Making things happen
... with integrity
Monday April 5, 2004 Volume VI Number 14
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Malchus by Ken Kemp |
y ear. It itches. It’s all tingly. You know how your arm, if you sleep on it the wrong way, how it “falls asleep?” You stretch, you try to get the blood flowing again, so the numbness goes away. You rub it and it feels like pins and needles poking you from inside your skin… you know the feeling? I wonder if someday it will go away.
But you know what? The whole thing really bothers me. The whole thing.
You see, we were wrong. I can’t stop thinking about it. It plays over and over in my head. The images. The sounds. The shouting. The firelight from the torches and lamps. The sound of chains, and the rattling of swords and daggers and armor. The quiet of the garden, disrupted. Yelling. Everyone there, tense. Alert. On edge. I suppose you’d call it a capture - the apprehension of a dangerous criminal. Some thought it was justice.
But we were wrong. They were wrong. Dead wrong. All of us.
Caiaphas.
The priests. The other guards. Then Pilate. All of us had it wrong. It was
over-kill. Thirty of the Temple’s top men, a first rate security force, the strongest and
fittest and most highly trained guards, all sent to apprehend a single gentle
man and bring him into custody.
You’d think by the armament, the element of surprise, the military strategy, that this target and his companions pose an eminent threat. Hardly. When we spot him, he is alone in the shadows - a silhouette under the gray light from the moon. In the dampness, the night air heavy with cool moisture, a mist swirls in a quiet gentle breeze, illumined in the faint night light. He seems to be praying. His pals are asleep.
Judas steps forward.
We know about the deal he made with the High Priest. They paid him off. I’ve seen guys like him before. They have no pride. No self-respect. You think he’s your friend. You trust him. You tell him everything. He’s playing a role, and you don’t know it. He nods in agreement. But in his heart, he’s plotting. He harbors doubts. He’s possessed by private resentments. Bitterness lurks just behind his superficial grin. He pretends to be your friend. Then, when it counts the most, when loyalty is expected, just when he’s needed - he bolts. He bails out. That’s the kind of guy Judas is.
None of us respect him.
But my boss needs him. Judas the informant. Caiaphas is willing to pay – pay good money. The stoolie takes it and deliberately, directly, leads us to this private out of the way garden. And sure enough, there he is: Jesus.
Not
like I didn’t know what Jesus looks like. We’d seen him before. The Chief
Priests sent us on scouting missions. We watched him work the crowds. We kept
our distance, and we filed our reports. Don’t think for a minute that I
believed the stories about miracles and such – at least not at first. But this
man could hold an audience. He’d speak, and people would take a seat, in rapt
silence, just to listen. They hang on every word. Sometimes the crowds were
huge. He is a storyteller. I have to admit, there were times when I felt he
was speaking directly to me. I think others felt the same.
It is Jesus there in the shadows. One in the same.
Judas briefs us. I’ll approach the man you want, he says, and then I’ll greet him with a kiss. You’ll know who he is.
So we keep still and watch. A silent moment. In the stillness. Firelight flickers from the torches and lamps carried by my squad. And just like he told us, without hesitation, like he is enjoying his moment of self-importance, Judas moves directly toward Jesus who looks up, like he is expecting him, and Judas brings the greeting he promised: a kiss to Jesus’ cheek.
That triggers my guys into action. And I take the lead.
Thirty of the temple’s best men jump from the shadows. There are shouts and hoots, the clanging of armor and drawing of swords and daggers and firelight from torches light the scene. I take a quick look at Judas. He seems shocked - like he’s changed his mind. I turn back to my job. I grab Jesus by the wrists and wind a rope around them. I’d rehearsed my job many times. I’ve done it before. Secure the prisoner. Quickly. With authority. Establish your position of power. No hesitation. No room for mistakes. No time for timidity. Get it done.
Jesus’ companions wake up. Most of them scatter. Jesus complies. He doesn’t resist.
It’s what happens next I can’t stop thinking about. It plays in my mind in slow motion. It is like I know it is coming. I could, no, I should dodge the attack. But I don’t.
