms upstairs and down looked into it. One large room, forming one side, was separated from it, not by a wall, but by a row of pillars. Being thus opened it was easy to see what was passing in the room or the court.

"That disciple," who accompanied Peter to the gate, "was known unto the high priest and entered in with Jesus into the court of the high priest. But Peter was standing at the door without." John was doubtless familiar with the place and the servants, and went in with the crowd. He kept as near as he could to his Master during the dark hours of His trial, as he was to do during the yet darker hours at the cross.

But the disciple within could not forget the one without. They must not be separated in their common sorrow. Peter too must show by his presence his continued love for his Master. He must have opportunity to show in the palace something of the faithfulness of which he had boasted in the Upper Room, though it had faltered in Gethsemane.

"Then went out that other disciple which was known unto the high priest and spake unto her that kept the door, and brought in Peter." That doorkeeper was not Rhoda—she who with a different spirit joyfully answered Peter's knocking at another door—but was a pert maiden who, sympathizing with the enemies of Jesus, "saith unto Peter, Art thou also one of this man's disciples?" She understood that John was such. Her contempt was aimed at them both. But it was not her question so much as Peter's answer—"I am not"—that startled John. Was it for this denial that he had gained admission for his friend? It would have been better far if Peter had been kept "standing at the door without" though "it was cold," than to be brought into the court of temptation and sin, where he "sat with the servants" in his curiosity "to see the end," warming himself at the fire they had kindled.

Meanwhile we think of John hastening back to the judgment hall, from which he anxiously watched the movements of Peter "walking in the counsel of the ungodly, and standing in the way of sinners, and sitting in the seat of the scornful."

Poor Peter! He fears to look into any man's face, or to have any one look into his. He has obeyed the Master's bidding, "Put up thy sword into the sheath," but Malchus has not forgotten it; nor has his kinsman who saw Peter in the garden with Jesus,—though he may have forgotten the healing of Malchus' ear by his prisoner.

Three Evangelists tell how Peter "sat" with the enemies of Jesus. John tells how at different times he "stood" among them. Thus does he report as an eye-witness, and show his own watchfulness of Peter's restlessness;—of the conflicting emotions of shame and fear, the scornful frown, the enforced and deceiving smile, the defiant look, the vain effort to appear indifferent, and the storm of anger. Amazed at the first denial, shocked at the second, horrified at the third, what were John's feelings when one was "with an oath," and with another "he began to curse and to swear." But concerning this climax of Peter's sin, John is silent. It finds no place in his story.

At last "the Lord turned and looked upon Peter," either from the hall, or as He was being led from it. At the same moment, Peter turned and looked upon Him. We imagine John turning and looking upon them both, marking the grief of the one, and the sense of guilt and shame of the other. But he knew the loving, though erring disciple so well that he need not be told that when "Peter went out" "he wept bitterly." We almost see John himself weeping bitterly over his friend's fall; then comforting him when they met again, with assurances of the Lord's love and forgiveness. John's next record of their being together shows them united in feeling, purpose and action for their Lord.

There was another toward whom John's watchful eyes turned during the long and painful watches of that night. The picture of him is not complete without this Apostle's records.

"Art thou the King of the Jews?" asked Pilate of Jesus. Such John had thought Him to be. For three years he had waited to see Him assume His throne. He has preserved the Lord's answer,—"My kingdom is not of this world." This declaration contained a truth to which even the favored disciple had been partly blind. Was he not ready to ask with Pilate, though with different spirit and purpose, "Art thou a King then?" The Lord's answer must have meant more to the listening Apostle than to the captious and heedless Governor. It was a declaration of the true kingship of the Messiah-King,—"To this end have I been born, and to this end am I come into the world, that I should bear witness unto the truth."

"What is truth?" asked Pilate in a careless manner, not caring for an answer. "What is truth?" was the great question whose answer the Apostle continued to seek, concerning the King and the kingdom of Him whom He had heard say, "I am the Truth."

In that night he saw the Messiah-King crowned, but with thorns. He saw the purple robe upon Him, but it was the cast-off garment of a Roman Governor. A reed, given Him for a sceptre, was snatched from His hand to smite Him on His head. Instead of pouring holy oil of kingly consecration, as upon David's head, His enemies "spit upon Him." It was in mockery that they bowed the knee before Him saying, "Hail King of the Jews."

There are two scenes with which John alone has made us familiar. One is described in these words:—"Then came Jesus forth, wearing the crown of thorns, and the purple robe. And Pilate saith, Behold the man!" Did not that word "Behold," recall to John another scene—that on the Jordan when he looked upon this same Jesus as the Lamb of God, whom His enemies were about to offer unwittingly, when He offered Himself not unwillingly a sacrifice upon the cross? The Baptist's exclamation had been in adoration and joyfulness: Pilate's was in pity and sadness. It was an appeal to humanity, but in vain. There was no pity in that maddened throng. Pilate turned in bitterness toward those whom he hated, but whose evil deeds he did not dare to oppose. So in irony "Pilate ... brought forth Jesus ... and he saith unto the Jews, Behold your King!"

