John Mark

An old man and a young man sat facing each other in the lamplight of a dinner table. “Always up for a story, huh Mark?” the older man said, the many lines around his eyes melted as he smiled.

The younger man leaned across the low table, the flickering light playing across his face. “You are surprised at that, teacher?”

The older man shook his head, “Brother, not teacher.”

The other man tipped his head to the side in impatient assent. “Alright, Brother Peter. But please, tell me more. The people followed you around the lake without food and --?” Mark settled back onto the reclining pillows, knowing the story would come.

A mischievous look twinkled in Peter’s eyes, “And we fed them of course.”

Mark started up again, “With what, Tea – I mean, Brother Peter – with what?”

“With food.” Peter took a bit of bread and scooped up some lentils, a smile playing under his beard.

The younger man gave an exasperated sigh, “But with WHAT food? You said yourself that the disciples hardly brought food for themselves, much less for five thousand others.”

“Five thousand other men, you’re forgetting the women and children. There were at least ten thousand in all, I’d say.” A faraway look came into his eyes and he leaned back. “We came up to Jesus and said ‘Hey, there’s no one around here to get food from.’”

Mark listened closely, hardly breathing as he drank in every word. His dark eyes sparkled with intense interest, following every expression on the old man’s face.

“He just looked at us, shrugged, and said, ‘Well, you feed them.’ I was always quick to open my mouth, so I said, ‘It would take two hundred denarii at least! Where do we get that kind of money?’” Peter paused, thinking.

“What then?” Mark asked breathlessly.

“Well, my brother Andrew was asking around and found a little boy who had a little basket of food. He brought boy up to Jesus and we unpacked the basket. There wasn’t much, just five small pitas and two fish. A snack. But Jesus just smiled and told us to get the people to sit down. That was quite a job I can tell you, but after a while we got it done. We had them sat down in groups of hundreds and fifties. Then Jesus picked up that lonely pile of food, raised his eyes to heaven and blessed it.” Peter started to cough.

“What happened?”

“Give me a moment to breathe, child.” Peter smiled, “He started to hand the bread to us. He just kept handing and handing and handing. We kept passing out bread and fish to the people. There was no end to the food! EVERYONE ate until they were full! Then we started gathering up scraps and gathered twelve basketfuls of scraps. We sent that little boy home with more than enough for his lunch the next day.” Peter laughed, “You should have seen his face. Most the crowd didn’t realize what had happened, but the boy knew. He saw it all.”

Mark laughed with him. “Ah, you should write this all down, Brother Peter. Think how much you have seen!”

“No, no.” Peter answered, stretching and getting up. “I have too much to do. I’ll leave the writing to you.” He grabbed his cane and walked slowly from the room.

Mark sat up all the way and started to clear the table, “Write it myself? Well, maybe.” He paused and stared into space for a moment, then suddenly jumped up and left the room. A moment later he returned with quill, ink, and parchment. Carefully, he spread the parchment out and moved one of the oil lamps closer. He wrote late into the night, recording the story Peter had just told.

The next day, Peter was scheduled to speak to a small group of slaves that met in the house of a potter one of the poor areas. Mark took his place among those listening as Peter began. “When I was following Jesus, we were going to the Caesarea Philippi area –”

Mark jumped and looked around desperately; he needed something to take notes. Quickly, he snatched up a handful of a potter’s clay and scratched some notes into it with a stick from the floor. “Jesus asked us,” Peter continued, “’Who do people say that I am?’ John shrugged and said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, some Elijah or one of the prophets.’” Peter looked around with a smile, “None of the people really knew what to think of Jesus. Jesus looked at us and asked, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ All at once, I felt the power of the Spirit on me and I said, ‘You are the Christ.’ It was only by the power of the Spirit that I could have said that.”

At home, Mark looked at his notes. They were messy, but mostly readable. He’d have to be more careful next time to have something ready to write with. He leaned over his desk and began to carefully, transfer the writing to the parchment. One part of his clay tablet had got mashed and was unreadable. Getting up, he walked into the next room where Peter was talking with a couple Christians from the far side of the city. Mark waited patiently until they were done, then asked, “Brother Peter, where were you going when Jesus asked who people thought he was?”

Peter looked a little startled, “Caesarea Philippi.”

“Thanks.” Mark headed back to the room.

“What are you up to, son?” Peter called after him.

“Just following orders.” Mark tossed over his shoulder with a smile, “I’m writing your memories of Jesus.” He walked back into his room, then stuck head back out. “Oh, and was it five fish and two loaves?”

Peter shook his head, “Five loaves and two fish.”