I heard the brook below: it had a place to go. I had this, this waiting, this expectancy, my disciples asleep on the ground.
Death...death is the ransom for man’s sin, I reminded myself.
Cries of sentinels rang out.
Judas knew that I was here, that I had come here to pray; presently I heard the unmistakable clank of side arms and men’s voices, foreign speech. I could wait no longer. I stood up and waited for Judas to identify me.
Stumbling over shrubbery, Judas called.
I answered.
“Who are you looking for?” I asked a soldier carrying a torch.
“Jesus of Nazareth,” he said.
“I am Jesus.”
Lanterns and torches appeared. Peter saw and heard the soldiers and snatching a sword from one of the guards he slashed a man’s ear. I rebuked him and cared for the guard, an Arabian named Malchus, who was singularly afraid of me, afraid of the garden, his task.