“And I do,” Peter said, energized. “I’m asking that all the elders of this church avoid offense by dining only with those who share their birth race.”
“You are not serious!” Mark said, standing. “We are one in Christ, neither Jew nor Greek, neither circumcised nor uncircumcised. If you must choose whom not to offend, choose those who believe the gospel! Will you discipline or cast me out if I choose to dine with any believer?”
Peter rubbed his face. “I would not want to offend you either, son.”
“You don’t want to offend anyone! And yet Paul rightly teaches that the truth of the cross offends. I do not know what has happened to you, Peter, but I cannot abide this. When you wonder what has happened to this body, you must search yourself and your motives. In your urgency to not offend anyone, you have offended all—the Gentiles by separating yourself from them despite that they are your brothers, and the Jews by encouraging them in this heresy. They may accept you and respect you, but they are wrong, as are you.”
“You may be right.”
“Oh, Peter, I would rather that you argue with me even in your error, for there is more respect due a man who knows his own mind, even if he is wrong. But you are both wrong and yet still unsure what to do about it.”
The last thing Mark wanted to do was to humiliate his mentor and friend. Knowing that Peter either had no response, or at least no good one, Mark chose to storm out rather than embarrass the man further. He could only imagine what Peter and Barnabas were saying about him now. Mark couldn’t wait until Paul arrived. Surely he had heard of what was going on and would not be content until the issue was dealt with in the open.
The question in Mark’s mind was whether he could trust the report that it seemed Paul once again considered him a friend. He resolved to be in the welcoming party that greeted Paul’s ship, for Mark wanted to be sure the apostle and missionary knew he was aligned with him on this matter.
Once Paul reached the church, sparks were sure to fly.
TWENTY-ONE
The next few weeks were the most conflicted of Mark’s life. Besides news from Jerusalem that his mother was failing—and of course he wondered when he would be able to make the trip of three hundred or so miles to see her—the controversy in Antioch seemed to worsen every day. For the life of him, Mark could not understand Peter’s seeming weakness in the face of Judaizer criticism. That his own cousin was now in league with Peter on this was all the more disconcerting. Peter and Barnabas were revered by the Jewish believers, and it soon became apparent that the few Gentiles who remained were putting all their hopes into the return of Paul and, thus, sanity.
Mark had given up trying to argue with Peter or Barnabas, though they met frequently for prayer and planning. Neither seemed willing to acknowledge that attendance was continuing to drop. If only they had raised the subject, Mark would have held forth with gusto on what was wrong. But when he had brought it up, following that first meeting on his and Barnabas’s return from Cyprus, neither would even discuss it.
If Mark had learned anything from Peter, it was forthrightness. He spoke his mind, always—he hoped—respectfully. And he found it impossible to hide his concern over the church. Barnabas seemed to paste on a joyous smile whenever he was in Peter’s presence, and the two appeared to be vigorously going about the work of evangelizing and equipping the saints as always. How they could persist in this with the church in turmoil was beyond Mark’s comprehension. He believed they had to be dreading the return of Paul as much as he yearned for it.
As that day drew nearer, Peter seemed more on edge, and it was also clear that he was trying to reestablish his friendship with Mark. Praying and planning together was one thing, but Mark could not offer the same eye contact and emotional warmth as before, because he simply didn’t feel the same. Oh, he loved the man and in most ways respected him as much as anyone he had ever met. Peter was the closest thing to a father Mark had enjoyed in more than twenty years. But this issue—though it was hardly personal—had come between them. And much as Peter had to enjoy Barnabas’s support, it became apparent that he was eager to return to Mark’s good graces.
Peter brought news to Mark of his mother. “Mary is still as robust as a woman her age and in her condition can be,” he said. “And the latest message from her is that you must not make a special trip when there is so much to do here.”
“She is only saying that, Peter. I would not forgive myself if I neglected her too long and missed seeing her once more before she died. Do you think that is a possibility?”
“Always. Of course we never know when God will call us to Himself. But my reading of this is that there is no reason to believe she will not linger many more months. Perhaps when Paul and others have arrived to help here, you will be free. We have amassed provisions for the poor in Judea and could assign you to supervise that effort.”
“I would be grateful.”
Mark noticed Peter looking at him expectantly, as if his kindnesses deserved the respect and admiration Mark had once proffered. Mark forced a smiled and nodded his thanks.
“You haven’t asked me for any stories lately, my son.”
That appellation seemed foreign, now that they were all but estranged. “You’ve been so busy,” Mark said. “I didn’t want to impose.”
“You have always said that,” Peter said, smiling sadly. “And I suppose at times I treated your curiosity as a nuisance.”
“You did.”
“Forgive me. In truth it humored me, and while I didn’t want to appear overly eager to reminisce, such memories always invigorated me too, and I enjoyed the telling.”
Was he implying he wanted to tell Mark more even now? A meeting was planned for that very evening, and another the following afternoon. And Peter had appointments at the local synagogue, where he was to debate pharisaical scholars on the Messianic prophecies. “Surely you need time to prepare for all your—”
“You let me worry about my schedule, Mark. I thought you might like to hear a story from our travels with the Master near Jericho.”
