Chapter Forty
W
e continued for some time in our wanderings without adverse incident and free of care. "With regard to what is possible for God," laughed Jesus, "Look at yourselves! See how he has brought you from the rogues that you were to passably amenable creatures! Simon, you no longer smell of dead fish. What is impossible with men, is possible with God. End of debate!"
Peter was not amused. "We left everything and followed you. We have endured hardship the like of which I have never seen at sea; what then will there be for us?" Those of us who were non-commital about Peter's clodishness were, henceforth, converted. It had never occurred to me or I am sure to any of the others that following Jesus was sacrifice. Oh I know there are those who think that following him was difficult. Severe. They tend to characterize it that way I suppose because they hold themselves out as examples and models if not heroes of faith. And in describing Christ Jesus in such a way, they, to be kind, perhaps unwittingly, seek honor for themselves. I can't imagine for what other reason it may be said. Could it be a warning for those who might think that following Christ is a perpetual way of comfortable ease? What sort of invitation is that? What fool would think that? Inconceivable! For me however, the day that I knew Jesus loved me and wanted me in his coterie, it was as though I have been given wings. My feet were suddenly released from the mud. I felt lifted and cleansed. Now after all these years of hardship and disappointment and that yet to come, I will perhaps acknowledge the point. Yet and still when I remember the days when I was wallowing in life without him, I would not trade a single moment of my present faith for a lifetime of such wallowing. I cannot even yet bring myself to ask, 'What's in it for me?' "Come to me," he said, "and I will give you rest." I have found that invitation to be true. I am, therefore, too grateful for what I have to complain.
But his response to Peter was strange. "At the hour," he said, "when the Son of Man is to claim the throne of his glory, you also, who have followed me, shall sit on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel." Twelve tribes. Twelve thrones. Twelve simple men whom Jesus had chosen. This included Judas. At that time, Judas was accused of, was suspected of nothing. Had he not forfeited his heritage, Judas would have sat on a throne judging one of the tribes of Israel. But the "tribes" were lost -- more or less. No one knew what tribe they were from. I don't, even today as I write this. Were the "tribes" to be re-constituted? Do they have meaning in eternity? If Jesus is to be taken seriously, then they must. I felt joy for the twelve. What a place of honor! What a marvelous reward for following him. I did wonder at the time -- although no longer -- of what of the rest of us. What reward had we? Yet it didn't matter. Just the thought of eternity in intimacy with him was more than I could ever imagine.
And now after the deed, after the dice and the elevation of my friend Matthias, I wondered why I was not also chosen. If it is true, and I've no doubt that it is, then this is a very high honor Jesus bestowed upon the twelve. I am not sure how they thought about it, how each of them considered it. I am not sure what it did in Peter's thinking for example. Surely he must have felt flattered by it, perhaps a bit awed. As for me, well you must realize that I felt more than a little left out, yet strangely, I felt wondrously disengaged, above it all. This odd "sense" if you will, was strangely confirmed some years after Jesus' death.
It occurred that I was in prayer with two black men. Both men dearly loved our Lord and served him without distraction from secular affairs. We sat in chairs the three of us and as was my habit, my eyes remained open in prayer. (I've never quite understood why people close their eyes to pray as if God were somehow inside their head.) One of these two men I knew well. We had served the Lord together in preaching and teaching. It was he who had invited me to pray with them. The other man was from his native soil in Africa. What he was doing on this side of the great sea I did not know, but here he was, praying in the same room with us. As I observed him speaking in prayer, it came upon me to lay my hands on his head and pray for him. I resisted the impulse thinking how foolish it would appear when the thought intruded, "If you don't, you will miss the blessing I have for you." Believing this thought to come from the Father, I extended my arms, buried my hands in his black hair and offered a prayer on his behalf. When I had finished, he opened his eyes and looking at me said, "I have a word from the Lord for you: 'I will make your feet as hind's feet and set you in high places.'"
Since that day I have journeyed many roads in my faith. I am now an old man. In the passing summers and winters over the many decades, I have not seen my foot in a single high place. My life instead has been one humiliation after another. Yet I do not complain -- although I confess, I have; many times and furiously -- I still seek that high place. If it does not happen in this life, I believe I will find it in the next. Let the twelve have their thrones. God has prepared a place for me as well. A high place -- where my feet and my heart will abound. Where no longer will I feel on the outside looking in; where no longer will I have to prove myself -- to myself and to others. Where at last the struggle will cease.
Jesus continued, speaking to Peter and to the rest of us, "Make no error," said he, "there is no one who has left house or parents or brothers or sisters or wife or children or lands for my name's sake and for the sake of the Message I bring and for the sake of God my Father, who shall not receive in this present age a hundredfold more, houses and brothers and sisters and mothers and children and lands -- with persecutions -- and in the age to come inherit eternal life."
Despite my humiliations, despite my persecutions, I have already received my hundredfold -- and more! I await with flawed, ambiguous patience for that which is to come.
