17 April 2025| Miami, USA [Nigel Byng]
Gethsemane was the turning point for all of us. I am ashamed to admit that I had fallen asleep that night. The Rabbi had begged us to stay awake with him. It was as though he had a premonition of what was to come. The others, fortunate to have had Passover with him earlier, said that Judas had left in haste, after the rabbi had pointed the finger at him as the traitor in the group, and yet no one had intervened. I had never trusted the Ish-Keriot.
I would have gone to my death for him, but Rabbi rebuked us as they bound him, and we all ran like sheep, scattered on a mountain pass when the lion appears.
“Four months’ wages, Ima. That’s what he was worth to Judas.” I shook with rage as I waited for Mary.
“You must let it go, my child,” Mary kept her eyes fixed on the small bundle she hoped to take to her son, her forehead wrinkled with worry.
Rabbi had been hauled before the Sanhedrin, and she feared the worst.
“I cannot, Ima, I feel as though I, too, have betrayed him, and for far less than a Tyrian Shekel. And that snake Judas, he even kissed him on the cheek.”
“Now is not the time to dwell on what Judas has done. Take me to where they have taken my son.”
The city was already brimming with life for the Passover, and the crowd had grown as the news of his arrest had spread. There were more people than soldiers, and Jerusalem was ripe for an uprising. An uprising we had hoped would come when he rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. That day, my heart swelled as the people sang Hosanna to the King of Kings. This turn of events, however, was not what I or anyone had expected.
Peter greeted us when we neared the courtyard of the home of Caiaphas. Blood still stained the hem of his coat from his altercation with Malchus, and his face was worn with grief. Seeing Mary, he tried to smile, but it was in vain.
“Where have they taken my boy?” Ima caressed the cheek of Peter.
“He has just returned from Pontius.”
“How is he?”
“Stubborn. Defiant as always.”
“Then, there is hope,” Mary tried to reassure us.
Peter shook his head. He, too, had heard the sermon in the olive grove. Rabbi had said this day would come, and it would not end well.
“You there!” A harsh voice yelled across the courtyard.
Everyone froze as two Roman guards approached us.
“Certainly, this man is an accomplice, for he too is a Galilean.” An accuser stood between us, his finger pointing at Peter. The guard gripped the handle of his sword, a menacing look in his eyes.
Peter raised an eyebrow and said, “Man, I do not know what you are talking about.”
My heart sank as I read the look on his face. Even now, when the Rabbi needed our support, his closest friends shamefully denied him. The masses surged toward the gate, bundling Peter and me out of the way as Jesus was hauled to the courtyard. Mary had worked her way to the front, and Peter… Peter turned and fled.
Ima fainted when they whipped her boy that morning. She wept when the governor washed his hands and offered Barabbas to appease the mob. When they pressed the crown of thorns into his forehead, and he cried out in agony, she collapsed to her knees and prayed. On the path to Golgotha, the son of Zebedee held her hand as the rabbi stumbled under the load of his cross, and at that moment, I finally wept on the cobbled stones of Jerusalem, a broken man without his Rabbi. God had forsaken me.
From the moment he had set foot on the banks of the Jordan River, I had believed every word that came out of his mouth. I had seen all his miracles; escorted him from the angry mob when he had charged into the temple and flipped the furniture, and I had seen him call Lazarus from the tomb. Surely, this was not happening. All of Jerusalem heard him scream when they drove the nails into his hands and feet. I watched as three crosses were hoisted for all to see, and my hopes were destroyed by the vainglorious and impious that Friday evening. In my heart, I questioned the fairness of Hashem and even his existence. I was done with religion.
But as the storm clouds gathered, the memory of Lazarus clung to the recesses of my mind. Over the Sabbath hours, the faint glow of this stubborn seedling of hope grew. I could not douse the embers of belief. Three days is what the Rabbi had said—three days, like Jonah in the belly of the whale, and then he would rise again. So, early that first day of the week, I made my way to the tomb, only to be run over by Mary Magdalene, in her frenzied, panicked manner.
“Woman, watch where you are going,” I rebuked her.
Her face flushed, and her eyes wide with wonder, she screamed, “He’s alive! He’s alive!” as she scrambled to her feet and ran toward Peter’s house.
Dare I believe the rants of a woman overcome with grief? But the Rabbi had said, three days, and he had never lied to any of his disciples. Hope clings even to the smallest thread. I had to believe- I needed to believe her.
Hidden in the upper room, where Jesus had last broken bread with his closest companions, hushed murmurs tried to quiet the excitable Mary as she professed to anyone that she had encountered Jesus. She had delivered the message from the rabbi, and we came to Galilee expecting to see him. Deep down, no one believed her, and all were too afraid that the mob would come for them next, and then a most cruel death on a rugged cross would be their fate.
Confused and anxious, every approaching footstep from the outside heightened our fears; every knock on the door signalled a death knell. First, Antoninus came, then Justus. Others began to trickle in as the hours passed. Each man brought disturbing news of other believers being arrested by the authorities, as the rumours were circulating that someone had stolen the body of Jesus. But my anticipation and faith grew as two other women brought the same news as Mary, “He’s Alive.”
Oh, for such exuberant and unshakeable faith as theirs. It meant only one thing: they had been with Jesus.
There was a collective gasp as, later that evening, there was a knocking on the door. Fearful that the authorities had finally uncovered our location, we kept silent.
“It is Emmaus and Cleopas,” a voice on the other side whispered.
When we let them in, they confirmed what the women had told us. Still, even as we grew excited by the news, unbelief reigned in our joy.
Then, as we discussed the veracity of the news, another, more familiar voice spoke. His first words were, “Shalom Aleichem,” but they were enough for me. Unspeakable joy flooded my soul as my silent prayers were answered; Jesus was present in the flesh. I did not need to see the wounds in his hands and feet; his voice, known only to his sheep, was sufficient. He was indeed alive.
My name is Matthias, the twelfth apostle.
Featured image; Shutterstock. [Photos: Gethsemane, Victor Hulbert/Garden Tomb, David Neal].
Nigel Byng is a freelance writer based in the USA who has contributed to several anthologies, including Happiness in Unexpected Places, Life’s Poetic Rhythms, and the bestselling After Rain Skies, curated by Michelle Navajas. His work appears on Signs of the Times Australia, Hotel by Masticadores, and on his personal blog, where he shares his love of fiction, poetry, and collaborations with writers worldwide.