“Well, of course, if you’re sure—”
“I’m sure. We were leaving that fabled city, made famous by Joshua, of course, and a great multitude followed us down the road. A blind man named Bartimaeus sat by the side of the road and demanded of passersby to know what the cause of all the commotion was. When someone told him it was Jesus of Nazareth passing, he cried out, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’
“Many tried to shush him, but he cried out all the more, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’
“Jesus stopped and asked that the man be brought to him. Someone whispered to Bartimaeus, ‘Be of good cheer. Rise, He is calling you.’
“Well, he threw aside his garment and came to Jesus, who said, ‘What do you want Me to do for you?’
“Bartimaeus said, ‘Rabboni, that I may receive my sight.’
“Jesus said, ‘Go your way; your faith has made you well.’ And immediately he received his sight and followed Jesus on the road.”
As had always happened when Peter told stories of Jesus, everything else disappeared from Mark’s mind and he imagined himself among the crowds. His sharp disagreement with Peter had faded, his lessened respect was forgotten. And he longed to hear more. But when he looked at the old man, he saw tears.
“What is troubling you, Peter?”
The man waved, lips trembling. Finally he managed, “It’s just that I would love to tell you more, but after that miracle we were fewer than fifteen miles from Jerusalem.”
“And the end.”
“Yes, the end.”
“Someday I need to record it in your words.”
“And perhaps someday I will have the fortitude to bring it all to mind. But not today, not now.”
Peter looked haggard, and Mark could tell that much more was bothering him than painful memories. The local crisis was coming to a head, and the prospect of facing Paul had to be weighing on the disciple. Yet still Peter
sat, certainly not appearing in a hurry to get anywhere. Mark had long prided himself on judging another’s true emotions, and he felt now that his mentor had more to say, so he said, “Was there no more happiness, no more joy in the journey before the dark days?”
“Well, yes,” Peter said, perking up. “I could tell you of the adulation of the people, if you have time.”
“If I have time? You are the one—”
“I have asked you to let me worry about that,” Peter said, and he settled in to talk more. “As we drew near Jerusalem, we first came to Bethany, where Jesus’ friends Martha and Mary and Lazarus lived. You know the story of Lazarus.”
“Of course.”
“Normally Jesus stayed with them and we nearby, but on this occasion we were just passing through. He pulled James and me aside and told us to proceed to Bethphage, a tiny village about a mile southeast of Jerusalem near the Mount of Olives. He told us we would find a donkey with a colt tied next to her, ‘on which no one has sat. Loose it and bring it. And if anyone says to you, “Why are you doing this?” say, “The Lord has need of it,” and immediately he will send it here.’”
“Now, Peter, when had Jesus had opportunity to arrange this?”
“Oh, He didn’t! We had been with Him day and night for weeks. But we went our way and found the colt tied by the door outside on the street. As we were loosing it, some who stood there said, ‘What are you doing, loosing the colt?’ And I said what Jesus had told me to say, and they stepped aside. We led the colt to Jesus and draped our cloaks over it so He could sit on it.
“Thus we traveled on into Jerusalem, a strange sight, you must agree—twelve men trailing a famous man on a tiny donkey. Word spread quickly that Jesus was coming, and many spread their clothes on the road, and others cut down leafy branches from the trees and spread them on the road. We were soon surrounded by people of all ages crying out, ‘Hosanna! “Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!” Blessed is the kingdom of our father David that comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!’”
Peter’s anguish seemed to have left him, and Mark saw in his eyes the thrill of the memory. When Peter became silent, Mark said, “What a time that must have been. The people seemed to know Jesus was the King.”
“You know this fulfilled an ancient prophecy,” Peter said.
Mark nodded, grateful that his mother had been steadfast in keeping him at his studies all those years, memorizing long passages. “‘Tell the daughter of Zion, “Behold, your King is coming to you, lowly, and sitting on a donkey, a colt, the foal of a donkey.” ’”
“From there,” Peter said, “Jesus went into Jerusalem and into the temple. We watched him warily as He looked around. As the hour was already late, He led us back out to Bethany. When we returned the next day, He was hungry. Along the way he saw from afar a fig tree having leaves and told us He was going to see if perhaps He would find something on it to eat. When we reached it, He found nothing but leaves, for it was not the season for figs. Jesus said, ‘Let no one eat fruit from you ever again.’
“That curse chilled me, Mark. It was as if the tree were a person who had disappointed the Lord. I determined that I would never be guilty of such an offense. I would have staked my life on my loyalty to my friend.”
TWENTY-TWO
Mark had finagled his way into Paul’s welcoming party at the port, but he quickly disabused himself of the notion that he would get a chance to confide in Paul what had been going on in Antioch: Barnabas was also along.
When Paul and his small party disembarked, Mark waited tentatively at the back of the small gathering, prepared to help carry whatever they had brought. Paul greeted each with an embrace and a kiss, but his face brightened when he saw Mark, and it seemed to the younger man that the apostle hugged him tighter and longer than he had any of the others. This did not result in pride but rather gratitude, for it told Mark that perhaps Paul had put the past behind them.
