Were you there when they laid Him in the grave?
Were you there when they laid Him in the grave?
Oh, sometimes, if causes me to
Tremble... Tremble... Tremble...
Were you there when they laid Him in the grave?

-Spiritual

As John looked on, watching as the soldiers drove nails through the arms and legs of his Rabbi, I wonder if the words of his Master came to mind.

 “This is My Body, broken…”

“This is My Blood, spilled out…”

This wasn’t how he expected those words to be fulfilled. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. And yet, here was the man on whom he’d pinned all his hopes, bloodied and bleeding and moments from death.

And then Jesus spoke; each word carefully and painfully uttered as if the effort was a labor that brought death a bit closer. “John… take care of my mother as if she were your own. Mother, take care of my beloved friend as if he were your own son.”

He arched his back in pain, struggling for another breath.

The sky darkened.

“Oh God, why have you abandoned me?” The words barely escaped his mangled lips.

And with that, He was gone.

A Roman Centurion standing close by looked on, awestruck.

“I think we made a mistake,” he said. “For that was surely the son of God.”

“Yes,” said John under his breath. “I believe he was.”

On that Thursday evening, Jesus invited His closest friends, young men who had traveled by His side for the past three years, to gather and experience the Last Meal He would receive before death.

As they entered, I’m sure each disciple must have been brimming over with excitement. It was Passover after all- the most important time of celebration and remembrance in the Jewish calendar- and in those days, as their backs broke under the boot of the Roman Empire, the twelve eager young men must have been ready; hoping and yearning for a miracle that would free them from oppression just as they had been freed from Egypt and Babylon and Syria.

Peter, no doubt was cracking Rome jokes, trying to get a rise out of Judas and Simon. Probably John was the first to notice Jesus’ somber mood. He watched as his Rabbi donned a towel and picked up  basin full of washing water. I can imagine that the room became hushed as Jesus moved between His disciples, washing their feet, maybe even choking back some tears knowing that this was the very last lesson He would teach them before death.

“What are you doing Jesus.” asked Peter as Jesus approached him, “I should be washing your feet. I can’t let you humiliate yourself like this.”

“Peter,” He said, “Please let me do this. If you want to be a part of my life, I need to wash your feet. I need to do this and you need to learn.”

“OK, why don’t you wash all of me then?” said Peter.

Jesus looked him directly in the eyes. “Peter, I love you, but this is not the time for jest. But, I know why you’re making a joke out of this. This seems like menial labor to you and you think it’s beneath me. But, I tell you the truth- no job is menial if it serves another. And if you truly want to be great in my eyes you’ll follow my example and serve others- no matter how lowly or menial the role seems to be. Now, you don’t need me to clean your whole body, for it is not unclean. You do, however, need your feet cleaned, for they are dusty from the dirt on the streets. So please, allow me to make you clean.”

The young man had been hunted his entire life. At first, it was mere shepherds who had witnessed visions of angels late one night. They were an uneducated lot, common outcasts who did work that no one else wanted to. Scholars arrived soon afterward; men from the East who traveled long and hard to witness for themselves the signs they had foreseen in the heavens. They brought with them gifts and tokens of adoration that could very well have overshadowed the enthusiasm of the uneducated herdsmen had the child's parents been from a different stock.

Dark enemies soon gave chase. Armed with death, they searched for the child on an evil King’s behalf, slaughtering infants who still clung to their mothers' breasts. But the child’s father was a man of vision and his family escaped the sword as they fled to Egypt.

Years passed. And the child grew older.

When he turned twelve, his parents were the hunters. Searching through family and friends they turned Jerusalem upside-down looking for their boy. But he was hunting too, for answers, in the House of the Lord. He called it his Father’s house and his parents were astonished.

When he was thirty, his mother sought him out to fix the wine problem his friends were having at their wedding. And when he began hanging around with fishermen, tax collectors, and zealots- she went looking again and begged him to come home.

During the day, men of religious influence laid out tricks and traps to trip him up. But at night, some of them would seek him out in secret to learn more about his ideas, while others plotted to kill him in dark rooms lit by fine candles.

Soldiers overtook him one day to request a miracle on behalf of their commander. Later they overtook him in the garden with a warrant for his arrest.

Was it the same men?

Oh, how quickly we turn from wonder to violence.