For many readers the episode of the fleeing youth
stands as the most humanly
fascinating problem in all of Mark's Gospel.

The two linen cloths

By John E. Walsh

n It is a fleeting incident, obviously quite minor, apparently of no real significance in the gospel story. Yet for many readers the episode of the fleeing youth stands as the most humanly fascinating problem in all of Mark's Gospel. More than that, when properly understood this curious tableau leads to unguessed depths of meaning, especially regarding Peter and his ancient role as a principal source of gospel fact, a role now too often doubted or diminished.

The brief passage occurs just after the arrest of Jesus at Gethsemane, when the disciples have all taken to their heels, and the mob with Jesus in custody is departing. "A young man followed him," writes Mark, "with nothing but a linen cloth about his body; and they seized him, but he left the linen cloth and ran away naked" (14:51-52).

That is all. At that point the mysterious youth, never identified in the text, disappears suddenly and completely from the narrative. In the other gospels he finds no mention. What possible purpose, in so compelling a context, is served by this strange interlude, bordering as it does on actual farce? (Its over-familiarity today, of course, tends to blur and soften the underlying farcical aspect, the potential comedic element.) The solution offered by most commentators in the past-all of whom agree that the little tableau is decidedly trivial-has been the equivalent of a shrug. Mark himself, all agree, was the young man in question. In writing his gospel he couldn't resist the impulse to preserve the fact of his own youthful presence on Mt. Olivet that fateful night, even if anonymously. It is a view well summed up by Theodore Zahn, who wrote that Mark "paints a small picture of himself in a corner of his work."

Now, surely, of all unthinking suggestions, the very frivolity of that notion stamps it as improbable. Mark himself would have been the very last to presume upon, to arrogate to himself so blatantly personal an intrusion on the sacred narrative. That would require a man of hopelessly superficial intellect, and the crudest sensibilities. Mark was neither.

When preparing this document, Mark well knew that it would be gladly received by the Christian community of Rome, where it originated, and no doubt he foresaw its use spreading to Christian groups elsewhere. Certainly he would have anticipated the inevitable question, bound to be quickly raised by the faithful, as to the true identity of the mysterious youth. Early readers-or hearers, as most were-would not have differed from modern ones, in fact would have been infinitely more curious than we are today, and with good reason. For those first readers of the Markan text the unknown youth, grown to maturity, could still have been alive, able to supply further precious information about that remarkable night.

Expecting the question, Mark would also have realized that the young man's identity could not be held back, but must rapidly become current. In that case, he would have found himself in a very uneasy position indeed, threatening him with acute and lasting embarrassment. Look here, indignant readers would charge, look at this impudent man! Not of high rank in the Church, hardly more than a secretary, yet he crassly intrudes himself on the ever-sacred narrative of Christ's Passion. How dare he distract the faithful with this clownish incident!

Can anyone sensitive to the fitness of things really believe that Mark, or any other author, in those special circumstances would have committed such a terrible and unforgiving blunder? But go further. Say that Mark did, after all, commit such a mistake, say that he himself allowed this discordant note to creep into the gospel text. In that case, why was there no one to inform him of his error, no one in authority to insist that the brief passage be struck out? Why are those few eminently dispensable words still there? That question, as it turns out, is the key that unlocks the mystery.

Quite definitely, as study reveals, the hand that wrote this gospel (that is, put it on paper, wrote it down) was intensely preoccupied to preserve the original material, not altering it by even a hairsbreadth. At many points of the narrative it is undeniable that small changes in the phrasing and vocabulary, minor additions and deletions, would greatly improve the clarity and literary style. Yet for some reason the author has studiously kept hands off, permitting even the most obvious defects to stand. This meticulous cast of mind, showing such great respect for the original material, would never have intruded itself so awkwardly into this transcendent portrait merely to leave his individual stamp "in a corner."

Very quickly in reading the passage on the fleeing youth it becomes evident that, as to technique, it is not such as would come from the pen of a writer. Deliberately composed narrative does not express itself in this stumbling fashion. To all indications, we have here a record of the spoken word, taken down as uttered in the rush of free-wheeling talk, and subsequently left unchanged.

Notice the phrase, "about his body." In that context, such an expression could have come only from the mouth of a speaker, one in the full flow of spontaneous description. A writer would have expressed the thought more tidily, without reference to the body. "With nothing on but a linen cloth," a writer would have phrased it, or perhaps "wearing nothing but a linen cloth."

As another example, take the very repetition of the phrase "linen cloth." Nothing deadens prose quicker than needless repetition, so in its second occurrence a writer would inevitably have dropped the "linen," would have written simply "cloth." (The Jerusalem Bible, in fact, has done precisely that, omitting the second "linen" in the interests of a more flowing narrative.) Suggestive also is the assertion that the young man "followed him," when the usual way to express the fact would be "followed the crowd," which is certainly the way a writer would have put it. ("Crowd," because it includes "him," naturally takes precedence.)

