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THE story of the Christian Church begins in the room of a private dwelling-house in Jerusalem. St. Cyril of Jerusalem, a fourth century writer, significantly names this little meeting-house "the upper church of the Apostles." A writer of a few years later informs us that it was the place where "the Lord came in to His disciples when the doors were shut," where also, on the day of Pentecost "the multitude were gathered together with the apostles"a statement which is corroborated in the ancient Liturgy of St. James. Epiphanius mentions a tradition which goes back to the reign of Hadrian, to the effect that this "little church of God" was one of the few buildings left standing when Titus sacked the city in 70 AD. A plan, dating apparently from the seventh century, and reproduced in the work On Holy Places by the Scottish Saint, Adamnan, identifies the site. Although the original building has long since disappeared, the house which now occupies the spot is known as the caenaculum. "Of all the most sacred sites," says Dr. Sanday, "it is the one which has the strongest evidence in its favour. Indeed the evidence for it appears to me so strong that, for my part, I think I should be prepared to give it an unqualified adhesion."
Romance, which has a way of gathering about old houses, has nothing greater to show than that which gathers about this quiet home. What was the house? To what house would the scattered disciples most naturally return, when they rallied after Calvary? Would it not be to the house where they had held the last intimate intercourse with their Master before His death - the place where He told them He was about to be taken from them, and after the custom of the parting guest in Eastern lands, passed round the pledge-cup, saying, "This do in remembrance of me"? Would it not be there, in their sorrow, that they would fondly recall the last tender utterances and, from the very cup He had shared with them, drink, in obedience to His last command?
But is there any suggestion of this in the New Testament ? Let us listen first to the words of the Gospel narrative:
'The first day of unleavened bread the day for killing the Paschal lamb His disciples said to Him, 'Where do you want us to go and prepare for you to eat the Passover?' So He sent two of His disciples, telling them, 'Go into the city and you will meet a man carrying a water-jar: follow him, and whatever house he enters, tell the master of the house that the Rabbi is asking, Where is my room where I can eat the Passover with my disciples? He will himself show you a large room upstairs, with couches spread; there prepare for us the Passover.' The disciples went away into the city and found things just as He had told them. So they prepared the Passover, and when evening fell He arrived along with the Twelve. ... '
Mystery greets us on the threshold. We see two men coming in from the direction of Bethany along the road that winds round the shoulder of Olivet. They are talking together: "Did He not say, Jochanan, a man with a water-jar, just inside the gate? He must have arranged all this with one of the secret followers in the city. But why did He do it Himself so privily? " "I think I know, Simeon," his companion answers. "Did you not see how anxiously He looked at Judah before He gave us our instructions? There is some weight upon His mind concerning Judah. I never liked the man. All is not well with him. I think I can guess, too, who the friend in the city is. But here is the Valley-gate. Let us enter and see."
The reason why Jesus wanted to eat this meal within the city is obvious. It was the Paschal meal, and the holy feast should be held within the holy city. If we accept the synoptic date for the meal Thursday night of Passion Week - this may still hold good; for it has been suggested that the twilight between the fourteenth and the fifteenth of Nisan fell that year on Sabbath eve, and since the killing of the Paschal lamb that evening would have been a violation of the Sabbath law, the Paschal meal in such a case was generally held the night before. But nighttime in the city was fraught with danger for Jesus. And the precaution that He exercised is obvious. When the disciples were bidden to ask in their Master's name, "Where is my guest-chamber?" we seem to have evidence that He had arranged beforehand with a friend. It is natural to expect that He would choose the house of a friend who resided on the edge of the city towards the bill of Olives where He was to pass the night. Surely this is borne out by the nature of the pre-concerted signal the man with the water-jar. Ostensibly he was returning from the city watering place in Gihon. The house where the disciples met after the Crucifixion claims, therefore, for its site precisely that part of the city where we should expect to find the house of the Upper Room. Moreover, the place where they met is called an "upper" room. Luke, indeed calls it "the upper room"an indication that it was familiarly known as such in the early Church, and in designating it so (Acts i.13), Luke at the same time informs us it was the place "where the disciples were residing." The seclusion of the placeon the outskirts of the citywould attract them, too; for they were afraid of the men who had crucified their Master, and met at first behind locked doors (John xx.19).
