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I stood with the angry throng
on the rock-slab of the Roman praetorium before Pontious Pilate, screaming
for Jesus to be crucified. I did so again and again, as loud as my ragged
throat would allow. I remember mostly how my heart swelled with rage as
the tension in the air became as palpable as when a street filled with
Jewish brothers would stand in fearful silence as a Roman soldier on horseback
trampled an innocent bystander merely because he had been in the soldier's
way. I wanted so much for that murderer, Jesus, to die for his crimes against
my God.
At first, instead of acquiescing
to our angry demands, Pilate had Jesus flogged to a bloody pulp, hoping
it would soften our hearts. A thick sweat whetted the surrounding air,
causing us to breathe all the more rapidly. And the sight and scent of
blood pouring from Jesus' now broken body left us licking our lips for
even more. I'm sure Pilate thought a brutal beating would suffice for us,
and that satisfied, we'd all go home. He was wrong.
Even the crown of thorns
cutting into his pasty brow and matted hair, trails of blood trickling
down his face, and even more, the crimson seepage from the wounds on his
back and shoulders through the tunic his torturers hastily placed on him
to cover the severity of their dastardly deed, did not come close to satiating
our burgeoning lust for Jesus' death. Whether we understood it or not at
the time, we were transferring our building anger over the oppression of
the Roman occupation to the shoulders of one man whom we considered to
be an even greater threat.
All the more we yelled, "Crucify
him! Crucify him! Crucify him!" And when they led him away and began the
long, steep march up Golgotha, we cheered. We knew what was next. We could
already taste the unmistakable flavor of metal upon metal in our mouths
all along the rugged rail. In mere moments, we knew we would hear Roman
soldiers hammering thick metal stakes into Jesus' wrists, as well as into
and through the top of his overlapped feet.
I smiled, anticipating the
even greater pain he was going to feel than the soldiers' beating. I imagined
him screaming loud enough for all Israel to hear. I imagined his body twisting
and turning on the cross as he writhed to find comfort in the midst of
unspeakable pain. I followed close behind the Roman-led entourage on the
path to the Place of the Skull so I could witness Jesus' agony firsthand,
from beginning to end. I didn't want to miss a thing.
***
Roman soldiers made Jesus
carry his own cross. The thing must have weighed a ton, and was full of
jagged splinters. I felt a thrill just thinking of the possibility of each
splinter digging further into his raw flesh and stinging him with even
more pain. He dropped the massive cross beams several times, and I was
overjoyed each time to see the soldiers whip him again and again, stand
him back up on his trembling legs, and then summarily drop the splintered
cross back on his shoulders.
Finally, Jesus staggered
to the top of the hill, where so many criminals were regularly tortured
to hell. But this one was personal for me. It wasn't just another criminal
or two, it was the man who dared to claim he was God. To me, his claim
was far more than just blaspheming. It was murder. He was essentially killing
my God and usurping his throne, a throne that was not and never would be,
in my mind, his for the taking. Jesus had to die. And it had to hurt, and
hurt badly. His dying, in my mind, would still not be enough for what he'd
done. I wanted him to suffer for eternity.
I felt bad for Jesus' mother.
I know it's not easy for a parent to lose a child...for any reason. I saw
what my mom went through when she lost my little brother to the "spotted"
fever. Helplessly watching him slip away little by little, day after day,
left her prostrate for days on end in her bedroom floor, her moans echoing
off the walls in futile protest. I imagine Jesus' mother, even though her
son was fully grown and justly sentenced to death for crimes committed,
felt the same kind of unrelenting pain. On her knees on the brow of the
hill, only feet away from where her son was being stretched out, her shaking
hands raised as if pleading for her son's last-second release, I could
see pain deeply etching itself in a new carving across her already withered
face. Knowing her son was going to soon die, a gruesome death was already
killing her.
When I could take no more
of her suffering, I looked away and concentrated solely on the criminal
who was about to be nailed down by laughing Roman executioners. I so looked
forward to seeing him take his last gasp of air. All my protesting was
about to pay off. I wanted to go home with a grin from ear to ear, knowing
that his death had squared the record, and that all would be right with
God again.
After seeing the soldiers
pulling Jesus' arms out from side to side across the cross beam, nearly
to the point of separating them from his shoulders, and seeing the first
of the hammers rise above the heads of jagged nails pointing down toward
his quivering flesh, I anticipated a rush of joyous vengeance coursing
through my body when metal would finally strike metal, and the more than
deserving prisoner would cry out in the greatest imaginable agony. I even
imagined God smiling above in Heaven, seeing justice on earth was being
done.