John was the only one who heard the three cries of "Behold"—one at the beginning, the others at the close of the Lord's ministry. How much he had beheld and heard and learned between, concerning "the Lamb," "the Man," and "the King."

The only earthly throne on which John saw Him sit was one of mockery. He did not ask to sit with Him. It was a sad yet blessed privilege to be with Him during that night of agony—the only friendly witness to probably all of His sufferings. While John's eyes were turned often and earnestly toward Peter and Pilate, they were yet more on the Lord. When he went in with Jesus into the palace, and while he tarried with Him, he could do nothing—only look. No angel was there as in Gethsemane to strengthen the Man of sorrows, but did He not often look for sympathy toward that one who had leaned lovingly upon Him a few hours before? Was not John's mere waking presence among His foes in the palace, a solace which slumber had denied Him in the garden? John's eyes were not heavy now. There was no need of the Lord's bidding, "Tarry ye here and watch with Me." Love made him tarry and watch more than "one hour"—even through all the watches of the night. Then he was the Lord's only human friend—the one silent comforter.



CHAPTER XXVI

John the Lone Disciple at the Cross

"When they came unto the place which is called Calvary, there they crucified Him."—Luke xxiii. 33.

"At Calvary poets have sung their sweetest strains, and artists have seen their sublimest visions."—Stalker.

"Now to sorrow must I tune my song, And set my harp to notes of saddest woe, Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long, Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, Which He for us did freely undergo: Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight." —Milton.—The Passion.

Even careful students of the life of John are not together in their attempts to follow him on the day of crucifixion. Some think they find evidence, chiefly in his silence concerning certain events, that after hearing the final sentence of Pilate condemning Christ to be crucified, he left the palace and joined the other disciples and faithful women and the mother of Jesus, and reported what he had seen and heard during the night; and at some hour during the day visited Calvary, and returning to the city brought the women who stood with him at the cross: and witnessed only what he minutely or only describes. Other students think he followed Jesus from the palace to the cross, remaining near Him and witnessing all that transpired. This is certainly in keeping with what we should expect from his peculiar relation to Christ. It is in harmony with what we do know of his movements that day. So we are inclined to follow him as a constant though silent companion of Jesus, feeling that in keeping near him we are near to his Lord and ours. This we now do in the "Dolorous Way," along which Jesus is hurried from the judgment-seat of Pilate to the place of execution.



It is John who uses the one phrase in the Gospels which furnishes a tragic subject for artists, and poets and preachers, on which imagination dwells, and excites our sympathies as does no other save the crucifixion itself. His phrase is this,—"Jesus ... bearing the cross for Himself." We notice this all the more because of the silence of the other Evangelists, all of whom tell of one named Simon who was compelled to bear the cross. As John read their story, there was another picture in his mind, too fresh and vivid not to be painted also. He recalled the short distance that Christ carried the cross alone, weakened by the agonies of the garden and the scourging of the palace, until, exhausted, He fell beneath the burden. We are not told that the crown of thorns had been removed, though the purple robe of mockery had been. So this added to His continued pain. As John looked upon those instruments of suffering he heard the banter and derision of shame that always accompanied them.

There followed Jesus "a great multitude of the people," whose morbid curiosity would be gratified by the coming tragedy. But there were others—"women who bewailed and lamented Him."

It is surmised that at the moment when Jesus could bear His cross no longer, and was relieved by Simon, He turned to the weeping "Daughters of Jerusalem" following Him, and in tenderest sympathy told of the coming days of sorrow for them and their city, of which He had told John and his companions on Olivet.

John says that Jesus "went out ... unto the place called the place of a skull, which is called in Hebrew Golgotha." The place was also called Calvary. We do not certainly know the sacred spot, though careful students think it is north of the city, near the Damascus gate, near the gardens of the ancient city, and tombs that still remain. We think of John revisiting it again and again while he remained in Jerusalem, and then in thought in his distant home where he wrote of it. "There," says John, "they crucified Jesus, and with Him two others, on either side one, and Jesus in the midst." How few his words, but how full of meaning. We long to know more of John's memories of that day—of all that he saw and felt and did. They were such in kind and number as none other than he did or could have.

There were two contrasted groups of four each around the cross, to which John calls special attention. One, the nearest to it, was composed of Roman soldiers, to whom were committed the details of the crucifixion—the arrangement of the cross, the driving of the nails, and the elevation of the victim upon it.

Having stripped Jesus of His clothing, according to custom they divided it among themselves; the loose upper garment or toga to one, the head-dress to another, the girdle to another, and the sandals to the last. John watched the division—"to every soldier a part." But his interest was chiefly in the under-garment such as Galilean peasants wore. This must have been a reminder of the region from which he and Jesus had come. He thinks it worth while to describe it as "without seam, woven from the top throughout." Perhaps to him another reminder—of Mary or Salome or other ministering women by whose loving hands it had been knit. If ever a garment, because of its associations, could be called holy, surely it is what John calls "the coat" of Jesus. Even without miraculous power, it would be the most precious of relics. We notice John's interest in it as he watches the soldiers' conversation of banter or pleasantry or quarrel, in which it might become worthless by being torn asunder. He remembered their parleying, and the proposal in which it ended,—"Let us not rend it, but cast lots for it whose it shall be." How far were their thoughts from his when their words recalled to him the prophecy they were unconsciously fulfilling,—"They part My garments among them, and upon My vesture do they cast lots."

