by Tim LaHaye
His mates were not praying aloud, and one—he wasn’t sure which—had drifted into deep, rhythmic breathing, as if about to snore. John had to smile. Perhaps the temptation to sleep was what they were to pray to avoid! They had been fed, washed, had ventured out into the cool evening air—and now they sat. Perhaps on another evening they would have been content, but for himself, sorrow consumed John. Jesus had spoken elusively at first, but soon He clarified that His end was near. John could only hope and pray it wasn’t so. Sadness at that prospect only made him sleepier. He was not aware of drifting off, but suddenly Jesus stood in their midst, and John jerked awake when sweat from Jesus’ chin dripped onto his head.
Jesus said, “Why do you sleep? Rise and pray, lest you enter into temptation. Peter, James, John, come with Me.” He told the others, “Sit here while I go and pray over there.”
John and his brother and Peter rose and followed to where He had been praying. “My soul is exceedingly sorrowful,” He said, “even to death. Stay here and watch with Me.” He went a little farther and fell on His face, saying, “O My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as You will.”
John felt great waves of pity for his friend, but as he sat there with his brother and Peter, he dozed yet again. Here he had only so recently pledged his loyalty unto death, yet he could not even stay awake as Jesus had asked. He roused when Jesus returned and spoke harshly to Peter: “What! Could you not watch with Me one hour? Watch and pray, lest you enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
Again He went away and prayed. “O My Father, if this cup cannot pass away from Me unless I drink it, Your will be done.”
When He returned, John was yet again humiliated to find that he had drifted off. Jesus said, “Are you still sleeping and resting? Behold, the hour is at hand, and the Son of Man is being betrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise, let us be going. See, My betrayer is at hand.”
Some sixty years later John found himself unwilling to allow what happened next to pass his mind’s eye. It remained the most painful night of his life. “Lord, forgive me,” he prayed, ashamed anew that he dozed then and now. “Some things are not learned in a lifetime. But I feel compelled to clarify Your teaching, to set straight the heretics. Yet my time is limited. How can this be done? Make it plain to me.”
Unable to stand the pain and cramping in his legs, John climbed again atop his cot. But as he lay back with his hands behind his head, he heard excited voices from the courtyard. He could not make out individual words, but he recognized the enthusiastic tone and heard Polycarp and Ignatius in the middle of it. He crept out of bed and stopped halfway down the stairs. No one noticed him, but he could hear and understand now.
Ignatius was speaking to a dozen or so, about a third of them women. “But I understand that your bishop and his aide have made clear that you are not to go near that man, let alone listen to him.”
A woman responded, “Begging your pardon Rabbi Ignatius, but we, my husband and I, found Cerinthus most humble. And his story of having been counseled by spiritual muses—”
“Angels,” her husband said.
“Yes, angels. Why is this necessarily untrue?”
Others chimed in, nodding. “What reason would he have for misleading?”
“He might be a tool of the evil one,” Ignatius said. “And the reason we know what he said is untrue? Because we have the witness of a friend of Jesus, the disciple He loved.”
“But John is an old man! How can we trust his memory? Has he been taught by angels?”
“How can you ask that?” Ignatius said. “He was taught by Christ Himself! How quickly you forget!”
John began to make his way down the steps, but his legs gave out and he had to grab the wall to catch himself. Polycarp cried out, “Teacher!” and ran to him, grabbing him as he sat heavily on the stairs.
But as the young man tried to help him up and steer him back to his room, John said, “Indulge me, Polycarp. Allow me to address them.”
Polycarp turned and called for attention, but the small assemblage had already fallen silent at the collapse of their old leader.
His heart still racing, John announced with hoarse voice, “Beloved, truth and time walk hand in hand. In eternity you will know the truth, and Jesus Himself said the truth will set you free—free from the bondage of vanity, of empty philosophy and deceit. Yes, I am old, and perhaps my memory is not what it once was. But when you have walked with the Messiah, the chosen One, the Lamb slain for the sins of the world, you cannot forget. You must not forget. I have been praying for what God would have me do about the erosion of veracity when it comes to the facts about Jesus. And as I stand here and listen to my own flock, led to distraction, to confusion, to pretense and treachery, it comes to me what must be done. Pray with me that this is of God the Father, that it is He who has laid this on my heart and soul. If it is, He will confirm it.
“Now, Ignatius, if you would do the teaching tonight, I must retire to pray anew. Polycarp will stand with me, will you not?”
“Of course,” the young redhead said, as Ignatius herded the others toward the makeshift chapel in the main rooms. And as he helped John back up the steps, Polycarp whispered, “Master, I too have been praying, and I believe God has impressed something upon me also. Perhaps this is His way of confirming what He has put in your heart.”
“If it agrees with my spirit, I will consider it so.”
Polycarp helped John onto his bed once more and sat in the chair opposite him. “Do you believe what was going on down there? You made it clear that our people were not to give any credence to Cerinthus.”