“I have heard so many good reports about you, John Mark. I greet you in the matchless name of Jesus the Christ.”
“Greetings, rabbi. It is so good to see you again.”
Paul, in his usual manner, began directing his people and the greeters into the wagon, pointing out where each should sit. He had Barnabas and Mark join him directly behind the driver, Paul on the left and Barnabas in the middle. He wasted no time coming directly to the point. “Now then,” he said, “Barnabas, the truth.”
“The truth?”
“That Peter no longer associates with the uncircumcised and that you and many others of the elders have joined him in this travesty.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a travesty, nor would I say that he ‘no longer associates’ with them.”
“Then it is true! But you would go only as far as saying that he refuses to break bread with them.”
“I will concede that.”
“I expected more from you, Barnabas. I really did. As for Peter, he is without excuse and I will deal with him face-to-face. But you. I can barely comprehend it. In fact, I am puzzled beyond words. What possible justification—”
“To avoid offense!”
“And whose feelings are you so earnestly protecting? Men who are wrong! Heretics!”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it heresy.”
“You wouldn’t? What would you call it then, man? If you require a man to be circumcised in order that you may associate with him even over a meal, you are implying that he is not Jewish enough for you, even though he is an adopted son of God because of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross.”
“Peter and I have never even hinted that the Gentile believer is any less worthy of sal—”
“What, then? No less worthy of salvation, but not worthy to break bread with you.” He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Straight to the church and drop us there before taking the cargo to the inn. Barnabas, I hope Peter is there when I arrive.”
“He awaits you with great anticipation, sir.”
“His mood may change once I have reached him.”
“Many of the brothers and sisters will be there for a meal, followed by a meeting where we hoped you would speak. I hate to have given you no warning.”
“I need no notice to be able to hold forth for the word of God and the gospel of Christ. I shall be prepared.”
“Good.”
“And there had better be Gentiles at this meal.”
“I’m not sure that there will be, sir.”
“In fact, you know there will not be, am I right?”
Barnabas nodded miserably.
Paul leaned past him to address Mark. “I understand you have opposed this heresy.”
“Yes, sir, I have made my opposition clear.”
“Bless you. Now, Barnabas, I should save this for Peter, for I perceive it is he who has led you and others astray, but you know better too. Do you not remember that some seventeen years after my own conversion, you and I went to Jerusalem and also took Titus with us? At that time Peter and James and John extended to us the right hand of fellowship, even after I, by revelation, communicated to them that gospel which I preach among the Gentiles, privately to those who were of reputation. Not even Titus, a Greek, was compelled to be circumcised. Didn’t that tell you something?
“I surmise that what has happened here is due to false brethren secretly brought in to spy out our liberty which we have in Christ Jesus, that they might bring us into bondage. No one should have yielded submission to them even for an hour, that the truth of the gospel might continue.
“I know you remember clearly that from those who seemed to be something—whatever they were, it makes no difference to me (God shows personal favoritism to no man)—nothing was added to me. On the contrary, when Peter and James and John saw that the gospel for the uncircumcised had been committed to me, as the gospel for the circumcised had been committed to Peter (for He who worked effectively in Peter for the apostleship to the circumcised also worked effectively in me toward the Gentiles), a
nd when they perceived the grace that had been given to me, they blessed us and exhorted you and me to go to the Gentiles and they to the circumcised. They desired only that we should remember the poor, the very thing which I also was eager to do. You remember that, Barnabas, do you not?”
Barnabas nodded and seemed grateful that Paul appeared to have spent himself and had nothing more to say. That proved only temporary, for they soon arrived at the church to find Peter waiting outside with a tentative smile of welcome. Paul burst from the wagon and embraced and kissed him. “We have much to discuss,” Paul said. “As you must imagine, I am not happy. Indeed I am vexed with you.”
“I presumed as much. But first, you must be famished.”
“I am!” And the two entered the church arm in arm. “I warn you, my friend, I intend to speak my mind.”
“I would expect nothing less, but I propose we keep this between us and discuss it forthrightly at a convenient time.”
“Oh, on the contrary, brother. This issue lies before us in its full stench, and I intend to deal with it forthwith.”
“Now, Paul, no. Let us not bring discord before the brethren before we’ve had the chance to—”
“You believe I would be causing this discord? It is you who have brought this upon yourself and your congregation.”
Several hundred from the body of believers rose from their seats at dining tables and waited until Paul had sat. Peter had prepared a place of honor for him near Peter and Barnabas and Mark, along with others of the elders and prophets. As the aroma of freshly cooked meats and vegetables and bread permeated the sanctuary, Peter stood and said, “Now let us ask our esteemed colleague and brother and guest to give thanks.”
Paul stood and Peter sat, looking miserable, and the assembled bowed their heads. But all eyes jerked back to Paul when he said, “All in good time, my brother, but before I pray, I would like to know how many among us are of the uncircumcised.”
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