With what pity did Jesus look down upon the lucky soldier—so he would be called—sporting with the coat which had protected Him from the night winds of Gethsemane. How He longed to see in the bold and heartless heirs to His only earthly goods, the faith of her, who timidly touched the hem of His garment. What a scene was that for John to behold! What a scene for angels who had sung the glories of Jesus' birth, now looking down upon His dying agonies of shame—and upon the gambling dice of His murderers! No marvel John added to the almost incredible story, "These things ... the soldiers did."

It is at this point that we notice a sudden transition in John's narrative. He points us from the unfriendly group of four, to another of the same number; saying as if by contrast, "But there were standing by the cross of Jesus His mother, and His mother's sister, Mary the wife of Clopas and Mary Magdalene." By "His mother's sister" we understand Salome.

The centurion had charge of the plundering soldiers; John was the guardian of the sympathizing women. He had a special interest in that group, containing his mother and aunt, and probably another relative in Mary the wife of Clopas. Mary Magdalene was not of this family connection, though of kindred spirit. So must John have felt as she stood with him at the cross, and at a later hour when we shall see them together again.

In the days of the boyhood of John and Jesus, we thought of their mothers as sisters, and of parents and children as looking for the coming Messiah. None thought of the possibilities of this hour when they would meet in Jerusalem at the cross. By it stands John the only one of the Apostles. Judas has already gone to "his own place." If Peter is following at all it is afar off. The rest have not rallied from their flight enough to appear after their flight. James the brother of John is not with him. As their mother looks upon Jesus between two robbers, does she recall her ambitious request, "Command that these my two sons may sit, one on Thy right hand, and one on Thy left hand"? She understands now the fitness of the reply she had received,—"Ye know not what ye ask"?

But Salome and John are loyal to the uncrowned King. Though they may not share the glory of His throne, they are yet ready to stand beneath the shameful shadow of His cross.

But another is there,—drawn by a yet stronger cord of affection. She heads John's list of the women "by the cross of Jesus—His mother," whose love is so deep that it cannot forego witnessing the sight that fills her soul with agony. Yes, Mary, thou art there.

"Now by that cross thou tak'st thy final station, And shar'st the last dark trial of thy Son; Not with weak tears or woman's lamentation, But with high, silent anguish, like His own." —H.B. Stowe.

As she stands there we seem to read her thoughts: "Can that be He, my babe of Bethlehem, my beautiful boy of Nazareth, in manhood my joy and my hope! Are those hands the same that have been so lovingly held in mine; those arms, outstretched and motionless, the same that have so often been clasped around me! Oh! that I might staunch His wounds, and moisten His parched lips, and gently lift that thorny crown from His bleeding brow."

But this cannot be. There is being fulfilled Simeon's prophecy, uttered as he held her infant in his arms,—a foreboding which has cast a mysterious shadow on the joys of her life.

"Beside the cross in tears The woeful mother stood, Bent 'neath the weight of years, And viewed His flowing blood; Her mind with grief was torn, Her strength was ebbing fast, And through her heart forlorn, The sword of Anguish passed."

She can only draw yet nearer to His cross and give the comfort of a mother's look, and perhaps receive the comfort of a look from Him, and—oh, if it can be—a word of comfort from His lips for the mother-heart. Perhaps for a moment her thoughts are on the future,—her lonely life, without the sympathy of her other sons who believed not on their brother. Oh! that they were like John, to her already more of a son than they.

In childhood Jesus had been "subject" to her: in youth and manhood He had been faithful to her. In the Temple He had thought of her as His mother, and of God as His Father. But no exalted relation, no greatness to which He had attained on earth, had made Him disloyal to her. While claiming to be the Son of God, He was still the loving son of Mary. Such He would show Himself to be on the cross. We thank John for the record of that moment when "Jesus ... saw His mother." "The people stood beholding" Him, but His eyes were not on them; nor on those passing by His cross wagging their heads, nor the malefactor at His side reviling Him; nor on the chief priest and scribes, the elders and soldiers mocking Him; nor the rulers deriding Him. His thought was not on them, nor even on Himself in His agonies, as His eyes rested keenly on His mother. It was a deep, tender, earnest gaze.

John tells that Jesus also "saw" "the disciples standing by, whom He loved." The Lord turned His head from His mother to His disciple. This could be His only gesture pointing them one to the other.

The prayer for His murderers had apparently been uttered when His hands were pierced, before the cross was raised. He may have spoken once after it was elevated, before He saw the two special objects of His love. His eyes met His mother's. She saw Him try to speak. The utterance of His parched lips, with gasping breath, was brief, full of meaning and tenderness—"Woman! behold, thy son!" Then turning toward John He said, "Behold! thy mother!"

In these words Jesus committed His mother to John without asking whether he would accept the charge.