On the score of silent omission, there is the usual missing antecedent for "they," no writer's oversight. Nor is any reason given for why "they" tried to seize the young man in the first place-a prime instance of a speaker's assumption as to fact. Notice also that there is no explanation of the young man's slipping away rather handily from his would-be captors, without bringing on the slightest pursuit. If someone in the arresting party thought it wise to detain the young man, why give up so quickly?

Altogether too obvious for discussion is the question of why a writer would have failed to give a reason for the presence of a sheeted stranger on the scene in the first place, to all appearances a virtually unclad passerby. If such an ephemeral incident was not to be tied in with the progress of the narrative, would a writer even mention it?

Over the brief passage, undeniably, there hovers a decidedly unkempt or hurried or unconsidered air-call it off-hand. Note how phrase after phrase is given in just the rough style in which it was uttered, highlighting the sudden emphasis on the linen cloth. Here is a youth roaming the streets at night, attired in what seems a simple bedsheet (a few commentators guess at a form of pajama, hardly convincing). This calls up a picture not of a young man merely, but almost a child. Roused from sleep by a noisy crowd passing in the street near his home, impelled for some reason to make a dash after the torch-lit mob, he didn't take time to dress. But any male over the age of eight or ten would have waited long enough to don some item of regular clothing.

If the boy were nothing but an innocent straggler, it is curious that "they" would have bothered to seize him. Perhaps he was recognized as being connected with the disciples, or a guard may have inquired. Still, the text does not identify him as a member of Jesus' party, and in fact the language of the verse just preceding seems to tell otherwise: "and they all forsook him and fled." All forsook him. But this lone youth, in the manner of boys then as now, lingered behind to drift after the mob.

Concede two points as established: 1) the passage was originally spoken, not composed by a writer, and was written down word-for-word as dictated; 2) the youth in question was at most ten years old, and was in some way connected with Jesus, at least with one or more of the disciples. Within that framework, recalling that at least thirty years had elapsed since the episode occurred, admitting that the scene is wholly superfluous to the sense of the narrative, there is one solution that urges itself by sheer force of the inevitable.

The speaker doing the talking, telling the little tale of the agile youth, is Peter himself. The one taking down Peter's dictation is that little boy grown up. Thus the curious scene is today a permanent part of the gospel because it was spoken into the record by one whose authority to do so none would have opposed. In addition, Peter's reason for the action becomes equally clear. It could only have been a generous desire to pay a wistful tribute to the little lad-now his faithful assistant-who for that one memorable moment at Gethsemane had proved himself braver than all the grown-ups.

("But Peter, you can't put that in!" cries the astonished amanuensis. "It has nothing to do with Jesus. I hardly knew what was going on. Then the guard made a grab for me. Better leave it out." Peter, shaking his head, replies with a smile, "No, Mark, it stays in," to which Mark adds shyly, "Well, I hope you'll let people know it wasn't my idea." Will any hard-hearted scholar wish to deny that a conversation very like that one actually did take place, or might have?)

But with all that happened of profound significance that night in Gethsemane, it is surely very curious that this fleeting, nearly comic touch should have remained so vividly in Peter's memory for three decades or more. What mental trigger was it that brought to the surface of his mind, as he dictated to Mark, the recollection of the boy's long-ago escapade? One thing about the chief apostle's role on that occasion in the garden the gospel does make clear. In the first chaotic reaction to Jesus' arrest, Peter too failed to stand his ground but made a break for freedom, running off in panic with all the others. He did not run far, however. Calming down, he promptly hurried back in order to trail after the arresting party. As the text indicates, he was careful to stay well behind, "at a distance." This put him in the perfect position to become an eyewitness of what happened next.

Keenly gazing after the noisy, bustling crowd as it moves along just ahead of him, Peter watches the sudden drama of the boy evading the soldier's clasp. Recognizing the lad, in some anxiety he sees the soldier reach out abruptly. Uneasily he stares as the lad struggles in the rough grasp. Then he sighs in relief as the boy breaks free and races off into the shadows, leaving the fluttering cloth dangling in the guard's frustrated hands-what full-grown man welcomes the task of chasing a nimble-footed boy speeding around corners and down alleyways?

Ever afterward for Peter the events of that unforgettable night at Gethsemane carry some strange associations. Incongruously, yet quite humanly, it all hooks itself to the peculiar incident of the frightened boy, neatly reduced by the mind's organizing faculty to one graphic picture, the sight of an empty linen cloth. No touch more true to life, nothing with a more convincing aura of reality, can be found anywhere in the gospels.

But here a further thought beckons, propelling the linkage still more piercingly into the very center of Peter's agitated memory. It was only three days after Jesus' arrest that, standing in the tomb on Easter morning, Peter found himself staring, at first in perplexity and then in growing wonder, at another empty linen cloth. n