“People are people,” John said, shaking his head. “They are like children, wanting to go where you tell them not to. Perchance our deep instruction has been too much for them. It could be that it was too much meat, as Paul would have put it, and not enough milk.”
“Cerinthus is not offering them milk either, master. And these people are not babies. You are the reason for that.”
“Not I alone, surely.”
“But largely, sir. You have taught them patiently for years, and when you were away, others were steadfast.”
“Regardless,” John said, “the time has come to face this attack from the enemy. What is God telling you?”
“That you should write.”
John became aware of his own breathing. That was indeed what the Lord had impressed upon him, but he needed this validation. “Write?” he said. “The state of my scribbling alone is evidence enough that I should not put my hand to papyrus.”
“I will be your scribe!” Polycarp said. “I wrestled with this in prayer, rabbi. I truly did. I feared this is what I wanted to hear from God, because I long to be the one who hears again all the stories you’ve told about Jesus.”
“I would tell those stories, Polycarp, but I sense what is needed is something deeper, something with teaching, something with a purpose beyond rehashing the things He did and the places He went.”
“Then you will do it?”
“I am fearful, young one. In spite of all you have done to bring me back to health, I am fading. Every day I feel more fragile. I am following your orders, believe me, but it becomes more difficult all the time. Would you pray and fast more about this? If we are to do this, much of the work of the church will fall to Ignatius, beyond his preparation to continue his journey to the other churches, as you will be occupied with this, with me.”
Polycarp stood and paced. “I cannot wait to begin, sir. I will pray and fast as you instruct, but then I will set about marshaling supplies. We would do it right here, would we not?”
“I would be most comfortable here, yes.”
“I will obtain more lamps and oil for the dark days…”
“And for when we might work into the night.”
“Yes, and I will gather papyrus scrolls and new quills, and plenty of ink.”
John pressed his lips t
ogether. “I hesitate to broach this, but you are not the most artistic of hand yourself and have expressed concern over your own handwriting.”
“I will devote myself to the task, master. I’ll write as slowly and as neatly as I can, and I will copy it over whenever necessary.”
John reached for Polycarp’s hand, if for no other reason than to slow the man and keep him from walking about the room. “Let us contract to not eat and to give ourselves to prayer until dawn. If we agree then that we believe this is of God, bring me all the supplies, arrange for our meals to be delivered, and let us begin when the sun is bright.”
“I will!”
“Before you go, son, you need to know that for many years people here and there have pleaded with me to write my own account of the ministry of Jesus. Until now I thought it would be redundant. I did not know what I could add to all the good work that has already been done. And much of what I enjoyed with the Master was private and personal, as He taught me and just one or two of the others some of the deep mysteries of God. Much is still perplexing to me, of course, and more of what He tried to tell us we will not understand until we are with Him in paradise. Be that as it may, if He leads me by His Spirit and gives me the words, I am willing to tell all for this higher, overarching purpose. Polycarp, we may have the unspeakable privilege of revealing to any and all who read our words that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God, and that by believing, they might have life through His name.”
Polycarp stopped in the doorway. “I’ll not sleep, sir.”
“You had better not. We’re fasting and praying, remember?”
“I couldn’t sleep anyway. And please don’t refer to this task as ours. It is yours. The words will be yours, from God, of course. I will be just your secretary.”
Much of the day still remained, and as John lay prone on the floor and cried out to God, he soon became aware of his empty belly and the smell of baking bread wafting from the courtyard. He prayed that the Lord would help him use that hunger to focus his attention on the cosmic matter at hand.
“If I am not the one,” he prayed, “I surrender to Your will.” But even as he said that it seemed God impressed upon him that no one else was left who could bring such authority to the project.
“I pray You will give me utterance that can be understood both by those educated only enough to be read to, and by the learned men from the great city-states.”
John believed the Lord impressed upon his heart, “Trust Me. Listen to Me.”
“I pray this account unmistakably exalts Your Son as God in human flesh. May this be a treatise of belief for all who come under its hearing.”
John heard the soothing baritone of Ignatius from below as he read to the people from an epistle Paul had written to the church at Corinth. How refreshing to know that his former protégé had become so mindful of lost souls that even in a service of worship and instruction, he insisted on a straightforward presentation of the reason God came to earth in the form of His only Son. John thrilled especially to the passage, “…that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, and that He was buried, and that He rose again the third day.”
Ignatius concluded with Paul’s admonition, “But if there is no resurrection of the dead, then Christ is not risen. And if Christ is not risen, then our preaching is empty and your faith is also empty…. But now Christ is risen from the dead.”
John was nearly lulled to sleep as Ignatius then read portions of the Pentateuch and led the assembled in prayer. John hummed along as they sang psalms and hymns and spiritual songs. Ignatius led them in a corporate confession of their faith, then they broke bread for communion.
John closed his shutters so his prayer and devotion would not be distracted. As the sun dropped from the sky, John found himself renewed, energetic. Any fear that a sleepless night would hamper his efforts the next morning disappeared as he communed with his God.
