The Gospel of John is like the gift that keeps on giving. This came out last year on a Holy Saturday afternoon (I changed/added one line). I think it will always be one of my favorites.
It might have been possible then.
But not anymore. Now he’s ruined. Yes, even after all these years. The blood. The screams. All the bloody times he fell asleep. He’ll never forgive himself for that. How he stood there with nothing to say. If only he hadn’t been such a coward.
He drinks himself drunk with the memories of Cana. My Lord and my God, my friend. He’s dead. A mind swirls with miracles and storms and beautiful words heard reclined by the bread and the wine. Times like this he wonders if it was all a dream.
He vomits the alcohol in remembrance of Him. He can’t stomach the thought, how the grapes of wrath churned out their victim, how the Son became a silent nightmare. He holds the pen but can’t get the words out of his head. He can’t get it out of his head.
“Write this down…”
He first told him while they sat on the shore by the fire. After the waves had settled on their way to Capernum, when he’d caught his breath again–Jesus looked him in the eye and whispered words grown men don’t say to one another.
“John, I’ll hold your hand.”
He didn’t know what it meant back then. He wasn’t sure if he even knew now. He wasn’t the same man. He wasn’t the young fisher of men anymore.
But his heart–he followed his heart back to the days of Peter and James—he took a deep sea of Galilee Breath.
He wiped away the tears.
And he figured if Moses could do it then he could too.