What I did not expect was
that from Jesus would come not one cry. Not one. Incredulously, I thought,
surely he felt pain when the stakes so rudely ripped through the flesh
of his wrists. Pound after pound of the hammers, until each nail was driven
completely through both his hands and feet, and secured deep into the wood,
not once did he shout out or wail. Disappointingly, he did not even so
much as moan. Except for the seemingly endless hammering, and the two other
prisoners screaming who were being crucified that day, there was only silence
from Jesus. I was more than surprised. I was shocked. It made no sense.
How could it be, I thought? And when the pounding hammers were done, only
stark confusion continued ringing in my ears.
Once the soldiers propped
the cross up, its top tottering back and forth high in the air, with Jesus
hanging limply from it like a bloody flag, and then wedged its base firmly
into the rock hole chiseled out for just that purpose, I sat down with
others gathered there to watch him slowly die. Unlike the others, who dropped
to the ground quickly to sit with gleeful expectation, I slowly lowered
myself onto my haunches, still puzzling over how Jesus was managing to
remain so silent.
Many gathered there mocked
Jesus, calling out all manner of insults that surely made them feel better
for being able to freely utter them, but even more they hoped their sharp
words would also mercilessly sting in Jesus' ears as his life slipped slowly
away. They were merciless, for sure, and I could not blame them, but in
me I strangely found no such barbs to throw. I was still reeling from the
absence of the sounds of great pain, preventing me from feeling the glee
I so anticipated would flood my soul.
I sat in silence. Sans the
joy I sought in Jesus' anguished crying out, neither did the ringing of
metal on metal, and the resulting audible tearing of Jesus' flesh, bring
me the satisfaction I thought they would. His taking it all in without
a sound, obstructed my senses like a massive tree falling ahead of me,
across a road upon which I was traveling. I could not move forward as I
had hoped. A certain paralyzing numbness began to creep across my body.
***
Jesus had been crucified
at the third hour, but from the sixth until the ninth hour, darkness began
to cover the land like a suffocating blanket. At the ninth hour, Jesus
did finally speak, but with a dry and agonized voice. I could not understand
what he was saying. Others told me they heard him call out for Elijah.
I figured he was probably begging for mercy from God, who I was sure was
no longer listening to him. His death, I was sure, was now mere breaths
away.
Only moments before, others,
standing off to the side from where the crosses towered in the sky, said
they heard Jesus ask God to forgive everyone, explaining as best he could
that they, afterall, did not know what they were doing. I figured that
couldn't be right. I knew exactly what I was doing. I was defending my
God. Jesus had no authority to even ask that we be forgiven, and why would
he do so anyway, especially for any of us, since we were the ones who were
making sure everything possible was being done to forever shut him up.
Not long after, Jesus spoke
one last time, shuddering violently as he finally succumbed. I remember
wishing his torture lasted longer. The two thieves on either side of him
were still alive and suffering mightily. Why wasn't he? I did not want
him to have any measure of reprieve. I wanted his anguish to go on and
on. The more the better. I resolved that he had more than a debt to pay.
To everyone's amazement,
Jesus' passing did not come with the usual doleful silence when death claims
flesh, and eternity captures the soul. The afternoon sun was now blotted
out by ever-thickening clouds. The ground shook violently enough to throw
me to the ground. Rocks around the top of the hill split apart. And from
afar, I could see the dust rise from Jerusalem's outer walls as parts of
them were being shaken. Certainly something quite unexpected and unsettling
was afoot.
I was told later that parts
of the temple were damaged, that the thick veil covering the entrance to
the Holy of Holies was torn from top to bottom. There were more than a
few reports also of tombs outside the city opening, and the bodies that
had been buried in them walked freely about the streets, but with not an
ounce of a foul smell permeating the air. A distinct fear began to creep
deep within me. None of this was as it should be. This was not normal.
But more than the devastation
turning Jerusalem upside down, what was most concerning to me was what
I overheard the centurion say as he stood guard just beneath Jesus' body.
His very words completed the paralysis of both my mind and body. As I lay
upon the hard, cold ground, looking up at the guard looking up at Jesus
hanging from his cross, the words I heard the guard say aloud with great
confidence were: "Truly, this man was who he said he was."
The moment I heard the rugged
guard's confession, something snapped in me. I felt a breaking, a giving
way of all that I once held to be utterly immovable in my soul. My faith
which stood sentinel, was not so sure anymore.