“I was the youngest of the twelve,” he reminded his Lord. “Where shall I begin?”
It was as if God Himself said within John’s soul, “In the beginning…”
John had long loved the beautiful simplicity of the first paragraph of Moses’ five scrolls, “In the beginning God created…” The plain assumption that God existed eternally from before time rang loud and clear from that adored text. As John continued in prayer, it came to him that fundamental to his belief in Jesus was that Christ is God, that He and the Father were one, and, thus, Jesus was also there in eternity past.
John wished he could begin his work immediately.
SIX
By the wee hours of the morning, John had begun to repent of his instruction to Polycarp to fast and pray alone and considered venturing out to find the lad. His own fasting and prayer had suddenly led John to a most unusual state of mind that began with a deep, mournful view of his own sin. He had been reminded of his anger at Cerinthus, and righteous though it may have been, it triggered in John emotions and intentions he thought had been long buried with what his friend, the late Paul, referred to as “the old man.” And that “old man” did not refer to John’s age, but rather his personality and character before the Spirit of Christ took up residence in him.
The more John pondered his anger and vitriol and the near murderous hatred he had felt for a fellow human, the lower he felt. It was as if God had thrust a lantern into his inner self and searched him for every weakness, frailty, and sin.
John was soon at his lowest, persuaded that perhaps God was telling him he had been mistaken, that he of all men was least equipped to write the message that so burned in him. It was as if the Spirit of God was revealing that John had forfeited the privilege because of his lack of self-control. Rather than the eagerness he had at first encountered—with the setting of the sun, the departure of the church members, and the quietness of the chapel—John now faced the ugliness of his own humanity and was brought to tears.
Is this the enemy, trying to rob me of my joy? Distracting me from a grand assignment?
He only wished that so. Reminded of his pettiness, jealousy, pride, covetousness, John dropped into his chair, sobs invading his throat. “Do You want me broken, Lord? Is that it? For I see myself as an intruder in Your kingdom, an interloper, a foreigner. Forgive my sins and grant me peace!”
And with that came a gentle knock on his door. Polycarp? That would be so refreshing.
“It is I,” came the voice of Ignatius.
John swept open the door. “Oh, welcome guest!” he said. “Please, please do come in. I cannot stand to be alone in my own presence another instant. But why are you not asleep, friend?”
“John, you’ve been crying. What is it?”
John told him of the events that had occurred from the end of the impromptu meeting in the courtyard, all the way through to his feeling as if his very soul had been exposed to God.
“This is monumental, teacher. I envy the experience you and Polycarp will enjoy. But you should not be put off by the Lord’s cleansing of your heart in advance of such a task. Did you not warn me of the same when you and the other apostles commissioned me to the work of God?”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Of course you did. This should be seen only as further confirmation that God is in this. I don’t want to speak for the Lord, but—”
“That has never stopped you before.”
“I suppose I deserve that,” Ignatius said. “I was about to question your judgment about fasting and praying all night, especially now that the Father has brought you through this ordeal to a place of peace. You do have peace, do you not?”
“I do! It came with your knock.”
“The way I heard you tell it, master, it came with your repentance and plea for forgiveness. It is clear God has something very special in mind for you, and He wants you wholly prepared.”
John pointed to the chair and sat on his bed. When Ignatius sat, John said, “If you are not too exhausted, perhaps you should invite Polycarp to join us. Surely he
is as lonely as I was, and if God took him through what I endured, he is probably longing for company now as well.”
Within minutes Ignatius had fetched the young disciple, and John was immediately struck by Polycarp’s paleness. “The Lord has been speaking to you too?”
“More than I wanted to hear, frankly. But I feel more prepared for the chore than ever. Before I was merely eager to get started for my own selfish purposes. Now I believe He has corrected my thinking, put me on the right path.”
Ignatius appeared to have been thoughtfully taking this all in. “Allow me to posit an opinion, then,” he said. “I propose that you end your fast, continue in prayer, but do not run from sleep. Perhaps I am speaking in the flesh, but it seems to me God was after your heart’s attitude, and you were willing to spend the night hungry and on your knees. That He has worked in both your souls should tell you that He has brought you to the place He wants you.”
Polycarp smiled. “That falls comfortably on my ears, rabbi. But am I being selfish again?”
“Let us not be too introspective,” John said. “Let us accept our brother’s wise counsel as from the Lord. Enthusiastic as I am about our undertaking, I believe I could sleep soundly now.”
“I know I could,” Polycarp said.
“And I need to,” Ignatius said. “Good night, gentlemen.”
JOHN AWAKENED at first light with such a sense of anticipation that he barely remembered sleeping and was certain he had not dreamed. He felt more refreshed than he had been in a long time, but he was hungry. The plate on the floor outside his door was a godsend. As he ate he wished he had a quill and papyrus. It’s not that he would have attempted to record this account on his own, but already it seemed God was pouring into him the thoughts and very words He wanted communicated.