Out of the shadows, one of Jesus’ friends pulls a sword and raises it high toward me. Later I hear the guy’s name – Peter. In the flash of an instant, I see the fire in his eyes. He’s not like that coward traitor Judas. This guy’s more like me. He’s loyal. Determined. Resolute. Strong. He’ll do anything to protect his friend. Instead of fearing him, I admire him. The blade flashes in the light, I see it coming. With both hands, he brings it down toward me. Hard. Everyone is shouting. It’s chaos. And I feel the heavy blade knock me upside the head. I feel the sharp edge cut into my flesh.
For
a split second, I don’t feel anything. And then it hits. Pain shoots like a
lightening bolt through my body - like someone took a blow-torch to the side of
my head. My knees buckle. I let go of Jesus’ wrists. I go down. With my
right hand, I reach up to touch the wound, and blood gushes through my
fingers. I’m dazed. I think maybe this is it. I look down to the ground,
dizzy, and there in the dirt – I see it. A bloody clump. My ear.
It’s like a sickening gut punch. I collapse in pain. I cry out.
In that moment of shock, I hear a faint rebuke. It’s Jesus telling Peter to put his sword away. Then he says something about the one who lives by the sword will die by it.
And then Jesus bends over toward me. He reaches into the dirt. I look up. In the flickering firelight, I see his eyes. We lock into one another. I’ve never seen anything like that face before or since. The sincerity. The strength. The purity. The clear, clean look of compassion. I can’t talk about it. I can barely think about it. He looks at me. No, not at me. Not through me. Into me. Like he knows me. Understands me. Cares about me. Like he knows who I really am. And without looking away, he raises his hand from the ground to my head. And he touches me.
And when he does, the pain stops. I’m telling you. It didn’t diminish. It didn’t fade. It didn’t decrease. It stops. It’s gone. As though none of this happened.
He doesn’t stop looking into my eyes and I can’t take mine away from his either. His hand pulls away as he rises and I reach up with my hand to touch the spot. And when I do, I can’t believe what I feel. I’m stunned. It’s my ear. Perfectly in place. Back where it belongs. No more bleeding. Not even a scratch. I look at my fingers. The blood is still there, but my ear. My ear. It’s healed.
I look up at Jesus. He gives me a hint of a nod. He knows I’ll never be the same again. I look at Peter. He’s still angry. Sweating. Breathing hard. There it is - that protective fire in his eyes. Still there. I think to myself – now there’s a strong one. A good one. He attacked me to protect him. My guards are pushing him out of the way. One of them takes the sword from him. They grab Jesus and yank him forward. They finish with the rope.
They leave me behind. I’m still on my knees as they tramp out of the garden, their prisoner in tow.
They don’t need me anymore.
Under the moon, in the mist, as the clanging and shouting move away down the garden path and leave me in the quiet, I’ve got time to think.
I massage the numbness from my ear with my thumb and forefinger.
* * * * * * * *
I haven’t slept since.
We
were wrong about him. I can’t stop saying it. Judas was wrong, too. Peter
understood something I didn’t. I’m the one who is angry now. The
injustice. They call him a blasphemer. They say he must be
eliminated. The same people who sat at his feet listening to his stories and
following him around, now they want him dead. And they’re getting what they
want.
They release Barabbas. They mock Jesus. They beat him without mercy. The cruelty - unspeakable.
His eyes. I can’t get them out of my mind.
Now, they are crucifying him. Even now. The gentle, innocent man in the garden who healed my ear - he’s hanging up there on a cross. It isn’t right. It just isn’t right.
We thought we understood. We thought we knew him. We thought we were listening. We were wrong. Dead wrong.
Now I know. Now I really can hear.
Make no mistake.
He is who he claimed to be.
* * * * * * *
It’s Monday morning. You are a leader.
As a leader, you know about loyalty and traitors and injustice and conflict. You know about the struggle for power.
This week on Good Friday, I play the role of Malchus in a multi-media drama. I am memorizing my part. The short script I was given inspired this expanded first person account.
As I wrote out the story and then read my own words, pretending to be Malchus, I got a new sense of how one man changed his mind. How his heart quickened. How his soul healed along with his ear. How he was born again.
I’m hoping that in the reading, you will, too.
You’ll never appreciate Easter Sunday’s celebration until you figure out the meaning of Good Friday and the events that lead up to it. The darkness precedes the dawn. Conviction becomes confession becomes liberation. You’ve got to lose your way in order to find it.
Ask Malchus. He’ll tell you.
Maybe this is your year.
Posted in Valley Center, California
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2004
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