I was also no longer filled
with the same rage I held before, as I then looked up at Jesus myself,
stunned to see that though his eyes were now closed tight, his face was
pointed at me as if he had been looking directly at me when he died. An
unexpected shiver convulsed my body, starting at my feet and then seemingly
exploding out the top of my head. It was not a long fall to the ground
since I was already mostly there, but I found I could no longer hold my
head up, as it crashed face-first upon the unforgiving rock-hardness of
Moriah.
***
I don't know how long I laid
atop the rocky mountain, but I remember when I came to, I saw two Pharisees
appear out of nowhere to take Jesus' body down from the cross. I heard
them talk, but could not make out what they were saying. I could not understand
why two Pharisees were even bothering with him, especially seeing how gently
they removed him from the caked-in-blood cross, and wrapped his limp and
broken body in a large sheet with such care. The other religious leaders
had told us Jesus was an arch-enemy to God. Did these two not believe what
Caiaphas and Ananias said? Might they, God forbid, have actually come to
believe Jesus was the Messiah?
Finally able to stir, I sat
up, allowing the cobwebs to clear from my beleaguered brain. Then
I slowly stood up, almost losing my balance three times. Once upright,
it was still more than a few moments before I could move steadily or think
clearly. One thing was already very clear to me, though. The anger inside
me I once unleashed on Jesus, was no longer goading me to violent action.
As I stood there in the dark, my heart, mind and limbs fully numbed to
inaction, left me only able to watch helplessly as events beyond my control
passed me by.
The two Pharisees eventually
traveled back down the mountain, presumably carrying Jesus' body away to
bury him. No longer, though, was I consumed by the desire for Jesus' body
to be flung into the Kidron Valley with all the other criminals of the
faith. I actually imagined them instead taking him to a private tomb somewhere
nearby. And though they did so with the greatest of gentleness, they removed
Jesus' body from the mountain quickly, as the Sabbath was drawing near,
a time after which no further work for the week was allowed to be performed.
Just before dark officially descended, the two Pharisees had come and gone
with the body, and no one, except me, had been the wiser.
Finally, I stood alone on
Golgotha, after all soldiers and onlookers had long since retreated back
into the confines of Jerusalem's great wall. Though it was most certainly
now pitch dark, as evenings in the land of Shalom are accustomed to be,
this particular night the dark seemed most unpierceable, even impenetrable.
I could barely see my hands before my face, much less the treacherous footings
of the trail that led back down the mountain and back into the city.
Along the way, I had momentary
flashbacks of having had such resolve during the morning's protesting before
Pilate, and how it swiftly gained momentum when Jesus was forced to carry
his cross out of the city and up the mountain that would eventually claim
his life. Like a starving dog, salivating at the prospect of soon tearing
into a meaty meal, I climbed Golgotha with ravenous anticipation. Jesus
and his death was the only thing on my vengeful mind and in my murderous
heart. And then I wondered, with all that had just transpired, where all
that angered resolve had gone?
My last thought before re-entering
Jerusalem for the night was, "Well...that's it." But somehow, deep inside,
I did not feel so confident. Something within kept nagging at me, trying
to tell me it was not over, that there was so much more to come. Little
did I know that three days after Jesus was buried, I would hear the news
that he had risen from the dead, and that instead of laughing out loud
over the ludicrousness of such a tale, somehow I knew deep down it was
actually true, and that the struggle welling up inside me was just gaining
a momentum of its own.
***
I was not completely sure
how I came to be standing with a crowd of several thousand outside and
just beneath the porch of a two-story building in downtown Jerusalem. But
there I was, when disciples of Jesus who had been hiding out there stepped
out onto the porch to explain what the commotion they were making was all
about. At first we thought they were drunk, possibly partying just a little
too hard, and way too early in the day. There were easily more than 100
people gathered together in that small upper room.
It was not just a noise,
though, we heard coming out of that room. It was recognizably natural,
but at the same time it was something completely unnatural. It was like
the combination of the sounds of a mighty howling wind and the roaring
of surging sea waves. Then, as if chiming in with the sounds of wind and
waves, people in the room began moaning a stream of oohs and aahs, leading
to a white-capped crescendo of loud praising and worshipful singing.
It had been fifty days since
Jesus' reported resurrection, and ten days since he had last been seen.
His disciples claimed they actually saw him ascend back to heaven. Over
500 people said they had seen him, talked with him, even ate and drank
with him. I did not know what to think or believe when I heard the reports,
but my curiosity was certainly more than piqued. And I really didn't understand
why. Since the events of Golgotha, the only thing of which I was sure of
was that something deep inside me was changing.