"From that hour the disciple took her unto his own home." It is a question whether or not the phrase, "from that hour," is to be taken literally. It may be that the blessed words, "mother" and "son," were as a final benediction, after which John led her away, and then returned to the cross. Or, it may be that the mother-heart compelled her to witness the closing scenes.



If we pause long enough to inquire why John was chosen to be trusted with this special charge, we can find probable answer. Jesus' "brethren" did not then believe on Him. Mary's heart would go out toward him who did, especially as he was her kindred as well as of a kindred spirit. His natural character, loving and lovable, made him worthy of the trust. Apparently he was better able to support her than were any other of the Apostles, and perhaps even than her sons. He seems to have been the only Apostle or relative of Mary who had a home in Jerusalem, where she certainly would choose to dwell among the followers of the Lord. Above all John was the beloved disciple of Mary's beloved son. So to him we can fittingly say:

"As in death He hung, His mantle soft on thee He flung Of filial love, and named the son; When now that earthly tie was done, To thy tried faith and spotless years Consigned His Virgin Mother's tears." —Isaac Williams.—Trans. An. Latin Hymn.

Blessed John. When Jesus called His own mother "thy mother," didst thou not almost hear Him call thee "My brother"?

One tradition says that John cared for Mary in Jerusalem for twelve years, until her death, before his going to Ephesus. Another tradition is that she accompanied him thither and was buried there. What a home was theirs, ever fragrant with the memory of Him whom they had loved until His death. No incidents in His life, from the hour of brightness over Bethlehem to that of darkness over Calvary, was too trivial a thing for their converse. That home in Jerusalem became what the one in Nazareth had been, the most consecrated of earth. What welcomes there of Christians who could join with Mary as she repeated her song of thirty-three years before, "My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour." Of her we shall gain one more distinct view—the only one.



CHAPTER XXVII

John the Lone Disciple at the Cross—Continued

Three sayings on the cross reported by John:

"Woman, behold, thy son! Behold, thy mother!"

"I thirst."

"It is finished."

—John xix. 26, 27, 28, 30.

Of the seven sayings of Christ on the cross, three are preserved by John only; one of love, another of suffering, and another of triumph. The first is that to Mary and John himself. The second is the cry, "I thirst"—the only one of the seven concerning the Lord's bodily sufferings. John was a most observing eyewitness, as is shown by the details of the narrative,—the "vessel full of vinegar," the "sponge filled with vinegar," and the hyssop on which it was placed, the movements of the soldiers as they put it to Christ's lips, and the manner in which He received it. He was willing to accept it to revive His strength to suffer, when "He would not drink" the "wine mingled with gall" that would relieve Him from the pain He was willing to endure. The end was drawing near. The thirst had long continued. He had borne it patiently for five long hours. Why did He at last utter the cry, "I thirst"? John gives the reason. A prophecy was being fulfilled, and Jesus would have it known. It was this: "In My thirst they gave Me vinegar to drink." So "Jesus, ... that the Scripture might be fulfilled, saith, 'I thirst.'"

John watched Him as He took His last earthly draught. It was probably of the sour wine for the use of the soldiers on guard. What varied associations he had with wine,—the joyful festivities of Cana, the solemnities of the Upper Room, and the sadness of Calvary.

When Jesus therefore had received the vinegar, He said, "It is finished." This is the third of the sayings of Jesus on the cross preserved by John, who was a special witness to the chief doings of his Lord on the earth. So the declaration meant more to him than to any other who heard it. Yet it had a fulness of meaning which even he could not fully know. Jesus' life on earth was finished. He had perfectly obeyed the commandments of God. The types and prophecies concerning Him had been fulfilled. His revelation of truth was completed. The work of man's redemption was done. On the cross He affirmed what John said He declared in the Upper Room to His Father: "I have glorified Thee on the earth, having accomplished the work Thou hast given Me to do."

All four Evangelists tell of the moment when Jesus yielded up His life, but John alone of the act that accompanied it as the signal thereof, which his observant eye beheld. "He bowed His head,"—not as the helpless victim of the executioner's knife upon the fatal block, but as the Lord of Life who had said, "No one taketh it away from Me, but I lay it down of Myself."

John makes mention of another incident without which the story of the crucifixion would be incomplete. Mary Magdalene and other loving women had left the cross, but were gazing toward it as they "stood afar off." John remained with the soldiers who were watching the bodies of the crucified. "The Jews, ... that the bodies should not remain upon the cross upon the Sabbath, asked of Pilate that their legs might be broken"—to hasten death—"and that they might be taken away." As John saw the soldiers "break the legs of the first and of the other which was crucified with" Jesus, with what a shudder did he see them approach His cross; but what a relief to him when they "saw that He was dead already, and brake not His legs."

