The Urge to Flee
Mark 14:47–50 (NLT) / Psalm 40 (MSG)
Mark 14:47-50 NLT
But one of the men with Jesus pulled out his sword and struck the high priest's slave, slashing off his ear. [48] Jesus asked them, "Am I some dangerous revolutionary, that you come with swords and clubs to arrest me? [49] Why didn't you arrest me in the Temple? I was there among you teaching every day. But these things are happening to fulfill what the Scriptures say about me." [50] Then all his disciples deserted him and ran away.
Psalm 40:1-17 MSG
I waited and waited and waited for God. At last he looked; finally he listened. He lifted me out of the ditch, pulled me from deep mud. He stood me up on a solid rock to make sure I wouldn’t slip. He taught me how to sing the latest God-song, a praise-song to our God. More and more people are seeing this: they enter the mystery, abandoning themselves to God. [4-5] Blessed are you who give yourselves over to God, turn your backs on the world’s “sure thing,” ignore what the world worships; The world’s a huge stockpile of God-wonders and God-thoughts. Nothing and no one compares to you! I start talking about you, telling what I know, and quickly run out of words. Neither numbers nor words account for you. [6] Doing something for you, bringing something to you—that’s not what you’re after. Being religious, acting pious—that’s not what you’re asking for. You’ve opened my ears so I can listen. [7-8] So I answered, “I’m coming. I read in your letter what you wrote about me, And I’m coming to the party you’re throwing for me.” That’s when God’s Word entered my life, became part of my very being. [9-10] I’ve preached you to the whole congregation, I’ve kept back nothing, God—you know that. I didn’t keep the news of your ways a secret, didn’t keep it to myself. I told it all, how dependable you are, how thorough. I didn’t hold back pieces of love and truth For myself alone. I told it all, let the congregation know the whole story. [11-12] Now God, don’t hold out on me, don’t hold back your passion. Your love and truth are all that keeps me together. When troubles ganged up on me, a mob of sins past counting, I was so swamped by guilt I couldn’t see my way clear. More guilt in my heart than hair on my head, so heavy the guilt that my heart gave out. [13-15] Soften up, God, and intervene; hurry and get me some help, So those who are trying to kidnap my soul will be embarrassed and lose face, So anyone who gets a kick out of making me miserable will be heckled and disgraced, So those who pray for my ruin will be booed and jeered without mercy. [16-17] But all who are hunting for you—oh, let them sing and be happy. Let those who know what you’re all about tell the world you’re great and not quitting. And me? I’m a mess. I’m nothing and have nothing: make something of me. You can do it; you’ve got what it takes—but God, don’t put it off.
I’ve been reading about the night Jesus was arrested. The mob shows up, there’s a scuffle, someone loses an ear, and then — almost as a footnote — the disciples run. All of them. Gone.
Let that sit for a moment.
These were the men who had walked with Jesus for three years. They had heard the teachings, seen the miracles, shared the meals. And when things turned dark and confusing, they fled.
I’ve read that verse dozens of times and never stopped long enough to feel the weight of it. But this morning I did. Because I know that feeling. Most of us have.
How many times have I fled a situation I didn’t understand — a job, a relationship, a season of life that felt like too much? And how many times have I wondered later what God was trying to do in that very place I ran from?
I walked into work this morning and was asked to bowl several uboats of chemicals. Bowling, for the uninitiated, is the process of pulling a loaded cart to its aisle on the sales floor so that someone else can come behind you and stock the shelves. Simple enough — except the very first cart I touched had a split weight-bearing wheel.
I got it maybe fifteen feet before it became clear: there was no moving this thing. Not with a full load. Not the 350 feet to its aisle. I looked around. Every other cart in the back room was packed to capacity. We’d been dealing with this all week — a backlog that just kept compressing itself tighter. The truck still needed to be unloaded and there was no clean answer for how that was going to happen.
If someone had walked off that morning, I would have understood it completely. There was a part of me that felt the pull — not toward the door exactly, but toward defeat. That quiet internal surrender that says this isn’t worth it before the day has even really started.
But the truck still needed to come off. So we figured out what we could and kept moving.
What came next, I didn’t expect.
The day opened up into conversation. Mary and I spent time talking while we sorted packages — she asked about the job I lost recently, and somehow we ended up on flowers and gardens and just the texture of life. It was easy. Unhurried. One of the more genuinely restful stretches I’ve had at work in weeks.
And it didn’t stop there. Throughout the day I had real moments with several coworkers. Not small talk — actual moments. The kind where you look up from what you’re doing and realize you’re in the middle of something that matters.
I’ve noticed a pattern in the people who land at Target. There’s usually a story underneath. Most of them fled something that became too much to carry — a job that was grinding them down, a situation that had backed them into a corner. One of my friends there had been quietly doing his supervisor’s job on top of his own at Walmart before he finally stepped away for something lower-stress. He’s younger — about half my age — and he’s sitting in the same question I am: what’s next? I’ve been encouraging him to step out, try something new. He’s got more in him than he knows. But right now he’s just catching his breath.
I think that’s what a lot of us are doing there, honestly. Catching our breath after a season of running.
The end of Psalm 40 in The Message doesn’t dress it up:
I am a mess. Make something of me.
That’s not a polished prayer. That’s an honest one. And maybe that’s the point.
Because here’s what I keep coming back to: I can try to make something new of myself. I can hustle toward the next opportunity, push through the exhaustion, hold on until a better door opens. And sometimes I’ll still end up a mess. Trying harder doesn’t always resolve that.
But maybe the invitation — when the urge to flee gets loud — isn’t to run faster toward something better. Maybe it’s to lean in. To abide. To stay in the discomfort long enough to let God do something in it that I can’t manufacture on my own.
The disciples ran that night. I understand it. I’ve done the same thing in different clothes.
But I wonder what they would have found if they’d stayed a little longer.
For Reflection:
What would it look like for you, in whatever season you’re in right now, to “lean in and abide” rather than run? What feels like the first small step toward that?
