They must have been afraid of so much. Afraid of the night itself: of the darkness that surrounded them from without. Afraid like little children who lie awake long enough to believe that the shadows are really strangers, that the hallway is harboring dragons, that in the closet there must be some mad spirit ready to seize them: demons from which only sleep could save them...and sleep they did. Though even more must they have been afraid as only adults can be. Afraid of the darkness that threatened them from within, knowing that the demons and dragons and shadows of their childhood were seldom distinguishable from the face they saw each morning in the muddy river. Of this were they especially afraid now, because they had been warned: before the night was over, one of them would be betrayer and one of them would be denier and they could not bear the thought of being either. So they all forsook him and fled.The irony of their fleeing, of course, was that they fled because they must have been afraid of living without Him. The One who had bid them leave their nets and selves and good sense behind, as well as the dead to bury the dead without looking back, this One had said, in so many words, he was taking his leave. To be sure, they had long ago left behind the selves they had been before he bid them follow. But in the midst of this night, they could no longer be sure: what had been gained, and what had been lost? Lose yourself to find yourself, he said. Yet it seemed, after the wine and the sleep, and now in the presence of an angry crowd, it seemed that they were, for the most part, lost...and about to be left alone. The time had come to look out for themselves. And so they all forsook him and fled.
They fled as well because they surely were afraid for their lives...as we are afraid for ours: afraid that the One to whom they had given their best days would leave them high and dry; afraid of having made the wrong choices, trusted the wrong people, taken the wrong road because it was the one less traveled by--for good reasons; afraid of having wasted heart and soul and mind and strength for the sake of some foolish illusion whose truth was too tender to survive in the world as it is; afraid they would be made to answer for their foolishness, pay for their discipleship, account for the hope now waning within them. Most immediately, then, they feared the ones who held in their hands the power of death and, in response to that fear, they all forsook him and fled.
But the truth of this night calls us deeper into the darkness. For finally the disciples must have run because they feared all of that less than they feared the love of God. "We acknowledge ourselves as type of the common man," writes T. S. Eliot, "of the men and women who shut the door and sit by the fire, who fear the blessing of God, the loneliness of the night of God, the surrender required, the deprivation inflicted; who fear the injustice of humanity less than the justice of God; who fear the hand at the window, the fire in the thatch, the fist in the tavern, the push into the canal less than we fear the love of God...."
The fear that gripped the disciples' hearts and set them fleeing across the countryside finally was not the fear of the dark or of their own doubts, not fear of the loneliness or even fear of being locked in and nailed up by the Roman authorities. The fear that found them running that night was their fear of the love of God, a love whose sacrifice was too much to bear.
For on this night they came face to face with the truth: that the One who had called them, and taught them, and led them, was more than God with them, though that was enough on this night to bear. But around this table, and soon beneath a cross, they came face to face with the revelation of the God who was, even as they fled, for them. Body broken, blood shed...for them. A cross about to be borne...for them. A grave about to be endured...for them. Such love was more than they could bear. And so they all forsook him and fled.
Leaving this one lone follower...this anonymous figure wrapped in a linen cloth, this nobody from out of nowhere...leaving but one before Him who still must decide what to do with Jesus ...personally.
"It is here," said Karl Barth, "--with all due respect to our fear of life--it is here that it is really worthwhile to be afraid. Here hearts and reins are tried....Here no one can escape and no one can console himself. Having reached the ultimate limit of all that we fear...it is this fear of God into which revelation must drive us."...into which Word that God is not only with us, but for us, must cause us to tremble.
And thus it is here that we are left on this night, in the darkness, alone. It is a different darkness from the night known by shepherds long ago, when fear sent them running to him. There are no angel songs telling us not to fear. No mother's voice to say that what frightens us is but a shadow, for in truth it is a savior. No light to ease our way, for we have seen the light and have preferred the darkness.
Small comfort, then, that it is here where our fear becomes worthwhile. Here where our hearts and reins are tried. Here where we cannot escape nor can we console ourselves. Here, alone, where the dangers of following him become apparent and, for fear of being seized says Mark, the last one to leave, nevertheless, leaves... shutting out the light and running, naked, into the darkness.