In a single clause John pictures a scene ever vivid in Christian thought. He knew that Jesus "gave up His spirit" when "He bowed His head." The executioners pronounced Him dead. "Howbeit one of the soldiers"—to make this certain beyond dispute—"with a spear pierced His side, and straightway there came out blood and water." There was now no pain to excite the Apostle's sympathy, and yet he reports the incident as being of special importance. He calls attention to the fact that he was an eye-witness, and that there was something in it that should affect others as well as himself. He says, "He that hath seen hath borne witness, and his witness is true; and he knoweth that he saith true, that ye also may believe." He explains why these incidents so deeply impressed him. They recalled two prophecies of the Old Testament. One was this, "A bone of Him shall not be broken." This reminded John of the Paschal Lamb which should be perfect in body; and of Jesus as the Lamb of God, by which name He had been called when pointed out to him as the Messiah. All through life Jesus had been preserved from accident that would have broken a bone, and in death even from the intended purpose that would have defeated the fulfilment of the prophecy.

The other prophecy was this,—"They shall look on Him whom they pierced." Because of what John saw and tells, we pray in song,

"Let the water and the blood From Thy riven side which flowed, Be of sin the double cure: Cleanse me from its guilt and power."



John once more furnishes a contrast between Jesus' foes and friends. He says that the Jews asked Pilate that the bodies of the crucified might be taken away. This was to the dishonored graves of malefactors. John more fully than the other Evangelists tells of Joseph of Arimathaea who "besought Pilate that he might take away the body of Jesus"—for honorable burial. Other Evangelists tell of his being "rich," "a counsellor of honorable estate," "a good man and a righteous," who "had not consented to" the "counsel and deed" of the Sanhedrin of which he was a member, because he "was Jesus' disciple." Mark says, "He boldly went in unto Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus." He had summoned courage so to do. Hitherto as John explains he had been "a disciple of Jesus, but secretly for fear of the Jews." John implies that Joseph was naturally timid like Nicodemus. As Pilate had delivered Jesus to His open enemies to be crucified, he delivered the crucified body to Joseph, the once secret but now open friend. The Jews "led him"—the living Christ—"away to crucify Him." Joseph "came" and tenderly "took away His body" from the cross.

"There came also Nicodemus," says John, "he who at the first came to Him by night." Yes, that night which John could not forget, in which to this same Nicodemus Jesus made known the Gospel of God's love, manifested in the gift of His Son whose body in that hour these timid yet emboldened members of the Sanhedrin took down from the cross. They were sincere mourners with him who watched their tender care as they "bound it in linen cloths with the spices" for burial, with no thought of a resurrection.

Perhaps Joseph and Nicodemus recalled moments in the Sanhedrin when they whispered together, speaking kindly of Jesus, but were afraid to defend Him aloud; thus silently giving a seeming consent to evil deeds because timidity concealed their friendship. But at last the very enmity and cruelty of His murderers emboldened them as they met at the cross.

It is John who tells us that Jesus the night before His crucifixion went "where was a garden into which He entered," and who also says, "Now in the place where He was crucified there was a garden." The one was ever more suggestive to him of a coming trial; the other of that trial past. "There," in the garden—probably that of Joseph—John says "they laid Jesus." There also were laid John's hopes, which seemed forever buried when Joseph "rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulchre, and departed." What a contrast in his thoughts and feelings between the rolling away of the stone from the tomb of Lazarus, and the rolling to that of Jesus. The one told him of resurrection; but the other of continued death; for as he afterward confessed, "as yet" he and Peter "knew not that Jesus must rise from the dead."

Two mourners at least lingered at the closed tomb. "Mary Magdalene was there, and the other Mary, sitting over against the sepulchre" of their Lord, after they "beheld where He was laid." John's parting from them at that evening hour was in sadness which was to be deepened when he met Mary Magdalene again.

It is not easy for us to put ourselves in the place of John, as he turns from the tomb toward his lonely home. We know what happened afterward, but he did not know what would happen, though his Lord had tried to teach him. He is repeating to himself the words he had heard from the cross, "It is finished," but he is giving them some difference of meaning from that which Jesus intended. He is walking slowly and sadly through the streets of Jerusalem, dimly lighted by the moon that shone in Gethsemane the night before upon him and his living Lord. We imagine him saying to himself:—"Truly it is finished: all is over now. How disappointed I am. I do not believe He intended to deceive me, yet I have been deceived. From early childhood I looked, as I was taught to do, for the coming of the Messiah. On Jordan I thought I had found Him. He chose me for one of His twelve, then one of the three, then the one of His special love. What a joy this has been, brightening for three years my hopes and expectations. I have seen Him work miracles, even raising the dead. I have seen Him defeat the plots of evil men against Him, and did not believe any power on earth could destroy Him. I have watched to see Him the great and glorious King. But to-day instead of this I have seen Him crucified as the feeblest and worst of men. I do remember now how Moses and Elijah, when we were with them on the Holy Mount, talked with Him of 'His departure which He was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.' But I did not understand them, nor even Himself when, just before we ascended the Mount, He told us 'how that He must go to Jerusalem and suffer many things, ... and be killed.' I do not wonder that Peter then said to Him, 'Be it far from Thee, Lord,' though the Lord was right in rebuking him. Can it be only last night He said, 'Tarry with Me.' How gladly would I do it now. But He is dead, and buried out of my sight. Oh that I might see Him rise, as I did the daughter of Jairus. Oh that I might roll away the stone from His tomb as I helped to do from that of Lazarus, and see Him come forth. How gladly would I 'loose Him' from His 'grave-bands' and remove the 'napkin bound about His face.' I know it was a mean and shameful taunt of His revilers when they said, 'If Thou art the Son of God, come down from the cross.' But why did He not do it? I remember how once He said concerning His life, 'no one taketh it away from Me.' But have not Pilate and the Jews taken it away? I shall never lean upon His bosom again. But this I know—He loved me, and I loved Him, and love Him still. The mysteries are great, but the memories of Him will be exceedingly precious forever."