Surely it is a sacred place in Christian history; the scene of the Last Supper the night before the Cross; the disciples' hiding-place after what must have seemed to them the great disaster; the scene of their mourning; the place where their sorrow gave way to a mysterious and startling sense that the Spirit of their crucified Lord was present that His personality had victoriously survived the rude rending of the casket of the flesh; the room to which they and other friends resorted for those days of intense and eager prayer; the room where, after six or seven weeks, the Divine Spirit somehow rushed upon them, seized them, roused them to an extraordinary fervour and enthusiasm the first appearance of that phenomenon which the Christian Church has grown familiar with in every great revival; the birthplace of the Church of Christ.
It is into the hidden or obscure side of the fascinating story that our eager curiosity fain would penetrate. Perhaps nothing more than probability can be claimed for the tale that seems to unfold before our questioning. But it serves as an alluring starting-point from which to trace some further strands of the amazing story of the early days of the Gospel.
Who were the inmates of this house - these secret friends of Jesus in Jerusalem?
Let us follow the two disciples a little further, as they enter to prepare for the sacred meal. They pass through the Valley-gate at the southwest corner of the city-wall - the natural point of approach from the road along which they had come. And there was a man just lifting a water-jar to his shoulder. The man looked cautiously all round about him. Then he looked keenly at the two travellers. A gleam of intelligence appeared for a moment in his eyes. He placed his finger on his lips, and then turned his back on them, and went on before them, climbing up the steep way that ran northeast into the city. He had not gone very far before he turned down an unfrequented lane. He turned and looked at the two men for a moment, then passed in through a courtyard gate. John nodded to Peter. "It is even as I thought." They followed, gave the goodman of the house their message, and he conducted them in person to the room, where we leave them getting the place in order.
All that we can gather out of the mystery that surrounds the house in this Gospel story is that there were at least two inmates, a male head, and either a son or a trusted slave who could be let in to share the secret. But in either case we may infer that there were women inmates also. We have to turn elsewhere for further light on the subject.
We have already noted that it was to "the upper room, where they were residing," that the disciples returned after the Ascension, "from the hill called the Olive-orchard"a phrase which again suggests a house on the south side of the city. Is there any further reference to their lodging-place? We turn over a few pages of this narrative of Luke's. Peter has just escaped from Herod's prison. He suddenly finds himself in the street in the dead of night. "When he grasped the situation he went to the house of Mary, the mother of John, surnamed Mark, where a number had forgathered for prayer. When he knocked at the wicket in the gate, a girl-slave called Rhoda came forward to answer; but recognising Peter's voice, from sheer elation she neglected to open the wicket, but ran in and announced that Peter was standing there." Peter was soon in their midst, telling his story amid confused exclamations of joy. "Report all this," he said, "to James and his brothers." Then he withdrew and went to another place.
Again it is a house about which a certain air of mystery hangs. But certain inferences may easily be drawn from the story. Where would Peter turn when he was released from prison, but to the house of his most familiar friends? And why should he at once leave it when he had told his story, if not for the reason that this house would be suspect, a resort of the followers of the Nazarene, the house that would first be searched when Peter's escape from prison was discovered. It was a house where the fortunes of the early Church in the holy city were a matter of intense concern; it was a meeting-place of Christians, for a number had met, that anxious night, for prayer. More than that, the girl-slave at once recognised Peter's voice. Long familiarity had accustomed her to its tones. Nor would Peter have given them instructions to tell that other body of Christians who were by this time gathering round James and the other brothers of the Lord, unless he was certain they would be meeting with them next day. Here is, indeed, strong prima facie evidence that this is none other than the house of the Upper Room where the disciples had for a time been resident. But the evidence is stronger than that. We turn to the second last sentence of the first letter attributed to Peter: "My son Mark sends you greetings." Peter is writing from Rome (he calls it Babylon). Mark is helping to write down the letter from Peter's dictation. It is long years after those first exciting days in Jerusalem. But Mark, the son of the family with whom Peter was so well acquainted in those early days, has become the close companion and secretary of the great Apostle. Peter calls him "my son," and in the New Testament that is usually much more than a mark of affection, when one who is not related by blood uses it. It indicates that Peter was the means of winning the young man to the side of the Nazarene. Paul often uses it in this sense.
Now the second Gospel is called the Gospel according to Mark. And we have evidence in the writings of the early Fathers that the writer was none other than this John Mark. "Mark," we are told, "having become the interpreter of Peter, wrote down accurately everything that he remembered, without however recording in order what was either said or done by Christ. For neither did he hear the Lord, nor did he follow Him. But afterwards ... he attended Peter, who adapted his instructions to the needs (of his hearers), but had no design of giving a connected account of the Lord's words. So then Mark made no mistake while he thus wrote down some things as he remembered them, for he made it his one care not to omit anything that he heard, or to set down any false statement therein." These are the famous sentences that Eusebius quotes out of a book he possessed, written by a still older Church Father, Papias. And Papias says he heard the story from the lips of John the Elder, a follower of the early days - possibly the beloved disciple.
