John’s exhaustion was deep. He remembered that such a feeling had come over him before, upon the mountain of spirit, when he had not endured the vision of his master’s glory. He would not sleep again. No. But his eyes were heavy. He could feel a dullness rise upwards to wipe away his thoughts, like a dreadful guardian who bars the mysteries from the undeserving. Perhaps his will was not equal to sleep’s unstoppable force? He looked at the others. They were already asleep. He pinched his skin and rubbed his eyes but the sounds of their regular breathing lulled him. He made a prayer in his heart for strength to withstand it, since he did not want to fail his master again. He told himself that he must ‘watch’ and yet, how blissful the others seemed to him in their numb peace! Perhaps he could close his eyes for a moment…surely a moment would scarcely matter? How consoling it would be to rest, to forget the unpleasant and dreadful events that he knew would soon come. Time enough to worry about everything on the morrow.
He blinked. It was only one blink, and then came the sound of his brother calling through the darkness of the garden,
‘Get up! They come!’
Standing among his fellows now, with his mind in a fog and his mouth dry, he rubbed his eyes and saw a great number of torches, striking a path through the garden. He realised that with a blink fear had drawn a frozen hand over his eyes and he had failed his Lord.
58
GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL
The shame of it would live with him many years, pairé, until a fateful day in Jerusalem, when those who opposed his preaching began to pelt him with stones. In that far off time, little John, now a full grown man, would stand erect, with his head held high and he would remain wide-awake…until the very last stone found its mark.’
‘Oh my! Poor little John, I see now what you meant when you said that Lazarus-John took his place in the circle. But Lea, what happens to Christ Jesus in the garden?’
‘When Christ Jesus left Peter, John and James, he sensed the footsteps of Satan and trembling from the weight of his body, he walked to a nearby clearing bordered by olive trees, and knelt to pray.’
‡
His heart was full of woe, for he did not know if any of his followers, even his chosen ones, would be capable of remaining awake with him during his tempestuous struggle with death.
He looked to heaven, the wolf was biting at the moon and clouds were covering her face. He remembered that temptation in the wilderness those years ago and recognised the feeling of dread that was upon him.
The wind paused – a reprieve.
It was a moment stolen from out of the stream of time. Soon his agony would begin but not yet. For now the part of him that was a man took in the smells of the night and the aroma of wild roses. It recalled to his mind a tale spoken with his mother’s voice of a Nightingale that loved a white rose and sang the most beautiful songs to it, but only from afar, for fear of its thorns. One night, beneath the swollen moon, having drunk her fill of song and emboldened by love, the Nightingale resolved to embrace the rose. Clasping it to her breast, she was pierced through by a thorn, and yet she sung the most beautiful song she had ever sung; a song of sacrifice and true love found, pressing the thorn closer and closer to her heart. When she died the rose mourned, and stained with her heart’s blood, it forever bloomed red.
He thought on his mother, dead so many years and yet so alive in his stepmother. He thought of Yeshua, dead and yet hovering over him always. He reflected on the mystery of love and leaned his heart toward Jerusalem, which stood deathly pale and shivering in the scant moonlight. He had embraced her and sung his love-song to her and still she did not love him. Soon, she would pierce him with her thorn and he would stain the world with his blood.
His sadness was a deep well and yet lofty was his love, which was higher than life. For what was the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man? And what was the passion of a man compared to the passion of a god? He looked up. The cold moon died away and the man’s thoughts became the thoughts of the God.
‘The hour is come,’ he said to himself, and prayed for strength.
The wind began its stirring. Time established its dominion over the world. His body resumed its work, dissolving in pain. He knelt on the ground in what he knew were death throws. He felt the cold breath of death near his cheek and he shivered.
‘Father in heaven help them to remain awake!’
But they were faltering. He knew this because the Holy Spirit was loosening from him. Soon he would be alone and he did not know if he would be strong enough to hold back the tide of his godhood beyond this hour.
‘Simon-Peter!’ he cried. ‘Watch with me!’