Poor John. He forgot those other words of His Lord concerning His life,—"I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it again." The Lord had done the one already: He was soon to do the other, though His sorrowing disciple understood it not. Meanwhile we leave him, resting if possible from the weariness of the garden and the palace and Calvary, during that Friday night, which was to be followed by a day of continued sadness, and that by another night of sorrowful restlessness.



CHAPTER XXVIII

John at the Tomb

"Now on the first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, while it was yet dark, unto the tomb, and seeth the stone taken away from the tomb. She runneth therefore, and cometh to Simon Peter, and to the other disciple, whom Jesus loved.

"Peter therefore went forth, and the other disciple, and they went toward the tomb.

"Simon Peter ... entered into the tomb.

"Then entered in therefore the other disciple also, ... and he saw and believed."—John xx. 1, 2, 3, 6, 8.

"Let us take John for our instructor in the swiftness of love, and Peter for our teacher in courage."—Stalker.

"Oh, sacred day, sublimest day! Oh, mystery unheard! Death's hosts that claimed Him as their prey He scattered with a word; And from the tomb He valiant came; And ever blessed be His name." —Kingo. Trans. Hymns of Denmark.

"Mine eye hath found that sepulchral rock That was the casket of Heav'n's richest store." —Milton.—The Passion.

Of the women who visited the tomb of Jesus on the morning of the Resurrection, John was especially interested in Mary Magdalene, from whom seven demons had gone out, probably in his presence; thus giving him opportunity to see the marvelous change from a most abject condition, to grateful devotion to her Healer, perhaps beyond that of any other one whom He healed. John long remembered her starting on her errand "while it was yet dark." So he remembered Judas starting when "it was night" on his errand, of which Mary's was the sad result. One was a deed of love which no darkness hindered: the other was a deed of hate which no darkness prevented or concealed.

John had a special reason for remembering Mary. When she had seen that the stone was taken away from the tomb, it had a different meaning to her from what it did when she and John saw it on Friday evening. And when she "found not the body of the Lord Jesus," she imagined that either friends had borne it away, or foes had robbed the tomb. In surprise, disappointment and anxiety, her first impulse was to make it known—to whom else than to him who had sorrowed with her at the stone-closed door? So she "ran"—not with unwomanly haste, but with the quickened step of woman's love—"to Simon Peter and to the other disciple whom Jesus loved." They were both loved, but not in the fuller sense elsewhere applied to John. Astonished at her early call, startled at the wildness of her grief, sharing her anxiety, "they ran both together" "toward the tomb" from which she had so hastily come. But it was an uneven race. John, younger and nimbler, "outran Peter and came first to the tomb." "Yet entered he not in." Reverence and awe make him pause where love has brought him. For a few moments he is alone. His earnest gaze confirms the report of Mary that somebody has "taken away the Lord." He can only ask, Who? Why? Where? No angel gives answer. Still his gaze is rewarded. "He seeth the linen cloths lying." These are silent witnesses that the precious body has not been hastily and rudely snatched away by unfriendly hands, such as had mangled it on the cross.

Peter arriving, everywhere and evermore impulsive, enters at once where John fears to tread. He discovers what John had not seen,—"the napkin that was upon His head, not lying with the linen cloths, but rolled up in a place by itself." John does not tell whose head, so full is he of the thought of his Lord.

"Then entered in therefore that other disciple also," says John of himself, showing the influence of his bolder companion upon him. Though the napkin escaped his notice from without the tomb, it found a prominent place in his memory after he saw it. Who but an eye-witness would give us such details? What does he mean us to infer from the "rolled" napkin put away, if not the calmness and carefulness and triumph of the Lord of Life as He tarried in His tomb long enough to lay aside the bandages of death. When he saw the careful arrangement of the grave-cloths, "he believed" that Jesus had risen. We are not to infer from his mention of himself only that Peter did not share in this belief. We can believe that Luke does not complete the story when he says that Peter "departed to his home wondering at that which was come to pass." As they came down from the Mount of Transfiguration they were "questioning among themselves what the rising again from the dead should mean." As they came from the tomb they questioned no longer.



We long for a yet fuller record than that which John has given of what passed when he and Peter were within the tomb. He frankly tells us that "as yet they knew not the Scriptures, that He must rise again from the dead." Neither prophecy, nor the Scriptures, nor the Lord's repeated declarations, had prepared them for this hour of fulfilment.

We imagine them lingering in the tomb, talking of the past, recalling the words of their Lord, illumined in the very darkness of His sepulchre, and both wondering what the future might reveal. At last they left the tomb together. There was no occasion now for John to outrun Peter. They were calm and joyful. There was nothing more to see or to do. "So the disciples went away again unto their own home."

