WHAT IF? ---WHAT IF?
By day it
gnawed at him, but nights were even worse. He had betrayed his dearest friend.
Not privately, not secretly, but blatantly, out in the open for the entire
world to see. And now it was too late to say, "I'm sorry." His friend
was dead.
Peter
tossed sleeplessly, unable to find a position that felt comfortable. Outside he
could hear the sounds of Jerusalem stirring to life. This city he had once
loved to visit, he now hated. It held too many painful memories impossible to
erase from his mind. Today he would leave for Galilee and fishing, though even
fishing held no allure for him now.
"How could I have so utterly shamed himself? How could I?
Peter, you stupid coward!" For the
thousandth time he cursed himself. "He
was my friend! How could I have done this to my very best friend?"
He could
see Jesus riding that donkey down the hill into Jerusalem to the cheers of
thousands. He saw him in hot anger overturning coin-laden tables in the temple.
"You have made my Father's house a den of thieves!" the Master had
told them in carefully measured but biting words.
Peter
recalled blind men abruptly seeing, lame men suddenly walking, and loathsome
lepers' skin turning baby-soft within a moment of Jesus' touch. He saw Jesus'
smile, his compassion, and his hours of gentle teaching. He felt the Master's
hand on his shoulder after a long day of caring for the multitudes. The
accompanying words repeated themselves over and over in his mind, "Thanks,
Peter, for your help today. You are a faithful friend … a faithful friend … a
faithful friend." Tears began to well up in Peter's eyes. Faithful? Me?
When the
High Priest's soldiers had tried to arrest Jesus, Peter had defended his Master
with a sword. But later, when a servant girl had challenged him with “You’re
one of his disciples, aren’t you” he had denied it with an oath. A mere servant
girl! But again and again he had compounded the cowardly lie until the cock
crowed, and Jesus' eyes from far across the courtyard met his. Sad,
disappointed eyes. Then he had broken and run. Run from the High Priest's home
into the dark streets. Run until he could run no more. Run until he had flung
himself onto the cobbled streets sobbing.
Later that
morning he had watched from a distance as they mocked and tormented his friend,
finally nailing hands and feet with huge spikes, and suspending him from a
cross until his life was spent. He couldn't bear another day in this city!
The thin
light of dawn had appeared under the door. Night was finally over; today he
would leave. Today he would run away, back to the only life he knew. Today
Peter would leave this miserable city behind.
Bang! Bang!
The nearby door shook as someone kept banging on it. Peter reached for his
sword, and quietly took his place behind the door. "Peter, John, its
Mary! Let me in!"
It was a
woman's voice, Mary Magdalene, one of Jesus' close friends who had traveled
with them for months. He unbolted the door and Mary slipped inside. She took
several deep breaths before she could speak, then blurted out her message:
"They've stolen the body! Jesus' body is gone, and we don't know where
they've put him!"
John, who
was wide-awake by now, looked at Peter, and then threw on his clothes. Peter
was out the door running, running down the streets, tearing around corners,
headed for the garden tomb where Jesus' body had been laid.
Now John
was close behind. Younger and faster, John soon outdistanced Peter. By the time
Peter got to the tomb, John was standing outside the door peering in. The huge
stone, designed to prevent desecration of the tomb, was rolled away. Peter
brushed inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the
damp limestone cave.
There was
the linen grave cloth that had been wrapped turn after turn around the body. It
lay on the chiseled stone shelf where the body had been. Yet now with nothing
inside, its coils lay collapsed, empty, like a chrysalis after the butterfly
has emerged. Folded separately was the cloth that had been around Jesus' head.
Peter
looked at John and motioned him inside. How curious! If the tomb had been
robbed and the body stolen, he would have expected the wrappings to be nowhere
in sight. Or perhaps strewn in haste around the narrow stone room. Yet here
they were, orderly, as if laid aside, no longer needed.
John looked
at Peter. Peter looked at John. Peter could catch the faintest smile playing at
the corners of John's mouth. What if …?
What if ... he is risen?
Peter
walked back into Jerusalem, but each step was a bit quicker than the one
before. He was asking himself …"What
if he is risen?"
As Peter
turned the corner onto the street where he was staying he saw a figure waiting
for him at the door. A very familiar
figure -- Jesus! Peter ran to meet him! Indeed… HE IS RISEN!!
Roy R. Boswell
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