Our result then is that the family of the house of the Upper Room was the family of which John Mark was an inmate. It is no objection to point out that in the story of Peter's escape from prison, the house is called "the house of Mary, the mother of John, surnamed Mark"; for the death of the Apostle James, which immediately preceded Peter's imprisonment, took place more than a dozen years after the crucifixion. So that the "goodman of the house" mentioned in the Gospels, the husband, probably, of Mary, may have died before this time. It was evidently a family in comfortable circumstances and probably one of the many in the Holy City, like that of Joseph of Arimathaea, which belonged to the class of Chasidim, who had been "waiting for the consolation of Israel." It surely belongs to the fitness of things that one of the chief recorders of the immortal story should have been a son of the house of the Upper Room.
Mark's family was probably Hellenist-Jewish. They were connected with a family of Cypriote Jews. His Latin surname shows that he had intercourse with a circle wider than that of Judaea. He not only knew Aramaic, but could speak Greek; of this his position as interpreter to Peter assures us. He had had a good education, and could write. One or two touches in the Gospel narrative, peculiar to Mark (i.36, xvi.7, xiv.37), besides the specific references to Peter which the other evangelists probably borrow from Mark, seem to indicate the influence of Peter in the telling of the story (cf. also xi.21, i.3). That the Gospel was written in Rome and for a Roman audience is supported by considerable internal evidence. Mark frequently explains Jewish words and customs (vii.3f, 11, 34, iii.17, v.41, xv.42), sometimes uses Latin words (v.9, vi.27, vii.4, xv.39), or Latin idioms (iii.6, v.23, xiv.65, xv.15), and explains Greek words by Latin equivalents (.42, xv.16), etc.
But, however interesting it might be to pursue these details, we turn away from the enticement to follow a hidden by-path of his story. We open his Gospel near the end. The scene is the Garden of Gethsemane. The rabble have just seized Jesus. And Mark writes, "Then they (the disciples) forsook Him and fled, all of them." It is the little incident that follows which excites our curiosity. "One young man had followed Him, with only a linen sheet thrown round his bare body. And they seized him. But he fled away naked, leaving the sheet behind him."
It is a vivid little story even though there cling about it some of the shadows of the Garden. What is its explanation? How comes it here? John Mark's Gospel is an outline of the story of Jesus pieced together as well as he could from the many addresses which he had listened to from the lips of Peter on his mission-tours. But we can be quite certain that Mark never heard Peter telling this incident. It sheds no light on the main theme. It does not help forward the narrative of the arrest. It has no bearing on the demeanour of Jesus. It would have no conceivable value in any possible address of Peter's. From the point of view of Peter the preacher, it would be an absolutely irrelevant detail. For us today, of course, far removed from the events and not in touch with eyewitnesses, the case is different. The incident enhances the actuality of the story, and we are grateful to the writer for inserting it. But for Peter, as he told the story of the great tragedy with burning passion, it would have been an insignificant and pointless side issue. It seems merely to render the young man ridiculous; it adds an incongruous touch of comedy to the horror of the scene. That is one reason why we cannot think Mark got it from the lips of Peter.
But here is another. Mark has just said the incident took place a moment or two after the disciples had stampeded. Peter was by this time decamping in terror through the wood. Who would have reported this incident in after days? Not any of the disciples. Not any of that noisy and disordered rabble, enemies of the Lord. Only the young man himself, whose sympathies seem to have been on the side of Jesus, could have told it. Mark takes care to inform us in an emphatic phrase, the disciples had fled, "all of them."
Who then was he? He was somebody. Mark says, who had followed Jesus - followed Him from the city to the Garden. And we remember that Jesus and the disciple-band had just celebrated the Paschal meal, all by themselves, secretly in the Upper Room of a friend's house on the edge of the city. When they left the house to go out to Gethsemane it was dark and late. They bad only a few unfrequented by-streets to traverse ere they were beyond the walls. None of the usual followers could have joined them. This solitary youth must have been an inmate of the House of the Upper Room. But, further, none of the other evangelists thought it worthwhile telling the story but Mark. The inference is well nigh irresistible that this youth was John Mark himself. There is a tradition which says John Mark was known in the early Church as the "stump-fingered." Perhaps he had got the tips of some fingers shorn off by a sword-slash in the tussle, when he was forced to let go the sheet and flee naked. And when men asked about his stump-fingers this was the story he told.
