July 25, 2007 1:45- 3:15
I’ve always been the type of guy who runs away at the first sign of trouble. Things get tough, and I leave. When I was run I’d run away rather than face trouble. I didn’t want to get hurt. I’d rather be made fun of than face danger.
I remember one day a friend of my father’s visited our home in Jerusalem. They talked about all sorts of things, but I particularly remember my father’s friend telling about something that happened to a little girl who lived across the road from him. She was outside playing when a group of rough Roman soldiers found her. They began making fun of her, picking on her, and scaring her. This friend of my father’s saw what they were doing, ran out of his house, and yelled at the soldiers.
“Couldn’t they have hurt you?” I remember asking him.
“Sure,” he said, “but I didn’t care about getting hurt. Protecting that little girl was the right thing to do.”
That night I couldn’t sleep. For hours I just laid in my bed wondering whether I would have done the same thing had I been in that situation. I knew I wouldn’t and wondered why. It’s because I was scared.
Twice in my life I remember really running when I should have stayed. As a young man I received Christ as my Lord and Savior. I wanted so much to serve him, to tell others of him, to be a part of the big picture of spreading his message. And I sure got the opportunity. None other than the great apostles Paul and Barnabas asked me to travel with them. I couldn’t believe the opportunity. I just couldn’t believe it. Even then these men were legends. They traveled all over the known world telling people about Jesus. They saw whole towns and villages saved. They faced death and danger from Jews and Gentiles alike, but God himself protected them. It didn’t take much effort to decide to go.
For the first few weeks of the journey everything went well. I served the men and listened to their preaching. We traveled from town to town and saw the Lord work, but then things got tough. Sure, the Lord provided for us, but many nights I went to bed hungry. Traveling was harder than I thought. Not only did I miss my friends and family, I missed my own home. I missed the familiarity of Judea. We’d spend one night here and two weeks there. Many more people swore at us and threatened to hurt us than listened to what we had to say. The work was hard. We walked hundreds and hundreds of miles in the blazing summer sun.
One night as we stayed in the home of a new Christian there was a knock on the door. In tumbled two men supporting a bruised and bleeding third. It was Simon, a young Christian who was bold in his testimony for Christ. We heard from the two men that Simon boldly declared that the Caesar was not God. Soldiers had come and taken him and whipped him almost to death for the outrage. While the others tried to stop the bleeding I stood off in the shadows alone with my thoughts. Is this the life I really want? Persecution? Affliction? Hard daily work with little of nothing to show for your efforts? Can’t I just go home and live a quiet, peaceable Christian life?
I ran home.
While the house attended to Simon I gathered my few things and snuck away. I figured the ministry life just wasn’t worth it. My church and family was surprised to see me when I returned. At first I used some silly excuses saying Paul and Barnabas had sent me home for a good reason, but when a letter arrived I had to admit the truth. I had run away.
For several months I worked a job, went to church, and felt completely miserable. I knew I wasn’t doing what God wanted me to do. I’d run from his plan for my life. I prayed and prayed and prayed asking him to strengthen me to do what was right. One night as I walked home from work it suddenly all made sense. You see, though I’d run from a lot of things in my life, only two times stuck out. Once, when I left Paul and Barnabas; and once when I was a young boy.
We lived in Jerusalem then, and Jesus came to the city for what would be his last week. My parents had already followed him for a time and both were believers. We went to see him in the temple. We invited others of his followers to stay in our home. But we had no idea what God would allow to happen at the end of the week.
One night as I lay in bed I heard the tromp of soldiers in the street. We often heard small bands of Roman soldiers pass the house. Usually they were drunk though. On that night dozens of them passed by, and they weren’t Romans. It was the guards and men from the temple authority. Where were they headed at this time of night?
My curiosity got the best of me, and I decided to sneak away to follow them. I’m a little ashamed to admit this, but I ran out wearing only a cloth.
It wasn’t long before I figured out where we were going, the Garden of Gethsemane. I couldn’t figure out why a band of armed soldiers would want to go to Gethsemane late at night. Was there some kind of illegal religious meeting there?
I followed at a distance and soon discovered the band of soldiers were nearing their goal. They stopped following one another and began to spread out. I hid in some bushes where I thought I might be able to see the action. I was shocked to see who the soldiers had surrounded. It was Jesus. Jesus the Christ. Why in the world would anyone send a group of soldiers to arrest Jesus. Yes, some people considered his views to be a bit radical, but I’d never heard him accused of violence. I couldn’t even imagine that. Yet, here they were armed with clubs and swords, torches and chains.
One of Jesus disciples, Judas, approached Jesus and his followers and gave Jesus a kiss. After that everything happened so fast. Judas stepped back out of the way, and the soldiers almost pounced on Jesus. It was as though they were afraid of him. As it turned out Jesus wasn’t the one they needed to be afraid of. Peter pulled a sword and nearly clove a man’s head in two. The man turned only just in time and Peter only sliced off his ear. The soldiers holding Jesus let go of him momentarily to defend themselves, and while the disciples began scampering away Jesus healed the man’s ear.
I was so engrossed by the scene before me I didn’t realize my danger. Some of the disciples ran right past me, and the soldiers chased after them, hoping to capture a few. When I did realize my danger it was nearly to late. None of the soldiers knew who Jesus’ disciples were. If they found me out hiding in the bushes they would have just assumed I was with him and would have arrested me. They hay have even crucified me as well, though I had no idea at the time that’s what would happen to Christ.
When two soldiers were about ten feet away I finally stood and ran.
“Look, there’s another one,” a soldier called.
I had an advantage over them, in that they carried weapons and wore some armor, but my linen cloak kept getting in the way of my running. It would catch on tree branches or bush limbs, and I was terrified it would trip me up and get me caught. In the end, I tore it off and fled . . . I ran away naked. It was certainly not my finest moment. I am only thankful most of Jerusalem was still asleep as I snuck home.
So why did I remember that story after I ran away from Paul and Barnabas. I remembered it not because of what happened to me, but because of Jesus. Think with me. He didn’t flee. Not one of his friends stood with him, but He didn’t flee. If anyone could have gotten away from the soldiers - if anyone could have escaped death - it was Jesus. Instead of running away when things got tough, He faced it. He was persecuted more than I’ll ever be. He suffered more that I ever could. He bore abuse, beatings, whippings, mockery, a crown of thorns, and the agony of cross. Why? For me. For you and me.
You know the rest of my story. Paul didn’t give me much of a chance, but Barnabas did. He took me under his wing and we traveled again. Actually we traveled again, and again, and again. I just sort of figured if my Lord and Savior could bear all that He suffered for me - if He could love me that much - I could give the rest of my life and bear any persecution for him.
I’m not running away any more.
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