Since Jesus' crucifixion,
I had taken to wandering the streets of Jerusalem. I had no family to tend,
no job to go to, and I had just enough money stashed away to pay for food
when I was hungry, though during that time, I seemed to lose my appetite
too. I had nothing better to do. My wandering was not purposeful. I did
it from sunup to sun down, thinking about whatever came to mind and listening
to the stories and rumors I heard along the way. You could certainly say
I was more than a bit of a lost soul.
***
I wanted to see Jesus like
everyone else I heard about, especially since I had personally seen him
die on the cross. It was one thing for his disciples to say he was alive
again, but it was another level of thing for so many others to claim to
have touched his wounds and watched him eat and drink with their very eyes.
Every time I heard another report, I'd hurry to that spot, hoping he'd
still be there. Every time I wandered through the area of greater Judea,
I hoped he would appear, not necessarily to me, but so at least I could
see it was him. I had to know if him being alive was really so.
I never ended up actually
seeing Jesus myself, but I will never forget meeting someone who had been
very close to him the whole time he was growing up, someone who for so
long thought he was most certainly a fool's fool, and who had just come
from, as he told me with great difficulty, a heart-rending encounter with
him who claimed to be "the true Son of God."
He said his name was James,
the eldest brother of Jesus. I saw him first on his knees in an alleyway,
his hands raised in the air, and praying fervently without making a sound.
His eyes were blood red, and rivers of tears were dried on his face. He
spoke haltingly, with a rasp in his voice like a man whose throat ached
with every word he attempted to utter. Out of both concern and curiosity,
I stopped and asked him if he was alright. He answered yes...and no.
After a moment of swallowing
saliva to coat and soothe his throat, James explained: "Jesus...he just
spoke to me. And he...he forgave me." More tears began to stream from James'
eyes.
"What do you mean he forgave
you?" I asked.
"He was...he is...my brother,"
James said, trying unsuccessfully to wipe away the resumed flood of tears
down his face.
"Your brother?" I asked.
"I...I mocked him so," James
added and then began to wail out loud. A great pain was crying for release
from a tortured soul who did not know yet how to let it go free.
"Mocked? I don't understand,"
I asked, placing my hand upon his shoulder, trying comfort him.
"I didn't...believe him,"
James struggled to explain, then looked straight up into my eyes and said,
"Now I know...he ...he is...the One!" After confessing this, he got up
and hurried away, turning a corner, and was gone. I tried to follow, but
eventually had to stop, as I was back in the same street where I first
saw him. He was nowhere to be seen.
I stood outside that alleyway
where I met James for what seemed hours. I remembered what I heard the
Roman soldier say back on Golgotha. James' voice was like his, not in its
raspiness, but in the cracking and fear-struck sound it made, like when
realizing a grievous error had been made, and being sure that some kind
of severe punishment was going to follow. I didn't know what to make of
it. And I didn't know how.
The thought again occurred
to me, like it did the night I came down from Golgotha in the dark, that
the crucifixion of Jesus was not the end of whatever matter was at hand.
But now I was also thinking that his resurrection truly was not the end
of a story, but the beginning of a whole new one. Then one Sunday morning
early, as I wandered the streets of southern Jerusalem, I heard a great
commotion coming from an upper room of a two-story building only a few
feet from where I was walking. I noticed others nearby, who also heard
the same loud noises, and together we curiously approached the building
to see if we could determine what was going on.
***
There were many of us gathered
there beneath the porch, more than 3,000 strong, representing countries
and dialects from all over the world. Particularly astonishing was that
the disciples seemed to be able to speak the languages of all the people
gathered there. These men, after all, as we could see, were from lowly
Galilee. How could these rough-hewn fishermen and laborers speak so many
languages, and so fluently? Needless to say, speaking in different tongues
caused quite a stir of its own.
Then one of the disciples
stepped to the front rail of the porch. Others there in the upper room
followed and stood just behind him. In a raised deep voice, he said his
name was Peter, Simon Peter, and he began to address the crowd, quoting
Scripture from the prophet Joel.
"In the last days, God said,"
Peter shouted, "I will pour out my Spirit on all people." As he spoke,
I felt a strange warm swelling within my chest, as well as a mild euphoria
settling in my head. I remember wondering at that very moment, ‘Is it
actually happening right now? Is this the next part of the story I have
been wondering about?"
"Fellow Israelites!" Peter
announced. "Listen! Jesus of Nazareth did among you miracles, wonders and
signs, and accredited all of them to God. Did you not see? Did you not
hear? Still, you chose to listen to lying tongues about him. You chose
to not believe him."