"But Mary was standing without at the tomb weeping." In these words John turns our thoughts from himself to her who had summoned him and Peter, and then followed them. After they had left the sepulchre she continued standing, bitterly weeping. She could not refrain from seeking that which she had told the disciples was not there. Her gaze was "at the very cause of her grief." "She stooped and looked into the tomb" as John had done.

From the infancy of Jesus to His death there was no ministry of angels to men, though they ministered to Him. "The Master being by, it behooved the servant to keep silence." But the angelic voices that proclaimed His birth, were heard again after His resurrection. According to John's minute description Mary "beholdeth two angels in white sitting, one at the head, and one at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain." The angelic silence was broken by them both, with the question, "Woman, why weepest thou"—so bitterly and continuously? They might have added, "It is all without a cause." Her answer was quick and brief; and without any fear of the shining ones who lightened the gloomy tomb, and were ready to lighten her darkened spirit. Her reply was the echo of her own words to Peter and John, slightly changed to show her personal loss;—"Because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid Him."—Am I not wretched indeed? Is there not a cause? Why should I check my tears?

To answer was needless. Were not the angels in the blessed secret which was immediately revealed? Were they not glancing from within the tomb, over her bowed head, to the gently moving form without? Did Mary become suddenly conscious of some presence as "she turns herself back, and beholdeth Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus"? His question seemed an echo of the angelic voices, "Woman, why weepest thou?" with the added question, "Whom seekest thou?" This was the first utterance of the risen Lord. In the garden, at this early hour, who—so thought Mary—can this be but the gardener? As such she addressed Him, "Sir, If thou hast borne Him hence, tell me where thou hast laid Him, and I will take Him away." We can hardly restrain a smile when we see how the strength of her love made her unmindful of the weakness that would attempt to "take Him away."

"Jesus saith unto her, Mary." That name, that familiar voice, that loving tone, sent a thrill through her heart which the name "woman" had failed to excite. More completely "she turned herself, and saith unto Him, Rabboni," with all the devotion of her impassioned soul.

Let us recall John's account of Mary's report of her first visit to the tomb, full of sadness—"They have taken away the Lord," and then in contrast place by its side his record of her second report, full of gladness—"Mary Magdalene, cometh and telleth the disciples, I have seen the Lord." The one was a mistaken inference; the other a blessed reality. Between these two utterances on the same day what revelations to them both. But the end was not yet.

"When therefore it was evening, on that day, the first day of the week, and when the doors were shut where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood in the midst, and saith unto them, Peace be unto you." So John describes the first meeting of Jesus with the disciples after His resurrection. He gives hints of some things of which other Evangelists are silent. With emphasis he notes "that day" as the day of days whose rising sun revealed resurrection glory. That "evening" must have recalled the last one on which they had been together. Then the Lord had said unto them, "Peace I leave with you." But the benediction had seemed almost a mockery, because of the sorrow which followed. But now it was repeated with a renewed assurance of His power to bestow it. Through fear of the Jews they had closed the doors of probably the same Upper Room where they had been assembled before. These doors were no barrier to His entry, any more than the stone to His leaving His tomb.



As John alone preserved the incident of the pierced side, he alone tells how Jesus "showed unto them His ... side," and said to Thomas, at the next meeting, "Reach hither thy hand and thrust it into My side;" and how this was followed by Thomas' believing exclamation, "My Lord, and my God." With this and the Lord's beatitude for other believing ones, John originally ended his story of the Lord, in these words,—"Many other signs therefore did Jesus in the presence of His disciples which are not written in this book: but these are written, that ye may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God; and that believing ye may have life in His name."



_CHAPTER XXIX

"What Shall This Man Do_?"

"Jesus manifested Himself again to the disciples at the Sea of Tiberias."—John xxi. 1.

"There were together Simon Peter ... and the sons of Zebedee."—v. 2.

"Peter, turning about, seeth the disciple whom Jesus loved following."—v. 20.

"Peter ... saith to Jesus, Lord, and What shall this man do?"—v. 21.

The twenty-first chapter of John's Gospel is without doubt an addition, written some time after the original Gospel was finished. Why this addition? To answer the question we must recall the things of which the addition tells. They are of special interest in our studies of Peter and John.

In our last chapter we were with John in Jerusalem. From there he carries us to the Sea of Tiberias. He tells us that he and his brother James, and Peter, with four others, "were there together." They were near their childhood home, where they had watched for the Messiah, and where, when He had appeared He called them to leave their fishing employment, and to become fishers of men. They had been saddened by His death, then gladdened by His resurrection. He had told them to meet Him in Galilee. And now they were waiting for His coming. They were within sight of a boat from which perhaps some day they had fished. Peter, ever active and ready to do something, said to his companions, "I go a-fishing." As John had followed him into the tomb, he and the others followed him to the boat saying, "We also come with thee." Let John himself tell what happened. "They went forth and entered into the boat; and that night they took nothing. But when day was now breaking, Jesus stood on the beach: howbeit the disciples knew not that it was Jesus. Jesus therefore saith unto them, Children, have ye aught to eat? They answered Him, No. And He said unto them, Cast the net on the right side of the boat, and ye shall find. They cast therefore, and now they were not able to draw it for the multitude of fishes."

