THE RELUCTANT WITNESS

THE RELUCTANT WITNESS

A Chronicler is Called

by John Mark, the one who didn’t mean to follow—but couldn’t stay away!

⸻

I was not one of them.

Not one of the twelve.

Not a fisherman.

Not a zealot.

Not even a sinner of any repute.

Nor did I want any of it…

I was simply John Mark, son of Mary of Jerusalem, a boy born into wealth. Ours was a house of means—solid stone walls, servants who bowed, food enough for feasts. Our courtyard overflowed with fig trees and secrets. I had everything I ever wanted.

And then… strange things began to happen in our home.

My mother’s eyes changed first. It was weird, but nice. She hosted meals and prayers, and soon, whisperings of healings, parables, and prophecy began to fill our halls. Men we had not known visited and became fast friends with my uncle. —I would learn his name was Peter—and had a voice like thunder with a past that clung to him like a storm cloud. My uncle Barnabas would often be singing psalms with a freedom that made me feel both left out and drawn in.

I watched.

That was all I ever wanted or meant to do.

I only sought to be a scribe—an observer. From the edge of the crowd, I took notes in short-form recounting teachings, miracles, names, arguments. I was good at that and had a gift for memory and clarity. I wrote things down so they would not vanish with the wind.

This man—Jesus of Nazareth—was no ordinary prophet. There was authority in His words. Not just truth. Truth that stared deep into you and made you see yourself.

I remember the day I decided to follow Him… not as a disciple, but as a historian. I told myself I would remain neutral, like a chronicler in the shadows. But you know… truth is a flame. It burns. It does not allow the luxury of distance.

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Then there came the day that changed everything. It happened in Jericho.

I had heard He would be there, and so I went, parchment tucked beneath my cloak. I stood behind a sycamore tree, near a well, scribbling as usual. The crowd thickened. A rich young man had just arrived—noble posture, finely woven cloak, gold-threaded belt. I recognized him. It was me.

I had waited for this day. Not to speak, not to be seen. But to finally ask the question that gnawed at me through every sleepless night.

He was walking now—Jesus, that is—calm, composed, His gaze set on something beyond this world. I stepped forward, parchment still in hand, determined to get an answer. He looked up with His piercing eyes.

“Good Teacher,” I asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

He stopped.

His eyes met mine, and in that instant, I knew—He knew me. Not the polished young scribe or the proud son of Mary. He knew the questions I never wrote down, the fears I could not silence.

“Why do you call me good? No one is good—except God alone.”

He smiled gently and listed the commandments. I nodded along. I had followed them all since youth.

And then He said it.

“One thing you lack. Go, sell all you have and give to the poor. You will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”

He was not inviting me to write about Him anymore.

He was inviting me to become like Him.

I stood frozen. What?

Sell my estate?

Abandon the house that had been in our family for generations?

Give away my security?

Absurd… My reputation?

I turned away.

Ashamed.

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I couldn’t bring myself to leave it all—not then. I returned to Jerusalem with my notes, a heavier heart, and a silence that my mother did not ask me to explain. But I kept writing. I continued to gather the stories.

I wrote through His betrayal.

Through His trial.

Through His crucifixion.

And when the rumors began—that the tomb was empty, that He had risen—I doubted, but I kept recording. I watched Peter weep and rejoice. I watched Thomas touch the scars. I watched everything.

Eventually, I could no longer pretend to be an outsider.

He had risen.

And the moment I accepted that truth, everything changed.

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Years later, after traveling with Peter, I began to piece together the whole story—not just the parts I saw, but the things he had seen with his own eyes. Peter called me “his son.” He would dictate, and I would write. Sometimes we wept as he spoke, especially when he told of denying the Lord.

I did not polish the stories. I did not smooth the rough edges. I wrote what I knew, what we saw, what shook us to the core.

Yes, I included the story of the rich young ruler.

Yes, I wrote myself into the story. How could I not?

Because the story of Jesus is not a tale we can keep at arm’s length. We are all written into it, one way or another.

And I—John Mark—once walked away.

But He didn’t walk away from me.

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I gave up my home in the end.

I left the wealth behind.

I sailed with Paul and Barnabas.

I argued. I grew. I failed.

But I followed.

And when Peter was taken from us—when his words could no longer echo—I made sure his voice would live on.

You hold it now.

It begins:

“The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

I meant only to write a chronicle.

But I was written into the greatest story ever told.

And so are you.

—-

Create in me a clean heart, oh God

And renew a right spirit within me!