Every year I read the account of Jesus’ last week to the third graders, and every year they have questions.
“Why didn’t Pilate just say, ‘no, I’m not going to crucify Him no matter what you do,’?”
“Why didn’t Jesus ask God to make His death painless?”
“Was Peter crucified too?”
“Did Jesus ever see His mom again after all this?”
Some of these questions I can answer, but my answers are far from satisfactory. Finally this one, from a little girl in the back:
“How do we know this really happened? Like how do we KNOW?”
The whole room went silent, expectant.
Well, we have the testimony of four different people, all describing the same events from different viewpoints, which points to authenticity. We have the details that set this story squarely in history: Pilate, Herod, Caesar. We have the fact that all the disciples spent the rest of their lives saying that Jesus had risen from the dead, and as one of the Watergate conspirators once said, if they were part of some kind of conspiracy, they sure kept it going a long time. Long enough for them all to be executed for their faith, some in pretty grisly ways. Except for John, who lived into his eighties in exile on that island.
That seemed to satisfy the 8- and 9-year-olds, at least for now. They’re on a lifelong journey, and all I can do is be one more voice saying ‘yes, it’s true. You don’t have to suspend disbelief to be a Christian. You’re part of a huge family, and it contains two millennia of people, from all over the world. And you can trust them not to lie to you about what happened to them, all the way back to John insisting in his gospel that he was there and he saw it all himself.’
Actually, this Easter I’ve been thinking a lot about John. He was the beloved disciple, he was the youngest of the twelve, he survived the longest, he wrote a lot, he took care of Mary…He’s one of the major characters in this story. He was there from the beginning, from the moment Jesus decided to start calling people. He saw so many miracles…walking on water, miraculous catches of fish, people raised from the dead, Jesus on the mountain transfigured. He sat closest to Jesus at the Last Supper, the Seder, probably freaking out, because he could see in Jesus’ eyes that this was it.
John is also interesting because he’s a good literary foil to Peter. Peter was probably the oldest of Jesus’ disciples, since he was the only one already married. While John sits close to Jesus at the Last Supper, Peter is at the other end of the table. When Jesus says, “one of you is going to betray me,” and they all react, some paintings depict John literally grabbing on to Jesus with his arms around his neck. Like he’s saying, “no, don’t say that. I’ve spent years trying to become just like you, I’ve seen you do so many miracles—you’re my hero, it won’t be me. It won’t be me.”
Peter gestures to John, “ask Him who is going to betray him!” Peter probably thinks, “you’re the youngest, you’re His favorite, He won’t get mad at you for asking.” And when Peter, probably silencing the room with his big Peter voice, says that he will NEVER betray Jesus, the Rabbi just says, “Peter, before morning, you’re gonna say three times that you don’t even know me. But you’ll be back, and I’m gonna need you to take care of everybody here.” Awkward.
Then when everything hits the fan—Jesus arrested, Peter cutting off a guy’s ear, Judas killing himself, everybody scattering, Peter denying Jesus, Pilate sentencing Him, the cross—John is the only one to stick around. Standing at the foot of the cross, watching all this. Trying to get as close to Him as possible, maybe hoping it won’t end that way after all, until the last second. Like a teenager waiting for the post credits scene. Long enough for Jesus to say, “John, my mom is your mom now!”
Then the third day, when the women come back from the tomb with a story about angels and resurrection. That great moment where Peter and John race to the tomb, and John gets there first, but only Peter goes in. Why does the order matter, guys?
Maybe it does, because maybe some of us are John, standing out there, not yet ready to go in. You love Him so much, but you don’t want to see. What if you walk in and he’s there, rotting? And all our hopes collapse with a thud. What if you walk in on something terrifying? We’ve already seen angels and prophets and murders—what if this story is about to get even more bizarre? What if it’s some kind of trick, or trap? What if He’s there, but He’s mad that we didn’t trust Him more? What if He’s changed and we don’t know Him?
In went Peter—you need both kinds of people, after all. And Peter had nothing to lose, he’d denied Jesus already. And then the story we know begins. Or continues.
I like to think of John, sustained in his old age by these memories of friends long gone…remembering how he watched Peter with fascination, how he saw fellow disciples stand without falling, until they entered glory, one by one. Then living on that island, seeing fiery visions of the future, seeing days and nights and years go by, and through trial and time, still thinking of himself the way that young guy thought of himself… “I’m the disciple Jesus loved. He really loved me. That’s what matters.” And writing his memories down, adding his voice to the chorus as the church begins to need to write things down. For us. For those in the family who didn’t see it for ourselves.
My son Andrew, who is also in third grade, said the other day, “I like to imagine I’m one of Jesus’ disciples, and we’re all together talking about our favorite memories. But in my version, none of us get killed.”
You have to tell kids the truth. This is a story where people die, where empires fall, where relationships are tested and good guys are sifted like wheat. But if it’s true—and I believe it is, because all the characters are behaving like real people—then it’s also one of transformation, of normal nobodies turned into shimmering saints, of death becoming life, of long ages of darkness followed by brilliant morning. It’s the stuff of golden icons and loud proclamations, of tears turned to laughter and despair turned to joy. It’s the grave, the harrowing of Hell, the rescue, the wedding feast.
The Lord is risen, you guys. He is risen indeed.
the heartfelt awkward 