Once more we are to find Peter and John the prominent figures, and see the difference between them, John being the first to understand, and Peter the first to act. When John saw the multitude of fishes he remembered the same thing had happened before at the beginning of Christ's ministry. Looking toward the land, and whispering to Peter, he said, "It is the Lord." "So when Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he girt his coat about him"—out of reverence for his Master—"and cast himself into the sea," and swam or waded about one hundred yards to the beach. The other disciples followed in the boat, dragging the net with the fishes. John remembered their great size, and the number "an hundred and fifty and three." He says, "When they got out upon the land, they see a fire of coals there." Did it not remind him of another "fire of coals" of which he had already written, kindled in the court of the high-priestly palace where "Peter stood and warmed himself," and near which he denied his Lord three times? If he did not recall that scene immediately, he did very soon.

Jesus invited the disciples to eat of the meal he had prepared. As they did so they were filled with awe and reverence, "knowing that it was the Lord." In the light of the palace fire, "the Lord turned and looked upon Peter"—that only. But in the morning light on the seashore, "when they had broken their fast, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Lovest thou Me?" Three times, with some difference of meaning, gently and solemnly He asked the question as many times as Peter had denied Him. On Peter's first assurance of his love Christ gave him a new commission, "Feed My lambs." This was a humble work,—not so exalted as it is now—a test of Peter's fitness for Apostleship. He was ready to accept it; and thus he showed his fitness for the enlarged commission, "Feed My sheep."

With what intense interest John must have listened to the conversation between his friend and their Lord. Was he not as ready as Peter to say, "Lord, Thou knowest all things; Thou knowest that I love Thee"? In the end John fulfilled the commission, "Feed My lambs," better than either Peter or any of the other Apostles. Of them all he had the most of the child-like spirit. He may fittingly be called the Apostle of Childhood.

Peter was told by the Lord something about his own future,—how in faithful service for his Master he would be persecuted, and "by what manner of death he should glorify God." By this his crucifixion is apparently meant. As John listened, perhaps he wondered what his own future would be. He was ready to share in service with Peter. Was he not also ready to share in his fate, whatever it might be?

"Follow Me," said Jesus to Peter. They seem to have started together away from the group. John felt that he must not be thus separated from his friend and his Lord. Though he had not been invited to join them, he started to do so, as if the command to Peter had been also for himself. "Peter, turning about, seeth the disciple whom Jesus loved following; which also leaned back on His breast at the supper, and said, Lord, who is he that betrayeth Thee?" As Peter at the supper beckoned unto John to ask that question concerning Judas, is it not possible that John now beckoned to Peter to ask Christ concerning himself? However this may be, "Peter, seeing him, saith to Jesus, Lord, what shall this man do?" or, as it is interpreted, "Lord—and this man, what?" It is as if he had said, "Will John also die a martyr's death, as you have said I shall die?" It is not strange that he wanted to know the future of his friend. But he did not receive the answer he sought, for "Jesus saith unto him, If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?"

These words may mean that John would live to old age and escape martyrdom, which became true. But this was not the meaning which Christians of his day put into them. They had the mistaken idea that Christ, having ascended to Heaven, would soon come again. They also believed that John would live until Christ's second coming. "This saying therefore went forth among the brethren, that that disciple should not die." John was unwilling to have this mistake concerning Christ's words repeated over and over wherever he was known. So he determined to correct the false report by adding what is the twenty-first chapter of His Gospel, telling just what Christ did say, and the circumstances in which He uttered the words to Peter concerning John. His testimony is this:—"Jesus said not unto him, he shall not die; but, If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee? Follow thou Me."

Peter became the suffering; John the waiting disciple, "tarrying" a long time, even after his friend was crucified, and all his fellow-Apostles had died, probably by martyrdom.

But after all that John wrote to correct the mistaken report concerning His death, tradition would not let him die. It affirmed that although he was thrown into a caldron of boiling oil at Rome, and though he was compelled to drink hemlock, he was unharmed; and that though he was buried, the earth above his grave heaved with his breathing, as if, still living, he was tarrying until Christ should return.

"What shall this man"—John—"do?" asked Peter. He found partial answer in what they did together for the early Christian Church, until John saw "by what manner of death Peter should glorify God." And then that church found yet fuller answer in John's labors for it while alone he "tarried" long among them.

When John tells us that Peter turned and saw him following, we recall the hour when Andrew and he timidly walked along the Jordan banks, and "Jesus turned and saw them following," and welcomed their approach and encouraged them in familiar conversation. How changed is all now! John does not ask as before, "Where dwellest Thou?" Nor does Jesus bid him "Come and see." He who has become the favored disciple is now better prepared than then to serve his Master, following in the path they had trod together, and having an abiding sense of the blessed though unseen Presence, until his Lord shall bid him, "Come and see" My heavenly abode, and evermore "be with Me where I am," and share at last, without unholy ambition, the glory of My Throne."