There is something touchingly human in his thrusting it into the Gospel. It is "the signature of the artist in an obscure corner of the picture." It is as though he were saying: "On the scene of this tragic world-drama I myself appeared for an instant, and in one of its darkest hours. This is the point where I, a mere youth, first felt the breath of the Unseen touching me from this Life of lives." And when the readers of the Gospel asked him about it afterwards, we can see them in imagination listening to this tale: "I was very curious about the strange party that met in our house that night. We had our own Paschal meal downstairs. Being the son of the house, I had to ask my father the questions of the rite. And I remember how excited my father was. There was a peculiar significance in his tones when he spoke about the promised Messiah; he said He was here, and His hour was at hand. As usual on Paschal night, the door was open, and there was a special eagerness in my father's voice when he sent me to look for the sign of the great forerunner Elijah's return. He was evidently expecting him as he never expected him before. But the hours went by and nothing happened. He sent me to sleep on the terrace outside the door of the room above the gate, where the guests were feasting. He told me to extinguish the lights when the guests were gone; and to watch and watch as long as wakefulness remained in my eyes. I spread my pallet near the door of the room and drew the cover over me. The feast of the strangers was protracted long after ours. I could hear the sweet, sad rise and fall of the Rabbi's voicefor so my father greeted Him. I had seen Him come in; what a kind, sad face it was! I was only a boy, and understood nothing of what it all meant; but my heart was drawn to Him. I felt there was some dreadful sorrow hanging over Him. And all the early hours of the night I was excited and disturbed. I could not sleep. Then suddenly the door opened, and one solitary figure came out, loomed in the lighted doorway for a moment, and then he was alone in the dark; the door was closed behind him. I watched his hesitating, uncertain movements as he slowly descended the stone steps. And he was muttering to himself. What it was I could not tell, but there was a sound as of cursing in it. I lay down on my couch again, and drew the sheet around me, for the night was chilly. But I could not sleep. I tossed and tossed. I was filled with a nameless fear about the Man with the sad, kind, noble, face. By-and-by I heard them singing the Hallel inside. Then the door opened once again. I saw the Rabbi thoughtfully extinguishing the lights as His followers left the room. And they all came out in silence and trooped down the steps in the dark. And a great pain came into my heart and I began to weep, I knew not why. The footsteps of the little company were dying away down the deserted street, when a sudden frenzy of desire took possession of me. I could not lie there any longer. I scarcely knew what I was doing, but I rose and drew the sheet about me like a toga. I could not wait to don my tunic. And down the steps I followed, down the street, through the gate, down the road, across the valley, always keeping a little way behind the band. Over the brook and up the side of Olivet they went, and still I followed. The great wall of the Temple courts loomed above me on the left. As we climbed the hillside I began to see the lights still burning near the altar; and the smoke of the Paschal sacrifice going up and up till it was lost in the darkness. And then the Rabbi and His disciples halted under the great cedars. I lay and watched from a distance behind an aged bole. I saw eight of the band lie down not far from where I watched, and soon they were all asleep. I saw the other four go a little farther on into the wood. Then three of them halted and sat down,apparently to watch. The solitary Figure went still farther on into the wood. Darkly I caught glimpses of them by the struggling light of the Paschal moon, through the hazy sky and the shadows of the great trees. One by one the three watchers sank wearily to sleep. Sometimes I fancied I caught stray sounds of a voicelonely and sorrowful sounds, heart-rending to hear. Sometimes it seemed like pleading, sometimes like sobbing. The chill hand of fear clutched closer on my heart. And then, hark! was it the sound of a distant night-wind hurrying over the tree-tops; was it the cry of the pariah dogs echoing up the valley from Hinnom? Nearer and nearer crept the sound, and then the light of the torches flickering and bobbing. I caught the glint of armour. There were Roman soldiers there. They passed quite close. I heard their hoarse voices. I saw figures armed with staves, and I recognised some hired bravos of the Temple. Bent on evil! And leading in frontyes, it was the same stoop, the same uncertain stepthe man who had left the upper room alone.
"I hardly know what followed, for in a moment all was confusion and alarm. But I rose and crept nearer. There was a short struggle, the flash of a sword in the moonlight, and then the friends of the Rabbi scattered and fled. And there He stood, alone in the midst of the mob, bound with thongs. Was it a boy's eager curiosity, or was it something deeper that drew me nearer? Some of the rabble turned to take me, but I struggled free, save that some one held my linen sheet. There was another sword-slash, and I let go and fled, naked, yelling with terror and pain.