Not a soul among us dared
say a word or make a sound as Peter spoke. Somehow, someway, we all sensed
the other shoe was about to drop.
"Jesus was and is still the
long-promised Messiah," Peter explained. "And you crucified him."
My instant head reaction
to Peter's claim was to not believe. But in my gut, I knew he was telling
the truth. Guilt began to settle into my soul, even before I fully accepted
a shred of blame. I thought to myself for the first time in fear that I
had actually helped kill the prophesied Messiah. And I remembered James
in the alleyway, and the fear I heard in his voice. Now I was feeling it
too.
"You must understand, though,
that it was not just you, who murdered the Messiah, but God himself who
let it happen, who let you do it," Peter continued, "who used you to hand
His own Son over to the authorities to be crucified also as long-prophesied,
and all according to his divine plan and foreknowledge."
Then Peter added, "You thought
you were defending the honor of God, but God was using you to accomplish
the work of his grand plan of salvation to save all mankind from its sin.
He used your blind rage to fulfill his will. God the Father made Jesus
that you crucified as both our Christ and Lord."
"God also raised Jesus up,
releasing him from and bringing to an end the finality of death," Peter
added. "In the end, it was impossible for Jesus to be forever held in death's
power. Of His raising Jesus from the dead, we (gesturing to all those standing
behind him on the porch and still in the upper room) are all witnesses.
Therefore, we beseech you to accept our testimony, not for our benefit,
but for the salvation of your own souls."
It dawned on me that this
was all a part of God's plan from the beginning, and how easily my sinful
heart had fallen for Satan's lies. God had just made all his enemies the
footstool of the Messiah, where he would for eternity rest his feet. And
I had unwittingly become one of them. I was cut to the core. I wanted to
drop to my knees and cry out in repentance.
"What shall we do to atone?"
another person standing in the now restless crowd shouted. "What can we
do to make this right, if we can make this right? Oh, God, have mercy on
our souls!"
After pausing for a moment,
letting the whole crowd take in what the one person had just asked and
to give them ample time to make it their own question as well, Peter confidently
shouted for everyone to clearly hear: "Repent!"
Following the echo of Peter's
command, having shot across every head gathered in the street, Peter repeated:
"Repent! Be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus the Christ for
the forgiveness of all your sins, not just for your murdering of the Messiah,
but for all your sins for all time! And when you do, as proof of His gracious
forgiveness, you will receive the gift of His Holy Spirit, who will come
to dwell within you."
The sadness and guilt I was
now feeling for being a part of the unbelievable suffering Jesus endured,
suddenly changed in the twinkling of an eye into a feeling of great awe
for the great grace and mercy being shown to us by God. It swept over me
like a great wave of the sea, and like a great wind it filled my soul with
a love greater than any I had ever known.
***
That day, we were witness
to many wonders and signs done by Peter and the other disciples. Not only
had our sins been forgiven, once and for all, but diseases were healed,
evil spirits were chased away, and prophecies by the handfuls were proclaimed.
Just about every miracle that could be imagined happened right before our
very eyes. But, I must admit, the biggest one may well have been the complete
elimination of the murderous heart that once raged in my chest, replaced
by one that beat for the first time with only the love of the true God.
More than 3,000 of us believed,
repented, and were baptized on that momentous day of Pentecost. From
that day on, we could not help but be devoted to the apostles' teaching
and the fellowship they led, also the daily breaking of bread and unending
prayer. We even felt led to come together to share with one another our
belongings and possessions, distributing them as needed for those among
us who were most in need. Praise and worship for what God had done amongst
us continued day after day, gaining a momentum that would not be
stopped or slowed.
***
Looking back, Dear Lord,
I confess I was one of those screaming for You to be crucified, but You
forgave me anyway. I was one of the thorns piercing Your brow, but You
forgave me anyway. I was one of the cat-o-nine tails tearing flesh from
Your back, but You forgave me anyway. I was one of the nails driving through
Your wrists, but You forgave me anyway. I was one of the hands holding
the spear that pierced Your side, but You forgave me anyway.
I was one of those who stood
at the foot of Your cross, clenching my fists at You in unbridled anger.
And I was one of those who fifty days later stood in the Holy Spirit's
pouring
of both tears and grace at Pentecost. Thank you for taking the murderous
heart that meant only to hurt You, and replacing it with one that wants
nothing more to do with that. For I am now one of those who stands only
to love You with all my heart, soul, mind and strength. Amen.
Matthew 26:57-68; Matthew 27:11-66; Matthew 28:1-15
Acts 2
*inspired by the song "You
Love Me Anyway," by the Sidewalk Prophets |