A Follower

I was there. But then I ran away.

You’ll have heard of me. Not my name, of course. No doubt you’ll spend a long time trying to work it out: who I really was; whether you know about me from somewhere else. But do me a favour. The only real thing you know about me is that I was there – and then… I was naked. At least allow me a bit of anonymity. It’s embarrassing enough to be known as the one who ran away naked. No doubt you want to know why I was there – and probably also why I was naked. Let me explain.

I’d followed Jesus since I was little more than a boy. I was there, in Galilee, on the top of the mountain when he fed all those people. Later someone said they thought it was about 5,000. All I can tell you, was that there were lots of people – more than I’d ever seen together before. Ever since then, whenever I saw him – or heard that he was coming to town -- I would run as fast as I could, squirm my way through the crowds, and somehow get to the front. Then I’d watch him. Sometimes he healed people; sometimes he would just speak. Sometimes he argued with important looking people; sometimes he turned his back on them and spoke to someone on the edge of the crowd that everyone else was trying to avoid. My favourite days were when he told stories. I loved his stories – I didn’t always understand them – but I loved them nevertheless. Sheep and wheat fields and fig trees and vineyards; widows who had nothing and kings who threw fine banquets; dodgy stewards and responsible slaves filled my imagination day and night.

Sometimes people ask me what he was like. It is really difficult to say. He wasn’t like anyone I have ever met before or since. He was Jesus. But what I can tell you is that just being near him made you feel different: hopeful, excited, loved. Sometimes I would reach out my hand to try and touch something close to him. I don’t really know why, I just felt I needed to. Whenever I did he would turn and smile at me. One day after he had smiled he looked deep into my eyes and said ‘take up your cross and follow me’. I didn’t understand. It made no sense, following Jesus was exciting. So I shook my head and forgot it.

Then, after a while, he disappeared. He always used to come and go but then, one day, we never saw him again. After a while I asked Zebedee, James and John’s dad, because they had gone too. He sat for a long time in silence, a single tear running down his cheek and then told me they’d gone to Jerusalem and that he might never see them again. I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant but something stopped me. He seemed smaller somehow, full of fear and loneliness. So I thought better of it and said nothing.

By then I was quite grown up. Or at least I thought I was -- a whole thirteen years old. I felt mature. A man of the world. So I begged my mother to let me go up for the Passover. She wasn’t sure at first but after I begged, and begged, she said she’d come with me and together we set out on our grand adventure. It took us longer than we thought – mother couldn’t walk as fast as I could so we arrived at my mother’s cousin’s house just as Passover was beginning. The Passover meal was over but they welcomed us in anyway – hot and weary from our travels. I was so dusty from the road that I stripped off all my clothes to bathe before we sat down. But at that moment, I heard his voice echoing in the narrow streets. I would recognise it anywhere. It sounded like there was an argument going on. Jesus said something quiet and a loud horrified voice replied ‘I will never leave you’ it happened a few times and then it faded away as they moved out of earshot.

I was so excited I didn’t even stop to think but grabbed the nearest thing to hand – a sheet – and ran off in the direction of their voices. I hadn’t gone far before I ran into a large group of people, carrying torches and clubs and a few swords but I eased round them and ran on. I took a few wrong turns but eventually I found them in a garden at the foot of mount of Olives. When I got there Jesus was talking to Peter and James and John. He looked more upset than I had ever seen before, while Peter, James and John were bleary eyed like they’d just woken up.

Just then, the large crowd I overtook on my way there arrived and one of them kissed Jesus on his cheek. Then everything got a bit blurry. I no longer felt so grown-up. I was frightened. There was shouting and chaos. A sword flashed. Then there was blood everywhere. People were jostling and grabbing. I could smell sweat but it smelt of terror. Someone pushed past me and ran and ran. Then everyone was running. One of the crowd grabbed at me and I ran as well. It was only as I got to the edge of the garden that I realised they had grabbed my sheet. I was completely shamed – as naked as the day I was born. I turned and looked back – and there in the torch light I could see Jesus standing quietly while the panic raged around him.

All these years later I look back on that night and wish it had been different. I wish I had listened when he said I should take up my cross and follow him. I wish I had understood what he meant – what it meant for me. I wish I’d been as brave as I thought I was. I wish so much but now I do understand. Now I know the cost of following. Today, or tomorrow or the next day, I will be asked to turn and face danger, and not run way. Soon I may need to risk my life for the sake of others.

I was there. But then I ran away. Next time…next time, I won’t.