"For days I was at home nursing my wound. And when the little company began to straggle back to my father's house, I crept into the room beside them. I carried up their food, for I was eager to listen to their talk, to find out what had happened. And there was one of them, a great, strong, rugged man, who seemed most sorrowful and remorseful of all. And I pitied him, and tried to show him kindness in my stammering/embarrassed way. And he was grateful, and asked about my wounded hand.
"I shall never forget the evening when he came in all smiles. He could not tell us clearly what had occurred. He had met the Master - risen from the grave, he said. And then a strange thing happened. The men ceased their lamentations, and began to pray. And their words were very quiet and full of joy. And the evening dusk grew very holy. Somebody else seemed to be in the room, and they talked to Him. I could not see Him, but I felt the presence. And they asked Him eager questions, until their faces shone with joy. And once more they broke the bread and passed the wine, as they told me they had done the night before He died. I was moved as never beforethough I did not understand then. But afterwards I did when Peter asked me, "Would you not like to be a friend of the great Master, too? Yes, afterward I understood.
When faith breaks the bread and pity pours the wine, There is Christ's self, the Sacrament divine.
"I can't help telling this story, because if it had never happened, I might never have become a follower of Jesus. I tell it with all its stark ignominy and humiliation because it is my chief glory now.
"Oh, and something very like it occurred to me later in my career. I was always eager for adventure, always timid in danger. Years after, in the days of the great famine in the Holy City, when Paul and Barnabas arrived with a gift for the starving Christians, they stayed in our house, and I helped them in the distribution of the gift. I heard them talking of a great crusade they were planningthe carrying of the Gospel far afield to the Gentiles. The adventure of it drew me and I was eager to go, and when they left the city they took me with them. I was ill-prepared for the journey just like that night when I had only my linen cloth about me. I hadn't counted the cost.
"I saw them set apart for the great adventure. I sailed with them from the port of Antioch. I passed with them through Cyprus, and with Barnabas visited our friends in the island. But the work was hard, and there were sneers and indifference to meet, insult and scorn. And by-and-by we set sail for the mainlandout into the unknown; and I began to be afraid. Paul was ill when we landed, but I was amazed at the burning passion of the man, so eager to go on. There was no turning back with him. Then we set out on the terrible journey. I shall never forget the terror of it. Up and up we toiled, worn out, fatigued, exhausted, hungry often, into the great passes of the Taurus Mountains. There were perils of rivers in flood to encounter, perils of avalanche; we were cold and shelterless oftentimes, and robbers haunted the way. And then one night my heart failed me, and I fled home to the shelter of my mother's house. The memory of the shame of that journey will never leave me. I was stripped of all my hardihood - naked, just like that dread night in Gethsemane, when I fled naked and terror-stricken home. Oh, the months of remorse, conscience-stricken and ashamed! And then I heard that Paul and Barnabas had returned to Antioch, and my mother counselled me to go and make a clean breast of it to them, and plead to be pardoned. And Barnabas was kind, and comforted me. "Son of Consolation" the disciples called him, and he was that to me. It was just like the Risen Christ forgiving me - as He did in the days that followed the Cross, when Peter told me the story of His dying love.
"And Paul was gentle, too, but he would not trust me again. And Barnabas would not go without me - he was like the Master, who said He would never leave nor forsake His weak, wavering followers. So Paul separated from us, and Barnabas and I went to Cyprus again. I was eager to retrieve my character, eager to win back the trust of the great Paul. We had many hardships, many hours of disappointment and despondency in Cyprus. But I fought and fought with my fears. And then our fellow-countrymen grew enraged at us when we began to win disciples for the Lord. And Barnabas was arrested and I saw him die. I was in terror and would have fled again. But a wonderful thing happened. When I saw my dear friend die, it seemed to me that I was witnessing what had happened in Jerusalem - Calvary's Cross all over again, and I caught one overpowering sight of the love of God. A great peace entered my heart and I was no longer afraid. I, too, was ready to die for Christ who had died for me. Nay, it was Christ who had come to me and entered my heart. From that day on, He has been my companion and friend.
"Paul heard of me and wanted to see me, and I travelled to Rome. And when I saw the prisoner in chains I wept, and he fell on my neck and kissed me. Then Peter came to Rome - he who had first won me for the Master - and I joined myself to him. O, the wonder of those days, toiling for the Master far from home, yet never for one moment alone. Often, as I went about the world with Peter, and saw the great change come over poor and insignificant men - slaves, outcasts - and saw them holding true to Christ through jeering, abuse, torture, pain and death, He came to me and spoke to me; and still He comes to me and speaks to me, and I know He is alive."